The Driver (11 page)

“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.”

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. It 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 b
ecause 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—”

“Code Nine on…”

Maher shook his head. “
I
wish we knew what the codes meant.”

“…numerous vehicles…high rate of speed…One-oh-one…”

“Now you're talking!” I giggled.

Sausalito PD:
“…APB…multiple vehicles…northbound…”

An APB was an All Points Bulletin—just like in the movies.

“Bad news for those guys!” I said. “The good news is we haven't picked up anything from Oakland or Berkeley, which is the other side of the Bay Bridge.”

“Roy,”
Maher said with the greatest respect, warmth, love, and gratitude possible between two straight men who'd only recently met and were risking their lives together, when one realized the other was as smart as he'd hoped, “turn that thing to max and pick up the pace! Bay Bridge, baby!”

 

“Look!”
I pointed at a silver convertible cresting a distant hill. “Gumballer?”

“It's those watermelon helmet guys in the Z8! They must be headed the same way.”

The entrance to the Bay Bridge was only a few blocks away.

We chased the Z8 over the bridge through dusk rush-hour traffic, weaving across the solid white lines two or three lanes at a time.

“This is incredible,” I said, “not a cop in sight.”

87

“Yeah,” said Maher, “I can't believe we're getting away with this.”

91

“Maher, what's the speed limit?”

“Who knows?” he said, uninterested in checking the list I'd earlier told him was in the right-side door pocket. Maher now glanced at the maps. “Follow the signs,
there,
at the end, to 580 West, then 80 East. And pick it up!”

I bore left off the bridge onto I-80/580, its six lanes sprinkled with light commuter traffic cruising at 75 mph.

“I'll take it to 95.”

“
There's
the Z8,” said Maher, “they've slowed down.”

“Their top's down. If I'm cold they've gotta be freezing.”

“They'll have to stop to put it up. Pass 'em.”

The Z8's distinctive blue-tinged Xenon headlights disappeared in my rearview mirror.

101

“Maher, the Golden Gate guys, if they're on the west side of the bay…how long until their route intersects ours? Because they're gonna be bringing the whole damn CHP with them, and we need to get past that intersect point before they do.”

“Looks like”—Maher ran his finger across the map page—“we hit the I-80/37 interchange in…maybe 25 miles. Fifteen minutes at this speed.”

“Keep your eyes open as we approach.”

 

“Passing through…” Maher said. “Town of Vallejo, California, interchange coming up.”

My phone rang.
“Roy…Roy! Can y…ear me?”
His English voice was smothered by wind and engine noise.

“Who is it?”

“…all o…them nicked…the bridge…we—”

“Maher, what does
nicked
mean?”

“Maybe ‘caught' or ‘stopped,' I guess?”

“…was…massacre…wh…are you?”

“I can't hear you!” I lost the signal.

“Who was it?” said Maher.

“I don't know, but he did say ‘massacre.'”

“Interchange,” said Maher, “any second now.” Maher peered at the interchange's entry ramp. “I don't see anything.”

“Cops?”

“That's what I was looking for.”

“Gumballers?”

“Nothing.”

“The scanner's been quiet,” I said, checking that its volume was at maximum. It was.

“Let's hope we passed the main pack,” said Maher.

“If not, we're dead.”

110

The scanner lit up.

Vacaville PD:
“Ten-twenty-three on those rally vehicles…”

I let off the gas.

“Maher! We
just
passed signs for Vacaville! And we've got Xenons coming up behind us at high speed!”

“I see him,” said Maher, “it's the Z8!”

“I'll let him pass…wait, hang on!” I yelled. “Yellow Ferrari! Passing on the left shoulder! And the scanner's going crazy!”

DEEDEET!

It was the Valentine 1. My hearing, keenly attuned after ten childhood years of classical piano training, recognized the single
DEEDEET
as a K-band signal, almost always evidence of a police radar gun within (assuming a straight road with no obstructions) four miles in either direction. This instantly set off a series of responses so frequently practiced they were as involuntary as breathing.

I hit mute and kicked the brake, sending every loose object in the car—the map book in Maher's lap, Cassius's spare DV tapes, and all our cell phones—flying forward, my seat punched by the mountain of bags behind me in the sex doll's lap.

I released the brake when the speedometer read 70—moved to the right lane in an effort to hide my
AutobahnPolizei M5
among a cluster of local commuters, and set the cruise control.

“Alex, can we get a warning next time?”

“Just being cautious.”

“Hang on, wait, we've got flashing lights coming up fast. Left lane!”

A black-and-white police car flew past us at least 90 mph.

“Whoooaaa!!!” we yelled in unison.

A CHP motorcycle flew past doing at least a hundred.

“WHOOOAAAAAA!” we yelled together.

My body tingled with excitement at our escape. “Good eyes, Maher! You saved us!”

“Looks like we've got a Z8 about to get pulled over. And a yellow Ferrari!”

Five minutes later we spotted a single, stationary set of flashing lights on the right shoulder.

“Slow down more,” said Maher as he lowered his window, “so I can get a good shot.”

Cold air blasted into the car.

“Looks like,” Maher yelled in the wind, “the Z8!”

“Those poor watermelon-helmet guys.” I thought I saw both of them on their knees being handcuffed.

Over the next hour we spotted four more sets of flashing lights on the right shoulder—each behind a stopped Gumballer.

“Any cell reception yet, Maher?”

“No, but I think we're about…90 or 100 miles from Reno.”

“It's starting to snow.” This was bad news for an M5 riding on summer tires.

“I'm slowing to 75.” We flashed past a Ferrari. The M5 fishtailed slightly, but held its grip. “Maher, I'm gonna pull back to 65.”

“If you have to.”

I made a mental list of every Gumball car with four-wheel drive, not including the Porsche turbos and Lamborghini Murcielagos—their OEM summer tires rendering four-wheel drive useless in snow—which left a silver Audi S4 and Rawlings's Avalanche.

 

“Whooooaa!”

Thousands of people lined the three blocks to the Reno Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. Reno PD officers waved and cheered with the crowd as we rolled alone toward the red-shirted Gumball staff in the distance.

“Maher! There's only one thing to do!” I pulled up to the nearest officer and lowered my window.

He laughed heartily. “Blue-light special?” I nodded in agreement while we held up our police lights. “Sure! Just make a right up there and you'll find all your buddies!”

“
Danke,
Officer!” I said.

The crowd
and
police whooped and applauded as we parked in front of the mobbed Circus Circus entrance—behind a row of at least fifteen Gumball cars amid what looked like every on-and off-duty cop in Reno.

A Gumball staffer walked up to me. “What's your car number?”

“One-four-four,” I said. “How'd we do?”

“You're here, aren't ya? Go upstairs and join Max for the party!”

“No,” I said to the staffer, “I mean, where'd we place?”

“Oh, I've no idea. You should relax and enjoy the party.”

“What about our route cards?”

“Roy!” Maher yelled. “C'mon upstairs!”

“You'll get those after the party.”

What appeared to be every Reno resident between 14 and 25, dressed in a variety of official race-team, unofficial racing-style, and bomber jackets—the latter sporting collages of racing
and
military patches—stood behind the ropes and along the red carpet. Girls lifted their shirts, their brothers or (apparently shameless) boyfriends trying to hand us markers with which to sign the girls' pale stomachs.

I tried to keep a straight face as I followed Maher to the doors a hundred outstretched hands, pens, and blank pieces of paper away.

“We're like fokkin' celebrities!” yelled one Gumballer. “Wit a red carpet and all!”

“'Ow old were those girls?” said another.

“Alex, Alex!” Cassius yelled from behind me. “Stop! I need a shot of you walking in!”

The fans craned their heads trying to identify the celebrity upon whom the foreign cameraman trained his spotlight. Then they saw…me, and questions rained down from all sides.

Do you know Tony Hawk? Where's Ryan Dunn? Is Tony Hawk coming? What about Ryan? Are you friends with Tony Hawk? Ohmiiigod! I love Ryan! Is he here? Is he coming?

“Roy!” Maher yelled from inside. “Let's go!”

 

“Look for Rawlings,” I said.

“Look for food,” said Maher.

“Riiiggght over here, gentlemen,” said the Circus Circus host, one of the countless staff assigned to the Gumballers now hugging and slapping hands in the roped-off Gumballers-only section of the casino floor. Fans four deep called out to us over the shoulders of security guards beside each stanchion. Max worked the crowd, signing autographs and taking pictures.

The Gumball rumor mill coalesced around the hot-food buffet table.