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Chapters (57)
  1. Welcome to the Game
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraphs
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. Six months later . . .
  56. Acknowledgments
  57. Back Cover

They turned back toward Woodward. The guy had obviously decided he’d gotten the measure of the car.

“This is what confused me when I was trying to find you. You said you were in Oakland.”

“Well, we’re on the edge of Oakland so it’s easier just to say—”

“Dude, I get it,” the guy cut in. “I’m a Michigan man. You want to say you’re in the classy part of town, where the money is. I get that. Guy like you, with your accent, probably works better playing it like that. I mean, let’s face it, you’re selling expensive cars no one’s heard of.”

For a moment, Spencer had nothing, because it was true. When he’d set up Winchester Auto Specialists, he couldn’t afford Oakland. But the north edge of Detroit on Winchester, just on the wrong side of 8 Mile, that had been right for the budget. And Winchester had an English ring to it. Anyway, everything had been right then. He and Marielle were happy, and Abby, their seven-year-old daughter, had made the adjustment from European to US schooling without too many tears over left friends. America had seemed new and exciting.

“The cars I sell are for people who like to drive but don’t feel the need to follow the herd. Anyone can go out and buy a Porsche or a Beamer, but a TVR or a GT-R or this Lotus, they’re different.”

“That’s why I came to you. I checked you out. You used to race, yeah?”

“I was a rally driver.”

“Right, rally. That’s racing against the clock, right?”

“Racing against other drivers, against their times, but on narrow roads or forest tracks so you go one at a time. You have to drive to the max because you don’t know whether you’re ahead of the pace or behind. You can’t just ease up when you’ve got a lead like in Indy or F1.”

“Yeah, I knew that. People have told me I have the mind for it.”

“The mind for what?”

“I could race cars. I just need to talk to people with experience.”

You are a time-wasting motherfucker, and I want to kill you.

“So, look, man,” he continued, “we’re coming up on 9 Mile. What would you be thinking if you were in, like, race mode?”

Ask him what he does when people take two hours out of his working day.

You need this sale.

No shit, but he’s not going to buy.

He might.

They pulled up at the intersection. Spencer nodded at the light.