Dan Simmons - Darwin's Blade

“Larry races in California, Arizona, Mexico…wherever they can get to in a weekend.”

“Trudy always goes along?”

“Lawrence and Trudy do everything together,” said Dar.

Dar rang a buzzer under an intercom. While they waited, Syd looked at the surrounding houses on the hill.

“No sidewalks,” she said flatly.

Dar raised an eyebrow. “You new to California, Investigator?”

“Three years,” said Syd. “But I still hate the idea of no sidewalks.”

Dar gestured toward the seven vehicles in the driveway and open garage. “Why the hell would anyone in California need a sidewalk?”

“Come on in,” said Trudy’s voice over the intercom. “We’re in the kitchen.”

When Syd and Dar trekked through the acres of unused living room, scarcely used dining room, and overused work areas to the kitchen, Stewart Investigations was taking a coffee break. Lawrence was on a stool, hunched over the counter with his elbows on the Formica and his face red with concentration. Trudy was standing behind the counter but leaning toward her massive husband as if they were involved in a fierce but friendly contest of wills.

“Olds Rocket Eighty-eight,” said Trudy in a bass growl.

“Toyota Rav Four,” answered Lawrence in a mincing falsetto. He waved Dar and Syd toward two empty stools at the counter and gestured toward the coffeepot and clean mugs. As the two guests poured some coffee for themselves, Lawrence growled, “Pontiac Grand Prix.”

“Mitsubishi Galant,” said Trudy, now using the falsetto voice. “Mercury Cougar,” she growled back, as if slamming a ball over the net.

Lawrence hesitated.

“Ford Contour,” said Syd in a tone several octaves higher than her usual pleasant speaking voice.

“Ah, Jesus,” said Dar.

“Shhh!” said Trudy. “You’ll break the rhythm. Go ahead, Investigator Olson. Your serve.”

“Ah, same letter,” mused Syd. In a lumberjack’s growl she said, “Dodge Charger!”

“Honda Civic,” replied Lawrence in an exaggerated sissy voice. Then he roared, “Chevy Impala!”

“Infinity!” said Trudy.

“Isuzu Impulse,” minced Syd.

Trudy pointed. “Your point. ‘Impulse’ is wimpier and more stupid than ‘Infinity.’ You can serve any letter.”

“Ford Thunderbird,” yelled Syd.

“Ford Taurus,” cried Lawrence.

“Toyota Tercel,” said Trudy triumphantly. She banged her coffee cup down and frowned at her husband. “Taurus means bull, Larry. A bull has balls. What’s a Tercel, anyway? Some kind of bird? It means nothing.”

“Lawrence,” said Lawrence.

“Are you guys finished with the testosterone-estrogen game?” asked Dar.

“Nope,” said Trudy. “It’s forty-love. My serve.” She paused only a second. “American Motors Eagle!”

“It’s not produced anymore,” said Dar.

Everyone ignored him. Obviously he did not understand the rules.

“Escort,” lisped Lawrence.

“Hyundai Elantra!” said Trudy as if slapping down a trump card.

“Suzuki Esteem,” said Syd.

Both Lawrence and Trudy nodded, giving Syd the point.

“What’s wimpier than calling a car an ‘Esteem’?” said Trudy. “Especially a piece of Suzuki junk. It’s like naming a car, ‘My Pride.’”

“When I was a teenager,” said Dar, “I drove a big-finned 1960 Chrysler New Yorker that my girlfriend named ‘Beat-rice.’”

The other three looked at him as if he had passed wind.

“Where were we?” said Lawrence.

“Two points from match point,” said Trudy. “Syd or me. I’ll serve.” She paused only a second. “Pontiac Firebird…”

“Ford Fiasco,” snapped back Lawrence. “Nothing wimpier than a Fiasco.”

“Ford Fiestas aren’t being produced anymore,” said Syd. “Now they’re Festivas.”

“Your point, your serve,” said Trudy.

“Buick Roadmaster,” growled Syd, drawing out the syllables in “master.”

“Rav Four,” said Lawrence.

“Foul,” said Trudy. “You already used that one.” She paused. “R’s a tough one…Plymouth Reliant?”

“Too tough,” said Lawrence.

“All I can think of is the Buick Reatta,” said Syd. “And that’s not sissy enough, even if it doesn’t mean anything.”

“RX-7 is sort of wimpy,” said Trudy.

“Hey!” said Lawrence, sounding sincerely hurt. He raced rebuilt RX-7s.

“Why don’t I serve?” suggested Dar. “Whoever wins this one, wins.”

“Agreed,” said the other three.

“Q45,” said Dar.

“That’s a new car,” protested Trudy. “And there’s nothing especially sexy about…”

“Q45,” repeated Dar. “It’s in play. Go .”

There were several seconds of silence.

“VW Quantum,” said Syd.

“Wow,” said Trudy. “Winner.”

“Not so fast,” said Dar. “Alfa Romeo Quadrifoglio.”

The others squinted at him suspiciously.

“It’s real,” said Lawrence at last. “I worked a wreck of one on the 410 three years ago…”

“We know it’s real,” said Trudy. “We’re just trying to decide if it’s…”

“I win,” said Dar.

“Who made you judge and jury?” said Lawrence pleasantly enough.

Dar smiled tightly. “I’m not judge and jury,” he said. “I’m just the foreperson.” He looked meaningfully at the boxes of files that were stacked in the other room. “Can we go to work now on finding out which case might have made the Russian mafia want to kill me?”

Three hours and eighty files later, Lawrence sat back in his chair and said, “I give up. What the hell are we looking for?”

“Fraudulent claims,” said Syd, gesturing toward the stack of files they had separated under just that heading.

“That’s sixty-some percent of what we deal with,” said Trudy. “None of these in which Dar did the accident reconstruction seem important enough to warrant killing him.”

The chief investigator nodded. Her eyes looked tired. Dar noticed that she wore rimless glasses when she read.

“Well,” said Dar, “you can’t say it’s dull reading.”

Syd nodded. “These accident victim reports are masterpieces, all right. Listen to this one—‘The telephone pole was approaching fast. I was attempting to swerve out of its way when it struck my front end.’”

Trudy opened a file. “Here’s one of my favorites—‘I had been driving my car for forty years when I fell asleep at the wheel and had an accident.’”

Dar pulled an old file out. “This fellow’s never heard of the Fifth Amendment—‘The guy was all over the road. I had to swerve several times before I hit him.’”

Lawrence grunted and flipped through the file he had been skimming. “My claimant’s been watching too many X-Files episodes—‘An invisible car came out of nowhere, struck my vehicle, and vanished.’”

“I had an X-File one,” said Syd, flipping through the thick blue folders. “Here—‘The accident happened when the right front door of a car came around the corner without giving any signal.’

“I hate it when that happens,” said Dar.

“Notice how accident victims love passive voice in their depositions?” said Trudy. “Here’s a typical one—‘A pedestrian I did not see hit me, then went sliding under my car.’”

“But they’re honest, in a stupid way,” said Lawrence. “I remember taking this bozo’s statement—‘Coming home, I drove into the wrong house and collided with a tree I don’t have.’”

Trudy was giggling as she read. “‘I pulled away from the side of the road, glanced at my mother-in-law in the other seat and headed over the embankment.’”