The traffic started to clog ominously due to an accident or construction work ahead. Spencer didn’t wait to find out which and cut through several lanes in order to catch an exit. In spite of himself, McGrath gripped the sides of his seat as they hurtled toward the off-ramp’s looming date with the surface streets. Spencer raced down through the gears, engine whining, braking hard, the car sliding slightly, and then they were off again, the back of the car flicking to the side before getting back in shape.

On the freeway it had felt like driving damn fast in a fast car with a really capable driver. On the surface streets, with corners and intersections thrown into the mix, McGrath felt like he was in a car that was on the edge: the edge of its performance, the edge of its grip, the edge of its driver’s ability to take in information. All were greater than he’d experienced. He was glad Spencer couldn’t see his expression. McGrath was a man who normally found it easy to keep a cool demeanor.

“You keep the revs high,” he managed.

“Yeah, so the engine slows the car for turns, with less brake, which keeps it stable, ready to accelerate out of them.” The back of the car flicked out on a corner again. “Oh, and don’t worry. This car does come with all the usual safety gizmos: ABS, emergency brake assist, you know . . .”

My Holy Lord, thought McGrath, he’s actually still trying to sell me this goddamn car.

“It’s just I’ve switched them off.”

“OK. Care to share why?”

“Switch off any electronic stability programs so it slides how and when you want it to. Not when a computer thinks it should.”

“What, by feel?”

“Yeah. Tires feel different on the edge. And when they go, I don’t need a big orange warning light telling me.”

Gratiot Avenue was empty, allowing them to slash southwest toward Downtown.

McGrath’s phone had spun around sometime during the drive. Spencer estimated he had only about three minutes by the time they hit Woodward. The Downtown traffic was sticky, as if people drove the same way as they walked in the heat.

He’d switched off the air so it wouldn’t drag power from the engine. Now, as their speed was down it started to get hot again. Sweat trickled down the inside of Spencer’s shirt. But the area around the MGM Grand Detroit Casino wasn’t unfamiliar territory. He enjoyed the surprise he knew McGrath, a Detroit man, was getting when he ducked into a tight alley off Clifford. Let the guy think Spencer had just seen it and was taking a gamble. Let him sweat a little flying down this high-walled funnel like a bobsled.