The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel
Page 72
“No, you’re the driver.”
“I have a car, thanks.”
Evie started laughing.
“No, I want to drive the ‘Vette. Please, please, please?”
“If anybody gets behind the wheel of this ‘Vette, it had better be to save my life. That’s all I can say. One scratch, just one, and I’ll shoot the whole team.”
There was the barest of hesitations. Then I winked.
Evie threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Then I smelled it, the kirsch.
I held her at arm’s length, and looked in her eyes.
“How many?”
“One, Mister Smartypants. You think I’m a rookie or something?”
“Or something.”
I took a punch on the arm for my jab, and it hurt!
“Evie, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“No.”
“Okay then. How many times a week do you normally work out?”
“Six.”
“Figures. You keep Sundays off?”
“Nope. Wednesday. That’s my day. Mercury, messenger of the Gods. My ruling planet.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re a Virgo.”
“Are you asking me not to tell you my sign?”
“I think so.”
“Well that’s a switch.”
“I read your jacket, remember. Your birthday is in there. September 18th.”
“Oh, right.”
“Exactly four days after mine. Which wasn’t in my jacket.”
“You’re a Virgo too?”
At that exact moment, the ‘Vette pulled up to the door, and the car jockey jumped out, removing his plastic seat covers and the plastic mats that were covering the carpet. He hopped up to the doorway where we were and handed over the keys. In halting Swiss-German, he explained that the papers were in ‘there’, pointing to the showroom. I reached into my jeans and pulled out my roll of fifties, peeling one off for the car-jockey. He went off singing to himself. I think he was Italian-Swiss. I smiled at Evie.
“Yeah. And I think I’m having a perfect day, so watch your step.”
We were both looking at the Corvette when the A-4 came around the other corner, very slowly. The same car-jockey. He went through the same routine as he got out, and then ran over and tried to hand me the keys, but I held up the other set and laughed. He seemed to get it, instantly chuckling along with me. Then he turned to Evie, and offered the keys to her.
“Well, thanks anyway.”
She took them, with a little gleam in her eye. Buying a new car does it for everyone. I managed to slip the jockey another fifty, and off he went, singing the same tune. I think it was from La Bohème. Or possibly The Phantom of the Opera for all I knew. It was in Italian, I think, and he couldn’t sing. Made it tougher to ‘Name That Tune’.
“You have all of our papers?”
“Yup. All that’s left is for you to receive and sign the ownership papers.”
“That would mean you too then. The Audi is in your name.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
We went back to Kleiner’s office, where he had two phones going at the same time. One he was being nice to, that one was in French. The other he was yelling at, and that one was in Swiss-German.
He finished his calls, and beckoned us into his inner sanctum.
“I have good news for you, uh, Jeffry.”
“As I anticipated. We’ll sign the ownership papers while you tell me.”
Both Evie and I sat down at his desk, and the papers appeared before us. They indicated that we would be leaving Switzerland within forty-eight hours for France. The border point on the main highway from Geneva into France would have a record of our impending arrival, and the plates would be waiting. Good French plates, not temporary plates. It was also noted for the French authorities that we would be leaving for Canada within one week of entering France. We would take care of the duties there.
The last page was the ownership page. Evie and I signed on the lines, and witnessed each other’s signatures.
All the while, Kleiner was talking about this ‘good news’ that he had. It turned out that he was able to keep the phone system on, and in a ‘roaming’ state while we were in Europe. At the time of our departure, all we had to do was send him a message, and he would transfer the on-line status to Bell Mobility in Canada. He seemed to be very proud of his efforts, and well he should have been.
Except that what he didn’t know was that most Canadians hated Bell so much they were willing to pay another company more money for their long-distance service, and their cellular service. Anything to Not Pay Bell. I don’t think the Swiss understood about unstable, corrupt, and arrogant Monopolies. Or if they did, they didn’t mind it.
“Yeah. I’ll call, and that was very good work Marcus.”
Evie gave me an inquisitive look. Marcus? She fumed a bit at the ‘Old Boy’s Club’ attitude being shown to me. Actually, it had nothing to do with me being a man, and lots to do with my new bank account. Well, old bank account, but newly mine.
I reached into my jacket pocket and brought out an envelope. Inside were five crisp new thousand-franc notes. I stood, and handed it to Marcus. He stood, and Evie stood.
“Go ahead and open it if you want to. That’s a sample of my gratitude for pulling this together so quickly and easily for us. If everything else goes well, there will be a PUROLETTER sent from Toronto one day after I return. It will be addressed to you, and it will be more pleasing to you than this ‘letter’.
Marcus smiled hesitantly, then opened the envelope and peered inside. This seemed to make him very happy, and handshakes all around were exchanged once more. Then we were out of there.
As we walked out of the front door of the showroom, we both tossed our new keys into the air and caught them again. That was enough to make us stop and have a good laugh for a minute.
“There’s not much shopping that’s as fun as car shopping, is there.”
“I think that’s a matter of opinion, but, it does rank right up there.”
“Close, Evie. Very close.”
Both of the cars were standing waiting for us, their noses pointed at one another, and a car-jockey holding the drivers’ doors open for us. Evie jangled the keys and smiled.
“I’ll see you at the coffee shop, boss.”
“Right.”
We both walked a few steps and slid behind the wheels of our new transportation. These ones I figured we’d keep. I had to walk around the tail of the ‘Vette to get into mine, while Evie was already seated, checking out the controls, making sure that when she signaled for a left turn, it wasn’t the windshield washer that came on.
I didn’t have the same problem. Everything was a lot simpler on the Corvette. After buckling up my lap seat belt, I slipped it into reverse, and gently let the clutch out a bit, transferring enough power to back me up to where I could make a U-turn on the circular driveway at the front of the dealership. Maybe fifteen feet.
Then I slipped it into first gear and carefully smoked the tires as I pulled a stationary 180 degree turn, using the brakes, the way you can on fresh snow or ice. With four hundred and seventy-five horsepower you can do a lot of tricks that won’t work with less.
Now we were facing the same way. Evie had stopped sussing out the dash, and was staring at me. As was every other person within the dealership who had access to the main showroom, and the glass walls surrounding it.
I gave them all a Fighter Pilot’s ‘I’m Away!’ salute, mainly for Evie’s benefit, I admit. Slipping the clutch out at medium speed and simultaneously feathering the gas, the engine responded like it was an extension of my body. I came out of the ‘chute’, off the dealer’s driveway onto Lindenstrasse in a four-wheel drift, doing about ten or fifteen kilometers over the city speed limit posted in that area. That put my speed at seventy or seventy-five KPH, and the wheels were spinning, but the drift inertia carried me forward–sideways–all of this subject to being able to handle
the job which I had done for years, but never with my dream car. And this was before the new Michelins had had a chance to grab any asphalt and hold on tight.
I had set myself neatly in the centre lane as I straightened out of the drift, headed in the right direction. There were no cars in sight in either direction. I stepped on the gas, carefully but firmly, listening to the engine, feeling the engine, rather than even trying to monitor and rely on some of the gauges. Like the tachometer for instance.
I watched the speedometer, which was in good old ‘Miles Per Hour’, and didn’t even have one of those inner rings of numbers that accompanied all new cars these days. One ring would be MPH, and the other KPH. Which was on the outside, and which was on the inner ring depended on the country of origin, the intended country of purchase, and no matter what you ask for, they won’t let you order MPH only. Our KPH is on the outer ring. At least in Canada. We’re Metric now, remember.
When I do my engineering, or more accurately, did my engineering, everything made sense in metric, but I never thought that it transferred well into weather and transportation.
It took me about the first five years after Canada switched, of converting from Metric to Imperial in my head, before I could tell from the temperature in Celsius, which is how weather is announced in Canada these days, whether it was hot, medium, or cold.
Until it was obvious, of course, like when the Celsius temperature in Toronto matched Miami’s, for example, or it matched Moscow’s. Then you pretty much knew where you stood. Shorts, or Parka. Decisions, decisions.
The other gauges I kept my eye on, which should be giving me accurate data, were the oil pressure gauge and the oil temperature gauge, which should be right on. The oil temp gauge in this baby had the actual temperature numbers at the interval marks.
I shifted into second at eighty KPH and kept my clutch foot on the floor, just slipping it to the left, allowing the clutch pedal to literally ‘pop’ back up of its own accord. I still had my foot on the gas, and I didn’t move it. Now I’d see if the transmission was synchronized with the engine, or whether I had to have it changed for the proper one. The engine was the right one, the transmission should be also. If it was, it would find the right slot to slip up to second. If it wasn’t, there would be some grinding before I dropped the clutch again. My foot had followed the pedal up after it ‘popped’, ready to slam it back down to the floor.
The car jumped, with a smooth speed-shift, and the tires didn’t just ‘chirp’, they squealed. Not for long, maybe two or three seconds, but that told the story. This machine was the real thing. If I hadn’t been up to my ears in alligators at the moment, I could have jelled for the sheer joy of it. The SUPER-HOT ’66 Corvette Coupe 427.
I was doing 100 KPH, and I hadn’t given it any more gas than I had started with. I had to slow down right away for the coffee shop. I came to a sliding halt in front of the joint, and leaned on the horn.
I was laughing to myself when Ronnie peered out of the window to see what the ruckus was all about. I hit the switch that rolled down the passenger window, and leaned over so that she could see me. Her head disappeared from the window immediately.
A minute or so later both Ronnie and Therese came down the steps of the coffee shop, just as Evie was pulling up behind me in the Audi. Therese didn’t waste any time gawking at the cars, she just hopped into the ‘Vette, and slung her stuff into the back, along with my one bag. It was small back there, but not as small as you’d think.
The ’66 coupe only had two seats, and both were full. Ronnie had hesitated and now her only option was the Audi, so she got in.
~
Chapter Thirty-One
W
e pulled out of there in a convoy, with the Audi following me. I asked Therese to dig through my bag and pull out the comms units. By now she knew enough to be careful with my bag and its contents. She never touched or unwrapped anything she didn’t recognize, and she only went into it when I asked her to. It’s very simple to verify a bag’s having been opened in your absence. Therese was proving to be quite ethical according to an inner set of rules that she applied only to herself, because she never once talked about it.
The fact that she would willingly pull the trigger at point blank range on the man who killed John Dawson, preferably with him bound, gagged, and aware of what was coming, was another issue altogether. I believe that she had achieved separation between the moralities of normal life, and the mess surrounding the murder of her fiancé.
To me, that was something. It was a step in the right direction, anyway. She no longer blamed anyone for anything, with the exception of J.D.’s murderer. Sooner or later she would have to drop the Justice/Vendetta Thing as well, but now wasn’t the right time to push on those buttons. Besides, who knew? The mission wasn’t over yet. All I wanted from J.D.’s killer was information. I knew I could get the information easily, once I got hold of the S.O.B, and after that, I had no interest in his welfare or his opinions, or anything else about him.
The problem would be whether or not I could get my hands on him while he was still alive. One guy in an armoured suit looks just like the next one, but this guy was different. He didn’t wear an armoured suit when he killed J.D., but he wouldn’t have to either. J.D. wasn’t a life-threatening type of guy, whereas this elusive enemy was.
Therese had gotten the comms units out and put hers on switching it on herself, and even announcing herself as being ‘online’. It took me a few blocks to get mine on, I was saved by a red light. Forty seconds stopped was all I needed. When we took off again, I was online as well.
These ‘Vettes weren’t like the modern cars in a lot of ways, but the most telling was the fact that you had to drive it, not occasionally adjust course. The car was so powerful, that any letting go of the steering wheel, meant letting go of the gas too, or you might wind up at someone’s lunch table in a house alongside the road. Or in the Limmat river in our case. It depended on the road. The one we were on twisted gently back and forth beside the Limmat river. I had to keep my hands on the wheel at all times. At least one hand anyway. Or hold really tight with my knees. That one works best when you’re over six foot two. There’s an amazing amount of leg room in the driver’s seat of one of these machines. The last time I had sat in one I was about sixteen, and I was hitching a ride to school because
I drove with my left hand on the wheel at ten o’clock, and my right hand on the shifter at all times.
The car drove like a dream. Even Therese was interested. First, she examined all of the car she could from her side, opening the glove compartment, shutting it carefully after she realized that the small bag inside carried instruments of death.
Then she started looking over at the gauges and dials tucked away behind the steering wheel. This went on for about ten minutes, and still she didn’t say anything. Ultimately, I blinked first, so to speak. I gave in to my curiosity.
“Therese, I mean this in the nicest way Okay?”
“Sure, Boss.”
I used my patient voice.
“I’m not your ‘Boss’, I’m here to take care of you. That’s my main job, just making sure you get home safely.”
“I thought the main purpose of the mission had changed?”
I snatched glances at her as I drove the savage power of the 427, growling its way across town to Ted’s bank, trying to stay reasonably within the posted speed limits. ‘The main purpose of the mission had changed?’, this was one hell of a fast healer, this girl. And quick to catch on when she had an interest in the subject.
“My priorities have expanded, but not changed. You are still number one on my list. I fully intend to go home when this is all over, and I’m taking you with me when I go. And, when we get to Pearson International, you’ll walk off the plane into the connecting passenger tunnel on your own power. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay then.”
She continued looking at the gauges in silence. I tried one more time.
“Rien! Qu’est-ce que ça? pourquoi des questions comme ça?”
“I was just asking, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“C’est quoi, ‘knickers’?”
I wasn’t going to touch that one.
“Never mind. Why are you looking over my shoulder? That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Ohh! Umm, I have… umm, passions, oui, c’est ça. La passion. I love sports cars, and this one—this one I never see before. C’est tout.”
“I see.”
I didn’t really, but we were on-line with the rest of the Zurich Team and I wanted to keep some decorum going here. I felt that I had to tell her that the gauges weren’t quite what they seemed, and as I opened my mouth she spoke up again.
“You mean why did I look because the gauges are not all accurate, yes?”
“It’s ‘Why do you look’, not ‘did you look’.”
“This one and this one do not work fast enough to go with the sound and feeling of the engine.”
She reached over and tapped the tachometer and the speedometer.
If I live to be a hundred and fifty years old, I’ll never get the full story straight about women. One minute they appear to be a lovely and intelligent woman, the next they turn out to be better at ‘men stuff’ than most men are, as well as being a lovely and intelligent woman.
The one thing that had always saved me was that I judged people by their actions, not by what they looked like on the outside. To be true to that is to be open to what life throws your way, and I had good friends and acquaintances in most parts of the world because of it. It worked like a charm for me. Usually.
That was another lesson taught to me by my grandfather. He was in his seventies when I knew him best, because I was old enough then to understand most of the things he talked about with me.
He had letters from all over the world, and he and I would carefully remove and save all of the stamps. I had the best stamp collection ever. They took a few years for the letters to stop coming after he died. He had kept every friend that he’d ever made, and what with two tours in the Great War, he had met a lot of people. On both sides. Of all the men that he had taken prisoner during the fighting, at least half had become his buddies after the war. They all wrote to him.