twirls the steering wheel all the way from lock to lock, then centers it again to fling us through a small rotary. Gum wrappers, old lottery tickets, and crumpled receipts skitter back and forth across the dashboard as the car lists from side to side.
“Not a problem,” he says. “I’ve already commed ze police to retrieve zem.”
The car’s centripetal force has propelled my partner all the way across the rear bench seat and smushed himagainst the far side door. Patrick comms, “Why didn’t you tell them to be there beforehand?”
“Because, my American friend—” Jacques executes a complex zigzag turn, only half of which rumbles over the sidewalk. “—in Greater Germany, it is
plus simple
to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” He blows his horn to clear a delivery man out of the way. “Ze red tape, she is much smaller zis way.”
We emerge from the tight warren of streets onto a larger, more open boulevard that runs along the Seine. The BMW’s taillights are a block ahead, but we’re gaining on them. They’ve got a faster car, but they aren’t milking as much out of it.
Jacques switches back to tour guide mode. “On our left, you can see la Cathédrale Notre Dame.” We’re going so fast, we barely see it before he’s on to the next attraction. “Also on our left, we are passing le Pont Neuf, which in English means ‘New Bridge.’ ” The bridge blurs by. “You can see ze famous Louvre museum on your right—” He swerves into the oncoming lane to pass a lumbering produce truck that totally obstructs our view of “—les Tuileries, very beautiful gardens.” Very beautiful indeed. In the dark. At eighty miles per hour.
The BMW takes a right onto a street that leads away from the river. Jacques makes up a huge amount of distance by not slowing down at all for the turn. His skid goes on for an entire block. He shouts over the squealing tires, “Here we are passing through la Place de la Concorde, where—whoops!” The last part is Jacques reacting to an unexpected move by the Bimmer. Place de la Concorde is a big roundabout, and the BMW has turned the wrong way, into the flow of traffic. Jacques follows him without a moment’s hesitation. We evade a few honking cars and motorcycles and roar onto a wide four-lane street. Now we’re only a second or two behind the BMW.
“No trip to Paris is complete without a shopping spree on Avenue des Champs-Elysées.” We hammer up the avenue.The shriek of our engine battles with the growl of the Bimmer’s. I look up ahead and see—
“L’Arc de Triomphe! Erected to commemorate—” Jacques cranks the wheel right and left to avoid a police car. “—ze victory of Napoleon—” He chases the BMW into the huge traffic circle around the monument. “—at Austerlitz in 1806.” The police car’s lights flash and its siren wails behind us. We chase the Bimmer all the way around the arch and then some.
Trick is pinned against the right-side rear door by Jacques’s fast cornering. “I think they’re lost!”
“Hah!” cries Jacques.
“Can you ram them or something?”
“In my
petite fille
?
Jamais!
Never! But I have an idea. Scarlet, get ready to jump into their car.”
Oh, sure thing, Jacques. No problem
. I climb out the sunroof and squat on top of the car. My hands grasp the edge of the roof, and my eyes water from the torrent of wind.
“Hang on!” Jacques yells. He flies up on the BMW’s right side and executes an incredible 360-degree spin that slings his Citroën completely around the front end of our competitor’s car. I can barely hang on as Jacques’s stunt lands us inches away from the Bimmer’s left side. The wall of tire smoke makes the BMW driver slow down just enough for me to—
“Jump!” Jacques shouts.
I leap off the Citroën and flop onto the roof of the BMW. I let myself slide down to the trunk and then ram my synthetic right fist through the rear window. Jacques pulls in front and serpentines back and
“Not a problem,” he says. “I’ve already commed ze police to retrieve zem.”
The car’s centripetal force has propelled my partner all the way across the rear bench seat and smushed himagainst the far side door. Patrick comms, “Why didn’t you tell them to be there beforehand?”
“Because, my American friend—” Jacques executes a complex zigzag turn, only half of which rumbles over the sidewalk. “—in Greater Germany, it is
plus simple
to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” He blows his horn to clear a delivery man out of the way. “Ze red tape, she is much smaller zis way.”
We emerge from the tight warren of streets onto a larger, more open boulevard that runs along the Seine. The BMW’s taillights are a block ahead, but we’re gaining on them. They’ve got a faster car, but they aren’t milking as much out of it.
Jacques switches back to tour guide mode. “On our left, you can see la Cathédrale Notre Dame.” We’re going so fast, we barely see it before he’s on to the next attraction. “Also on our left, we are passing le Pont Neuf, which in English means ‘New Bridge.’ ” The bridge blurs by. “You can see ze famous Louvre museum on your right—” He swerves into the oncoming lane to pass a lumbering produce truck that totally obstructs our view of “—les Tuileries, very beautiful gardens.” Very beautiful indeed. In the dark. At eighty miles per hour.
The BMW takes a right onto a street that leads away from the river. Jacques makes up a huge amount of distance by not slowing down at all for the turn. His skid goes on for an entire block. He shouts over the squealing tires, “Here we are passing through la Place de la Concorde, where—whoops!” The last part is Jacques reacting to an unexpected move by the Bimmer. Place de la Concorde is a big roundabout, and the BMW has turned the wrong way, into the flow of traffic. Jacques follows him without a moment’s hesitation. We evade a few honking cars and motorcycles and roar onto a wide four-lane street. Now we’re only a second or two behind the BMW.
“No trip to Paris is complete without a shopping spree on Avenue des Champs-Elysées.” We hammer up the avenue.The shriek of our engine battles with the growl of the Bimmer’s. I look up ahead and see—
“L’Arc de Triomphe! Erected to commemorate—” Jacques cranks the wheel right and left to avoid a police car. “—ze victory of Napoleon—” He chases the BMW into the huge traffic circle around the monument. “—at Austerlitz in 1806.” The police car’s lights flash and its siren wails behind us. We chase the Bimmer all the way around the arch and then some.
Trick is pinned against the right-side rear door by Jacques’s fast cornering. “I think they’re lost!”
“Hah!” cries Jacques.
“Can you ram them or something?”
“In my
petite fille
?
Jamais!
Never! But I have an idea. Scarlet, get ready to jump into their car.”
Oh, sure thing, Jacques. No problem
. I climb out the sunroof and squat on top of the car. My hands grasp the edge of the roof, and my eyes water from the torrent of wind.
“Hang on!” Jacques yells. He flies up on the BMW’s right side and executes an incredible 360-degree spin that slings his Citroën completely around the front end of our competitor’s car. I can barely hang on as Jacques’s stunt lands us inches away from the Bimmer’s left side. The wall of tire smoke makes the BMW driver slow down just enough for me to—
“Jump!” Jacques shouts.
I leap off the Citroën and flop onto the roof of the BMW. I let myself slide down to the trunk and then ram my synthetic right fist through the rear window. Jacques pulls in front and serpentines back and
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