American crime fiction and cars have been accomplices from the beginning, partly because they both developed during the same time. The classic Western loner became, in urban America, the hard-boiled detective maneuvering down the mean streets in his car. The mythology of the Old West depended on an American wanderlust that nicely translated from the horse to the automobile, and the terse and tough realism defined by Hammett, Chandler, and Cain (among others) has always owed more of a debt to Natty Bumppo and Huck Finn than the British drawing room. At its best, crime fiction in this country remains a kind of outsider art form, providing a street-level view of the American landscape.
Tales of Fast Cars, Desperate Drivers, and Dark Roads is the subtitle for this collection of car-inspired stories, and to be sure, the reader can look forward to equal measures of all three. When I solicited the authors, I kept the guidelines pretty loose in order to encourage as many different approaches as possible. The stories were to be about “cars, driving, and the road.” I expected a provocative mix of visceral, plot-driven stories and more outré existential tales; what I didn’t expect was the deeply personal, almost confessional tone that many of these stories possess. Ben Winters establishes the mood with his opening salvo about a veteran car salesman and a test drive gone horribly wrong. Willy Vlautin writes the aching tale of a middle-aged housepainter, a Pontiac Le Mans, and a young kid’s painful coming of age. George Pelecanos contributes a moving elegy to the Vietnam era, when Mopar was king and young men raced cars in the night. Then there’s Diana Gabaldon’s inventive reimagining of a notorious real-life Autobahn accident in Nazi Germany as narrated by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche, not to mention Joe Lansdale’s unforgettable tale of two kids on the road during the Great Depression. Luis Alberto Urrea rounds out the collection with his surreal story about an old man bent on vengeance, a tricked-out VW bus, and a cartel boss known as El Surfo. These are but a few of the varied treasures to be found herein, so whether you’re a gearhead or just someone who digs a good exciting tale, you’re in for a wild ride.
Patrick Millikin
TEST DRIVE
by Ben H. Winters
I WAS GIVING it to this SOB with both barrels, boy. I tell you—I was laying it on thick.
“This vehicle right here, this is the real thing,” I told the test driver, and I was giving him my usual go-getter grin, my usual just-us-fellas wink. “Minivan or no minivan, this thing is the real deal. It looks like a dad-mobile. Right? And it is priced like a dad-mobile, especially when you buy it from us. But hey—you feel that? You feel that right there?” The engine had given a little kick, perfect timing, just as the guy eased it out of the space. “It doesn’t drive like any dad-mobile, now, does it? No, it does not. Pardon my language, sir, but hell no, it does not.”
I widened the go-getter grin. I eased back in the shotgun seat, tugged on the seat belt to get myself a little more breathing room. The test driver’s name was Steve. I hadn’t caught the last name, if he’d offered one, but that didn’t matter. I’d get the name when he signed the contract. A test drive takes all of fifteen minutes; it would take another forty-five to do the paperwork; I’d be home with a beer, celebrating my fourth sale of the week, by seven o’clock. I whistled a little through my teeth while Steve maneuvered the 2010 cobalt-blue Honda Odyssey out of the lot and headed west on Admiralty Way along the water.
That’s the test drive: the long block down Admiralty, right on Via Marina, another right on Washington, then one more right and you’re back on our lot. A quick loop, but plenty of time to get a man to fall in love with the vehicle. But those Odysseys, boy? Especially the 2009s, 2010s, those third-generation Odysseys? Well, I’ll tell you something, they really do sell themselves.
“That’s a V-six engine in there, three point five liters, and you can feel it, right? I don’t care how much tonnage a vehicle is, I really do not. You give me a darn grand piano and you slip this V-six in it, the thing’s gonna drive.”
Steve grunted, the first noise I’d heard from him since we got in the car, but his expression did not change. I knew what I was dealing with here: tough customer, cold fish, not about to let himself get conned by some smooth-talking-salesman type. Et cetera, et cetera. Listen: I’ve seen ’em all. I was not concerned. I could handle the Steves of the world.
“You’re right, my friend. Let’s just enjoy. You just drive and enjoy.”
He gave me a sidelong glance and I gave him the wink again, the magic wink: Just you and me out here, pal. Wife’s at home. No kiddies. Just two men talking, and it’s men who know what makes a car a car. But Steve was not a smiler. His hands were tight on the wheel. He was a little old for a soccer dad, I noticed. His hair was gray at the temples and retreating from his forehead. He drove exactly at the posted limit. His eyes were blue and watery behind thick glasses.