Christopher N. McDonald
If you like Nitrous breathing Big Block Corvettes, Vipers, and other highly modified exotic cars, then you need to read this book! Follow Max and his wayward friend Heather as they search for the key to Max’s answer. Why did Missy feel that she had to do what she did to totally turn Max’s life upside down?
With one of the sweetest big block chrome bumper Sharks as the center of the saga, Max, in the search for answers, finds himself looking for help from an unlikely source. Organized crime, Strip Clubs, and highly sophisticated schemes for fraud are center stage for this fast paced story. A must read!
Christopher McDonald has been building hot rod cars since he was old enough to hold a wrench. As he neared completion of his nationally recognized award winning 1969 Corvette, he thought it would only be appropriate to turn his attention to writing. One day while out in his workshop the story raced through his mind. He realized he could create a story centered on the resurrection of his mighty 1969 corvette that would have broad appeal to people from all walks of life. With no prior writing experience Christopher set off to complete his vision. After two years THE KEY TO MY HEART was finished and now available for others to enjoy.
Seymore brought Wayne in on the idea. The plan was set. Seymore and Wayne headed across town to boost the car, armed with nothing more than a bag of lock picks and enough guts to attempt to pull this off. Wayne had broken into his share of cars over the years. He rarely stole the whole car, in favor of taking the radio or whatever was not bolted down to the trunk. The concept was the same for most any lock. He had to get into the car and then act normal as he fiddled with the ignition lock cylinder. Guys like Seymore could pick a Porsche lock in 30 seconds or less. Wayne had already admitted to Seymore he was a bit rusty. That just added to the excitement for Seymore. As they crossed the half-way point, Seymore surprised Wayne with a strange twist to the deal.
“Open the glove box,” Seymore said in stern voice to Wayne, as they sat at an intersection in the bright red Viper waiting on the light to change. “Take out the blindfold and put it on now,” he commanded.
Wayne, taken by total surprise, did as he was commanded.
“Now, we are going to add some excitement to this job,” Seymore said as the light cycled green and he brought the revs up on the V10 Viper. “I am going to drop you off in front of the country club. You will have exactly fifteen minutes to boost the car and bring it back to the shop, or somebody is going to call the good dentist and ask him if he knows where his car is.”
“Whoa…wait a minute…” Wayne protested. “I don’t even know how to get around this city, much less boost the car and find my way back in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine with me,” shouted Seymore as he brought the Viper to a stop, reached across and opened Wayne’s door. “You can get out right here, and we can pretend this never happened,” Seymore said as he popped the Viper in neutral. Cars screamed past within inches of the Viper, blowing horns and shouting at the two men to get out of the way.
Wayne was taken by total surprise. He thought they were buddies. “Buddies don’t do this to each other,” he thought… “or do they?”
“Fine…I’m in,” Wayne shouted as he swallowed the lump in his throat. Seymore put the car in gear and punched the throttle, causing the door to slam closed. In a violent series of gear shifts and full throttle sprints, he ripped the Viper across town to the parking lot where the 911 was sitting. Not a word was spoken on the way. Wayne tried to listen to the area and get a feel for where they were headed. In another few moments the Viper came to a screeching halt. Seymore reached across again and popped the passenger door open. He pulled the blindfold off Wayne and tossed him the lock pick set.
Pointing across the hood of the shiny Viper to a silver 911 Porsche, Seymore tapped on his watch and said, “Fifteen minutes…starting…NOW!” With that he gave Wayne a shove and off the Viper went. Wayne stood in the parking lot for a few moments trying to get an idea of which way Seymore was going to turn on the main road and then headed over to the 911.
There was some sparse activity in the parking lot. A few senior citizen ladies with tennis gear in hand were getting out of a Lincoln Town Car. There was a beautiful landscaped green off to his right where golf carts were moving up and down the path. The guard shack at the entrance gate was quiet. Wayne glanced at his watch and saw the minute hand tick past 11:30. He straightened his clothes and started strutting towards the Porsche-not too fast to attract attention, but much faster than his typical gimp-leg walk. He found himself standing next to the driver door of the wide bodied turbo monster Porsche. He opened the case on the key kit and started stabbing two of the tools into the door lock, hoping for that exact moment of success when all the tumblers line up and the lock pops open. CLICK. The lock cylinder snapped in place. The time was now 11:32. A pair of old men in polyester golfing slacks walked past him, muttering about something just as he slipped into the car. “So far so good,” Wayne thought to himself. He slid the tool into the ignition lock. After several failed attempts, the lock rotated forward and the steering wheel unlocked. One more twist and the turbo beast sprung to life. The time was now 11:35. With ten minutes to find his way back, Wayne roared out of the parking lot, turning to the right just as he saw Seymore do a few minutes ago. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat as he rounded the corner and gunned the car down the road, looking for some sort of clue or sign of where to go.
He remembered the shop was off I-75. He blasted down the street, looking back in his mirror and catching site of an onramp to I-75 going in the opposite direction. Seymore must have doubled back to confuse him. With precious time ticking, he down-shifted and tossed the Porsche into a four-wheel drift across three lanes and headed back the other way. Running hard through the gears, he came up to the I-75 entrance. “North or south?” he shouted out. “Which way?” He pounded on the steering wheel as he approached. With no clue he chose south, cut off a car to his right, down-shifted to second gear and brought the boost up on the spinning turbo chargers. The Porsche leaped onto I-75 like a guided rocket and headed south. Up on the highway he started passing cars as the time ticked on. It was now 11:38. Risking it all, he buried the throttle passing cars in the emergency lane, looking for something familiar.
Seymore raced ahead in the Viper, making his way into the shop. Once inside, he called the other guys up to the office to sit by the phone and watch the clock. This was Seymore’s way of finding out how sharp Wayne really was. He really had no intention of calling the dentist. After all, Wayne could end up leading the cops right to him if he did that. He had to bank on the fact that Wayne was not willing to take that chance. They watched the clock keep ticking.
Back on I-75 Wayne caught a glimpse of a familiar road sign. He was only a few miles from the exit. Checking his watch, he was under five minutes now. With both turbo chargers spooled to the limit, Wayne shifted into high gear and made his way to the off ramp. The 911 responded like a racehorse, feather light on the corners and strong as an ox on acceleration. The silver machine darted through traffic, onto the off ramp, and down the main drag to the shop. Approaching traffic, Wayne made a calculated risk and blew the first three stoplights. He was able to see both sides of the intersection and make a good call. The clock ticked off to 11:43. He could see the final road that would take him to the industrial loop by the shop.
This was a blind intersection due to large buildings on each corner of the street. Too close to turn around now and too fast to stop for the last red light, Wayne grabbed the steering wheel tight, cut through the intersection and made a left turn in between oncoming traffic. The Porsche bottomed out as it dipped through the intersection and sent sparks flying out from under the car. He downshifted to first gear and rounded the corner to the shop. At full throttle he blasted down the tight lane between the warehouse businesses on either side.
Seymore looked out the window of the office and saw a silver streak headed his way. The clock was now at 11:44. The sound of the pancake six roaring under the load of the turbo-charged intercooler could be heard through the heavy reinforced glass. Wayne could see his target in sight. His watch was ticking forward, 11:44 and 40 seconds. In a rush of black tire dust and spent turbo gasses, Wayne let off the throttle, turned the wheel and grabbed the emergency break. The silver 911 darted in front of E.R.D., rotated a full 180 degrees and slid right up to the office door. His watch showed 11:44 and 53 seconds. Wayne let the engine come to idle and waited behind the wheel.
Seymore and his cronies rolled up the main garage bay door. Clapping his hands in a slow steady rhythm, Seymore approached Wayne. Wayne’s knuckles were solid white, and his heart was still pounding in his chest. The smell of burned rubber and red hot exhaust surrounded the area.
“Well done…” Seymore said as he continued to clap his hands. “Now get that car in here; we have work to do…PARTNER,” Seymore said with a smile as he motioned to the other guys to clear a space. Wayne felt a cool relief come over him. He slapped the Porsche back in gear, popped the clutch and fishtailed it around and into the garage bay, where seconds later the large white door slammed shut behind him.
