Page 79 of Double Shot

“Welcome to AutoModellista, we have been expecting you.” The hostess smiled.

“You were expecting us?” Sadie asked.

“Yes, of course, we are only available by appointment. No one can just walk in here, off of the street. There is decorum to consider, plus many of the things we sell are legally registered as works of art.” She gave a smile as precise and stylized as anything Lach could. “I understand you are interested in purchasing something from our midrange offerings.”

“And what are these?” Sadie asked.

“These objets d’art are part of the AutoModellista personal collection. They are for display, not for purchase.” She gave her precise smile.

Oh,Sadie mouthed and took a step back from the Chiron.

“We have a number of cars in storage here that might match what you are looking for, and any of them can be made ready for a test drive in an hour, at the very longest.” She beckoned for us to follow. Her private office was as stark as the rest of the place, but we were offered a stop at the in-house barista, and then flipped through portfolios of cars. It was a library of Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati, and the rest of the exotic car offerings to be had on the East coast.

Other portfolios, all neat leather bound, lined a shelf, and our hostess declined to bring those out. It was the West Coast, and Texas inventories. Those could certainly be had, she assured us, but there was some cost associated with bringing cars across the country, and most preferred to visit those branches, rather than handle said costs. There was certainly plenty on hand here, and if nothing fit what we were interested in, then we could venture into those volumes.

We narrowed our interest down to Ferrari.

Then it was sorting through if we wanted an older Ferrari, or a newer one, and then how close to factory stock, or how customized.

Sadie did ask about the old Ferraris, and realized that those were in the highest tier, being millions of dollars each.

The final choice was arosso corsa, Ferrari racing red, 488, in a convertible Spyder layout.

The final finish was close to factory spec, which suited me very well. I wasn’t one for heaping praise on Italian car makers, but the 488 had near perfect lines. Its predecessor, the 458 had perfect lines, but there wasn’t one available to match what we were looking for. They had 458s, but so many of them had been overburdened with body kits, aftermarket modifications, andpimpingthat they were eyesores, out of the range we were looking to spend, or were currently in negotiation to be sold to some interested rap artist, deejay, or person of alternate income. That last was a polite term for people like cartels and dealers who could pay cash for cars in the hundreds of thousand-dollar range.

We accepted delivery of the 488 after the wire transfer went through and a few other things pinged as complete. The insurance issued, and the car was covered, for all of us to drive, and the keys were handed over.

The hardest part was accepting the keys to our sensible four-door sedan while Lach took Sadie in the Ferarri. I would have my own chance later, but I knew that he was more the driver than I was. He said dinner was his treat, and all I had to do was keep up.

The drive from AutoModellista back to Indigo City was a blur. Trying to keep up with the 488 was already a challenge given its better power to weight, handling, acceleration, and driver. It was made worse because of the car groupies who would give a little chase, trying to get a pic of the car for their feeds. By the time I pulled into the lot at the Burger World on Lucas avenue, Lach had backed the Ferrari into a parking space, the boot of the car facing the constantly flowing stream that was Lucas. I parked closer to the building, but ignored the blue-and-white handicapped parking spot. Technically I could have taken it, but I refused to own one of those blue hanging tags or have a plate with the symbol on it.

It was one of my points of ego.

Inside was everything that I expected from a flagship fast-food dive: plastic counters, digital screens overhead, constantly changing between the illuminated menu and its numerical values and nearly pornographic clips of the food from their commercials. Bouncing buns, vegetables crisp with freshly misted water on them, steaming hot fries with elegantly tossed salt, and the pièce de résistance, the money shot of condiments being layered onto the burger. There was no subtlety at play as mayonnaise was artfully and almost erotically delivered to the waiting bun, just a bit leaking out the side when the well-manicured hand grabbed the burger and gave it a supple squeeze.

What was delivered on the plastic tray was far from what the monitor promised. Paper wrapped, the bun a steamed almost sodden mess, it looked like the thing had been assembled in a car constantly pulling a hard turn, causing the contents to come out over the side. I stifled a sigh; this was not my cuppa.

It was for her, and the radiant smile she had on her face.

She had eaten half of her bacon and cheese monstrosity and couldn’t be happier. Even Lach had a goofy, almost boyish grin on his face. A real one, not the tactical calculated smile, but a real one. That alone made me happy enough.

I ate without complaint.

“We should celebrate, proper like,” Lach said between French fries and milkshake. “The only question is when and where.”

“I would say we should save serious celebration for when we are sure that the Cartel has made good on their promise, andthenwe can relax,” I said.

“I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Sadie admitted. “Like, it’s too easy for those guys to just roll over and show their belly.”

“Why is it so hard to imagine?” I asked. “I’m guessing that dealing with the three of us has cost them at least one senior member, easily a hundred or more of their lesser dead, or seriously injured. Then, after Oberhausen, with everyone from the DEA to the Pakistani government going after them, that revenge is just too expensive. They’ve lost more money than the three of us could even consider spending.”

“I can spend a lot of money, mate,” Lach pointed a fry at me, “that’s Bugatti money.”

“You could probably have bought AutoModellista with what they’ve lost in the last six months.”

“Fuck em, theyshouldlose everything,” Sadie said. “I bet none of them have ever had to eat trash out of a dumpster.”

“No, I should say not,” I agreed.

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