Switching to the M6 Coupe for the last couple of hours of the day was quite a change. The coupe actually had noticeably more power (GT3 cars are restricted) but almost zero ground effects and much less grippy tires. All that added up to a car that skated along clawing for traction, where the GT3 stuck like velcro to the track.

My lap times were a lot slower, sure, but throwing the car sideways through the turns was its own kind of good fun. Honestly, it put my speeds more in line with most of the guys and gave me a feel for getting passed when James would motor by inside on the bowl or outside on turn 16.

Stein was plenty willing to play, and we had a lot of fun laps dicing back and forth, passing only to run wide and let the other one get by again. We kept that up until the checkered flag marking the end of the day brought us in, both of us grinning like idiots from being able to play the way we never really could on our Saturday drives.

Like the night before, dinner turned into a party. Lainey allowed Madison one Margarita, but she and I agreed that Tiffany should get an alcohol-free version. All the adults were welcome to as many as they want, which in Jimmy’s case turned out to be at least one too many. His misery was a good source of comedy for the rest of us, though, so that was O.K.

After everybody had dispersed to their rental cabins, tents, RVs or whatever, I helped the guys clean everything up.

“Manny,” I said as the two of us restocked the cooler for the next morning. “I don’t think I’ve said it enough. I really do appreciate you cooking like you’ve been doing. It’s been great. I really mean it.”

“Oh, it it’s nothing,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I enjoy doing it, you know? I grew up in a big family, and my mamá, she was the family cook, but my dad, he loved his parrilladas. I guess that’s where I get it from.”

“I gotta say, I’m glad you did. It really makes these weekends something special.”

“You know something? Me and the others, we like these track weekends, too. We get to play with fast cars, hang out at the track, make some money… It’s all good,” Manny said with a smile.

“We also get to get out of the house,” Brian, one of the other mechanics, added. “It’s a win all around.”

James was sitting on the front steps of his cabin when I finally made my way over from the track, so I joined him.

“Maddie’s gotten a lot faster,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “All those driving schools and coaching we’ve been getting her have really paid off. She’s a lot more confident behind the wheel.”

“Lainey gave me a ‘you two are spending too much money on Mads’ talk a while back,” James said, looking off into the distance, remembering. “I told her that motorsports are expensive, and rising to the upper levels can’t be done single-handedly.”

“It takes a village to raise a Formula One driver,” I joked.

“Well, yes, it does,” James agreed. “The right support from home, check,” he said holding up a hand and folding down a finger. “Decent equipment, check,” he added, folding another finger down. “That basic start got Madison to where she was when you met her. But to get any farther, she needed the right technical support and the capital to be able to take advantage,” James said, folding down two more fingers. “The coaching, too,” he said, wrapping his thumb across the rest of his fingers. “Lainey wouldn’t have been able to provide Madison with the necessary ingredients to move her much farther forward.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, sipping from my water bottle. “Plus, it really isn’t that much money, at least from our perspective. I burn off more money in tires…”

“That’s no joke,” James agreed. “Two sets today,” he said.

“You were going really good out there today,” I told him. “Godzilla seems to be treating you right.”

“That is one hell of a car,” James agreed. “I still can’t get over how you used to drive it with the TC turned off.”

“You should try it,” I suggested. “Maybe do half the day that way tomorrow. It really hammers home the importance of smooth applications of throttle.”

“I imagine it would,” James said with a little chuckle.

I followed my own advice the next morning, running until lunch with all the aids turned off. My tires and my lap times suffered, but it was a lot of fun throwing the car sideways and then feeling it snap back hard into line exiting the turns. I also goofed around with terrible line choices, running late entries or apexing too early and then recovering, just to get used to dealing with less than perfect situations. Again, not good for lap times, but a great learning experience.

“We really are all just rolling chicanes for you, aren’t we?” Geoff asked at lunch.

“Can you imagine how boring it would be out here if I were just lapping by myself all weekend?” I asked. “Yeah, I could maybe get the best lap times ever, but it would be just endlessly repetitive. Having you guys on the track changes it up a little bit every lap,” I said.

“I’m glad we could be of service, my lady,” he said dryly.

“But seriously, it would be boring to come out here and do lap after lap by myself. Having you guys here makes the whole thing a lot of fun. And ultimately, that’s what this is about- having fun with friends.”

“I have to admit, it is pretty awesome having the track basically to myself and just a half-dozen others,” Geoff admitted. “These private days are really the way to go.”

“Surprisingly cheap, too,” I told him. “I’m spending more on tires this weekend than renting the track for the two days.”

“We should do this more often,” Jimmy said.

“You’re just happy that you aren’t stuck with Kimmy all weekend,” Teddy Bear replied.

“It’s not just me,” Jimmy shot back. “We’re all happy she’s not here.”

“True,” Stein said.

“I guess it’s more or less just a coincidence that this would up as a stag weekend,” Geoff said, “But it is sort of nice to not worry if Linda and the girls are bored while I’m out on the track.”

“Yeah, I always feel guilty when I drag Emmy or Angela to the track,” I agreed.

“It was perfect at Indy,” James said. “Imogen, Emmy and Angela all went into town and spent the day shopping.”

“I’m not sure that would be better,” Geoff said with a wry look on his face.

That afternoon was more experimentation on my part, playing with traction, letting the car slide and drift in every turn, fishtailing on exit and getting all sorts of out of shape on the brakes. Basically, I was trying to throw the car into terrible situations and then doing what I could to ride them out as best as possible.

Of course, this did mean that I found my way out into the dirt quite a few times, but really only had the one completely lurid spin-out in turn 15. Thankfully there was nobody near when it happened, so getting back rolling again wasn’t a problem.

“It’s a good thing this is a wrap and not the paint you’re trashing out there,” Joachim said when I brought the car in at the end of the day. “You’re gettin’ crazy out there. This isn’t a rally car, you know.”

“Maybe I ought to get one,” I said. “It’s kind of fun throwing up sand and rocks like that.”

Joachim just shook his head in dismay as the guys lifted the car to give it a good cleaning before packing it in the hauler.

“Maybe so,” he said.

Settling into my own bed after a long, hot shower that night, I thought about the weekend. I was really enjoying the GT3 and feeling really comfortable in the car, but the high point of the weekend might have been goofing off in the coupe with Stein. Sure, it wasn’t fast, but it was ridiculously fun in a ‘behaving badly’ sort of way.

That isn’t to say that perfecting my technique in the track car wasn’t rewarding- it very much was. The thing is, the GT3 car was just so much more clinical than the coupe, and that came down to grip. The race car had loads and loads, but the coupe had nowhere near as much.

It occurred to me that I probably should take the X6M out next time, just for shits and giggles. The most track-focused SUV ever made seemed as if it would be a bizarre experience…

Taking a break from working the heavy bag the next morning, I found Joey doing bench presses.

“Hey, Joey,” I said when he finished his set. “You think you might be up for a few rounds day after tomorrow?”

“Oh, hey, Leah,” he said, sitting up. “Yeah, I’d definitely be down for that. Say, seven? that gives us both time to get warmed up first.”

“Works for me,” I said, holding my fist out for him to bump, which he did before returning to his weights.

“Um, Leah, right?” asked the guy who was spotting Joey. “I’d, well, I guess I’m trying to say that, well, if you’ve got an opening in your, um, schedule, I’d be happy to go a few rounds, too.”

“We’re talking about sparring, right?” I asked, teasing.

“Uh, yeah, sparring. In the ring, like you’re gonna do with Joey,” the guy said.

“Sure, I’d be happy to go a few rounds with you,” I replied. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Duane,” he replied. “Duane Jones.”

“Pleased to meet you, Duane,” I said. “Depending on how racked up I get fighting Joey here, maybe next Wednesday?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s cool. Really cool,” he agreed, and we bumped knuckles to confirm it.

On my way back to the bag, Richie caught up to me. “So, like, that’s it? You’re taking numbers now?”

“Take a number and get in line,” I said, giving him a shove on the shoulder.

“I could maybe be your tune-up, but that’s about it,” he said. “I don’t think I’d have much of a chance.”

“Richie, these are just friendly spars, that’s all,” I said. “It’s practice, a chance to learn a thing or two, face unfamiliar techniques and styles, that’s all.”

“With punching,” Richie said.

“Hey, Richie,” I said. “Take a look around. This is a fight gym, not a Pilates studio. If you aren’t here to learn to fight, you’re in the wrong place.”

“You might have a point there,” he admitted with a wry smile.

“Hey, go grab your gear,” I said. “The back ring is empty right now. Let’s do a light spar- just maybe, I don’t know, three rounds?”

“Right now?” he asked, surprised.

“Sure, why not?” I asked. “We’re both consenting adults.”

“Um, light touch, right? full gear?” he asked.

“Right,” I agreed. “You did bring protection, didn’t you?”

“These double entendres are making me wonder what I’m getting into,” Richie said.

“Gotta keep on your toes,” I told him. “Metaphorically as well as literally.”

The spar went well, but it was obvious that Richie had nothing. He wasn’t particularly fast or skilled, and even worse, he kept dropping his guard and letting me get in on him over and over. When we called it, he dropped to lie flat on the canvas.

“Damn!” he said to the world in general. “For being light touch, I just got my ass handed to me!”

“Don’t take it so hard,” I told him as I stripped off my big padded gloves. “You almost landed that one kick that one time.”

“Ooh, ouch! And now my ego is bruised!” he wailed.

“Eh, kid, you did O.K. for somebody who never had a chance,” Eddie said from ringside. “Ya can’t say you weren’t warned.”

“No, I absolutely can’t say that,” Richie agreed as he sat up, slowly climbing to his feet. “I was warned plenty.”

Slipping out between the ropes, he asked me, “So what got you in the right mood today? Have a tough weekend?”

“Nah, a good weekend, actually. I just figured that a friendly little fight would be a good way to start the work week out right.”

“A friendly little fight,” Richie said, dropping his gear into his gym bag. “That’s my new favorite oxymoron. ‘Hey, Richie, man, why you got that black eye?’” he said in a different voice, imitating maybe a co-worker or something. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said in his normal voice. “I just got in a friendly little fight, that’s all.”

“You know what I tell the people in my office when I come in with a black eye or other obvious bruises?” I asked. “Marital difficulties. That shuts ‘em up immediately.”

“Well, sure, but your cover office- they all know you’re really a secret government killer, so it’s probably just another day for them, right?” Richie replied.

“Only when I’m on missions,” I said with a shrug. “Other times, it’s purely recreational.”

There was a box from London waiting for me at the front desk when I got to the office that morning. Opening it at my desk, my surprise only grew more when I read the note and looked at the smaller gray box nestled inside in packing paper. It had come from Henry Powell, the man I’d talked to at the two fundraiser parties.

“I hope you enjoy this as it was meant to be savored,” the note said.

I pulled the smaller but surprisingly heavy gray box out, admiring the gold clasp in the front. Opening it, I was astonished to see what looked like a giant perfume bottle more than anything, but the “Glenmorangie Pride 1978” made it clear it was Scotch whisky and not 750ml of French cologne.

“Hey, is Sandy in the office this morning?” I asked Marisa at the front desk. When she said he was, I asked her to send him to my office.

Bemusedly, I wondered why Henry had sent me an unusual bottle of Scotch out of the blue like that, as I turned the odd bottle over in my hands.

“You needed to see me?” Sandy asked when he walked in the office’s open door. His eyes opened wide when they fell on the bottle on my desk.

“Is that-” he asked, reaching for it, then catching himself. “May I?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, and he picked up the absurdly heavy bottle.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, awed.

“An acquaintance in London sent it to me,” I said.

“He must like you a lot,” Sandy said, admiring the color of the liquid inside. “If you can even get this stuff, it goes for around ten grand a bottle.”

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know much about Scotch,” I said. “But that sounds like a lot.”

Carefully putting the bottle back on my desk, Sandy gave me an amused smile. “Yeah, it does seem that way. A bit out of my price range, for sure.”

“So what should I do with it?” I asked.

“Well, give it to me, of course,” Sandy said with a smile. “I’ll gladly take care of it for you.”

“I appreciate your willingness to help, but re-gifting seems so…” I said with a shrug.

“Seriously, you only really have two options,” Sandy said, looking thoughtful. “Three, actually. The first one is drink it. Have a little party, share it with friends. Or maybe keep it to yourself, sipping a dram every now and then, but remember, an opened bottle only lasts maybe a year before it goes bad, and wasting this would be a crime. So yeah, a party. The second thing you could do is put it away somewhere and sell it in a few years. You might get a lot of money in ten years, since it was only ever a limited run. Third, make it available in the club in San Jose. Charge two grand a pour, and people will be happy to pay it.”

“They do seem to be willing to throw stupid money down on the rare whiskies,” I agreed.

“A lot of those guys have so much money they have no understanding of what it even means anymore,” Sandy agreed.

Picking up the heavy, oddly shaped bottle, I turned it over in my hands. Coming to a conclusion, I set it back down on the desk.

“Bring two glasses at five o’clock today,” I told Sandy. “We’ll try it out.”

“You got it, boss lady,” Sandy said, a look of pure joy on his face.

After Sandy left, I looked at the note again and realized that the back had Henry’s contact information. I shot him an email thanking him for the unexpected gift and telling him that I was going to have a little taste that very evening when work was done.

Of course I figured the whisky was an opening gambit and Henry was going to want to talk business of some sort, but I made no mention of that in my email. I kept it more personal, since that was how Henry had started things. Sure it was a ‘boy’s club’ way of doing things, but I’d certainly gotten the impression with how Henry had been with his friends that they did business that way, so I was willing to run with it.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully and quickly enough. Right at five on the dot Sandy walked in with two cut-glass tumblers, a bottle of distilled water and two chilled bottles of Perrier.

Setting everything down on my desk with a ceremonial air, he pulled one of the chairs up close so he could sit facing me.

“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the fancy gray box.

I took the awkward bottle from the box and set it on the desk, then worked the hard-to-grasp stopper from the bottle. I poured us two fingers each, while Sandy looked on, a reverent expression on his sunburned face.

“Slàinte Mhath,” I said, raising my glass.

“Slàinte Mhath,” Sandy repeated, and we took our sips. I let the amber liquid roll around in my mouth for a bit, not really trying to analyze it but rather just tasting and enjoying it. I’d been worried it was going to be some sort of excessively peaty thing that would taste like ditch water, but that was far from the case. I’m sure a connoisseur could talk about notes of caramel and apricot, but to me, it simply tasted like a whisky should, thankfully without the heavy smoke or peat so many Scotches have. Those are fine for some people, but no thank you.

I accepted the little bottle of distilled water from Sandy and dropped a tiny splash in my glass to open the flavors up, taking the time to give the whisky a good, long sniff. The apricot and toffee were a bit more obvious, and when I tasted it I could also detect a bit of ginger snap.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Sandy said after savoring a long sip.

“That’s undoubtedly the best Scotch I’ve ever had,” I agreed.

I poured us another round when we finished our first, and soon enough Sandy and I found ourselves the last to leave the office, well after seven that night.

“If you need any help finishing that bottle off,” Sandy offered as we walked across the parking lot, “feel free to give me a call.”