“So, what did she do?” Andrew wanted to know.
“She shot her husband. In the courtroom…and in the buttocks.” I glanced at Willie to see if I was getting sympathy. “And caused general mayhem.” I paused. “While I was waiting for her.” Not even a flicker of compassion. He was busy feeling the pain of the car by osmosis.
“Wow, how’d she get a gun past the checkpoint?” Andrew was leaning over rubbing the dent in the front fender while his feet beat a little pattern on the ground.
“She’s a lawyer. They don’t always search them.” I’m a good judge of clothing, and her suit had lawyer written all over it. Too bad I wasn’t as good a judge of character. My front seat might not have a bullet hole in it.
Since I didn’t get any sympathy at Cool Rides, I decided to see how hard it would be to see Lady Red Shoes. Maybe if I collected the fare and wait fee, Willie would forgive my accident. And what the hell was this woman doing shooting someone in the backside, in the courthouse, in broad daylight?
Andrew, also our resident body man, had taken my car into the garage to assess the damage, remove the dents, and apply first aid. I walked to the police station only to find my favorite red shoes had been released on bail. Her husband with the bullet in his butt refused to press charges, and that lowered the violation—and thus the bail—significantly. The cops were left with illegal discharge of a firearm. She had a permit for it. Being a lawyer, I’m sure she knew how to get out of jail faster than a master Monopoly player. I might have to find my own pair of red spikes.
As I was walking up Main Street, my cell phone buzzed.
“You got a ride.” It was Mona’s sultry voice.
I hustled back to the garage and Mona handed me a slip with name, address and phone number.
“Another fare to the courthouse. Take the same cab. The boss said it’s drivable, so it might as well be you that drives it. He figures to limit the damage to one vehicle.” Mona gave me her look again, the one that made towering mountain men into insignificant mole holes.
“Hey, none of it was my fault. You can even ask Lieutenant Jon. He’s the one who cut me loose.”
“You got a private audience with Lieutenant Jon?” Mona’s expression changed to jealous. “Details when you get back,” she demanded. Most of the women who knew Jon, even from a distance, harbored some fantasy about him.
“What’s the story on this fare?” I asked, glancing at the slip. “I don’t think I want to be hauled in front of Jon again quite this soon. He was a tad grouchy about my last appearance.”
“She has a tracking bracelet and she’s wearing it, so they know she’s coming. Pickup is Hamp Heights.”
I groaned. “A tracking bracelet? Why? And why are you giving her to me?”
“Everyone else is out.”
I looked at the parking lot. My car had been moved back from the garage. It was alone in the lot. Slightly smushed but still cute.
“Okay.” I shuffled off, trying to look dejected.
“Pitiful doesn’t look good on you,” Mona yelled after me. She was right. It was a lousy fashion statement.
Hamp Heights was Northampton’s version of a housing project. It started as low-income but luxurious apartments in the ’70s and hasn’t aged well. It was the dead toy, dead plants, lots of trash school of landscaping. Unfortunately, the buildings were brick and solid enough to withstand any destructive force of nature. They would stand forever or until a new generation of urban planners bulldozed them into a pile of rubble. They were currently mostly subsidized housing. I spent a short time there when I first worked driving cab. When I decided that taxi hack was my life’s calling, I settled in and found a real apartment within walking distance of work.
I’ve never had a problem with any of the fares I pick up at Hamp Heights, but they don’t tip and they always keep me waiting while they dig up enough change to pay the ten-dollar fee. I stopped at the apartment number on my fare slip. A car of undetermined make and color was on four cement blocks next to the curb. It had no wheels, doors or hood. Half a child’s bike lay by the step. Hanging by a single hinge, the screen door creaked and banged erratically against the doorframe in the wind.
The person who slammed it open was over six feet of mocha-brown woman in two feet of sequined red spandex. The door flew off its remaining hinge and landed in the dead landscape, crushing any plants brave enough to challenge the inhabitants. After clattering down the steps in her six-inch black and silver spike heels, my fare yanked open the back door of my cab before I could get out and open it for her.
She wedged into my car, ducking her head to fit. Her Afro added another two inches and grazed the ceiling. I didn’t mention the seat belt issue. We aren’t supposed to go anywhere with a passenger until they fasten it. I decided not to argue with someone who had just ripped a screen door out of a brick wall. Then I noticed the tracking bracelet. Not a good fashion statement unless you’re a card-carrying member of the criminal sisterhood, and it did not go with her spiky, silver-sequined shoes. But her fingernails did. They were black and silver and had to be 2 inches long and curved like the talons of the raptors in Jurassic Park.
“Nice nails.” I said.
“Yeah, you gotta be real careful pickin’ your nose.” She growled and slumped back in the seat, yanking up her spandex top, which shifted as she slid down. Her attitude told me she probably wasn’t good woman-friend material. I could deal with that. But those fingernails must be good for something and I wanted to know what.
When we got to the courthouse, my favorite Lieutenant was waiting at the entrance. I hopped out of the cab and opened the door. When my fare took her time getting out, I offered my hand to move her along.
“Time is money, ma’am,” I grumbled.
She stared at me until I withdrew my hand. Then she shifted her gaze to Jon.
“Fine.” I scowled at him. “A gentleman would be helping out.”
He stepped forward, smiling broadly, and offered his hand. She exited gracefully, batting mascara-coated eyelashes.
“Pick her up in an hour.” Jon leaned over and flipped a curl of hair out of my face. His eyes darkened slightly.
Jon and I have history. When I first came to Northampton, I was basically homeless. But I was young, foolish, and on an adventure. My parents had booted me out of the nest, expecting I would go to college, have a four-point GPA, and find a respectable husband. They were anxious to get on with their lives. I worked jobs from waitressing to night shift at the local pickle factory. Finally, uninspired by school, work, or husband material, I developed my own plan, leaving school well before the graduation exercises.
I redefined the diagnosis of attention deficit disorder to wanderlust and bought a beater car. I headed from the Midwest to the East coast and turned north, landing in Northampton because it was right off the interstate and I needed a bathroom break.
The first person I talked to was dressed in recycled specials from his battered Reeboks to his artfully faded and torn blue jeans. He pointed me to the Goodwill store and gave me a prioritized list of public bathrooms starting with Starbuck’s and ending with McDonalds. He instructed me about where the homeless shelter was, that it closed for the summer, and where to get free food. My car was almost out of gas, my stomach and my wallet were empty, and the adventure was beginning to feel lonely. Northampton spoke to me. It loudly said free food, shelter in cold weather and lots of entry level—read: minimum wage—jobs. I decided to stay.
I was spending nights in my car or on park benches and days filling out job applications. Officer Jon Stevens found me sleeping on my bench one night when he was walking patrol. He suggested it wasn’t safe for a woman to spend nights on benches, even in Northampton. I suggested it was none of his business where I spent my nights. He started lecturing me on lifestyle, and I started telling him what I thought of his profession. I think I used the word pig a few times. I might have used a few more inflammatory words as well. And maybe I poked hi
m in the ribs, or maybe it was more than a poke. Jon used his handcuffs and I spent the night in protective custody. I yelled about lack of a charge, and he coolly explained about assault on an officer and my personal safety and did I really want him to charge me? It would be a hell of a lot more obvious, I told him, if I had actually assaulted him. And the only person I wasn’t safe from was him.
“You are an obtuse asshole,” I hissed at him.
“Obtuse? Nice word from someone sleeping on benches,” he replied calmly.
We were both sure who was in charge. Unfortunately, we both thought it was not the other person. I assumed I had my civil rights. But he had handcuffs.
We were inches apart and I wasn’t going to let this control freak tell me how to live. His blue eyes were narrowed and his mouth had a grim set to it. Then I noticed just how blue those eyes were, and how they were focused on my mouth. My brain took a slight detour into some sort of romantic fantasy. But my adventure was mine and mine alone. So I ended up spending the night compliments of the City.
Jon was young, serious and idealistic. I was young, rebellious and a little crazy. I couldn’t believe he was arresting me. In retrospect, I still can’t believe he arrested me. But maybe I have a better understanding of how frightened I really was. I had no place to go, no one to fall back on unless I called my less than sympathetic parents. Maybe Jon knew that and dealt with me the best way he could by letting me lash out at him. What I learned was there is no sound quite like the soul crushing slamming of a jail cell door.
After my night of incarceration, Jon dragged me out to his patrol car.
“Wait a minute.” I pulled back, dug in my heels and brought us to a sudden halt. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere safer than a park bench,” he muttered, and grabbed my arm again, propelling me forward.
Now my curiosity raised its cute oversized head and went to war with my need to be in charge. I really wanted to gain control over this man but, even more, I wanted to know what he considered safe and acceptable for someone sleeping on a bench.
He delivered me to Willie at the Cool Rides garage and told him I needed a job. I got close to his cop’s face and told him I could handle my own life, so he should back his obtuse self off.
I’ve been working for Cool Rides ever since. Everyone on the force knows about Jon hosting my overnight. One of my female cop friends told me Jon also spent that night at the holding cells. Mostly checking up on me. It was a rocky beginning to a relationship that has since mostly consisted of circling each other like dogs with our hackles up. I stay pretty busy with my job, and I guess he does, too. We’ve both grown up some in five years. Maybe Jon more than me. We have agreed to disagree about who is in charge of my life and who has control issues. He denies the control compulsion and calls it “looking out for the public safety.”
Since that first encounter, Jon has used his brains to work his way up the promotional ladder to lieutenant. Recently I discovered my grandparents had left me a small inheritance and I used it to buy a tiny percent of Cool Rides Taxi Company. My thirtieth birthday wasn’t all that far off and was approaching like a freight train. Willie had offered me a ten percent share of the company. Now I was committed to a new life of small business ownership. Jon was committed to being part of a community. He passed his thirtieth birthday without turning into an unrecognizable monster. We keep an eye on each other without much close contact. Until now.
Jon sees life as a puzzle. Which is probably why he’s a good cop. I see life as my personal entertainment. I’m never disappointed. But I want to be in charge of my life and I keep my distance from Jon because I’m not sure I could handle whatever it is he might offer. He’s an in-control kind of guy and I’m an out-of-control kind of woman. But that doesn’t mean I’m not tempted. He does have dimples when he is willing to smile and the nicest ass I’ve ever wanted to run my fingers over. And then I remember he is a cop and, for me, that comes with some automatic issues.
My dream is to own the taxi company outright when Willy retires. I actually asked a few banker friends what they thought of a loan possibility. They laughed for longer than I thought was polite.
A month after I had talked to them, I was sitting uptown next to the taxi sipping my five-dollar oversize, excessively whipped mocha. Two guys who looked like they had just walked off the set of Godfather V approached me.
“So, we hear you wanna buy a taxi company.” He sounded like he looked.
“Huh?” I said with all the intelligence I could muster.
“The Cool Rides Cab Company. We could help you buy it. We hear you might need some cash to make the deal.”
“Who are you?”
“We’re like, ah…bankers. We make loans.”
“What bank do you work for?”
“You wouldn’t know it. It’s from some distance away. Not your concern. We just give you money. You do us a few favors.”
“I don’t know. Loans usually have a contract. Who are you again?” I smiled sweetly and played as dumb as I felt.
The two guys left. I never saw them again, but I wondered if I had let an opportunity go by that I should have paid attention to.
Right now, I called into Cool Rides. Mona told me to come back, do a quick cleaning of the cab and pick up more fare slips.
“You got two short hauls to and from the impound lot. Fit them in before you go back to the courthouse.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I trotted back out the door. We get a lot of business from impound. The first fare had driven his car through a row of newspaper vending machines and snapped off a fire hydrant. The resulting papier-mâché made the following day’s front page featuring the ruptured hydrant with a newspaper draped over it. The caption read, “Local man makes editorial statement.” Between towing fees, damages and cab rides, his “statement” cost him $500. He didn’t tip.
I ran him home and motored sedately to the other end of impound. This driver had “become unconscious” outside a bar, in a handicapped space. This city takes its handicap spaces seriously and he woke up, still in the car, in the impound lot. He had been towed and ticketed to the tune of $250. When I dropped him off, his wife screamed I should have brought home the car and left him impounded. But she paid, no tip.
The impound pickups are mostly idiots, but they’re our idiots and the Cool Rides staff treats them with the respect they deserve.
An hour later, I swung back around to the courthouse. Lieutenant Jon and my glittering fare were waiting. He handed me twenty dollars and helped Madam Amazon into the car. No tip, which would make it harder to pay my rent or buy those sexy shoes I could use to walk all over him. And, possibly, someday—in my dreams—some sexy undies. Tips pay the rent and the fun money.
“Okay, lady, let’s hustle,” the spandex wonder said. “I got appointments to keep.” I was pretty sure I knew what appointments she needed to keep but I wasn’t wasting time passing judgment. Everybody’s life is her own and mine needed to move fast enough to collect enough fares to buy my dream shoes.
I zipped off toward Hampshire Heights. It was an easy drive with no back streets to negotiate, built close to the highway for easy access—and because no developer would put luxury houses in that location. Halfway there, I heard a siren wailing up close and personal. I rear-viewed it and saw an unmarked police car on my rear bumper. The siren blasted, the cop bubble flashed and headlights blinked. I pulled over. If I had been speeding it couldn’t have been much over the limit. I plastered a smile on my face, prepared to bat my eyelashes and blame my fare. Oh, officer, I just was so upset by the funny bracelet she’s wearing, I was completely distracted. Then I remembered when she’d come out of the courthouse, the bracelet had been removed.
I lowered my window and there was Jon. What had a lieutenant done to pull traffic duty? I didn’t know the punishment routine in the Northampton Police Department, but this seemed a bit extreme. He knelt by my window and looked over to my passenger. His head was at window height and
the temptation to run my fingers through his soft-looking, slightly long, brown hair was intense.
“God, I’m glad I caught up with you, both of you.” He leaned his head on the door and relaxed slightly.
“What’s going on?” My plastered smile faded. My eyes closed and I tipped my head back against the seat. “I know I wasn’t speeding very much.”
Jon had ignored my fluttering eyelashes, so I figured either I was off my game or whatever had happened was serious.
“There’s been a shooting at the Heights,” he said low enough that my backseat passenger couldn’t hear. “Stay behind me and pull in when I stop.”
Chapter Two
I obediently did as instructed. Jon’s cop face was in don’t ask and I won’t tell anyway mode.
“What? What’s goin’ on now? I shudda’ told you not to speed. If we get a ticket, I ain’t payin’. That’s on you.”
This from the lady with the full appointment book. I nodded and kept my mouth shut.
When we arrived at the Heights, police cars were scattered around the parking area. Yellow crime-scene tape circled the small dirt yard and an ambulance was backed up to the only apartment without a screen door. A metal gurney was being rolled out. Jon had barely gotten out of his car when my lady of the bracelet shrieked and launched herself out of my car and up the cracked cement sidewalk. One of the uniforms ran over to keep her outside the police tape. It was like trying to stop a charging buffalo.
She made it as far as the sheet-draped gurney. Holding off the police officer with a stiff arm, she whipped the covering off the body with her other hand. She yelped, grabbed the dead guy by the throat, lifting him, one-handed, off the metal slab. This all took less than thirty seconds and, although he wasn’t a large man, the feat was still impressive. She caught the cops completely off-guard.
Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1) Page 2
