BooksBarbecue
Back Welcome to the Game
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

“I know the light on Woodward coming up to 9 Mile will stay yellow for exactly three point four seconds. The average before someone gets moving on 9 Mile will be one point five seconds. That’s the average. If it’s a truck nearer two, but if it’s a guy in a hurry then point seven. Worst-case scenario is a guy in a fast car who’s put himself so he can see my light start to change. He could be moving before my yellow has gone, but he’ll be watching harder for people like me. Power band in this Lotus in third gear at sixty goes from four thousand. That’s where it happens: you’ll get an extra fifty miles per hour in two seconds, fifty yards in one second.”

Michigan Man, hesitant, looked at Spencer. “So, I should go for it if I’ve worked all that out?”

“If you have to work all that out, you should never go for it.”

The Lotus turned the sharp, almost hairpin turn from Conant onto Winchester and then into the Winchester Auto Specialists lot. Spencer made one more last-ditch effort.

“You feel that? Legendary cornering ability. Their suspension won Lotus the Grand Prix right here in Detroit in eighty-six. Only cars that could cope with the bumpy roads.”

“No shit? They’ve been bad that long?”

They parked up next to Michigan Man’s SUV, shook hands over the roof, and he was gone.

Spencer scanned the lot. It was triangular, wedged into the shape created by the diagonal intersection on which it stood. There were a dozen cars. They needed to be spread out a little, so that it wasn’t so obvious stock was low. He needed a run of closing, maybe three or four in a week. Then the bank might be more forthcoming again with credit and he could restock. He felt a tiredness suddenly envelop him and, in cahoots with that, a car at the far end of the lot caught his eye.

He’d taken a deposit on that TVR. The guy was supposed to have come for it with the balance that morning. The TVR stared back at him, its gunport-like headlights glinting insolently in the sun.

The heat made just thinking arduous. He glanced around, checking he didn’t have an audience, before getting back in the passenger side of the Lotus. There was some residual coolness inside but it would be baking in another five minutes.

He opened the glove compartment, found a wrap, and tipped out a line on the owner’s manual. He rummaged around. There’d been a straw in there somewhere. He found Abby’s school report and rolled it tightly.

On the far side of Conant, three men in a silver Merc SUV with smoked windows watched.

2

2

Dominic McGrath