“Yeah.”
“If you’re the one with the powers, why’d you need him?”
The young man shrugged. “I needed somebody who could grab the cash. I’m in a car, it’s just a lot easier to stay there. Takes a lot out of me, switching back and forth.”
“Okay,” said St. George, “so if he was willing to sit behind the wheel for a smash and grab, why’d he need you?”
Cesar grinned. “Dude, d’you ever read Lowrider or Car and Driver? Fucking loved Car and Driver.”
“Once or twice. In waiting rooms.”
“Saw this phrase once—the car outperforms the driver. When you get those sweet, high-end cars with tons of torque that can turn on a dime. Rich jerks crash ‘em all the time because the car is so much better than them. Moves faster’n they think it can, reacts quicker’n they think it will. Tweak the wheel this much and you’re doing barrel rolls down the freeway, y’know?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Well not when I’m inside,” said Cesar. “When I’m inside, the car’s my body. Know every inch of it, what it can do, how well it can do it. If the car can do it, I can do it, and better than anyone sitting at the wheel ever could. I’m the greatest getaway guy stunt driver in the world. I’m like ten times the fucking Transporter times Knight Rider.”
“So how’d they catch your buddy?”
He held up his hand again and showed the scars. “Like you said, man. Spike strip, right across Olympic.” He pulled the glove from his waistband and tugged it back on. “Cops arrested Wayne, took the Mustang to impound. I got out, my hands and feet were all messed up something bad. Limped home and mama took me to the emergency room. Man, that sucked. Six hours in the waiting room at Hollywood Presbyterian.”
St. George picked up his jacket and batted some dust off it. He looked at the truck again, then back to the young man. “How’d you get this? Were you born with it?”
Cesar shook his head. “My cousin, Tony, he was a gearhead,” explained the young man. “Worked on all the cars for the Seventeens. Tune-ups, rims, nitrous, whatever you needed. One day right after my sixteenth birthday I was helping him out, trading out an alternator and...”
“And what?”
“I got struck by lightning,” said Cesar. From his tone, St. George could tell he’d defended this point before. “Right there in the driveway, sunny day with clear skies. Burnt my hair off and fried the alternator.”
St. George drummed his fingers on Mean Green’s side. “You got struck by lightning while you were working on a car?”
“Yeah.”
“That has got to be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Cesar glared at him. “What, how’d you get your powers? D’you get bit by a radioactive dragon or something?”
“No,” said the hero, “I got... well, I got hit by a meteorite. And doused in some experimental chemicals.”
The young man smirked. “And you’re making fun of me?”
“There had to be something else to it. Thousands of people have been struck by lightning. It doesn’t give you superpowers.”
“Yeah, but it did.”
“But it can’t.”
“But it did. Look, man, the important thing is, I want to join the team.”
“What?”
“You know,” said Cesar. “Start doing stuff for good and all that. I want to contribute something to the community.”
“How?”
The other man’s smile faltered. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean how,” said St. George. “I’m glad you came clean and told me about your powers, yeah, but... well, what can you do for us? It’s not like we have tons of open road to go speeding around on.”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“And at regular speed, well, Luke’s got half a dozen drivers for each truck past himself. Do the cars get better somehow when you’re in them? Do they stop using gas or... I don’t know, heal or something?”
Cesar shifted his feet. “No.”
The hero shrugged.
“You saying I can’t join up?”
St. George paused. “Look, Cesar, if things were back to normal, I’d say sure thing. But, honestly, what can you do that can’t be done by half the people in the Mount?”
“But...” He looked confused. “But I’m the Driver.”
“Yeah,” said St. George, “and there’s nowhere left to drive.”
*
He reached the top of the stairs and saw her sitting Indian-style across from his door.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” said Lady Bee. She wore the same black tank she’d had on while they were in the valley. Electric-blue bra straps peeked out from underneath it.
St. George nodded from the stairwell. “So I see.”
“The secret superhero meeting run late?”
“Not exactly.” He shook his head. “You’re not here to tell me you’ve secretly had superpowers all this time, are you?
She smiled. “Why?”
“I just had to tell a kid his dream of being Optimus Prime was never going to come true. He took it hard.”
“What?”