Quick (16 page)

The Australian has a tenth of a second to make a decision. Does he brake and give the guy the advantage of leading him into the corner, an advantage that will be difficult to overcome during the short run to the finish line, just five hundred metres up the pit straight, or does he try something else?

I try something else.

Billy doesn’t brake, just flicks the wheel and steers right. He’s going around the outside of this curly-haired mofo. It’s a longer way to take the corner but at least this way he won’t be stuck behind the other car. He waits and waits and waits, then brakes late, ratchets down the gearbox. Juan hugs the inside of the track, pulls his car through the tight left-hander before Billy’s even started his turn. The Australian yanks the Merc hard left and aims it up the straight. He now has a clear run to the finish line, Juan’s Gullwing ten metres to his right, but only five metres in front.

Time slows.

It’ll all come down to the tyres’ grip.

Or the heat management of tree sap.

Billy mashes the gas pedal and gets on the power. The V8 barks, the rubber instantly hooks up and the big car bounds forward.

Juan’s Merc thunders too, but catches a load of wheel spin. He loses precious tenths waiting for traction from the tyres he has worn out. Then the rubber finally bites the tarmac and launches the car forward. He’s surrendered more than half his advantage and is just two metres head.

Now we have a drag race.

Time speeds up.

The Gullwings scream towards a chequered flag that hangs over the pit wall.

Accelerator flat to the carpet, Billy ratchets up the gearbox, hits sixth, pushes on the steering wheel again, wills the car onwards. ‘Come on.’ The finish line is just two hundred metres away.

Billy pulls level with Juan. ‘I got you.’ The Spaniard turns to him and they lock eyes—then he swerves his Merc across the track towards Billy’s. Ten metres becomes five becomes two.

‘What the —?’ Billy steers away, his car now just a metre from the cement pit wall.

Do. Not. Dent. The. Car.

Kurt’s words ring in his ears. Billy doesn’t want to get his old apex-avoiding broseph into hot water by damaging this Gullwing. His eyes find the chequered flag which approaches quickly, just a hundred metres away now.

Juan’s Merc slides towards him again, and again Billy steers clear, the pit wall barely a foot away now.

He thinks I’m going to hit the brakes and wuss out.

Well he sure got that wrong.

Billy flicks back the steering wheel paddle and drops down to fifth gear. The engine shrieks, the needle on the rev counter swings around to the red line and the Merc surges forward.

Juan’s Gullwing swerves to cut him off one last time —

And misses.

Zerrch.
The Spaniard’s car clips the cement pit wall with its wing mirror and golden sparks light up the night.

Billy sees them in his rear-view mirror as he sweeps past the chequered flag. ‘Yee ha!’ The Australian cracks a grin. Well
that
went better than expected. It was only one lap so he’s not sure how he would have gone if the race had been longer, but really, not a bad evening’s work all told. He met some of the other drivers,
handed them their ass on the track,
and proved, at least temporarily, that he’s worthy of the Iron Rhino reserve driver’s gig. And on a personal note he, hopefully, impressed Ms Jolie Laide. He really does need to find out her real name.

Now what? He’ll chuck a U-turn and drive back into the pit lane, use this victory as a way to introduce himself to some of the spectators, see if he can identify anyone, or any group, that might be worth investigating. He’s especially interested in finding out more about Juan-in-a-million and his whole ‘long sleeves’ situation. The Australian realises he’s probably grabbing at straws in lieu of other leads but at least it’s somewhere to start. He turns the car into the pit lane.

What’s that?

He notices headlights on the far side of the circuit. They’re stationary.

Kurt.

Billy saw him slide off the track after he passed him so he must have beached the. car in the kitty litter and now can’t get it out. ‘Damn it.’ The Australian really wants to head back to the pit lane and capitalise on this moment but he can’t leave his mate stranded out there. He’ll quickly help him then get back, hopefully, before the crowd disperses.

He turns out of the pit lane and accelerates, pushes the Gullwing around the track as fast he can until he reaches Kurt’s car. It is, indeed, stranded at the edge of a sand trap. Billy parks in front of it, leaves the headlights on to illuminate the scene, jumps out and moves to the Austrian. The poor bastard kneels by the rear of the car and uses his hands to dig gravel away from the right wheel, which has sunk six inches into the kitty litter.

Billy takes in his old mate. He’s still the strapping bloke he knew as a teenager, probably too tall and therefore too heavy to race in F1, the ‘packaging’ of the driver within the car so crucial that every gram of weight and millimetre of height must be completely justified.

Kurt looks at him. ‘I know that face. You beat the uppity Spaniard.’

Billy nods. ‘Barely.’

Kurt grins. ‘An inch is as good as a mile. He try to run you off the road?’

‘Into the pit wall.’

‘Fucker.’ Kurt says it to the night sky, then his head drops to his chest. ‘How much damage?’

‘None to my car ‘cause I managed to —’ Billy makes a slicing action with his hand, ‘but I think you might need to replace the right side wing mirror on his.’

Kurt exhales then continues digging. ‘That guy is such a tosspot.’

‘You still use it!’ Billy is delighted. ‘Tosspot’ always sounded amusing with Kurt’s Schwarzeneggerian accent. It was a term Billy taught the Austrian when he was billeted with his family back in the day. Kurt had been sent to Oz to pick up racing experience away from the spotlight of the European motorsport community. ‘So, you know Juan-in-a-million very well?’

Kurt smiles at the nickname. ‘Not really. Just around the paddock. He started halfway through last season with Marussia. Another guy who’s young, dumb and thinks he’s the next Ayrton Senna.’ Kurt pauses to think about this. ‘Hold on, didn’t that used to be me?’

Billy smiles and holds up a hand. ‘And me. Does he pay for his seat?’

‘Think so. But he’s pretty quick.’

‘Well he burned through his tyres pretty quick, that’s for sure.’ Billy’s struck by a thought: if Juan needed to find, say, two million bucks a year to pay for the privilege of being a reserve driver, then he could raise it through the heists, and even partner with two other drivers in a similar situation. There was always plenty of those around.

Billy turns to the Austrian. ‘So, need some help, big fella?’

Kurt stops digging and claps his hands together to remove the gravel dust. ‘Indeed I do. Start it up then gently feed in the power. I’ll push.’

‘Okey-doke.’ Billy opens the driver-side door on the stranded Gullwing, slides in, lowers the window, pushes the starter button, twists the V8 to life, engages first gear, then gently presses the accelerator. The engine spins up and he can hear the wheels turn in the gravel, then feel the car rock back and forth.

‘More power!’

The Australian gives it some more herbs, the rocking increases and the car pops out of the gravel. It slithers to the edge of the track and he pulls it to a stop, engages the park brake, pushes the door open and climbs out. ‘Nicely done. You’ve got the job —’

Billy stops dead.

Kurt walks towards him, his sleeves pulled up as he brushes his hand over his forearm to remove the gravel dust.

A tattoo.

It’s visible on his forearm, just above his large Panerai watch. Is it the same as the one Billy saw this afternoon, on the arm of the guy in the Schumacher helmet? The position is the same, it seems to be a similar shape, but then he can’t be one hundred per cent sure because the guy is five metres away and his arm is covered in a fine white dust. Billy tries to focus on it without looking like he’s focusing on it, but before he can make a positive identification Kurt slides into the Merc.

‘Let’s head back.’

Billy forces a smile. ‘Lead the way, good sir.’

~ * ~

Jeezus. Is Kurt the guy I’m after?

Billy stares at the glowing brake lights of the Austrian’s Gullwing as they drive back to the pits. Kurt can’t be involved with the Three Champions.
Surely.
Billy knows him too well, lived with the guy for the better part of six months. Admittedly he hasn’t seen much of him recently, ‘recently’ meaning the last six years, but still, when you know someone you know someone, right? Kurt’s just not the kind of guy to get involved in illegal shenanigans. He’s a Captain Sensible who didn’t have enough aggression to be a successful racing driver let alone pull multiple armed robberies.

But people change. Kurt didn’t have any tattoos when Billy knew him, but he has one now. On his arm, in exactly the same place as Schumacher. And there’s something else, something in his eyes, a— weariness? Or maybe it’s disappointment. Not making it as a driver in F1 then having to watch, day in, day out, as other guys lived your dream would be extremely tough.

Billy follows Kurt’s Gullwing into the pit lane and along the narrow strip of tarmac that will be filled with the rumble and throb of twenty-two fire-breathing turbocharged V6 monsters tomorrow. The crowd that watched Billy win the race have left. Not a big surprise, though he no longer cares about the missed opportunity of properly introducing himself to F1’s backroom staff. His mind is preoccupied with whether he has already found his man, a man who just happens to be an old mate. Billy could arrest him as soon as he steps out of the Gullwing, but he’s not going to do that. He wants solid evidence before he blows his cover.

At the end of the pit lane the Gullwings pull up at the entrance to the safety car garage. Juan’s ride is already parked there, and, as Billy reported, its right wing mirror dangles halfway down the driver-side door, held on by the cable that controls its electric positioning motor. Juan-in-a-million’s good self is nowhere to be seen.

Kurt steps out of his Gullwing and inspects the damage. ‘Prick didn’t even wait to apologise.’ He turns to Billy as he climbs out of his Merc. ‘I think I can fix it though. I’m pretty sure I have the parts here.’

Billy approaches. ‘Need a hand?’ The Australian thinks that if he helps him repair it he might get a better look at that dust-covered tattoo.

‘No no, I’ll be fine.’

‘Really, I’m happy to pitch in. I kinda feel responsible.’

Kurt grins. ‘You’ve helped enough tonight, thanks. It won’t take long.’

Billy doesn’t push it. ‘Okay. Well, I should get rolling.’ He makes a going gesture with his thumb. ‘You staying at the Hyatt?’

‘Yep.’

‘Cool. Well, I’ll probably see you there.’

Kurt nods and turns towards the open garage, then stops and looks back at Billy. ‘It’s great to have you here. I’m really glad you made it.’

Billy can see the sentiment is genuine. ‘Thanks, man.’

Kurt turns and moves into the garage. ‘Catch you later.’

The Australian watches him go. ‘Not if I catch you first.’

~ * ~

It takes Billy five minutes to find his way back to the security centre. As he pushes open the door to the tiny office he hopes to find Claude methodically trawling through the video files.

He does not.

The Frenchman is slumped across the desk, dead to the world.

Billy claps his hands. ‘Hey Jethro, wakey-wakey, hands off snaky!’

Claude jolts awake. ‘Thank you, Stefan, I’ll have the veal piccata.’ He looks around, bleary eyed and confused, no idea where he is or what he’s doing, then remembers and looks at the Australian, embarrassed. ‘I was taking a gentleman’s interlude.’

Billy points. ‘You drooled on the mouse.’

‘What? No I didn’t.’ Then Claude sees that it’s true and recoils. ‘Errr, that’s disgusting.’ He wipes at it with his sleeve. ‘I have jet lag.’ He glances at his watch to change the subject. ‘Christ, it’s been an hour. Where were you?’

‘Long story.’

The Frenchman nods at the computer monitor. ‘Well, while you were gone I found something interesting.’ Claude works the keyboard and a video plays.

Billy studies a wide, high-angle shot of the long roadway behind the pits. The Frenchman pauses the video and points at the bottom right-hand corner where a figure carries a large bag, partially opened at the point where its two zips can’t pass over the large item inside. ‘There.’

‘What is that?’

‘A Schumacher helmet.’

‘How can you tell?’ The image is black and white and the only part of the helmet that is visible is a small section at the top.

‘The markings are the same. I downloaded a picture of the original Schumi helmet from the web.’ Claude clicks a jpeg on the screen and a picture of the red Schumacher helmet pops up. There are a series of silver painted stars on the top of helmet that are the same as the ones on the top of the helmet in the video still.