Read Online The Driver by Alexander Roy - Free Book Online Page B

“That was thirty years ago.”
    â€œMy Cadillac is a ’77. It’ll be fixed soon.”
    There was one car I wanted to see—an extraordinarily rare car I’d never seen in person—and I’d read on the BMW forum that one of them was actually here.
    â€œDo you have the M5?” I asked.
    â€œRight over here,” said the salesman, who led us toward a jet-black M5 in the far corner.
    The best of any given BMW wears the M badge. Except for the badges, such models are to the untrained eye almost indistinguishable from their lesser and far cheaper brethren.
    â€œI know you like this,” said my father.
    â€œI do.”
    â€œHow much is it?”
    â€œAround $80,000,” said the salesmen with disdain, as if that might deter us from asking more questions.
    â€œC’est cher,” my father said in French. It’s expensive.
    â€œJe sais,” I said. I know.
    The salesman looked out the window. He’d seen this before.
    â€œWhen you’ve earned it,” my father said in English, “buy yourself a used one.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œAll young men need such a car once in their lives. Once you’ve outgrown the need for it, you’ll be a man.”
    â€œBut,” I said, “you had that ’79 911, and the ’87.”
    â€œBut I didn’t need them. And I sold them. This”—he placed one hand on the M5’s roof—“is such a car. When you’re ready, find a used one.”
    â€œI’m afraid,” the salesman chimed in, “they’re very rare.”
    â€œThe German police use them,” said my father.
    â€œThat was true,” said the salesman, “but now they use M3s.”
    â€œThere was a secret unit,” said my father. “Always the best cars. Porsche, Mercedes. A few years ago they had M5s—” He paused, lost in thought. “Don’t speed in Germany,” he said quietly. “They will catch you, the Germans.”
    â€œThere aren’t any speed limits in Germany,” said the salesman. “That’s why BMWs are engineered the way they are.”
    â€œBut,” said my father without looking at him, “they will still come for you. If they want you. Let’s go.”
    DECEMBER 2002
    In a bizarre confluence of bad luck, timing, and opportunity, my beloved S4 disappeared from a West Village parking spot. I couldn’t believe a thief overcame both the Audi and aftermarket antitheft systems, and the impressive looking Club I’d placed on the steering wheel. I didn’t care about the car being stolen. All I cared about was that the S4 was the last car my father had ridden in beside me.
    I had to find it. I had to see it. In any condition.
    I spent that night in bed feeling my first-ever empathy with those who taped “Lost Pet” flyers to the neighborhood lampposts.
    My phone rang the next morning at 9:01. “I’ve got good news and bad news,” said the police officer.
    â€œBad news first,” I said, my father’s son.
    â€œThe car’s been stripped.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œSomebody drove the crap out of it. Dumped it in the Jersey swamps. It’s in a lot in Newark.”
    This was like a Kentucky Derby–winning Thoroughbred being kidnapped, forced into pulling tourists around Central Park for one day, then shot and dumped in the East River. I’d have felt better if the thieves had shipped the car to Mexico and sold it to some car-loving mobster who won drag races against men he’d then tie to the bumper and drag through town.
    â€œIs it drivable?”
    â€œUnlikely.”
    â€œCall Paul at Par Cars,” I said, writing down the number. “He’ll pick it up.” And sell it for me, as soon as possible, to someone who’d nurse it toward better days in a second life. I was willing to take a loss to see this happen.
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    I wanted an M5.
    I scoured the