The Driver by Alexander Roy

ear.
    â€œThese guys are okay,” Eyhab said to the man blocking our path, who immediately stood aside.
    â€œAlex,” said Rob, “this is Eyhab.”
    â€œGood to meet you, Mr. Police Car Man!”
    At any other time and place Eyhab and his entourage would have been the most bizarre people in the room, yet among all the Gumballers I’d seen or met in the last few days, they were by far—from the instant we’d met—the warmest, most unintentionally hilarious, and human.
    â€œAnd,” Rob said, “this is Mike.”
    â€œA pleasure,” said Mike.
    â€œAnd this,” I said, “is Maher. My copilot.”
    â€œI heard,” Maher said to Eyhab, “you brought a couple of cars.”
    â€œI’m driving the Murcielago, my girlfriend’s taking the 360 with Jess.”
    â€œNice,” Maher and I said in unplanned unison.
    â€œRob and Mike,” said Eyhab, “are in charge of logistics and support.”
    â€œHigh-speed support,” said Rob.
    â€œLincoln Navigator,” said Mike.
    â€œI heard you two,” Eyhab said as his grin further widened, “are in that Polizei M5.”
    â€œYou,” I said “are the first person who actually pronounced it correctly.”
    â€œWe’re the good guys,” said Eyhab, “so please don’t pull us over.”
    Oh. My. God.
    The whole point of Team Polizei was to confuse and/or amuse real cops so as to avoid tickets or jail time. But if Eyhab actually thought we might use our police lights on him— we could actually use the lights as an offensive weapon on other Gumballers. It might not work in daylight, but at night…they’d never know if the flashing lights behind them were real or my StuttgartAutobahnVerfolgungAchtungPolizei M5 .
    They’d have to slow down every time, just in case. We might even be able to pull one over if we used the PA system.
    But we’d lose valuable time. Better just to pass anyone who fell for it.
    â€œDon’t worry,” I said, “you guys are safe.”
    â€œI’d like a water. Care to join us at the bar?” Eyhab may have looked exactly like the poster boy for Gumballer playboy, but he wanted a water. Maybe he’s just not drinking tonight…because he’s here to race. He was clearly someone to keep an eye on. He’d be hard to miss.
    â€œWe’ll catch up with you later,” I said, jabbing Maher with my elbow. “Tell me what else you learned.”
    â€œRawlings, the cowboy guy in the tricked-out Avalanche, is not as crazy as he looks. I think he’s an ex-cop or fireman who made a bunch of money.”
    â€œHas he seen our car?”
    â€œYeah, but he doesn’t know we’re the guys driving it.”
    â€œGood. Let’s go find him.”
    Maher led me out onto a terrace packed with at least fifty Gumballers. Even in my suit I shivered against the brisk evening air. Near the ledge a bare arm raised a beer bottle over a cowboy hat. “I see him,” I said, and began slowly and politely inching toward our quarry.
    â€œ That blonde”—Maher leaned closer to me and nodded at a tall woman in her late thirties, in tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt—“is his wife. I heard them talking about their kids. She’s also his copilot.”
    That might mean—even if he was as serious about racing as his preparations suggested—he might back off in the critical moment of commitment that was the difference between first place and second.
    â€œInteresting. Who are the guys with him?”
    â€œThe one on the right”—a boyish thirtysomething with professionally cut yet shaggy dirty-blond hair and expensive-looking tinted glasses—“is Dennis Collins.”
    â€œCollins have kids?”
    â€œI’m not a mind reader,” said Maher.
    I watched Rawlings jab Dennis in the arm. “They seem to know each other.”
    â€œOld