Double Take
Page 124
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
But Savich wasn’t capable of talking. He stood staring, taking in the incredible fire-engine red convertible with its black leather interior. He heard Agent Ford MacDougal shout out, “I hear it goes from zero to sixty in under five seconds.”
“Four point eight seconds actually,” Savich said, not looking up as he ran his hand lightly over the top of the driver’s-side door and then around to the back. Classic, clean lines. He rubbed his hand down the smooth sweep of the trunk.
He heard laughter, mostly from the women, and one of them said, “So this is what guys need for transcendence?” Then he heard Mrs. Maitland say, “Four point eight seconds? What in heaven’s name is that sort of blastoff good for? Are you going to race to the grocery store?”
Mr. Maitland said, “It’s the fact you can do it that counts.”
“Dillon?”
He turned slowly to his wife, who said, “As you can see, Mr. Savich, it sits on eighteen-inch alloy wheels. Not to mention the interior glows like a spaceship with everything lighted up—the dashboard, the communication system, the navigation system. It even displays entertainment info. Oh my, this baby’s goodies just don’t end—it’s got a fabric top, carbon-fiber interior trim, and a Bose surround-sound stereo.”
“I know,” he said, grabbed her up, hugged her hard, and kissed her.
“Papa, can I drive it?”
Not for another twenty years or so, but he said, “Sure. Your legs have to grow a bit more so you can reach the brakes, though.”
“I can sit on your lap!”
Like that’ll ever happen, Savich thought, reached out and ruffled his son’s black hair. Sean looked as excited as his father, his eyes back on the Porsche.
“Here are your keys. No, Sean, you can ride with your father next time. This first time, well, he has some bonding to do, it’s a man and his machine sort of thing.”
Savich took the keys from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and without another word, grabbed the end of the huge red bow—exactly the same blast-off red as the Porsche—and pulled it loose. He threw it back over his shoulder, like a bride with her garter, and everyone laughed. It was Dane Carver who shouted, “I got it! What do you think, Nick? How about a new Porsche in hissy-fit yellow?”
Savich opened the door and eased down into the driver’s seat. He closed his eyes and inhaled the rich-as-sin leather smell, let the seat enfold him. He put the key in the ignition, and felt the Porsche all but hum around him as the powerful engine roared to life. Ah, sweet music for the universe.
He threw back his head, marveling at the perfection of the world and his place in it, eased the gear shift into first, and pressed lightly on the accelerator. Well, lightly at first.
Everyone heard him laughing as the Porsche roared out of the Maitland driveway and attacked the road.
“Four point eight seconds actually,” Savich said, not looking up as he ran his hand lightly over the top of the driver’s-side door and then around to the back. Classic, clean lines. He rubbed his hand down the smooth sweep of the trunk.
He heard laughter, mostly from the women, and one of them said, “So this is what guys need for transcendence?” Then he heard Mrs. Maitland say, “Four point eight seconds? What in heaven’s name is that sort of blastoff good for? Are you going to race to the grocery store?”
Mr. Maitland said, “It’s the fact you can do it that counts.”
“Dillon?”
He turned slowly to his wife, who said, “As you can see, Mr. Savich, it sits on eighteen-inch alloy wheels. Not to mention the interior glows like a spaceship with everything lighted up—the dashboard, the communication system, the navigation system. It even displays entertainment info. Oh my, this baby’s goodies just don’t end—it’s got a fabric top, carbon-fiber interior trim, and a Bose surround-sound stereo.”
“I know,” he said, grabbed her up, hugged her hard, and kissed her.
“Papa, can I drive it?”
Not for another twenty years or so, but he said, “Sure. Your legs have to grow a bit more so you can reach the brakes, though.”
“I can sit on your lap!”
Like that’ll ever happen, Savich thought, reached out and ruffled his son’s black hair. Sean looked as excited as his father, his eyes back on the Porsche.
“Here are your keys. No, Sean, you can ride with your father next time. This first time, well, he has some bonding to do, it’s a man and his machine sort of thing.”
Savich took the keys from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, and without another word, grabbed the end of the huge red bow—exactly the same blast-off red as the Porsche—and pulled it loose. He threw it back over his shoulder, like a bride with her garter, and everyone laughed. It was Dane Carver who shouted, “I got it! What do you think, Nick? How about a new Porsche in hissy-fit yellow?”
Savich opened the door and eased down into the driver’s seat. He closed his eyes and inhaled the rich-as-sin leather smell, let the seat enfold him. He put the key in the ignition, and felt the Porsche all but hum around him as the powerful engine roared to life. Ah, sweet music for the universe.
He threw back his head, marveling at the perfection of the world and his place in it, eased the gear shift into first, and pressed lightly on the accelerator. Well, lightly at first.
Everyone heard him laughing as the Porsche roared out of the Maitland driveway and attacked the road.
