Jimmy the Kid by Donald E. Westlake

silver-grey Cadillac limousine took the curving ramp down from Interstate 80 to the county road and turned south. The chauffeur, Maurice K. Van Gelden, drove at varying speeds above fifty-five, competing with the occasional other car he met. In the back-seat, Jimmy Harrington read the “Letter from Washington” in the current New Yorker and wished he had the self-confidence to tell Maurice to quit racing the other drivers. Maurice behaved himself when Jimmy’s father was in the car, but when it was just Jimmy back there he obviously thought he could get away with being a cowboy. And the annoying part of it was, he could; Jimmy wouldn’t complain to his father, since that would be the act of a baby, but on the other hand he hadn’t yet felt quite secure enough to complain to Maurice directly.
    Pretty soon I will , Jimmy thought, and read about the administration’s hopes for a settlement in the Middle East.
    Five minutes later, May and Kelp both simultaneously said, “Here they come.”
    â€œI see them,” Dortmunder said, and put the Caprice in gear as the Cadillac rocketed by them. The Caprice moved out from the dirt road and accelerated in the Cadillac’s wake.
    â€œThat’s five dollars you owe me,” Kelp said.
    Dortmunder didn’t answer.
    Van Gelden, at the wheel of the Cadillac, suddenly slammed on the brakes and swerved all over the road when he saw the sign blocking the road ahead. Jimmy, flung off the seat, came sputtering up, crying, “Maurice! What in the name of God is going on?”
    â€œGoddam deture!” Van Gelden cried. He thought the word was spelled that way.
    Jimmy got one quick flashing glimpse of the sign as the Cadillac slewed around, tyres squealing, and reared off down the secondary road. “Detour?” He frowned out the back window; there’s been something about that sign, he wasn’t sure what. It had gone by so fast. As a soft drink commercial’s jingle started up in his brain, distracting him, he said to himself, “The detour wasn’t there before.”
    This secondary road was narrower, bumpier, and curvier than the county road. Van Gelden, taking out his rage at the fact of the deture by flinging the car forward as rapidly as possible, was tossing Jimmy around the back seat like a sneaker in a dryer. Jimmy, holding on for dear life, found at last the maturity to shout out, “Damn it, Maurice, slow down !”
    Van Gelden didn’t touch the brake, but he did lift his foot from the accelerator. “I’m just trying to get you home,” he snarled, glaring in the rearview mirror at the boy, and as he did so he came around a curve in the road and saw vehicles stopped ahead. A school bus, facing this way, its red lights flashing, meaning it was unloading passengers and traffic wasn’t permitted to pass it in either direction. And a truck, a big tractor-trailer rig, facing the same direction as the Cadillac and obediently standing still. The two vehicles between them blocked the road completely.
    â€œGoddamit,” Van Gelden said, and tromped on the brake again. He had to brake hard to stop in time, but it was less violent than if his foot had still been pressed on the accelerator when he’d rounded the bend. Jimmy, since he’d been clutching the armrest and a strap anyway, managed to stay on the seat as the Cadillac nosed down to a shuddering stop directly behind the tractor-trailer.
    â€œOne thing after another,” Van Gelden said.
    â€œMaurice,” Jimmy said, “you drive too fast.”
    â€œIt’s not my fault there’s all this stuff in the way.” Van Gelden gestured angrily toward the truck and the bus.
    â€œYou drive too fast all the time,” Jimmy insisted. “Except when my father is in the car. From now on, I want you to drive me the way you drive my father.”
    Van Gelden, becoming sullen, jammed his uniform cap farther down on his