don’t you? It’s the car most high-level politicians drive, so many people drive them because they think that other cars will give way and the police are more likely to leave them alone.”
“How interesting,” Rachel said as she settled into her surprisingly comfortable bucket seat. “I love this new-car smell.”
“Actually, this car isn’t new at all—it’s from 1998,” Carlton said.
“Really?” Rachel said in surprise.
“It’s considered a classic—I only drive it on sunny, cloudless days like today. You’re smelling the hand-stitched Connolly leather hides—made from cows even more pampered than the ones in Kobe.”
“Looks like we’ve discovered another of Carlton’s passions,” Nick commented.
“Oh yeah! I’ve been importing cars for several years now and selling them to friends. I started during my Cambridge days, whenever I came up to London on weekends,” Carlton explained as he sped onto Yan’an Elevated Road.
“You must have witnessed the Arab sports-car parade around Knightsbridge every year,” Nick said.
“You bet! My friends and I would grab a table outside the Ladurée and watch them roll by!”
“What are you guys talking about?” Rachel asked.
Nick proceeded to explain. “Every June, all these young Arab squillionaires descend on London, bringing with them the most stupendous sports cars in the world. And they race them around Knightsbridge as if the streets are their private Formula One track. On Saturday afternoons, the cars converge behind Harrods at the corner of Basil Street like some swap meet. All these kids—some not more than eighteen, dressed in expensive tattered denim, and their girlfriends, covered up in their hijabs but wearing blinged-out sunglasses sitting in these million-dollar automobiles. It’s an incredible sight.”
Carlton nodded, his eyes flashing with excitement. “The same thing is happening here! This is now the number-one market for luxury cars in the world—especially exotic sports cars. The demand is unquenchable, and all my friends know I’m the best at finding the rarest of the rare. This McLaren we’re sitting in—only sixty-four were ever built. So before a car even arrives on the dock in Shanghai, I have a waiting list of buyers.”
“Sounds like a fun way to make a living,” Nick commented.
“Tell that to my parents when you see them. They think I’m wasting my life.”
“I’m sure they are just concerned for your safety,” Rachel said, holding her breath as Carlton suddenly cut across three lanes at ninety miles per hour.
“Sorry, I just need to get around those trucks. Don’t worry—I’m a very safe driver.”
Nick and Rachel exchanged dubious looks, knowing Carlton’s recent history. Rachel checked that her seat belt was securely fastened and tried not to look at the zigzagging cars in front of them.
“Everyone on the highway seems totally schizo—they’re changing lanes constantly,” Nick quipped.
“Listen, if you try to drive in an orderly fashion here and stay in your lane all the time, you’ll just get killed,” Carlton said, accelerating again to overtake a truck full of pigs. “The rational rules of driving do not apply in this country. I learned to drive in the UK, and when I came back to Shanghai the first time after getting my license, I got pulled over on my first day driving. The police officer screamed at me, ‘You bloody fool! Why did you stop at that red light?’ ”
“Oh yeah, Rachel and I have almost gotten killed trying to cross the road several times. Traffic signals mean nothing to Shanghai drivers,” Nick said.
“They are merely suggestions,” Carlton agreed, suddenly slamming on the brakes and veering sharply to the right, narrowly avoiding a van in the far left lane.
“SWEET JESUS! WAS THAT VAN ACTUALLY BACKING UP IN THE FAST LANE?” Rachel screamed.
“Welcome to China,” Carlton said nonchalantly.
Twenty minutes outside of downtown Shanghai, they finally exited the highway, much to Rachel’s relief, and turned onto what appeared to be a recently paved boulevard.
“Where are we?” Rachel asked.
“This is a new development called Porto Fino Elite,” Carlton explained. “It’s modeled after those fancy neighborhoods in Newport Beach.”
“Clearly,” Nick commented as they passed a Mediterranean-style strip mall painted in shades of ochre, complete with a Starbucks. They turned off the main street and drove down a long avenue flanked by high stucco walls, at the end of which stood a cascading sculptural waterfall next to a gatehouse. Carlton pulled up in front of a massive gate with decorative steelwork panels, and three uniformed guards emerged from the gatehouse. One of the guards walked around the car warily, as if he was looking for hidden explosives, while another used an inspection mirror to peer under the car. The