The Driver by Alexander Roy Page B

Manhattan run. With a fuel cell it’d be an excellent endurance racer, and at $35,000 it had 95 percent the performance and handling of the Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis on Gumball.
    Only someone with a limited budget— or Frankl’s experience —drove an EVO.
    â€œWhat color?” I said.
    â€œYellow.” Maher shook his head.
    A veteran? In a yellow car? “Are you sure?” I said.
    â€œI saw it in the garage.”
    â€œFrankl better pray the cops are color-blind.”
    Maybe Frankl wasn’t so smart after all. But wait—Frankl was English. He didn’t care. Anything short of arrest would have no effect on his license. Frankl was now Polizei Enemy number three.
    The Koenigsegg duo walked past.
    â€œI heard that one of the Koenigsegg guys,” I whispered, “said to someone he was gonna kick ass, and that someone said, ‘Even those crazy guys in the police car?’ and you know what the Koenigsegg guy said?”
    â€œJust tell me.”
    â€œHe said, ‘Oh, that piece of shit?’”
    Maher nodded. “Let’s just see how far that Koenigsegg makes it.”
    There . You see that fortyish redhead in the black leather jacket? That’s Alison Cornea. Big Microsoft exec. Rumor is she just got divorced, bought a brand-new M5, and signed up for Gumball. “Gray M5, license plate M-TROUBLE . But we still have to find the big drivers. Keep a look out for Kenworthy. I want to know what he’s in. And Kim Schmitz.”
    â€œI heard Schmitz isn’t coming,” said Maher. “I heard he was in jail.”
    â€œI think a lot of these guys are gonna be in jail before the week’s up.” We had $3,500 ready for fines, court fees, lawyer fees, bail, bribery, and as-yet-unknown miscellaneous emergency Gumball expenses. “But not us, Maher, not us.”
    Â 
    â€œDid you hear about the after-party?” said a French-accented girl behind me.
    Maher nodded and silently mouthed Let’s go .
    This was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 9
The Eleventh Hour
    THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 2003
GUMBALL START DAY
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Roy! This is your eight A.M . wake-up call.”
    BEEP BEEP BEEP went the alarm I’d set—just in case.
    â€œI hate you, Roy,” Maher groaned, then turned and pulled the pillow over his head.
    In the middle of the night, half asleep, I overheard him on the phone describing how good the party had been. On his behalf I reset the alarm for 11 A.M .—enough time for him to complete our research.
    Quietly I slipped on—for the first time since purchase—my dark blue Polizei pants with the yellow highway patrol stripes, then a white Polizei officer’s shirt with “144” and “GB3K” collar dogs, then a dark blue wool Polizei sweater with German flags on each sleeve. If I was ever going to be beaten up, shot, or arrested, today was the day.
    It was time for the M5’s final refuel before that night’s Gumball flag drop. I presumed everyone would sneak out for one last refuel, if only to avoid traffic jams at what few gas stations lay between the Fairmont and any one of the city’s exit points I’d scouted.
    The slow, lazy, or hungover might spend the first hour of Gumball—one of the world’s last true adventures—waiting at a gas station.
    I stopped before a mirror halfway down the hall to the elevator. I stared at my cleanly shaven head, light pink blotches and streaks where I’d pressed the razor and pulled in long impatient strokes. I wondered why I alone, bleary-eyed and starving, up at 8 A.M . while the others slept off a historic night of festivities, was rushing out to mitigate a theoretical.
    Because I was not one of those people . I might lose my license or insurance. I might lose my car. I might be jailed, crippled or killed, or kill someone else. I might never do this again. I wasn’t going to waste time sitting at a