The Driver by Alexander Roy Page A

friends.”
    â€œWhat car is Collins in?”
    â€œBlack 550 Maranello.”
    â€œMaher, that’s the Ferrari with the huge aerial and the scanner! They have almost all the same stuff we do! Did they tell you anything else?”
    â€œDude, I just met them, I wasn’t gonna interrogate them. Relax.”
    I stared at the jovial contingent from Texas—the four of them laughing as they ordered another round—while I’d come to stalk the crowd in cold sobriety.
    The Collins brothers were now Polizei Enemy number two.
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    I snapped out of it upon spotting a beautiful blond girl’s face hovering a full head above everyone else on the terrace.
    â€œYeah.” Maher sighed. “I saw her before. She’s gotta be six three… my height. Jodie Kidd, famous English model. I heard she races professionally.”
    â€œFinally, a model who does something.”
    â€œYeah.” Maher nodded approvingly. “Next to her…see that shorter guy?”
    â€œEveryone’s shorter than her.”
    â€œThat’s Joe Macari—”
    â€œThe guy who looks like a lovable bulldog? Good work, Maher. I guess you haven’t been talking to girls all night. So who is he?”
    â€œCheck out his hand,” said Maher, “for a burn scar. I think he’s a retired pro driver. He’s in a Mercedes SL55 AMG.”
    Good car, but shit gas mileage, and no dash space to install equipment.
    â€œWhat about the frat-brother-looking guy next to Macari?”
    â€œJamie McCloud. I think he’s a banker. He’s got an F50.”
    â€œWait, a Ferrari F50?”
    â€œThe real deal.”
    The F50 was the Koenigsegg of the late 1990s—a low-slung $500,000 race-prepped barely street-legal Ferrari resembling the cartoon cars ten-year-old boys draw in their notebooks instead of paying attention in class. The few collectors who could even find one never dared to take it out of the garage.
    Anyone who brought an F50 this far with friends like Macari wasn’t on vacation.
    â€œIs Jodie Kidd riding with one of them?”
    â€œHmm,” said Maher as we both watched her speak down—literally, but only physically—to McLoud and Macari.
    â€œFrom the looks of her…” Maher started.
    â€œâ€¦no one tells her what to do,” I finished.
    â€œHow old do you think she is?’
    â€œNineteen,” I said, “going on forty. Girls like that never age. Out of your league, Maher. Anyone else?”
    â€œThat’s it so far.”
    â€œOkay, let’s reconvene in thirty.”
    â€œIf we get split up, I’ll meet you at the club.”
    â€œClub?” I exclaimed. “What club? You know where the club is?”
    â€œI’ll call you as soon as I know. Dude, you’ve got your Gumball ID. You’ll get in.”
    People like Maher always got in, even without ID.
    Fucking Dorsia.
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    â€œYou’re late!” said the Gumball staffer just inside the club entrance. “Just head right upstairs!”
    â€œDude!” said Maher. “I’ve been looking for a bald guy in a black suit, and you show up in a white suit? How the hell was I supposed to find you in here?”
    We headed to the downstairs bar. “ That guy,” I said, surreptitiously pointing at the slender, knowledgeable Englishman I’d seen outside the hotel that afternoon, “is hard-core veterans. Nicholas Frankl. He does every event, he knows everybody . He won the Gumball Spirit Trophy last year in a Porsche 911. He was arrested with a guy named Nick Connor, but they got out and flew to the finish in their jail stripes.”
    â€œHoly shit,” said Maher. “I spoke to Frankl. A ton of track experience.”
    â€œDid he say what he’s driving?”
    â€œMitsubishi EVO.”
    Of course. The highly-rated-but-underappreciated-by-car-snobs EVO was equivalent to the Subaru WRX The Weis had recommended for my