Page 72 of First in Line

“’Evening. Colorado State Police. Do you know how fast you were going, sir?”

“I’m not sure exactly when you clocked me, so no.”

“Hm, I stumbled on a smartass, I see. Can I see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”

“Sure.”

“Just take your time,” the officer says. “No sudden movements.”

Even though I comply as I shuffle into the glove compartment on the passenger side, I can see how close his hand gets to his weapon. Once I have everything, I give him the papers, then grab the wheel.

He glances at them, still alert, then lets out a snort. “That’s funny. Jackson Reyes. Like the Formula One driver, right?”

“Yep,” I reply between clenched teeth.

“People are crazy about him around here. He grew up an hour down this road, if you’ll believe it.”

“Yeah, that’s crazy.”

He refocuses on my papers and asks, “Are you from around here, Jackson?”

“I grew up an hour down this road, if you’ll believe it,” I explain.

That’s when it clicks for him. Whatever reset button state troopers have, I think I found it because he doesn’t move for a solid ten seconds. Only his eyes do, going from my license to my face, over and over again.

“You’re him,” he eventually concludes.

“I am.”

“The Formula One driver.”

“In the flesh.”

“Didn’t you just win that race in Canada?”

“Montreal, yes.”

He scratches his temple under his hat and returns the papers to me. “You know you can’t drive this fast in the real world, sir. This isn’t a racetrack.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

For several beats, he’s silent, watching me with intensity. “Would you sign something for my son? He’s a big Formula Onefan. I think he even has a picture of you and your car in his bedroom. Or maybe it’s the Belgian guy.”

“If it really is Louis Descamps on his wall, tell your son he needs better idols.”

“Nah, I’m pretty sure it’s you. So, would you sign something?”

“Sure.”

He trots back to his cruiser, bends into it for a moment, and returns with a pen and a piece of paper. He hands them to me and, using the flat center of the wheel, I sign my name on it before returning everything to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Reyes.” He leans forward, resting his forearm on the car’s roof. “Listen, at the speed you were going, I really should give you a ticket. Hell, I should even suspend your license. But between you and me, if you promise to lift your foot off the pedal a little, I’ll let you go with only a warning.”

“I appreciate that, officer. I’ll drive slower.”

“Alright. I’ll let it go this time, then. But be careful out there, Mr. Reyes.”

“I will. Sorry for the speeding.”