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Steffie at the Wheel

by Marian Allen

It wasn’t often that anybody got the drop on Steffie, but this small man with the Irish brogue had allayed her suspicions just long enough to slam out of the hotel, jump into a car, and take off.

She was right behind him.

Agent Maureen O’Hern turned from watching him go, said, “That guy?” and, when Steffie nodded, tossed Steffie the keys to their rental car and slid into the passenger seat.

Although Agent Maureen knew the streets, highways, and byways of Ireland as did no other, Steffie was the more fearless driver. A fearless driver was needed to follow the scofflaw they were chasing. He wasn’t dangerous – except, apparently, behind the wheel – which, Steffie told herself, was why she hadn’t been more on her guard. It certainly wasn’t because he had blue eyes, curly red hair, deep dimples, and could sing “Danny Boy” in an Irish tenor as sweet as fresh water in a drought.

She ground her teeth and pressed the accelerator.

The cars blazed out of town on the highway or expressway or autobahn or whatever big, fast roads were called in Ireland.

When the road stretched straight before them, Maureen said, “He had curly red hair.”

Steffie growled softly.

Undeterred, Maureen said, “Green eyes?”

Steffie huffed.

“Understood,” said Maureen. “Catnip to Americans here for the first time. Mind you, plausible rogues are listed in world atlases as one of the major exports of Ireland.”

Steffie sighed.

“We live and learn,” Maureen said.

“And we talk a lot,” said Steffie.

She whipped the car to the right, following her quarry down the off-ramp. They passed between green fields, then dry-stone walls, then, slowing slightly, into another town.

The driver they were pursuing obviously had some knowledge of the town, because he never hesitated in making his turns. Steffie almost missed one, and was shocked when Maureen grabbed the wheel and made her miss it completely.

“Go straight!” Maureen commanded.

Steffie, recognizing the authority of the expert when she heard it, complied.

“Turn here and slow down.”

Steffie did so.

“Turn here and stop.”

Steffie turned into a … street? so narrow the car barely fit. She and Maureen wriggled out through the sunroof and took position in doorways, one on either side of the way.

The rascal’s car would have skidded around the corner had their been room to skid and, blocked by their rental, braked with a squeal and a cloud of burnt rubber.

Maureen stepped out of her doorway and shot one of the tires.

Steffie stepped out of her doorway and aimed at the charmer’s head.

And they had him, although Steffie had to back out into a cross street and then back into the alley before they could get to the trunk to stash him.

Later, over a pint, Maureen lifted her glass. “To your driving.”

Steffie clinked glasses with her and said, “To your directions.”

Over another pint, Steffie said, “We make a good team.”

“We do,” said Maureen. “But I’ll handle the locals from now on.”

Steffie scanned the pub’s clientele and listened to the flow of their voices.

“Agreed.”

Thursday doors is under the direction of Dan Antion, photographer extraordinaire and critter daddy. Visit his site, enjoy his wonderful photographs, follow his directions, and enter a world of doors.

MY PROMPT FOR TODAY: Maureen’s photo of the car in a narrow street.

MA