thinks it’s big.”
* * *
Lara loved feeling the breeze in
her hair as Clay drove them into Bel Air. She felt like a puppy with its head
hanging out the window, its tongue lolling in the wind—except for the tongue
part. She never got that feeling in her dowdy Taurus—even with all the windows
rolled down. Having gusts smack your head from the sides was a poor imitation
of the rush from a breeze slapping you square in the face over the top of a low-slung
windshield like the Frogeye’s.
Clay pulled the car into a Lexus
dealership that looked more luxurious than a three-star Palm
Springs hotel. Lara had never been in a three-star Palm
Springs hotel, but she’d heard stories and seen
pictures.
Oddly, not a single vehicle sat
outside. “Where are all the cars?” Lara asked.
“Inside,” Clay said. “Nothing’s
harder on a car’s finish than the sun.”
A man impeccably dressed in a
Brioni suit exited the steel-gray building through a glass door made nearly
opaque by UV-protective film.
“Mr. Creighton,” the man said.
“Your vehicle is waiting.”
“This is the surprise?” Lara asked.
“You’re picking up a car?”
“Not just ‘a’ car, madam,” the
gentleman said. “Mr. Creighton is picking up his certified Lexus LFA.”
Clay smiled. “Silvio, this is
Lara.”
“How do you do?” Silvio said,
opting to bow instead of extending his hand. “As the owner of this
establishment, I welcome you as a dear friend.” He turned to Clay. “Are you
ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Silvio held the door for Lara and
Clay. Lara had never heard of the car Clay was there to get, but it was easy to
spot once they were inside. Parked on the slate of the showroom floor, the
white two-seater gleamed as though bathed in the light of a hundred suns. Its
triangular headlamps and air scoops behind each door made it look like a
raptor.
“It looks like an eagle swooping
down on its prey,” Lara said.
“It is one sexy automobile,” Clay
said.
It is—if you think a bird
swooping down on its prey is sexy .
“Your certificate, sir.” Silvio
presented an official-looking parchment to Clay.
“Certificate?” Lara wondered out
loud.
“Yes, madam,” Silvio said. “Lexus
intends to limit ownership of the LFA to a very select few. One must be
approved in advance—a mere formality in Mr. Creighton’s case, of course.”
“Of course.”
An assistant, also impeccably
dressed and wearing white gloves, approached carrying an inlaid wood box, which
he opened and presented to Clay as though revealing the jewels of the crown.
Instead, resting on red velvet, was a key fob.
Clay turned to Lara. “Ready for the
ride of your life?”
* * *
Lara had seen plenty of fine
performance vehicles when she attended races with her dad, but she had never
been in a car like this LFA. Its powerful V-10 hummed as Clay zigzagged through
traffic, heading east on the 10.
A Bugatti Veyron scorched past them
as they were doing ninety just outside Calimesa. Lara looked at Clay to see how
he’d react.
He laughed.
“That’s a really nice car,” he
said.
“Nicer than this one?”
“This one’s nice. But the
Bugatti…that’s a work of art.”
“I don’t know of any other ‘work of
art’ that goes 200 miles an hour,” Lara said.
“Now, you see—it’s things like
that.”
“What?”
“Knowing how fast a car can go.”
“I thought we settled this.”
“Not because you’re a woman. I’ll
bet ninety-nine percent of men wouldn’t know a thing like that. Or how many
cylinders a ’57 Frogeye’s engine had. Or what ran at Targa in 1960.”
“A man who read your Driver blog
might.”
“How many men is that? One
percent?”
Lara smiled and shrugged.
“So, you’re a ‘Driver’?” Clay
continued.
“I keep up.”
“Why?”
“Know your enemy and yourself.”
Clay’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, so
you’ve bought into my theory?”
“It never hurts a woman to know
what’s going on
* * *
Lara loved feeling the breeze in
her hair as Clay drove them into Bel Air. She felt like a puppy with its head
hanging out the window, its tongue lolling in the wind—except for the tongue
part. She never got that feeling in her dowdy Taurus—even with all the windows
rolled down. Having gusts smack your head from the sides was a poor imitation
of the rush from a breeze slapping you square in the face over the top of a low-slung
windshield like the Frogeye’s.
Clay pulled the car into a Lexus
dealership that looked more luxurious than a three-star Palm
Springs hotel. Lara had never been in a three-star Palm
Springs hotel, but she’d heard stories and seen
pictures.
Oddly, not a single vehicle sat
outside. “Where are all the cars?” Lara asked.
“Inside,” Clay said. “Nothing’s
harder on a car’s finish than the sun.”
A man impeccably dressed in a
Brioni suit exited the steel-gray building through a glass door made nearly
opaque by UV-protective film.
“Mr. Creighton,” the man said.
“Your vehicle is waiting.”
“This is the surprise?” Lara asked.
“You’re picking up a car?”
“Not just ‘a’ car, madam,” the
gentleman said. “Mr. Creighton is picking up his certified Lexus LFA.”
Clay smiled. “Silvio, this is
Lara.”
“How do you do?” Silvio said,
opting to bow instead of extending his hand. “As the owner of this
establishment, I welcome you as a dear friend.” He turned to Clay. “Are you
ready?”
“Lead the way.”
Silvio held the door for Lara and
Clay. Lara had never heard of the car Clay was there to get, but it was easy to
spot once they were inside. Parked on the slate of the showroom floor, the
white two-seater gleamed as though bathed in the light of a hundred suns. Its
triangular headlamps and air scoops behind each door made it look like a
raptor.
“It looks like an eagle swooping
down on its prey,” Lara said.
“It is one sexy automobile,” Clay
said.
It is—if you think a bird
swooping down on its prey is sexy .
“Your certificate, sir.” Silvio
presented an official-looking parchment to Clay.
“Certificate?” Lara wondered out
loud.
“Yes, madam,” Silvio said. “Lexus
intends to limit ownership of the LFA to a very select few. One must be
approved in advance—a mere formality in Mr. Creighton’s case, of course.”
“Of course.”
An assistant, also impeccably
dressed and wearing white gloves, approached carrying an inlaid wood box, which
he opened and presented to Clay as though revealing the jewels of the crown.
Instead, resting on red velvet, was a key fob.
Clay turned to Lara. “Ready for the
ride of your life?”
* * *
Lara had seen plenty of fine
performance vehicles when she attended races with her dad, but she had never
been in a car like this LFA. Its powerful V-10 hummed as Clay zigzagged through
traffic, heading east on the 10.
A Bugatti Veyron scorched past them
as they were doing ninety just outside Calimesa. Lara looked at Clay to see how
he’d react.
He laughed.
“That’s a really nice car,” he
said.
“Nicer than this one?”
“This one’s nice. But the
Bugatti…that’s a work of art.”
“I don’t know of any other ‘work of
art’ that goes 200 miles an hour,” Lara said.
“Now, you see—it’s things like
that.”
“What?”
“Knowing how fast a car can go.”
“I thought we settled this.”
“Not because you’re a woman. I’ll
bet ninety-nine percent of men wouldn’t know a thing like that. Or how many
cylinders a ’57 Frogeye’s engine had. Or what ran at Targa in 1960.”
“A man who read your Driver blog
might.”
“How many men is that? One
percent?”
Lara smiled and shrugged.
“So, you’re a ‘Driver’?” Clay
continued.
“I keep up.”
“Why?”
“Know your enemy and yourself.”
Clay’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, so
you’ve bought into my theory?”
“It never hurts a woman to know
what’s going on
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