The Driver (7 page)

“Why are
you
doing it?” he said forcefully. Clearly there
was
more to Maher—he was ready to take Gumball as professionally as I was, and wasn't going to put his life in the hands of a stranger with unknown motivations.

“Maher, have you seen
Cannonball Run
or
Gumball Rally
?”

“Of course.”

“If they still ran the Cannonball, I'd do that, but they don't, so it's this.”

Maher couldn't quite stop the hint of a smile, his first visible expression of emotion.

“So are we on?” he asked, his eyes locked to mine.

“Here's the schedule,” I said, pulling out a pen with which to write on my cloth napkin. “I need you at my place on the following dates for race prep and help with shipping.”

“Done.”

“Good.” I smiled surreptitiously. “Now let's talk about what I've got planned.”

Maher listened to me without interruption for over an hour.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL
16, 2003
GUMBALL
-1
MORNING

I periodically strolled outside for a cigarette and to play a game indulged in by car lovers—the identification, by sound alone, of approaching cars. The Fairmont sat atop Nob Hill, one of San Francisco's tallest, and with every distant roar of large engines in the city below, my heart raced at what my foes might bring to battle.

I strolled back inside as a large group of rowdy high-schoolers on a class trip was checking in.

Suddenly, through a gap in the mass of writhing teenagers, I caught a glimpse of a girl so exquisitely gorgeous that I was stunned at my failure to spot her entering the hotel.

“That chick is soooo hot,” one teenager said to another.

I hated the thought of hitting on someone's girlfriend, more so if he enjoyed working out, especially if he had a bad temper, and certainly if he had a criminal history.

But no single red-blooded American male could pass up a chance like this. I walked over to her.

“It's getting messy in here,” I said. “Do you have a light?”

I buried my lighter behind the keys in my pants pocket so that she couldn't see the Bic's distinctive outline.

“Of course,” she said in the Queen's English, bemused smile spreading across her face. A Gumball driver, I hoped, and not merely a rally girlfriend.

“Alex Roy.” I smiled back. “Join me?”

“Kira,” she said, “and yes, thank you.”

Even in sneakers she was nearly six feet tall, and with unexpected and temporary strength, I pushed and held open the heavy glass door, watched with delight how her loose black track pants tightened with each long stride, and followed her outside.

“By the way,” she said, turning toward me with lighter in hand, “my boyfriend will be here any minute.” But of course he would. “Perhaps”—her smile widened as I searched for a response of appropriately tactical nonchalance—“you know him?”

Since I didn't know who
she
was, I couldn't possibly guess. “I think so,” I lied.

“Charles Morgan?”

I
knew
this name, but couldn't place it.

“Kira, darling!” came a grown Englishman's voice over my shoulder. “Who's your new friend?”

Once I turned, I knew that the English gentleman before me—a slender fiftyish man with short hair having just begun to gray, as understated, handsome, and charismatic as Sean Connery's Bond in his prime—was in fact
the
Charles Morgan, grandson of the venerated H.F.S. Morgan, founder of Morgan Motor Cars, manufacturers of the delightfully bizarre three-wheeled Morgan driven by Peter Sellers in the 1968 movie
The Party
. Founded in 1910, the pace of Morgan's design evolution was charmingly glacial—wing-fendered roadsters of enormous power mated to ultra-light chassis of wood, steel, and now, aluminum.

“This is Alex,” she said without hesitation.

“Well, jolly good!” He smiled warmly, pumping my hand. “But I'm afraid Kira and I must be off! Shall we see you later? But of course we will!”

This would be the last time I spotted a woman on a rally and assumed she was available, unmarried, unpaid and/or not spoken for in some way—legally or financially.

 

I love cars. I love sports cars. I love racing. I've even come to love watching car racing on TV—sometimes, and only for up to the ten-minute limit tolerated by any of my girlfriends. But Gumball wasn't taking place on a track—a short, specialized loop with fuel, mechanics, spare parts, and medical support one lap and minutes away—which meant that virtually everything race cars were designed for was irrelevant.

Success on the Gumball
had
to be based on endurance, reliability, fuel economy, police evasion, and, despite the highly conspicuous stickers required by Gumball, stealth.

By this measure, there was only one possible car more appropriate than mine: a dirty-brown 1980s Mercedes turbo diesel station wagon.

Any other cars, whether psychological crutches, rolling jewelry, or priceless works of automotive art, couldn't be as well suited to the task.

I was utterly confident in my technical preparedness.

But my heart still sank when the rumbles and wails of Gumball cars began echoing in the surrounding streets.

“Holy shit!” said one of the high-schoolers surreptitiously smoking out of sight of his teachers inside. “Guys! You gotta come see this!”

A lemon-yellow Ferrari 360 with custom body-color-matched Sparco racing seats, five-point race harnesses, and nineteen-inch chrome aftermarket wheels pulled into the Fairmont's driveway. Immediately an all-male teenage crowd gathered to snap pictures, point, lecture, and debate the car's every facet. They were soon joined by a small group of passersby, bellhops, and a passing cabdriver who each recited loud, overlapping, sometimes contradictory, and often obscure details of the 360's performance. It was as if all but their involuntary organs had been overwhelmed by a hypnotic invisible gas secretly developed in Italy—99.9 percent effective within ten feet of any Ferrari's prancing horse badge.

I knew from reading
Car and Driver
that the 360 was a highly rated track car costing approximately $200,000, but I also knew from the Ferrari chat boards that two hours on rough roads would give The Driver hemorrhoids. More importantly, I
also
knew that it drank 16 mpg on the highway—in tests far below Gumball speeds. Totally inappropriate.

I watched the gawkers. I admired the car. Of course it was art. Of course it was amazing. Of course the driver could beat me on a track.

But it's not the car with which to win a cross-country race.

Nor were the similarly and outrageously expensive supercars forming a line behind the yellow 360. The supercars were vastly outnumbered by a slow parade of $50,000 to $100,000 cars possessing at least 85 percent of their performance—numerous BMW M3s, Mercedes SLs, and Porsche 911 variants. Cars that may have hidden extraordinary modifications—the lone blue Ford Mustang, white Toyota Supra, and green Mini Cooper—were laughed at or completely overlooked—but not by me.

Few of the cars had the telltale sign of a Valentine 1 radar detector—two small circles on the windshield, indicating that one had been suction-mounted, pulled down, and stashed away. What little evidence I spotted was of other detector models (which I considered no better than bricks) mounted low and/or off center—proof of ignorance at how radar detectors work.

The drivers and copilots emerged from their cars, smiled, laughed, and shook hands with one another, dampening my hopes for public displays of competitive animosity.

These were not the hard-core illegal underground racers I was looking for.

All eyes fell upon a very low car as it gingerly entered the Fairmont driveway.

I'd read every issue of
Car and Driver
,
Road & Track
, and
Automobile
magazine published in the United States since 1983, and I'd never even seen a picture of the steel-gray car that rolled up in front of me.

It whirred like a taxiing airplane's turbine, its smooth-sloped semicircular wraparound windshield and cockpit as far forward as a fighter plane's, five clawed spokes forming each of its matte silver wheels, the engine beneath its long rear deck emitting secondary hisses and barks as the rpms fell to idle.

Even parked, it looked like a mythological beast exiled from its herd that had returned for vengeance, muscles coiled as it lay low, leaning forward on its rear haunches, poised to strike like a meteor—first at the pack leader, then its mate, then the weaker and younger, then the cubs, to feast lazily before trotting back to its lair, beheading any passing unicorns on its way.

“Koenigsegg,” said a young black-haired Englishman wearing a pair of colorful Piloti driving shoes. “Very nice.”

“How much is it, Nicholas?” said a brunette next to him.

“I believe it's seven hundred,” said Nicholas. “
Thousand dollars
.”

The long right-side door clicked, moved outward from the car. Then it silently rotated on its forward hinge to ninety degrees and clicked in place.

A skinny Middle Eastern college kid with a baseball cap worn askew and expensive colorful sweats climbed out. A goateed friend in similar sweats emerged from the lobby, the two embraced, and a rapid exchange began in impenetrable London slang.

A third man arrived and entered the conversation, now in hushed tones. Although he was a serious-looking thirtyish blond Englishman in a dress shirt and slacks corporate enough to have afforded the car, his body language within the trio suggested a more subservient role.

“Have you seen the police car?” said the brunette.

“Now that's funny,” said Nicholas, surveying the girls in the crowd around the Koenigsegg. “What kind of car?”

“Some blue BMW.”

“Now that
is
funny. An M car, I hope.”

“What's an M car?”

“A BMW with a lot more power. Not for you, darling. Who's driving?”

“I didn't see who, but it has New York plates!”

“At least someone has a sense of humor. I'm bored here. Let's go to the bar, my dear.”

I waited for them to enter the revolving doors before following, but before I could, I was stopped by the sound of something coming.
Something big.

The Koenigsegg—like almost all Porsches—was a gentleman's car designed with ironic subtlety. Despite its purpose, it
was
possible to drive it without scattering pigeons, stopping pacemakers, and painting the streets with rubber. But whatever was coming was not such a car.

The terrible noise approached—a single note played within every octave of the audible spectrum's lower half—an enormous engine mated to an aftermarket exhaust intended to wake up, annoy, anger, intimidate, and command the attention of anyone in earshot.

Its arrival was not intended as a surprise. Its presence was meant to offend.

Then I saw it—a jet-black plastic-clad Texas-plated Chevrolet Avalanche 4 × 4 truck—a hideous showcase of American automotive shamelessness—as it clawed its way over the curb and stopped on the Fairmont sidewalk.

Onlookers turned and pointed with white-faced mortification as the driver revved the engine and a flock of birds took flight from the stone perches on the Fairmont's facade. The truck's huge chrome rims gleamed in the sun, which also highlighted bright red jerry cans chained to either side of the enormous spare bolted to the rear deck, and the pairs of floodlights affixed to the roof, hood, and front bumpers. A Confederate flag filled the rear window, a second small Confederate flag graced the hood, and twin seven-foot radio aerials danced against the blue sky.

The Avalanche driver, a shaggy, black-haired, goateed cowboy, killed the engine, opened his high door, stepped down onto the pavement, and yelled,
“Awwwww yeeeeaaaaahhhh!”

“Hey,” a bellhop called out as he pointed at the Avalanche's plates. “What does that mean?”

“
D-V-L B-L-R
,” I read out loud. “Devil something or other?”

“That's right!”
the cowboy yelled at us as he approached. “Devil Baller!”

“Alex Roy,” I said, offering my hand.

“Richard Rawlings! How the hell ya doin'?” He suddenly turned toward the crowd surrounding his Avalanche. “It ain't gonna hurt ya!” he yelled, and headed back to the truck. “At least not yet!”

Rawlings opened his driver's door, stood on the high running board, and regaled the crowd. “That's right! Beefed up with a three-quarter-ton chassis and a 502 big block!”

The Avalanche's fuel economy and handling would be terrible.

But with those jerry cans…
I walked over to peek inside at the Avalanche's interior.

Holy shit.

Rawlings had installed virtually everything I had in the M5—radar detector, CB radio, two (!) police radio scanners—along with a stack of backup paper maps I'd reasoned I wouldn't need because of my GPS.

Rawlings was now Polizei Enemy number one.

 

I began scoping out the cars in the hotel garage.

A yellow Porsche 996 Turbo X50's left rear sat on its red-rimmed spare.

I remembered one thing I'd forgotten.

The M5 rode on wheels and tires too large to fit a donut—let alone a full-size spare—in the trunk. I was stuck with a temporary inflation kit, which was basically a small pump with a foam canister. It was now four years old and it had never been tested.

If I got a flat, I'd lose a fortune and have to drop out not only of Gumball, but of the
race
.

I'd have to wait another year to find The Driver.

My fear of a flat was but a pebble in the shadow of what I felt upon seeing the four-foot CB aerial two cars down. It was only the second big aerial after Rawlings's. I walked up to a black Ferrari 550 Maranello.

The exterior was stock. A Valentine 1 was suction-mounted top center of the windshield. A police radio scanner was professionally mounted between the seats. A CB radio hung under the glove box.

The car had Texas plates. He
had
to know Rawlings, and if two or more technically prepared drivers knew one another…
we had the beginnings of a race.

I'd found the first, tenuous, possible sign. I was one small step closer to finding The Driver.