2 cobra 7

 

Chapter 7

 

I have no idea how Lamborghini kept control of his car. He rode the crash, turning away from the impact. Boy,that New Yorker could drive! He went through the barrier of course, facing the opposite way to the way he had been going, as far as I could see, but intact. The guy who caused the crash also rolled off the course, and last I saw he was buried to the wazzoo in a bale of hay. Ichiro swerved and kept going. Elizabeth followed his line, and I followed Elizabeth. Behind us, two of the more nervous drivers braked and were rammed from behind. They would hopefully be cleared away by the time we came round again.

And the other rear runner just carried on chugging round. If he was doing more than forty miles an hour I’d be surprised, but he was doggedly carrying on. I hoped he’d complete the course at least; it would be a personal achievement if nothing else.

Anyway, we lapped him for a second time on his first lap, and he was still going; and Lamborghini was back in the race. He hadn’t a cat’s chance in hell of placing in the top three, but he wasn’t going to give up, and I expected him to come damn close.

Long story short, I did what I intended, and put the pedal to the metal in the final chicane, risky, but I’ve driven worse chicanes through burning vehicles on the road around The Rubble, with mini-gun happy loonies on my tail. Not that I could discourage my opposition here the way I dealt with those wannabe slavers, by throwing several frag grenades behind me. Yes, it was a hobby case, no, I haven’t mentioned it before; it was a straightforward business with no excitement to it.

So I went straight between Elizabeth and Ichiro as she was edging up on him; and she swerved enough to avoid me that she wasn’t going to be in pole position any time before the race ended. I caught a look of her face, and if words could kill, I’d probably be sizzling. Ichiro made the mistake of looking back, and panicked when I seemed to be driving straight at him.

I’ll be honest here; I seriously considered ploughing into him. Vehicular homicide is virtually impossible to prove, and all I had to say was that I’d clipped Elizabeth and been spun off course. But I couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t end in a fireball, and I have a strong ambition to remain uncooked. I shaved his paintwork as it was, and he wobbled like a whore on high heels after one too many cocktails. And then I was haring over the line with the chequered flag, letting the engine slow the car, and realising that Lamborghini had driven up beside me. Well, I was wrong; he was placed.

We rolled to a halt and I got out. My legs were shaking.

Lamborghini shook my hand like it was a pump and he was drowning.

“That was a peach of a drive, Mr. Silverheels, a peach! You should have seen that bastard, Ichiro’s, face!” he crowed.

“You should have been first; it was sheer bad luck,” I said. “You, sir, are one helluva driver.”

And then I recognised someone who had come to congratulate us.

“Raymond! Silverheels!” said Evans.

Evans is number two on the Black Board, and he is anonymous in his fame as a speed freak. Plainly he knew who I was; it was probably an open secret on the board.

“Evans!” I said.

“Kyle – what a race!” said Lamborghini. “I’m not sure I’d have had the nerve to go between Ichiro and the overgrown girl scout myself, you have to admire Silverheels.”

“I’ve known him some years and I had no idea he was that good,” said Kyle Evans. “He doesn’t drive professionally like we do.”

Not racing, anyway. And I’m just as happy to take the El or an airoplane.

“Her name’s Elizabeth,” I said. “Elizabeth – meet Kyle Evans. He’s an old friend of mine.”

I never thought I’d see Elizabeth blush.

“The Kyle Evans?” she said. “Can I have your autograph?”

“I tell  you what,” said Evans, “If I take you to dinner tonight, I’ll sign the menu for you.”

Elizabeth plainly forgave me for pipping her at the post.

Oh, and the guy sticking to – as it turned out – a sedate 60mph all the way round [yes, I underestimated; it seemed slower to those of us going hell bent for leather] managed to qualify for being sixteenth to finish.  Most of the also rans had come to grief one way or another. And I shook his hand too.

“Dogged as does it,” he said, with a shy grin. “They call me ‘Dogged Dave.’ Dave Franklin.”

He was also almost swooning to meet Kyle Evans. He had only entered in a fit of pique to irritate his ex wife.

“And now I’m guaranteed some prize money and the decree nisi went through before I signed up so I’m not liable to pay her any!” he crowed.

I hadn’t considered that; those of us who remained were liable for some level of cash prize and the probability of being approached by advertising agents in our own home towns.

Good luck to them finding Jay Silverheels.

 

Lamborghini and I took Dave out to dinner, with Lamborghini’s wife, who was a model in her professional life and, she confided, made teddy bears for a hobby. My own wife managed to look enough like anyone would expect Mrs. Silverheels to look, and we took the Valkyrie to make up numbers. Her name should have been something like Freya Bjornsson, but it was really Julia Smith.

She and Dave were getting quite chummy by the time we returned to our caravan, having collected Evans and Elizabeth on our way back.

Sebastian had been replaced by a martinet known as call-me-Mr. Oppenheimer and with a single accord we grabbed him by a limb each and threw him in the sump pit in the pit stop.

Then we men peed on him.

In our defence, we were not entirely sober. Dave and Julia headed for a caravan together and we all whistled the theme of last year’s Trideo hit, ‘Thor the Thunderer’. He saluted us in time honoured fashion with one finger, and we raided the canteen.

We passed out there, having held a wiener roast in the middle of one of the tables.

 

We were Spoken To severely the next day.

“Aw, go boil yer arse, Oppenheimer,” said Dave. Dave! The mild-mannered, if dogged. He had plainly scored.

“What he said,” I drawled.

“We are officially on leave until the next event,” said Ray – Lamborghini had become Ray at some point during the evening – “And so you can go fish up a tree.”

“Unless you’ve been paid to try to kill us like Sebastian was,” I said.

“That’s a very serious charge to make against an employee of PETV, Mr. Silverheels, can you substantiate it?” said Oppenheimer, coldly.

I shrugged.

“He admitted it, and decided to flee from whoever was paying him,” I said. “You recall, I took a real bullet and so did Grieves, third seed.”

He humphed and seethed, and let us go. We went singing the gospel song ‘Pour your oil.’

 

I might be on vacation, but I wasn’t about to let my training slip. I invited Elizabeth back to Seattle to stay in the dojo – Mr. Jay Silverheels was a member, of course – but she murmured something about having another invitation.

I hoped Evans would not treat her too badly; I sort of felt responsible as I’d introduced them. Well, she was a grown up, and life’s about choices.

 

There were three events left, and we had been given details about them. I wanted to discuss them with Tarquin and Willow.

“So, the first two are essentially back to back races,” I said. “And one of the essentials is picking the items of equipment permitted that will work for both; or which might be vital for one and of no use at all for the other.”

“A lot of it is more about extreme terrain than anything else,” said Willow, examining the brochure. “First one, you are tied up and left in a cave, and you have to escape and find your way out. Rope might be useful.”

“A knife is always useful,” I said. “Three items again, and the medkit a given, and a canteen of water. I’m not fond of underground things.”

“Look on it as a big building,” said Tarquin.

I considered.

“Yes, I think that would help,” I said. “They’ll have drones on us at all times. We can pick our clothing.  There must be some way of guiding us out; even experienced spelunkers can get lost.”

“Gesundheit,” said Willow.

“Spelunking. The proper name for cave exploring,” I explained.

“Not something I’ve ever craved,” said Willow.

“I don’t rave or crave a cave,” I said, facetiously.

Willow slid a hand in mine. She knew the whole concept made me nervous.

“There’s a small print here, there are markers to the way out, but as you’ll be in the dark, you have to find them,” said Tarquin.

“A waterproof torch might not be a bad idea,” I said. “I can just see the bastards thinking it a really good idea to let you have a torch and then it fails because you have to swim through an underground lake.”

It went on the list of possible things.

“You can always use a crepe bandage as a guide line,” said Willow. “Pitons might be handy.”

“A shaped charge to cut my way out,” I suggested.

Willow gently shushed this idea.

“What’s the second race, once out?” I asked. “I have to pick for both.”

“Cross down town New York with what you leave the cave holding,” said Willow.

“So, I can take a rock, and pull a smash and grab job to finance myself,” I said.

“Somehow, dear, I think they’d frown on that,” said Willow.

“It’s about compromises,” said Tarquin. “And it’s an exercise in being clever. You’re likely to emerge from the cave wet and dirty. Not someone to inspire confidence in a New Yorker. Nor do you want to carry a lot of coin money to weigh you down, but paper money will likely get wet.”

“Waterproof money belt,” I said. “For the first aid kit, too.” I considered. “I need to memorise the underground there, so I can take the metro.”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade,” said Tarquin, “But the small print on the second says that you will be a fugitive.”

“Oh, joy,” I said. “And I can’t use my usual escape-evade methods as it gives me away.”

“Ambush your pursuer and take his clothes,” said Willow.

“It has a certain charm,” I said. “Well, my watch is clothes. I’m going to get a waterproof watch with a compass and a torch.”

“Good idea,” said Tarquin.

“If you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying,” I said. “Money belt, waterproof, strong webbing, can be used for short rope lengths at a pinch.”

“Don’t despise keeping what they tie you up with,” said Willow.

I nodded.

“Scarf. Handkerchief.  Climbing gloves,” I said. “In a way, escaping from the cave, so long as I have light, is about my body; escaping pursuit in a city is about my brain. I want reversable clothing. I need, after all, to get somewhere I can deal with my pursuer.”

Willow sniggered.

“Maybe one of your items should be a hijab,” she said.

“Write it down,” I said. “I won’t discard the idea just because you find it funny.”

“One of your items should be a locker key,” said Tarquin. “And set up a left luggage locker with quick change items in it. Including a hijab to at least get you out of the way.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “Just one small problem; I don’t know where I’ll be dropped in New York, and there are a lot of left luggage lockers.”

“Sorry,” said Tarquin.

“It was almost a good thought,” I said. “Chalks. I can use them to mark up where I’m going, if I have any time I can do street art, and I can chalk my hair to make myself old.”

“Knife, a given. Chalks. Anything else?”

“Season ticket on the Metro,” I said.

“Brilliant,” said Tarquin.

I was willing to bet Raymond already had one.