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how much Burt enjoyed being the mayor’s official driver, so it pained him to say, “I’m going to have to let you go, Uncle Burt.”
    Burt turned and stared at his nephew. “What? Why!”
    Drake gave him an incredulous look. “Why? This is your third accident in the last year.”
    “Firing me’s not right,” Burt grumbled.
    “Neither is running a woman into the ditch,” Billy Cruise tossed out from behind the steering wheel.
    “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
    “I know that, Unc, but you’re endangering everybody on the road, including yourself, driving so fast all the time.”
    “Can’t help it. Race driving’s in my blood.”
    “I know that too, but as much as I hate to say this, your reactions aren’t what they used to be.”
    “You saying I’m old?”
    “Yes.”
    The seventy-two-year-old Burt sat up angrily. “Boy, I was driving hot rods before you were born.”
    “Bingo!”
    Bested, Burt slumped against his seat and groused, “You always were smarter than I could stand.”
    Drake smiled. “Thanks. And you are the best uncle in the world hands down, but your driving days with me are over. Sorry.”
    Drake glanced at his uncle’s sullen face. “Look at it this way—not driving for me leaves you free to drive those hot little church widows around on their errands.”
    “All those crows want is my pension.”
    Drake chuckled. “You may need one of those crows one day.”
    “Maybe, but it’ll only be at night.”
    The men’s laughter filled the car.
    As they entered the heart of downtown, Drake looked out at his city. On the left was the Detroit River shining blue in the cold sunshine, and on its far bank the Canadian city of Windsor, Ontario. Visitors to the area were often amazed by the city’s close proximity to its international neighbor, and those with an interest in the fabled underground railroad could see why the abolitionists in Detroit were able to ferry thousands of escaped slaves to freedom; Canada was just a short boat ride away.
    The limo passed the huge, green marble sculpture of the man known as the Spirit of Detroit. Wheneverany of the local teams made the playoffs, the Spirit was always dressed in a matching jersey to show his support. Red for the NFL Red Wings and blue for the NBA Pistons. Thinking about how cool the Spirit looked decked out in a Piston jersey during the team’s last championship run made Drake smile. In spite of the city’s negative reputation, Drake, like the nearly one million citizens within its borders, loved the city for its vibrancy, spirit, and tenacity. Many of the suburban naysayers spent their lifetimes telling anyone who’d listen their take on why the city was the way it was, but Drake didn’t care. The city was coming back. His administration was adamant about restoring the neighborhoods, fixing the schools, and giving the taxpayers a city that worked.
    Cruise pulled into the city garage. After parking, he got out and gave the keys to the attendant, Malcolm Ford, a former boxer who worked the garage by day and studied to be a lawyer at night. Drake liked the man a lot.
    “Hey, Mayor Randolph. Looks like you had an accident.”
    Drake checked out the damaged bumper and busted headlight. “Hey, Malcolm. Yeah, we did. Old Speedy Gonzales here strikes again.”
    Malcolm smiled over at the stony-faced Burton and said, “You okay?”
    “Yeah, but His Honor’s firing me.”
    Everyone could hear the anger and the hurt in his voice.
    Malcolm, trying to act as peacemaker, said, “Well,Mr. Randolph, what if you crash and really hurt somebody one of these times?”
    Burton looked his nephew in the face and said, “I suppose.” Then added, “I’m going to file my report and clean out my desk.”
    He walked away.
    Drake felt bad, but the decision was a necessary one. “I had to let him go.”
    “I know you did,” Lane said. “Everybody around here wanted to know why you didn’t do that the last time. We all like Unc, but not behind the