For the last fifteen miles or so, Dick was almost hoping the Porsche would break down. Anticipating the inevitable malfunction in an old car was nerve-wracking enough, but now nobody would ever believe that he’d managed to drive the old car all the way across Ile du Soleil without a single mishap. At the very least, the other Road Associates would be jealous. From the news reports he’d gotten, he knew that the others were spread out across the country behind him, all of them except for Roger and the Ferrari still running to various extents.
Meanwhile, he was out far ahead of all of them, inside the Woodford city limits, and the 911 hadn’t even hiccupped. He’d even outrun a badly driven police Saab coming into town, winding out the Porsche’s engine and having a damn good time doing it, too. It would be right and proper for the gods of classic cars to strike the little Porsche down right here with some terminal mechanical failure, and Dick was ready for it.
It didn’t happen, though. He reached Pier 68L without so much as a fouled spark plug.
Unfortunately, the pier was empty. It didn’t look like there had been any activity there for weeks, in fact. The doors of the loading building stood open, and there was no boat in the slip. The pier itself had a few ships around, although because it was an hour or so past close of business, there weren’t many people around other than a few dockworkers. All in all the Woodford pier was far too sleepy for Dick’s taste.
He parked the 911 in front of the pier, and when the engine cut off he could hear sirens. “Well, shit,” he said.