Quick (14 page)

‘I’m not a pay driver, no.’ Iron Rhino didn’t need pay drivers. They were, along with Ferrari, McLaren, Mercedes and Red Bull, one of the richer teams and only wanted to employ the best drivers available. Their policy was, if, in the highly unlikely situation that there’s a problem with one of the regular drivers, they would find the most experienced driver without a current job and draft him, or her.

Miss Jolie Laide fastens her laser-blues on him. ‘So, who are you?’

A voice echoes behind Billy: ‘I know who he is.’

Christ.

The Australian has no idea who it belongs to but his first instinct is that it’s some bloke he knows who’s next words will be, ‘He’s a cop from Melbourne.’ And with that his cover will be blown. Billy forces a grin and turns to see who it is.

‘William Hotchkiss! You Aust
ralian
bastard!’

‘Kurtly Falandek! You Austr
ian
wanker!’

Kurt swings in for a hug the way European men so often do. Billy happily reciprocates.

Thank God it’s him.

Billy’s known Kurt since his early teens. They haven’t been in touch for a long while so, fortunately, he’s unaware of the Australian’s career in law enforcement.

The tall, fair-haired Austrian holds the embrace and smiles. ‘Ahhh, men with men.’

Billy smiles too. ‘How could something so wrong feel so right?’ They laugh and break apart, couldn’t be happier to see each other. ‘How are you, mate?’

‘Better now you’re here. What the hell are you doing in Malaysia?’

‘He’s Iron Rhino’s reserve driver.’ The curly-haired Spaniard says it with just enough snark for it to annoy Billy.

Kurt looks at Billy, stunned. ‘What?’

Billy nods. ‘Just got the call.’ He feels terrible fibbing to an old mate but there’s no choice. He quickly changes the subject. ‘So how’s the safety car?’ Kurt is one of its safety car drivers. The vehicle is called from the pits to run in front of the leading car during the race in the event of a problem that requires the pack to be slowed.

‘Too damn safe. How the hell did you get the reserve job?’

Billy can see the hail-fellow-well-met expression disappear from Kurt’s face. It’s replaced by something similar to the one the curly-haired Spaniard is sporting, a mix of envy and anger. He can see the Austrian fight it, can see he wants to be happy for a guy he’s known for years, but it’s a struggle. To watch a contemporary land your dream job is no easy thing. Billy knows better than anyone how it feels and Kurt is doing an admirable job not to let it show.

‘I didn’t think you’d driven since Bathurst?’

‘I’ve done some stuff in Oz, but yeah, the recovery took a long while. I’ve been in training for two years, trying to get back in shape _?

‘Bathurst? You—you’re the guy who had that huge accident a few years back.’ The Spaniard’s eyes widen in recognition. ‘You rolled the car seventeen times.’

‘It was eighteen but who’s counting? Sorry, what was your name?’

‘Juan. They were going to amputate your leg.’

‘Legs.’

Kurt doesn’t care about that, keeps his focus on Billy. ‘So, how did you get the drive?’

This is where the rubber hits the road. This is the moment where Billy needs to be absolutely convincing. He went through it with Marcellus, who cleared the story with Dieter, but if these drivers don’t believe it then word will quickly spread across the paddock about the guy who landed the Iron Rhino drive with a story that doesn’t add up. Then it won’t take long for the Three Champions to make the connection and work out he’s an undercover cop and then, well, the house of cards will fall.

They all stare at Billy and await the explanation.

The Australian takes a breath and speaks: ‘Dieter had always followed my career. After the accident he kept in contact, tracked my rehab, even paid for some of it. He got me back on the circuit in Oz and now wants me to run at the rookie test later this year, thinks I’m ready for a comeback. He believes it’ll be a good story and he’s always looking for a new marketing angle.’

Billy’s sure that’s all he needs to say. The three-day rookie test is a big deal for up-and-coming drivers, the only way for them to show the F1 world how they drive a real F1 car on a real F1 track in real F1 traffic. He scans the group. They all seem to believe it. They know enough about Dieter Wolfe to realise the German would happily milk the inspirational story of a young driver being supported by Iron Rhino on his comeback from the threat of a double amputation.

‘But why are you here
now
? The rookie test is months away.’ Juan is the only one who doesn’t seem to be convinced.

‘He wants me to get a feel of it. Sit in on briefings, acclimatise. I haven’t been around a serious race team for years. I need to find my mojo again.’

Jolie Laide is confused. ‘Your mofo?’

‘Mo
j
o. You know, my
groove
.’ Billy dances a little bit of white man’s overbite to illustrate the point.

She can’t help but smile at that. Curly Juan does not. ‘But why bring you straight into F1 ? Why not start you in one of the junior categories?’

Good old Juan-in-a-million is now, officially, a pain in the arse so it’s time to whack him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. ‘Dieter thinks I’m ready and he wants the marketing exposure. Didn’t I just explain that?’

Juan nods, feigns being impressed: ‘Wow, you really must be quick.’

Billy shrugs. ‘Well, you know.’

‘If only there was a way to find out how quick.’

Billy grins it out. ‘I know, huh? Surrounded by racetrack with no way to use it.’

‘That’s not
entirely
true.’ That’s Ms Jolie Laide, who looks at Kurt.

‘What?’ She doesn’t say anything else, just stares at him. It takes a moment before he understands why she’s doing it. ‘Oh no, no, we can’t do that again.’

‘Sure we can.’

‘I got in trouble last time.’

Billy has no idea what they’re talking about. ‘Trouble for what?’

Kurt looks at him. ‘Racing the safety cars.’

Jolie Laide is insistent. ‘Come on, Kurt —‘

‘No way.’ He says it low and firm.

Juan condescendingly pats him on the shoulder. ‘That’s all right. I don’t blame you for being afraid. I did give you an epic butt-kicking at Monza.’

A moment passes, then Kurt turns to Juan with an icy stare. ‘You, me, Billy.
One
lap.’

Juan grins. ‘You’re so predictable. You can never say no to a challenge.’

‘Yeah yeah, up yours, man.’ Kurt turns to the Australian. ‘So, you good to go?’

The Spaniard and Jolie Laide look at Billy too. He takes a moment then grins. ‘Sure. No worries.’

~ * ~

But Billy’s
not
sure and he has
plenty
of worries. For a start he hasn’t driven in anger since his prang at Bathurst.

Six years ago!

What the hell was he thinking, mouthing off like that, intimating that he was race ready?

Moron!

Of course now that the challenge has been issued he can’t back down. That would be as embarrassing as what’s about to happen, which is that he will lose the race, badly, after which everyone will know he’s a fraud and his cover as a driver will be, if not blown, then seriously compromised.

Christalmighty.

He arrives at the safety car garage after fetching a helmet from Iron Rhino HQ. As directed by Kurt he didn’t tell anyone about the race, though it seems somebody blabbed because there’s a crowd of people outside the roller door when he arrives, at least thirty by the look of it. It was Juan-in-a-million, he’s sure of it, wanting everyone to see him spank the new reserve driver for Iron Rhino in a one-lap dash.

Billy doesn’t recognise any faces in the crowd. There are no drivers or team principals present, just a bunch of the usually unseen backroom staff who make a race weekend possible for the marquee names—people who don’t get paid much and spend months of the year away from home and family, their job to unpack and construct and deconstruct and pack up the Formula One circus so it can move quickly and efficiently to its next destination. Billy’s not surprised there are so many people here. Being part of the circus is an exhausting, all-consuming job so they need to find their fun wherever they can.

The Australian smiles and nods his way through the crowd, moves towards the large roller door. It shudders once then rolls to the roof to reveal a triumph of German engineering.

The Mercedes-Benz AMG SLS.

He knows all about the car but has never seen one up close. Six point two litres of hand-built teutonic goodness is nestled under a long, sculpted hood, pumping out four hundred and twenty kilowatts of power, or five hundred and sixty-three very spirited horses in the old money. SLS stands for Sports Light Super, but this vehicle is no featherweight, tipping the scales at one thousand and six hundred kilograms, or almost two-and-a-half times the weight of a Formula One car. Billy has memorised all its vital statistics because that’s the only way he knows how to demonstrate his love for vehicles he’ll never own. As for the name AMG SLS, most people can’t remember that alphabet soup of a moniker so they call it a Gullwing because when its doors open vertically the car resembles a sea bird in flight.

In front of Billy sit three of them, each carted around the world so that there are always two backup vehicles. The chances of needing a spare are, of course, extremely low, but the Germans, who pay a great deal of money to have a Mercedes lead the F1 field when a safety car is necessary, want to know they always have a functioning example ready to roll.

The lead car fires up and the whip crack of its exhaust is followed by the throaty howl of its lightly stressed all-aluminum V8. That is, without a doubt, Billy’s favourite sound in the world. The vehicle rolls forward and the headlights blink on, lighting up the crowd as they shuffle out of its way.

Kurt pops his head out of the driver’s window, clocks Billy and jabs a thumb backwards. Take the third one back. Keys are in it.’

Billy nods. ‘Beautiful.’

Kurt’s eyes drill into the Australian. ‘Do. Not. Dent. The. Car.’

‘I’ll treat it like it’s my own.’

Kurt grimaces. ‘Please don’t.’

Billy grins. ‘I’ll be careful.’

This doesn’t alleviate Kurt’s fears. ‘See you at the start line.’

Billy nods and Kurt’s Gullwing rolls on, followed by the second with Juan-in-a-million behind the wheel. Billy bends down and looks in through the open driver’s window. ‘Good luck —’ But his words are drowned out as the exhaust barks and the car pulls away.

‘Wanker.’ Billy moves to the third Merc. He glances at the tyres to check their condition then pulls the door up and realises the car really does look like a seagull with it raised. He slides into the driver’s seat, pulls the door shut and is immediately overcome with the scent of Mercedes leather, which is a very specific aroma, like no other car interior. It smells like quality.

He settles into the vehicle and is shocked by the length of the bonnet in from of him. It just goes on and on, like the landing deck of an aircraft carrier. He scans the jewel-like instrument binnacle then finds the start button and presses it. The V8 thunders to life, its sweet roar muffled by extensive sound insulation. He immediately rolls down the driver’s window. That’s better. He wants to hear that exhaust. Who knows when he’ll get a chance to drive one of these things again. There’s only thirty in Oz and they cost half a million bucks apiece.

He slots the seven-speed gearbox into Drive and taps the accelerator to get things moving. The revs rise—but the car doesn’t move.

What the hell?

He glances at the gear selector and realises it’s still in neutral.

Well, that’s embarrassing.

Laughter ripples through the crowd of onlookers. These people understand their motorsport so they know he just screwed up. From within the group, Ms Jolie Laide regards him with a cool stare. He’s sure she thinks he’s a complete dickhead but then how would he know? Her expression is the definition of inscrutable.

Good Lord she’s lovely
—
hey, eyes on the prize, nimrod, concentrate on what you’re doing.

He holds up a hand and owns the blunder. ‘That’s me. My bad.’ He then finds Drive for real, tickles the accelerator and the German land missile rolls forward. He monkeys with the seat controls to get comfortable, then threads the vehicle out of the garage, past the crowd and onto pit lane. He then flicks on the headlights and jabs the accelerator.

Jesuswept.

The full thunder of the bent eight is unleashed. It is a beast, jolts him back in his seat, the acceleration on par with a V8 Supercar. The engine sounds different from the V8s he’s used to driving in Australia though: it’s higher pitched, the throb less choppy, like a flat-plane Ferrari rather than the uneven rumble of a cross-plane Ford or Holden.

On a trailing throttle he eases the car onto the track. It feels extremely comfortable, probably too comfortable for this kind of work. Even with the suspension on its hardest setting it’s more a grand tourer than a racing car, even considering the mind-bending acceleration.