The Driver Read Online Free PDF

school’s rival school.
    Nine was one of the only private school kids I knew who dropped out of college, but, to his credit, he did it out of loyalty, choosing to go into the family business, which, like mine, involved cars. In the summer of 1990, Nine was rumored to have set the fastest-ever time from Manhattan’s Upper East Side to Riverdale in the Bronx, the suburb where our schools lay. This seemed a good opening upon which to build a friendship, and it was around that time Nine became close friends with The Weis. Given the latter’s lack of patience for bullshit, social climbers, liars, and trust-fund kids, I knew Nine was one of us.
    This was the other thing that bound us. Pater Goodrich had passed away not long before my own, and my father had immediately given Nine a job at Europe By Car. When my father passed away, I quickly learned not only who my real friends were, but how grateful and loyal Nine was, and would prove to be.
    One more thing.
    Nine’s first answer was always yes.
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    â€œThis is one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had,” said Nine. “What does The Weis think?”
    â€œHe’s already agreed to help.”
    â€œDon’t lie to this guy.” Nine shook his head.
    â€œSeriously.”
    â€œThat’s bullshit.” He leaned back on my sofa. “So what’s the plan?”
    My plan was to have Nine organize the traffic-intersection blocking teams, one at the Harlem entrance of the West Side Highway, and one each at every westbound traffic intersection on the West Side Highway between Fifty-ninth Street and the World Trade Center. Radio interference prevented use of the RadioShack walkie-talkies I’d already tested, so we’d default to a sequential cell-phone tree that would alert the blockers to don their reflective-orange traffic officer vests, step out into each intersection, and hold up a bright red police baton. Each would prevent westbound traffic from turning south onto the West Side Highway, hopefully just long enough for me to run every red light between Fifty-ninth Street and the finish line. I hoped that would be fifteen seconds or less per blocker, or whatever it took to avoid my having an accident, and them getting arrested for police impersonation.
    â€œDude,” said Nine, “I knew this was a bad idea, but that’s the worst fucking plan ever.”
    â€œYou have a better plan?”
    â€œYou have a better idea?”
    â€œNo.”
    Nine scratched his stubble. “And The Weis signed off on this?”
    â€œYup.”
    â€œDo I have to call him to see if you’re lying?”
    â€œC’mon,” I said.
    â€œThen I’m in.”
    â€œWho loves this guy?”
    â€œThis guy!”
    â€œNine, you know I’m putting you in charge of recruiting the traffic blockers.”
    â€œI figured. Who do you trust?”
    â€œYou.”
    â€œDoes anyone owe you money?”
    â€œNot that I know of.” I squinted. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause they would be the first people to ask.”
    â€œHadn’t thought of that.” I nodded. “Any other suggestions?”
    â€œNo ex-girlfriends.”
    I loved Nine.
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    â€œWe’re almost ready,” I told Nine.
    It had taken a year to complete dozens of reconnaissance runs. I knew every pothole, every bump, every radar trap, and the general location of every NYPD patrol car on Manhattan’s perimeter. I’d waited for winter’s end so as to remap the route, knowing that however well the Department of Transportation refilled the potholes, new ones would emerge through spring and summer. I knew that Monday morning between 3:30 and 4:00 would be safest, since most nightclubs and bars closed early Sundays and there would be fewer drunk drivers, let alone innocent bystanders, than any other night of the week. I knew that late summer was best, as temperatures were dropping (reducing pedestrian traffic) and