around to returning yet.
“Do you own an umbrella?” Jack asked, flicking my second-hand drops off his jacket.
“Several. I only wish I knew where I put them.” I looked back at the big empty house as we pulled away. There were a lot of places to lose things in there.
Jack turned down the steep hill to Broadway and made a right. It was almost eight, so the worst of Friday rush hour was over. There was still a bit of cross-street congestion ahead of us, but our straight shot to the Broadway Tunnel, which makes a swooping cut through one of the steepest hills in the city, was relatively clear.
After about the fourth stop sign, Jack made an irritated sound and adjusted his rearview mirror.
“What’s the matter? Ow!”
Jack didn’t need to answer my question because I’d just been temporarily blinded by the lights of the car behind us shining directly into my eyes from the side mirror. “That guy seriously needs his headlights adjusted.”
Jack was alternately squinting into the rearview mirror and squinting to see the road ahead of us. We were getting to the busier intersections, with lots of pedestrians, and visibility was already bad because of the rain.
“They aren’t headlights,” he told me. “He’s got a row of spotlights across the roof of his truck.”
I turned around to look, shielding my eyes. “Isn’t it against some sort of law for him to have them on in traffic?” We went through a green light at Van Ness.
“It should be.” Jack signaled and moved to the left lane as we approached the mouth of the tunnel.
We had a moment of relief from the glaring lights, then the truck pulled forward, as if to pass us on the right, flashing the bright lights like strobes and blaring the horn.
Jack accelerated instantly, but it wasn’t fast enough. Exactly at the point where the tunnel curves, the truck smashed up against us, slamming into our right side as the white tiled wall of the tunnel rushed to meet us on the left.
“Jack!” I grabbed the arm of my seat and held on. I couldn’t see anything beyond the blinding lights of truck that was trying to crush us.
Jack fought to keep the car under control, still accelerating as we were being pressed into the tunnel wall. The sound of metal crashing against metal on one side and metal screeching against tile on the other was deafening. Sparks were starting to fly past Jack’s head.
“Hold on!” he yelled, wrenching the steering wheel to the left as the tunnel straightened. There was a last ear-splitting metallic squeal as we scraped deeper into the wall, but when Jack gunned the engine we were suddenly free of the truck’s pressure.
The truck roared past as Jack slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into the backed-up line of cars outside the tunnel.
“Are you all right?” he shouted.
“Jack! He’s getting away!” I saw the truck—some huge black sort of extra-wide pickup—race through the stoplight while we were still stuck in our lane, the traffic to the right moving too quickly for us to change lanes and follow it.
“Never mind. Are you okay?”
“Yes! Did you see a license plate?”
He shook his head grimly. “There wasn’t one.”
Jack pulled over as soon as he could, and we took refuge in the tiny driveway of a Chinese greengrocer. We stared at each other. I was shaking uncontrollably, still hearing the screech of metal, still seeing giant purple spots in the shape of the truck’s lights bouncing around.
Jack, not surprisingly, looked good. Face slightly flushed, eyes slightly blazing. More like he’d just navigated a particularly tricky stretch of alpine roadway than nearly been crushed to death at high speed.
As soon as I got my breath back, I had one question for him.
“Jack, just exactly who did you piss off at Zakdan the other day?”
I waited. He appeared to be thinking. Then he nodded his head, as if he’d figured something out.
“I was at Zakdan again today,” he began.
“ What! Why? Were you going
“Do you own an umbrella?” Jack asked, flicking my second-hand drops off his jacket.
“Several. I only wish I knew where I put them.” I looked back at the big empty house as we pulled away. There were a lot of places to lose things in there.
Jack turned down the steep hill to Broadway and made a right. It was almost eight, so the worst of Friday rush hour was over. There was still a bit of cross-street congestion ahead of us, but our straight shot to the Broadway Tunnel, which makes a swooping cut through one of the steepest hills in the city, was relatively clear.
After about the fourth stop sign, Jack made an irritated sound and adjusted his rearview mirror.
“What’s the matter? Ow!”
Jack didn’t need to answer my question because I’d just been temporarily blinded by the lights of the car behind us shining directly into my eyes from the side mirror. “That guy seriously needs his headlights adjusted.”
Jack was alternately squinting into the rearview mirror and squinting to see the road ahead of us. We were getting to the busier intersections, with lots of pedestrians, and visibility was already bad because of the rain.
“They aren’t headlights,” he told me. “He’s got a row of spotlights across the roof of his truck.”
I turned around to look, shielding my eyes. “Isn’t it against some sort of law for him to have them on in traffic?” We went through a green light at Van Ness.
“It should be.” Jack signaled and moved to the left lane as we approached the mouth of the tunnel.
We had a moment of relief from the glaring lights, then the truck pulled forward, as if to pass us on the right, flashing the bright lights like strobes and blaring the horn.
Jack accelerated instantly, but it wasn’t fast enough. Exactly at the point where the tunnel curves, the truck smashed up against us, slamming into our right side as the white tiled wall of the tunnel rushed to meet us on the left.
“Jack!” I grabbed the arm of my seat and held on. I couldn’t see anything beyond the blinding lights of truck that was trying to crush us.
Jack fought to keep the car under control, still accelerating as we were being pressed into the tunnel wall. The sound of metal crashing against metal on one side and metal screeching against tile on the other was deafening. Sparks were starting to fly past Jack’s head.
“Hold on!” he yelled, wrenching the steering wheel to the left as the tunnel straightened. There was a last ear-splitting metallic squeal as we scraped deeper into the wall, but when Jack gunned the engine we were suddenly free of the truck’s pressure.
The truck roared past as Jack slammed on the brakes to avoid crashing into the backed-up line of cars outside the tunnel.
“Are you all right?” he shouted.
“Jack! He’s getting away!” I saw the truck—some huge black sort of extra-wide pickup—race through the stoplight while we were still stuck in our lane, the traffic to the right moving too quickly for us to change lanes and follow it.
“Never mind. Are you okay?”
“Yes! Did you see a license plate?”
He shook his head grimly. “There wasn’t one.”
Jack pulled over as soon as he could, and we took refuge in the tiny driveway of a Chinese greengrocer. We stared at each other. I was shaking uncontrollably, still hearing the screech of metal, still seeing giant purple spots in the shape of the truck’s lights bouncing around.
Jack, not surprisingly, looked good. Face slightly flushed, eyes slightly blazing. More like he’d just navigated a particularly tricky stretch of alpine roadway than nearly been crushed to death at high speed.
As soon as I got my breath back, I had one question for him.
“Jack, just exactly who did you piss off at Zakdan the other day?”
I waited. He appeared to be thinking. Then he nodded his head, as if he’d figured something out.
“I was at Zakdan again today,” he began.
“ What! Why? Were you going
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