Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [59]
"Like what?"
"Do the brakes grab? Does it pull to one side?"
"No. It tracks like a train. Stops straight. But watch the gas—it's a lot stronger than it looks."
She nodded. Turned the key. Blipped the throttle a couple of times. "No tach?" she asked.
"It's built for torque, not revs. You want to drop it down a gear, just kick the pedal. Or you can move the lever down one from D."
Belle gave herself plenty of room, waited until the traffic was quiet in the right lane. She came down hard on the gas, adjusting the wheel when the rear started to slide, and pulled out onto the highway hard and smooth. She merged with traffic and flowed along, getting the feel.
"Where's the flasher for the headlights?"
"Flick the turn signal toward you. But be careful—the high beams are real monsters."
"Horn?"
"There's two. The hub on the wheel is the regular one; the little button near the rim—see it?—that's for moving trucks out of the way."
She flicked a glance over her right shoulder. "Okay to play?"
"Go," I told her.
She spotted an opening, mashed the gas, shot all the way across to the far–left lane, blew past a dozen cars, backed off the gas, and rolled into the center lane. She pulled the Plymouth so close behind the car in front that it looked like we were going to hit. Kept it right there until the guy in front of us pulled over.
"Follow the signs to the Whitestone Bridge," I told her.
Belle handled the big car like it was part of her, cutting through traffic, moving from one clot of cars to another, staying in the pack each time. When we got to the bridge, she pulled into the Exact Change lane without me saying a word. I handed her a token. She flicked it into the basket without looking. We motored along the Hutchinson River Parkway, Belle still putting the Plymouth through its paces, not talking to me. We came to the last toll before the hook–turn to the Cross County. A guy in a white Corvette was in the lane next to us, coming out of the chute at the same time. Belle goosed the Plymouth, heading for the left lane. The 'Vette jumped out ahead of us. Belle kicked it down—both cars were flying to the same lane, the 'Vette a half–length in front. Belle kept coming. The gap got narrow. I heard the scream of rubber—the 'Vette's driver stood on the brakes as we shot through.
A minute later, the 'Vette steamed by in the right lane, cutting sharply in front of us as soon as he passed. Belle flicked the brights, punching the horn button at the same time. The sky lit up. The twin air horns under the horn blasted the warning call of a runaway semi. The 'Vette ducked out of the way as we went by. Belle slashed over into his lane. I heard the shriek of brakes again.
Belle brought it down to about seventy. We were in the right lane, heading for the hook–turn at Exit 13. Bright lights flooded the back window. Belle reached up, turned the rearview mirror to the side. She hit the hook–turn with the 'Vette boiling up behind us.
"Come on, sucker," she muttered as the 'Vette pulled into the outside lane behind us. She nailed it around the sweeping turn, holding the inside track. The 'Vette roared behind us, closing fast. Belle's mouth was a straight line. She slid the Plymouth into a piece of the outside lane, but this time the 'Vette was ready for her—he darted back to the inside. Belle slashed the wheel back to the right, carrying the 'Vette right off the road onto the grass. She pulled the Plymouth together for the straightaway, swept under the overpass, and slid into the new traffic stream as smoothly as a pickpocket working a crowd.
She patted the steering wheel hard—like you'd do a horse who'd run a strong race. "Good girl," she said.
"You took the words out of my mouth."
She flashed me her smile.
We exited the Cross County and hooked back to the racetrack. I showed her where to pull in: around the back, near the stable area. Nobody parks there except the horse vans—it's a long distance to the entrance. I gave Belle the buck and a half for the guy collecting the