Linwood Barclay - Parting Shot

“Do you know the principle of driving a standard?” I asked him.

“Not really. I mean, I’ve watched Charlene do it. I think she’s the only one I know who even knows how to drive one. She told me that in Europe and England and stuff, that’s pretty much what everyone drives, but hardly anyone does here.”

“Okay. First thing we do is get comfortable with the gearshift. Shove down the clutch with your left foot, yeah, that’s right, and leave it there. Now, grab the gearshift, pull it ever so slightly to you and forward. Good, that’s first. Straight back and toward you, that’s second.”

He moved the stick back and forth, getting the feel of it.

“Straight up the middle, that’s third. Back is fourth, up to the right is fifth. Yeah, that’s good.”

“What about reverse?”

“We’ll worry about reverse later. Now, how to shift gears.” I raised my palms, moving them back and forth in an alternating fashion. “So my left hand, that’s your left foot. All it worries about is the clutch. My right hand is your right foot, and it handles the gas and the brake.”

“How do you heel-toe? I’ve heard about that.”

“When you’re ready for the Indy 500, we’ll talk about heel-toe. Right now, we just want to get to the grocery store. So, to put it in gear, you push in the clutch with your left foot, and hold back with your right.” I made the motions with my hands.

He still had the clutch depressed from when I showed him how to move the gearshift around. “Got it.”

“Now put it in first.”

He put it in first.

“Now you’re going to slowly ease off the clutch at the same time as you give the car some gas.”

“Both at the same time?”

“That’s how it’s done. Haven’t you ever watched Charlene do this in her car?”

“If I’m looking at her legs, it’s not for that reason.”

I grinned at him. “I hear ya. Give it a try.”

Jeremy took a deep breath. He let the clutch out too quickly before giving the car some gas. It bucked and stalled.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“It’s okay. So press down the clutch, turn back the key and start us up again.”

He got the engine going. I told him to repeat the procedure, and again the car bucked suddenly and died.

“I can’t do this,” he said. “I can’t.”

“When my dad was teaching me stick,” I said, “I nearly destroyed the car before I got it right. It’s hard at first, but once you get the hang of it, you never forget.”

“Like riding a bike?” he asked.

“Like that,” I said.

Another deep breath. He started the car again. And again he let off the clutch too quickly and the car died.

“I’m wasting our time,” he said.

“You got someplace to be?” I asked.

So he started the car again. Let out the clutch more slowly, feathered the gas. The car bucked, but it did not stall. We were moving.

“I did it!” he said.

The car, still in first, was whining loudly. It was screaming to go to the next gear.

“You did,” I agreed. “Now you have to get it in second.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jeremy said. He looked terrified.

“It’s okay. This part’s easier because we’re moving. Clutch in, foot off the gas.” I glanced over, saw that his feet were in the right position. “Now pull the stick straight back and toward you.”

He tried, but he let the clutch out too quickly and there was a horrible grinding sound.

“Jesus!” he shouted.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, just push the clutch back in and we’ll try it again. Okay. Clutch stays in, pull the shifter straight back. That’s it. Now ease out the clutch and give it some gas.”

The car bucked, but less like a bronco this time. We continued to move forward. There was sweat on Jeremy’s upper lip. To be honest, I was soaking under the arms. I’d never been a great passenger, even with good drivers.

“Ready for third?”

Jeremy took several short breaths. “Okay.”

“Same deal. Clutch in, foot off the gas, stick straight up to the middle. Got it. Now, clutch out, give it some gas.”

That time, he was pretty smooth. I looked ahead and saw that we were soon going to run out of road.

“Okay, we’re going to stop. So, light on the brake with your right foot. Not hard, or we’ll stall. That’s it. Now clutch in all the way, harder on the brake.”

The car came to a stop.

“There,” I said. “Now—”

The car suddenly lurched forward, tossing my head back into the headrest. We moved ahead only a couple of feet before the car died.

“What did I do?” Jeremy asked, a look of horror on his face.

I laughed. “It’s okay. You let out the clutch without putting it in neutral.”

He put his head back and closed his eyes. “Shit buckets,” he said. “That was torture. I can’t do any more.”

“Okay, that’s our lesson for today. I’ll drive us into town. You shouldn’t be on the main road anyway, not till you have your license back. But we’ll do this again tomorrow.”

He shot me a look. “Are you kidding? Do we have to?”

“Why not? Something like this takes practice. Before long, you’ll have the hang of it.” I gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You did good, Scott.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Who’s Scott?”

I felt stunned. “Sorry,” I said. “My head was someplace else there for a second.”

When we got to the grocery store, I gave Jeremy the list.

“What’s this?”

“Grab a cart, find that stuff.”

He didn’t have to tell me he’d never shopped for groceries before. It showed on his face. But after surviving his driving lesson, maybe he felt this was a challenge he could handle.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I want to make a phone call.”

“What if someone recognizes me?”

A good point. I went to the trunk, popped it, found him a baseball cap with a Toronto Blue Jays logo on the front. “Put that on, pull it down low.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Just wear it.”

I sent him on his way. Once he’d freed a cart from the string of them stored just outside the store, and gone inside, I got out my phone. I dug into my pocket for a business card I’d been given the day before, looked at the number, and entered it into my cell.

A woman answered. “Broadhurst Developments. How may I help you?”

“I need to speak with Galen,” I said.

“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting,” the woman said.

I laughed. “That’s what he tells you to say no matter what, right? Look, it’s a friend of his. Tell him it’s Cal Weaver. It’s important.”

“Hold, please.”

There were several seconds of silence. Then, “Hello?”

“Galen Broadhurst?” I said.

“Yeah. This is Weaver?”

“That’s right.”

“The detective I met yesterday?”

“You got it.”

“What’s up? My secretary said this was important.”

“I might have made it sound a little more urgent than it actually is. But given why I’m calling, I thought you might want to take the call.”

“What?” He sounded wary.

I laughed. “It’s nothing bad. It’s about your car.”

“What about my car?”

“You said you were thinking of selling it.”

“Well, maybe.”

“You said it’d probably go for around fifty thousand. I just wondered how firm you were on that.”

“You’re seriously interested?”

“All my life I’ve wanted something like that, but I’ve always found a way to talk myself out of it. But you said it’s just had an overhaul, so I’m guessing it’s in good shape, although I’m sure you’d understand if I wanted to have a mechanic take a look at it.”