Drive

Chapter Four

They met at a low-rent bar between Sunset and Hollywood east of Highland. Uniformed Catholic schoolgirls waited for buses across from lace, leather and lingerie stores and shoe shops full of spike heels size fifteen and up. Driver knew the guy right away when he stepped through the door. Pressed khakis, dark T-shirt, sport coat. De rigueur gold wristwatch. Copse of rings at finger and ear. Soft jazz spread from the house tapes, a piano trio, possibly a quartet, something rhythmically slippery, eel-like, you could never quite get a hold on it.

New Guy grabbed a Johnny Walker black, neat. Driver stayed with what he had. They went to a table near the back.

“Got your name from Revell Hicks.”

Driver nodded. “Good man.”

“Getting harder and harder all the time to step around the amateurs, know what I’m saying? Everybody thinks he’s bad, everybody thinks he makes the best spaghetti sauce, everybody thinks he’s a good driver.”

“You worked with Revell, I have to figure you’re a pro.”

“Same here.” New Guy threw back his scotch. “Fact is, what I hear is you’re the best.”

“I am.”

“Other thing I’ve heard is, you can be hard to work with.”

“Not if we understand one another.”

“What’s to understand? It’s my job. So I’m pit boss. I run the team, call all the shots. Either you sign on to the team or you don’t.”

“Then I don’t.”

“Fair enough. Your call…”

“Another sparkling opportunity gone down the tubes.”

“Let me buy you another drink, at least.”

He went to the bar for a new round.

“I do have to wonder, though,” he said, setting down a fresh beer and shot. “Care to enlighten me?”

“I drive. That’s all I do. I don’t sit in while you’re planning the score or while you’re running it down. You tell me where we start, where we’re headed, where we’ll be going afterwards, what time of day. I don’t take part, I don’t know anyone, I don’t carry weapons. I drive.”

“Attitude like that has to cut down something fierce on offers.”

“It’s not attitude, it’s principle. I turn down a lot more work than I take.”

“This one’s sweet.”

“They always are.”

“Not like this.”

Driver shrugged.

One of those rich communities north of Phoenix, New Guy said, a seven-hour drive, acre upon acre of half-a-mill homes like rabbit warrens, crowding out the desert’s cactus. Writing something on a piece of paper, he pushed it across the table with two fingers. Driver remembered car salesmen doing that. People were so goddamned stupid. Who with any kind of pride, any sense of self, is gonna go along with that? What kind of fool would even put up with it?

“This is a joke, right?” Driver said.

“You don’t want to participate, don’t want a cut, there it is. Fee for service. We keep it simple.”

Driver threw back his shot and pushed the beer across. Dance with the one who bought you. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Help if I add a zero to it?”

“Add three.”

“No one’s that good.”

“Like you said, plenty of drivers out there. Take your pick.”

“I think I just did.” He nodded Driver back into the chair, pushed the beer towards him. “I’m just messing with you, man, checking you out.” He fingered the small hoop in his right ear. Later, Driver decided that was probably a tell. “Four on the team, we split five ways. Two shares for me, one for each of the rest of you. That work?”

“I can live with it.”

“So we have a deal.”

“We do.”

“Good. You up for another shot?”

“Why not?”

Just as the alto sax jumped on the tune’s tailgate for a long, slow ride.