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“It’s all in the timing and placement,” Hooker said. “Hang on.” Then he jerked the car to the left and slammed into the Taurus.
“Omigod,” Todd said, head still down. “What are you doing? This isn’t a demolition derby!”
The Taurus careened across the road, caught air going off a small embankment, rolled once, and came to a smoking stop, tires up, in a strip of mangrove.
“Amateurs,” Hooker said, back in his lane, his foot still steady on the accelerator.
Todd popped up in time to see the roll. “Ouch.”
“It was a good hit, but it seems pretty lame compared to blowing up a billion-dollar ship,” Hooker said.
“I didn’t do that,” Todd said. “I was never there.”
“Do you think we should go back to see if they’re okay?” I asked.
“Darlin’, they just pointed a gun at you,” Hooker said. “If we go back for anything it’ll be to set fire to their car.”
“I’ve still got my lighter,” Todd said.
We passed Largo and stayed on Route 1. Hooker pulled into a strip mall when we got to Florida City, so we could stretch and check the damage to the car.
I was out, but Hooker couldn’t get his door open and his window wouldn’t slide down.
“Sit tight,” I said. “I’m good at this.”
I poked through the junk in the cargo area and came up with a big ass screwdriver. I shoved the screwdriver between the door and the frame and pried the door open.
“Lesson number one from my father,” I told Hooker. “Never go anywhere without a Maglight and a screwdriver. The bigger the better.”
“Lesson number one from my father had to do with opening a beer bottle,” Hooker said. He got out and looked at the Mini. “This is a tough little car. Considering how small it is, it really stood up. The side needs some body work. Well, okay, Bill probably needs a whole left side.”
“Nothing structural,” I said, on my back, under the car. “At first look, I don’t see any damage to the frame or wheel wells.”
We all went into a convenience store, got some cold sodas, and came back to the car.
“I’m cutting north here to the Tamiami Trail,” Hooker said to Todd. “I’m taking Barney to Naples, so we can check on Bill. I have some of my crew in Homestead. Some sort of schmooze thing going on at the track. I can get one of them to pick you up here and take you back to Miami Beach, or wherever. Since you just destroyed Flex you might not want to go home for a while. Not until we get this straightened out.”
“Thanks. That would be great. I have someone I can stay with in North Miami.”
Hooker used Todd’s phone again, and ten minutes later he swung the Mini out of the lot and back to Route 1.
“I’m taking the Trail instead of going all the way up to Alligator Alley. It’s a slower road, but the distance is shorter. We should make Naples in two hours,” Hooker said.
The Tamiami Trail cuts across the bottom tip of Florida, running through mile after mile of flat swampland, the tedium occasionally broken by signs advertising Indian-guided airboat rides. For the most part, it’s a two-lane road used by people who aren’t in a hurry. Hooker didn’t fall into the not in a hurry category. Hooker was doing ninety, weaving in and out of traffic like this was just another day at the job. If anyone other than Hooker had been driving, I would have had my feet braced on the dash, ready to escape the car at the first opportunity.
“What’s this schmooze thing going on in Homestead?” I asked him.
“Some kind of a preseason sponsor event. They wanted me to participate, but I refused. The season is long and hard, and I never shirk my corporate responsibilities, but this is my time, and I’m not giving it up. I told them to send a car instead. We have a couple cars that roll around in a transporter and are used for this stuff. They look like my car, but they can be used to give rides to the fans. They’re cars we’ve raced and retired so they’re pretty authentic.”
Hooker dropped to the speed limit as we approached Naples, the scenery suddenly changing from swamp to civilization. Movie theaters, shopping malls, golf course communities, high-end furniture stores, and car dealerships lined the Trail. I’d called ahead and gotten an address for the hospital. I’d been told Bill was in his room but sedated and not able to talk.
By the time we got to the hospital Bill was more or less awake. He was hooked up to an I.V. and a respiration monitor. I’d learned from a nurse that no vital organs had been damaged, but he’d lost some blood.
“I know my eyes are open,” Bill said, his words soft and slurred. “But I’m feeling a little slow.”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” I told him. “Take a nap. We’ll be here when you wake up.”
It was early evening when Bill opened his eyes again. “Hi,” he said. His voice was stronger, and his pupils were no longer dilated to the size of quarters. “How did you know I was here?”
