DEADLY DRIVER Page 3

  His jet lag was long gone and Bryce had elected to take a walking tour of downtown Tokyo before boarding one of the island country’s 190 mph bullet trains and heading to Suzuka. He took the steps to the top of the orange tower, Tokyo Tower. It resembles the Eiffel in Paris in design but is actually much taller. Bryce’s brisk, long walk and the steps up the 333-meter structure satisfied his cardio requirements for the day, but the high he was feeling was disrupted by a call from Madigan.

  “I got your 008 so what’s up?”

  “Oh that? I was just screwing with you. Welcome you to Japan.”

  “Prick. Now I owe you one,” he said with a laugh. “See you at the hotel tonight and you’re buying.” Once the call ended, Bryce went back to enjoying the view only to be interrupted again. A young couple, from France he assumed from their accents, asked if he would take a photo of them. Afterward they made small talk but got into a bit of a tiff over who was right.

  “Eiffel taller,” the proud Frenchman insisted.

  “This one taller, by 13 meters my friend,” he responded. To Bryce’s surprise the Frenchmen grew indignant, insisting he was right.

  “You Americans think you know everything,” he said. And then Bryce made matters worse, intentionally.

  Bryce suggested the man take his photo and then smiled, his anonymity maintained by blue-mirror sunglasses and a faded blue Olympic Park ball cap from Park City, the middle finger of his right hand presenting a salute to the now indignant tourist. The petite woman pushed her much larger mate away, insisting he stop this now. Bryce laughed openly.

  Even when they are cursing their language sounds sexy, he thought.

  Checking his watch, he found it was time for him to go, too. Back down the 1100’ to ground level and then a quick ride to the five-star Aman Hotel to retrieve his bags and head off to Suzuka. When he finished packing, he stared out the window of his suite at Mount Fuji, the snow-covered mountain that rose to 12,000’ over the city. He had always been fascinated by the many cultures he got to experience, and usually appreciate, while traveling around the world and Japan was one he particularly enjoyed, for the people and their history. He loved the Tom Cruise film, The Last Samurai, and had always been attracted to the exquisite look of the women of that country. Their silky, black hair and almond shaped eyes always got his attention wherever he was. They were much different than the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Vermont beauty he’d lost years before, the only woman he’d ever loved and thought he ever would. Who knows, he’d often thought in the quiet moments when loneliness would creep in. Maybe someday I could fall for someone who wouldn’t, who couldn’t, remind me of her.

  The short ride to the train station, and a one-hour trip on the bullet train took him 185 miles south to what would be his home on the road for the next few days. The train tracks were banked through the bends and curves so the cars would not fly off the tracks when traveling at such high speeds. He smiled as he thought of the banking at Daytona and so many other race tracks back in the States. This is cool, he’d always thought. If it hadn’t been for a man named Werner, Bryce knew he probably would never have seen Tokyo or the rest of the world for that matter. On the ride, he thought fondly of his friend – his backer - and how they first met.

  He remembered how chilly it had been in his RV that morning back in Upstate New York. All the other drivers and crewmembers had left the track late the night before, immediately after the race concluded, and headed for home. Without any plans or races to pursue until the next weekend he decided to take the short ride down to Albany and park his rig at the Amtrak train station. Parking in New York City cost a fortune and parking an RV there near impossible. It was cheaper for Bryce to buy a round-trip ticket and ride the train down to Penn Station to take in the town. Knowing the entertainment buffet the city had to offer, he stuffed his backpack with what he’d need just in case he decided to stay the night. So much for saving money, he thought with a smile. Little did he know how much this journey would change everything.

  The Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, has more than something for everybody, offering sensory overload to anyone unaccustomed to big city life.

  As Bryce rode the escalator from the train station up to ground level, he walked half a block, south toward Ground Zero, and turned to look back at the massive structure that sat above Penn Station - Madison Square Garden. He thought back to a time so many years before that for his birthday his uncle Pete brought him there to attend a hockey game between the New York Rangers and his team, the group once nicknamed the Broad Street Bullies – the Philadelphia Flyers. Bryce smiled as he remembered the great time he’d had. The Flyers had won. But then he remembered the disappointment that his father hadn’t been able to walk onto the train back in Burlington. Small spaces, other than his precious truck camper, would send the man into a tailspin. He and his uncle had continued on, determined not to miss out on the special day.

  Bryce shook off the recollection, looked up at the fall sky and took a breath of the city air – warm now at mid-day but full of the concoction of aromas that make any big city have that special scent. Checking his watch, Bryce set a goal. He intended to walk straight down to Ground Zero, pay his respects there, and then continue through Wall Street and take the ferry over to the Statue of Liberty. At a brisk pace, he figured he could make it there- at least to the wharf – in 90 minutes. Normally he’d have preferred to spend his time hiking somewhere in New England or Eastern Canada, but although the terrain on 7th Avenue and then Broadway was flat as a nickel there would be something to see on every block, on every street corner. And that made it a fair exchange.

  After a somber visit to Ground Zero where he ran his hands across the names of so many of the lost on 9/11, he paused to look straight up into the sky at the top of Freedom Tower, the 1776’ tall structure that was part of the city’s and the country’s rebuild after the terrorist attacks. Bryce smiled. He looked at the massive thrust into the sky as a middle finger to anyone who wished to screw with America. From there he headed toward Wall Street but then changed his mind. As he took his first step in that direction, he thought of the financial crisis the bastards there had caused and his emotions turned to anger. He thought of the night before, the big guy trying to harm the much smaller woman.

  Not one of those Wall Street traders, CEO’s and power players of the financial district lost their fortunes or went to jail. Bastards. Shaking the dark thoughts from his mind he suddenly realized that he hadn’t eaten. He grabbed a hot dog and water from a street vendor working out of a tiny silver trailer parked on the sidewalk, then headed for the ferry to Lady Liberty.

  The boat ride was short and the views spectacular, but the crowds were a bit much. He grew frustrated with the tourists who stopped dead wherever they decided and took selfies, endless selfies. He circled the statue but on hearing of the two- hour wait for access to the stairs he really wanted to climb – apparently someone who should have known better was in need of medical attention somewhere up there and had shut things down. That was it.

  She’s not going anywhere – I’ll come back, he thought. He watched the monument grow smaller and smaller as the ferry took him back to the base of the thin, vertical strip of land known as Manhattan. It was growing dark and a chill had wandered in through the streets that ran between the endless tall buildings and skyscrapers. He opted for a cab with the intention of heading back to Penn Station and then the train ride back to his truck parked in Albany.

  Just as the taxi approached his destination on 34th Street he got an idea. “Change of plans, buddy,” he said, “take me to the theater district.”

  Bryce knew there would be restaurants on 44th Street, all of which were accustomed to turning tables so diners could get to the theater in time for curtain call. A lesson learned as part of yet another birthday trip his uncle had taken him on. He hopped out of the cab and looked up and down the street. He was standing right in front of Sardis and when he read the sign his memory kicked in. The restau
rant was known for good food and drink, but it was most recognized by the hundreds of caricatures of movie stars hung on nearly every vertical space.

  Bryce recalled television shows and movies that had used the restaurant for a scene. He decided it was time to see it in person, maybe dinner and a beer before heading home. Once inside, he saw they had NFL football on in the bar and grabbed a seat. He chowed down on a burger, fries, and a few beers while watching the Giants lose to the Eagles. He struck up a conversation with the bartender. It was there and then that Bryce’s world changed forever.

  “The what?” he asked the bartender again.

  “Madison Avenue Sports Car and Chowder Society,” the man repeated through his heavy Brooklyn accent. “Like I said, it’s a bunch of car lovers and they meet here upstairs once a month.”

  “When do they meet next?” Bryce asked.

  The bartender turned and checked his calendar. “Since you’re a race car driver you’re in luck,” he continued. “They meet here tomorrow at noon. Maybe you can come back and meet some people, shake some hands, ask for sponsorship if you are any good behind the wheel like you say you are. Who knows - someday, you might have your face on one of these walls!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Marriott Marquis hotel is situated on Times Square and surrounded by the sights and sounds that make the area a must-see for anyone able to make it to New York. Just a short walk from Sardis, Bryce managed to use his charm and good looks to get a single room for the night as cheaply as possible. He settled for the windowless room on the third level for $99, breakfast not included, and spent the rest of his night watching Sunday night football and then a motorsports show on ESPN that summarized the weekend’s action.

  He steered clear of the mini-bar. Although the Beck’s beer, Pringles chips, and massive Toblerone chocolate bar looked like a party. All-in, they’d add $20 easily to his bill. Instead, he called it a night and looked forward to seeing what the people at the Chowder Society were all about.

  Up early the next morning, he prepared for what was in store, figuring out for the first time ever how to use the iron to freshen the shirt he’d stuffed in his backpack. Once at Sardis, he went up the steps and began walking around the banquet meeting room where three dozen or so men and women of all shapes and sizes dressed from casual in jeans and polo shirts to stylish dresses and tailored suits, were catching up over cocktails. A guest speaker would be introduced and lunch served soon.

  Suddenly, someone decided to rain on his parade.

  “Sir,” said the maître d’ as he tapped Bryce on the right shoulder. “Sir,” he continued, “this is a private function for members only. You’ll have to leave.”

  Bryce overheard someone tell the maître d’ that he reminded them of a young, handsome actor Paul Newman – brilliant blue eyes and all.

  “Follow me downstairs, please,” the maître d’ insisted, “or we’ll have the two policemen having coffee at the bar help find your way out the door.” The man was just doing his job, so Bryce relented.

  “If you are here to make connections in the movie business you are in the wrong place,” the man told him as they reached the landing. “That group is into fast cars and auto racing so you are trying to crash the wrong party.”

  “You didn’t know Paul Newman was a racer, too?” Bryce offered, but it was too late.

  *

  Bryce took a seat at the massive mahogany bar, two stools over from New York’s finest, and made small talk with the bartender until the police left. He considered making another run for the stairs but thought it best to call it a day and perhaps head back to Penn Station for the ride north and home. In a booth behind him, though, it was clear someone had intentions of an entirely different kind.

  “You can’t ask me that,” the young woman sitting on the red leather booth bench on the street side of the bar said sternly. Bryce listened but noticed the mirror behind some of the liquor bottles that gave him a good look at what was going on.

  “Just go away with me for the weekend,” the man sitting across from her pleaded. He was tall, balding, perhaps late fifties, gray suit and blue tie. But what stood out most to Bryce was the man’s arm stretched across the table; his hand was clutching hers. Nice Rolex, Bryce thought, but then focused on the girl and her body language.

  She was perhaps early twenties and from her accent she was clearly not a New Yorker. London maybe? She wore a white, V-neck long-sleeve blouse and black slacks from what he could see. She was a natural beauty with little makeup and Bryce wondered if she was an actress, as attractive as she was, with that accent, sitting there in the theater district. She reminded him of Whitney Houston, early twenties, but a British version. Bryce watched as she yanked her hand away from the man. He reached for it again, this time leaning forward. His expression quickly changed to a menacing one.

  That was all Bryce needed. He spun the barstool and spoke up. “Unless you two are rehearsing for a play,” he began, “I suggest you sit back a bit there, buddy.”

  The man ignored Bryce and maintained his focus on the girl.

  “Hey, shit head,” Bryce said only this time louder. That got the man’s attention. “Good, I didn’t see a hearing aide.”

  The man looked around and then focused on Bryce. “Mind your own business.” He turned back to the girl again.

  Bryce looked to her and saw the fear in her eyes. Speaking directly to her, he made his intentions very clear. “Now I’m going to suggest you get up and come sit over here for a minute. This won’t take long.”

  The maître d’ had been around long enough to know where that was headed and managed to wave the two officers back inside just in time to witness it all.

  She followed his suggestion. The man she’d been sitting with slid out of the bench seat, stood up, and took a swing at her man in shining armor. A second later, she was staring at the creep lying on the floor in front of her. He was unconscious, his nose shattered by the fast and hard defensive blow Bryce landed. Others in the restaurant chose to ignore the incident and continue eating while a few came closer to watch. Soon after, while one cop checked the man on the floor, the other congratulated Bryce for coming to the woman’s defense.

  “You ex-military?” the officer asked. “That was a trained move.”

  “My uncle was a Marine and showed me a thing or two.”

  “Max Werner,” a man said introducing himself as he stepped in and extended his hand toward Bryce. “You are a lucky man,” he continued in a thick German accent. “If it wasn’t for the maître d’ and the security cameras above,” he said as he looked to the corner above them, “it could have been your word against his. Then it would have taken all day to sort this thing out. Well done.”

  Bryce shook Werner’s hand but still showed concern for the young Brit who had finished giving the patrolmen her statement. She thanked Bryce again, and then followed the police out to a waiting cruiser for the ride to the station where she would be pressing assault charges.

  “Come, let me buy you a drink,” Max said, guiding Bryce to a barstool.

  The two sat, and the German listened as Bryce retold the incident for what seemed like the twentieth time. Once Max asked him what had brought him to New York, what followed is what movies are made of. Bryce laid it all out for him; a race car driver in the city for a few days of sightseeing heard there were well-moneyed people who shared a passion for cars and racing gathering upstairs and he wanted to introduce himself to anyone who would listen.

  “Most of the people in the group are here for networking, but many are just rich car collectors. One of them has one of Michael Schumacher’s first F1 cars gathering dust in an old garage somewhere near here.”

  “And you, Mr. Werner, what brings you here?” he asked.

  “Max – make it Max,” he insisted. Werner was about the same height and weight as Bryce, but the similarity ended there. Werner said he was in his early forties and Bryce had fought hard to hide his surprise. To him, the man looked to
be in his sixties.

  “I’ve seen that face before, Bryce,” he told him with a laugh. “Too much stress from running a big business, too many ex-wives, and a family history that not only makes me look much older than I am but will probably kill me long before someone my age should go.”

  Bryce thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for the man or what, but he went for the tension breaker.

  “Any kids? Want to adopt one?” It worked and they both laughed as they finished their beers.

  Then Max waved for another round. He went on to say that he had no children, none that he knew of at least, and that adoption wasn’t an option even if Bryce was already potty trained. He volunteered that his family owned a large number of diverse businesses around the world, but home base was Munich. Annual sales the previous fiscal had exceeded their goal of 11.5 billion euros.

  “You’re definitely paying for these beers!” Bryce joked.

  At Max’s urging, Bryce summarized the chronology of his racing exploits to date.

  Growing up in rural Vermont, Bryce had stumbled across racing at an early age. It wasn’t the conventional types like NASCAR’s oval track racing that he’d seen on television – this type came roaring out of the woods. He heard it first and then saw a blue flash go by as he and his best friend were hiking above Colchester, near Burlington. He’d come across a championship-winning Subaru campaigned by Vermont SportsCar and he loved it. He took the Team O’Neil rally school course, trading work around the shop for seat time, and soaked in every minute of it.

  But he had two concerns. He wanted to race with other racers, side-by-side, and he had no interest in just racing a clock. Once he did get a ride in a competitive regional car he crashed hard and a pointed piece of wood – a branch from a tree—had come through the windshield like a spear. It missed his helmet by inches.