The Driver

by Alexander Roy

  “Still waiting on my blow-up doll.”

  “What,” he said, moving only his head slightly toward me like a curious bird, “are you talking about?”

  “In-car conference,” I said to Maher as I got into the driver’s seat.

  “You may not think so,” Maher said after he closed the door, “but I’ve been hard at work while you’ve been shopping. I got a bunch more drivers’ names and phone numbers—”

  “Kenworthy?”

  “No,” said Maher, “but I heard he’s in a silver GT2!”

  “A 911 GT2?”

  “With stripes on the hood and a British flag on top!”

  The GT2 was the ultimate road-legal race-prepped Porsche 911/996—an ultralightweight 911 turbo with a more powerful engine and roll cage, and stripped of four-wheel drive, air-conditioning, and soundproofing. Any 911 would be conspicuous, but a silver 911 much less so among dozens of red and yellow sports cars.

  “I guess,” I said, “if you’re gonna go all out…”

  “Now that”—Maher shook his head—“is a great car.”

  “Yeah,” I said as he handed me his drivers’ list. “Wow…All right…well, any word on an eighteen-wheeler with two Porsches? The guy with the spotter chopper?”

  “That was last year’s rumor.”

  “I knew it!” I said, and slapped the steering wheel with satisfaction.

  My inflatable doll arrived. “Finally,” I said, shoving a wad of cash into my old friend Gloria’s pocket.

  “Talk about short notice!” She giggled as she handed me the bright pink box whose clear front displayed a red-lipped abomination of Edvard Munch’s The Scream. I ripped it open and laid the pink latex form over the Polizei M5’s windshield.

  “Sorry,” I said, “but I lost my old one, and the one I bought got a hole in it, but not the way you think.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Now, you hold her down while I blow her up. And gimme your scarf. It might look weird when I blow—”

  “You sure have a lot of respect for women.”

  Fans gathered closer in gasps and hushed disbelief as I struggled not to laugh, my lips locked to the rubber inflation spout on the back of my Chasey Lain Inflatable Fantasy Playmate Love Sex Doll.

  Chasey’s legs splayed across the hood, then her arms—one under mine and the other over my head. As she filled up, I laid her gloriously pink sunlit form on the hood, plastic nipples turning under Gloria’s scarf into small circus tents.

  One father shielded his young daughter’s eyes and carried her away.

  “If you have the police outfits,” said Gloria, “why do you need cute little Chasey?”

  “Chasey Lain”—my chest heaved—“dragged me through a late puberty.”

  “That soooooooooo can’t be true!!!”

  “It’s my insurance,” I whispered, “in case the cops have a sense of humor.”

  Five embarrassing minutes later—during which I neither laughed nor doubted my wisdom—I placed a nurse’s hat on Chasey and gingerly belted her into the Polizei M5’s rear left seat. The crowd stood in silence. One man took his wife’s hand and muttered under his breath.

  “Perfect,” said Gloria. We hugged.

  “This guy rocks!” said a teenage boy.

  “This guy’s such an asshole,” said one bystander.

  “He might be the smartest one here,” said another man. The two men turned to see who’d disagreed. A red-cheeked SFPD officer stepped out of the crowd and with a huge smile his eyes slowly moved over the Polizei M5, then Chasey, then to me, then back to the naysayers. “If you were me,” said the officer, “would you arrest this guy?” He turned and placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got bad news,” he said, my heart dropping. “I’m outta PBA cards, and we got a betting pool at the station.”

  “On…?”

  “If you get hit for impersonating a police officer.” I froze. “Roy, right? All us guys love this Pol-eeez-eye shit you’re doing. Hilarious.”

  “But…what,” I gasped, “are my odds?”

  “I’m not gonna lie. Bottom-of-a-well bad. Highway patrol ain’t like city cops. The good news is I’ve got fifty bucks says you make it.”

  “Well…I guess…”

  “You should smile more,” he said, “so they’ll get the joke. I’ll give you a coupla my cards with my number. Not as good as a PBA, but ya never know. Now get your chin up and do your thing.” He took my right hand in both of his, shook it vigorously, gave me the steely look of a man I’d go to war with, and walked away.

  I started up the engine, a muted thrum drowning the noise beyond what would be my world for the next five days. Curious faces peered in through the windows, handprints large and small smearing visibility to both sides, muted voices in deep discussion over my next move. I powered up the dash-top-mounted Polizei gear—in full, public view—for the first time, setting off a medley of electronic beeps, alarms, and chimes.

  A high school football player knocked on my half-open window. Although I could little afford distraction from my work, I remembered my childhood excitement when my father took me to see the jets streaking skyward at the Paris Air Show, or during New York’s Fleet Week aboard the steel-gray monolith that was the flight deck of the U.S.S. Carl Vinson. I remembered that—until 24 hours earlier—I was merely a fan, and that I wouldn’t even be a real Gumballer until the flag dropped in less than 2 hours.

  “Yo, dude!” said the teen. “What is all that stuff?”

  “Get in the passenger seat and I’ll show you.”

  “Can I bring my girl?”

  “In the back,” I said, “but watch out for the sex doll.”

  It took them a full minute to get through the jealous crowd surrounding the car, open both right side doors without bumping anyone, and get in.

  “This,” I began, pointing to the small box suction-mounted to the windshield just left of my rearview mirror, “is a Valentine 1 radar/laser detector, the best one made. If you see a car here with anything else, it’s amateur night.”

  “Some of your buddies”—he shook his head—“were just asking where to buy a detector.”

  “They’re screwed,” I said. “Valentines are mail-order only. This,” I said, pointing to the small controls left of my steering wheel, “is for a Lidatek LE 20/20 laser jammer system, effective against 97 percent of police laser guns in the U.S.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “If I’m caught that’s the least of my problems. Now that”—I pointed below the glove box—“is a Uniden BC520XL CB radio, for talking to trucks. Magnetic mount antenna goes on the roof.”

  “Won’t that fly off if you’re really kicking it at a hundred?”

  “We’re gonna find out. Now this,” I said, pointing at the metal half-shoebox unit on the center dashtop, “is a Uniden BC795 digital radio scanner. This picks up police communications—”

  “Yeah,” he said knowingly, “I saw a coupla these in other cars.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The big black Avalanche.” He paused. “Oh yeah…and one of the black Ferraris.”

  “Did you talk to those guys?”

  “Yeah, they just got ’em. I guess this scanner’s a new one that just came out?”

  “That’s right,” I said, “but the trick is that you can’t just buy one and expect it to work. The built-in frequencies aren’t enough, and they’re all analog. A lot of cops use digital frequencies, so unless you spend a month programming them manually, this thing’s almost useless.” At least that was my theory. “And then here”—I pulled out a plastic bag from the floor between his girlfriend’s legs—“are my magnetic-mount police lights in red, yellow, green, and blue.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “We’re gonna find out.”

  “What’s that thing you put on top of your back license plate?”

  “Laser-diffusing plate cover,” I said, “in case the Lidateks don’t do it.”

  “That is soooo awesome.”
He grinned. “Man, you gotta be the best-prepared guy here. You can’t have more stuff than this…?”

  “The rest is secret. Here’s my card. I’m Alex.”

  “Jimmy,” he said. “Man, if there’s anything I can do—”

  “Actually,” I said, “there is. What are you doing for the next five days?”

  “Following you guys online!”

  “I could really use your help, you know, for weather and traffic updates.”

  “You mean”—his eyes lit up—“…spy, officially, for you guys?”

  “You got it.”

  “Omigod, I’ll do anything I can. You rock, dude!”

  “Just don’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  I turned to his girlfriend in the backseat. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  She stared, mesmerized, and mouthed: Be careful.

  “Hey!” An annoyed-looking bellhop rapped on the window. I lowered it halfway.

  “I know you’re a guest,” he said, “but you’ve been idling for half an hour. We’re choking and suffocating back here.”

  “Sorry,” I said, and killed the engine.

  It was time to test the lights. I pulled one blue and one yellow police teardrop light out of the bag, strung the coiled power cables through both sides’ sun visors and overhead handrests, placed—with a satisfyingly loud metal-on-metal CLI-THUNK—the lights on the roof just behind the A-pillar, then plugged them into the 12V Y-splitter I’d bought at RadioShack the day before. They clicked and whirred, but there was no way to tell if they worked by looking through the dark-tinted sunroof.

  Whoas! and Yeeeaaahhs! erupted. And clapping. People were clapping.

  I felt—despite having done no more than ordering some police lights on eBay for $19.99 each and plugging them in—pride.

  “Ent-shool-dee-gung,” said a maternal-looking tourist. “Bitte.”

  Uh-oh. A real, live, actual German tourist.

  I was pretty sure, given my limited online study of German phrases commonly used by actual Polizei, she’d said, with the greatest possible deference, “Excuse me, please”—perhaps, just in case, I actually was a Polizei officer.

  “I’m sorry”—I smiled—“but…I don’t speak any German.”

  “A-ya!” She burst out laughing. “You are not really Polizei!?!”

  “I’m afraid not. I hope I didn’t—”

  “Not to worry at all…mein Gott! You must have a picture with my husband and son! Is it okay if I will get them?”

  Fans—cameras, pens, and paper in hand—closed in behind me.

  “I’d be honored.”

  I turned to see Maher leaning in through the driver’s window.

  The roof-mounted police teardrop lights suddenly went dark. “Alex,” he said sternly as he emerged to face me, “how long have you been running those lights?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes?”

  “Without the engine? Gimme the car keys.”

  With anticipatory shame I dropped into the passenger seat. Maher turned the key.

  Clickclickclickclick

  “Battery’s dead,” he said.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it,” he said with professional calm, his eyes rapidly scanning the nearest cars and drivers.

  “Booster cables,” I said with unexpected calm. “I’m on it.”

  “Yo!” someone called out from the bright blue Subaru two spaces away. I jumped out and ran toward them. “I heard you trying to turn over,” said the young black-haired American in Car no. 15, “but our cables won’t reach.”

  “Alex Roy,” I said, offering my hand and reading the driver names off the Subaru’s rear window. “Fly or Mermel?”

  “Dan Mermelstein. Don’t worry about it. We’ll pull the car around.”

  “I owe you more than you can ever know.”

  “Maher!” I yelled over the fans watching and pointing in amusement. “Pop the hood! They’re bringing the Subaru around!”

  1. Galls StreetThunder Handheld Megaphone $79.99

  2. Duracell Type-C Batteries (x8) $14.30

  3. Tasting Menu and two Bottles of Sake at Nobu Miami Beach for crew of Gumball no. 15 (Dan Mermelstein and Fly) $500

  4. Eight Fully Charged Duracell Type-C Batteries in a Galls Street Thunder Handheld Megaphone While Attempting to Disperse Bystanders Blocking Inter-Gumballer Car-to-Car Emergency Booster Cable Hookup, 16 Minutes Before Parade Lap Departure PRICELESS

  “ATTENTION ALL BYSTANDERS, PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA IN FRONT OF THE BLUE SUBARU AND BLUE BMW, ATTENTION ALL BYSTANDERS—”

  It was too late. The SFPD lifted the police barricade. From out of the garage a row of Gumballers turned the corner onto Mason—filling the previously empty street right in front of us.

  “I’m an asshole,” I said under my breath. “I’m really—”

  “Forget it,” Maher replied.

  One hour and three minutes remained to the flag drop.

  Three interminable minutes until the goddamn parade lap.

  Then, in the tradition of other, vastly different, professional motor-sport events, Handsome Dave raised a megaphone to his mouth, and with even his amplified voice barely audible in between a hundred engines’ mocking roars and honking horns, he spoke the four long-awaited words: “GENTLEMEN, START YOUR ENGINES!”

  McCloud’s F40 then led the one hundred-odd cars that hadn’t broken down at the start into the world’s most expensive traffic jam. Gumball’s traditional predeparture parade lap was obviously for the virgins. After the crawl down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, we miraculously found our way back to the Fairmont over an hour later. The veterans who had stayed behind were already slowly rolling up to Handsome Dave for their route cards.

  And leaving.

  So this was it. No new instructions. No time clock. No punch card.

  No one would know where we were, where we stood, how we ranked, what our elapsed point-to-point time was. If anyone was racing, Gumball definitely had nothing to do with it, all the enemies I’d identified were gone.

  We had to make ourselves known. I had one goal. Find Rawlings, find the others, and get to the checkpoint. First.

  Handsome Dave signaled for us to advance and stop. I pulled the M5 up to the start line and Handsome Dave smiled and handed us two route cards. “Next stop, Reno. Have a good one.”

  CHAPTER 11

  How Old Those Girls Were

  THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 2003

  GUMBALL FLAG DROP

  “Reno,” Maher said, looking at the card. I turned right to follow the other Gumballers down California. “Wait, Alex, we gotta wait for our cameraman.”

  Except for when I’d used him as an excuse for my parking strategy, I’d completely forgotten about Cassius—the thirtysomething English cameraman.

  He had balls—I liked him. But now he was costing us. Bringing Cassius was an acceptable risk. There were rumors of a Gumball documentary. If The Driver wasn’t here, he might see it.

  “Cassius!!!” Maher yelled out the window.

  “Use the megaphone!”

  Reno was northeast. One could take the Golden Gate or Bay Bridge. The Bay Bridge is only two miles through city traffic, and the Golden Gate’s five, with police patrols guaranteed. The SFPD would, in the interest of increasing tourism, escort the Gumballers to and over the city’s greatest attraction—the Golden Gate Bridge. Every cop stationed or living within 10 miles north of the Golden Gate would be alerted and waiting.

  I turned the screen menu’s rubber knob to GPS and clicked.

  “Here comes Cassius!” Maher yelled, dropping back into his seat.

  The GPS address-entry screen appeared. I turned the knob to select the letter R. Nothing happened.

  “What’s up?” said Maher, incredulous.

  “It’s always slow,” I said truthfully, my faith in free fall. A never-before-seen message appeared on the map display: Disc Error.

  Suddenly I understood why my M5 had come so cheap. I
t was a 2000—the M5’s first model year, after which BMW made minor changes for 2001 that were largely conveniences for most. But for Team Polizei, were utterly catastrophic.

  My 2003 BMW Navigation United States Mapset DVD didn’t work because my 2000 BMW M5 GPS only read CD-ROMs.

  “Maher, get your maps out!”

  “All right!” Cassius pulled his door shut. “We’re off!”

  I put the car in first gear and gently accelerated. West. Minor problem—the Bay Bridge was east. I couldn’t make a U-turn since SFPD motorcycle units sat at every other intersection.

  “Gotta make a right ASAP,” I said, “for the Bay Bridge.”

  “Are you sure?” said Maher. “The other guys are headed to the Golden Gate.”

  “Trust me. Listen!” I turned the scanner volume to maximum and pressed the backlit button labeled 1, activating the first of the BC796D’s ten channel banks, each containing one hundred of the one thousand police frequencies I’d researched online for three months, assumed relevant to a section of one of several potential cross country routes, then uploaded, adding my best guess as to police unit types and acronyms.

  SKREWWWW-EEEEECH-SHCHAWWWW

  I turned the squelch knob to adjust the scanner’s sensitivity. The display lit up: Sausalito MOB3.

  “…Ten-twenty-seven on a foreign DL…”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Um…MOB3 means ‘mobile,’ and ‘Ten-twenty-seven,’ I think that’s a request for info…on a foreign driver’s license! They’ve got someone already! Where the hell’s Sausalito?”

  “I think”—Maher frowned—“it’s north?”

  “North of San Fran!” I laughed, wiping tears of joy from my eyes. “Right across the Golden Gate Bridge!”

  “This thing works like this right out of the box?”

  “Maher, what did you think I was doing for the last three months?”

  The scanner cycled too rapidly for us to follow the chatter. The display lit up: SFPD Local, CHP A, CHP B, Sausalito PD, Waldo MOB, CHP Air…

  “Damn,” I said, “I wish we knew exactly where are all these cops were.”

  “Ten-fourteen northbound—”

  CHP B: “…copy Ten-twenty-seven—”