Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1)

by Harriet Rogers

  Grandma asked, “Oh really? Where, dear?”

  “The casino. She’s there every weekend. Loves it. Wants to play the slots for all eternity.”

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Grandma replied, smiling conspiratorially. I suspected she had visited the casino herself more than once.

  I left them chatting happily. People skills. Some got it, some don’t. Taxi drivers have it or they’ll go crazy. And broke. No people skills, no tips. No tips, no shoes. I grinned at the $125 Granny had slipped me. Twenty-five-dollar tip. Those hot red shoes were getting closer to my feet. Maybe my rent would be on time, too.

  I trotted back to my ride and hot-pedaled up the turnpike back to Belle. I wanted some answers to at least a million questions.

  When I pulled up in front of Susan Young’s office, I recognized the unmarked cop car parked at the curb. There were lots of possibilities. Susan had discharged a weapon in a courtroom. She had wounded someone, even if it was her asshole husband. Belle was a hooker. Belle was married, apparently to another asshole, but a dead asshole. I shouldn’t be surprised to see the cops visiting Susan’s office, especially with Belle inside. If it was Jon, I knew he would give me a hard time about letting Belle stay with me.

  I strode up the sidewalk. At least I tried to stride because I thought it would give me an air of authority. I should have known better than to think Jon would see me as authoritative. He was leaning against the open door and looked like he had been waiting a while. Looking good was part of what Jon did.

  He knew how long a trip to the airport would take, but he didn’t know I had taken Granny and Grandpa, inside and to security. That had added at least forty minutes.

  “Where’ve you been? And what are you thinking, getting involved in a police investigation? You’re a taxi driver, for Christ’s sake. I told you to drop her off, not take up house-keeping with her.”

  “Hi, to you too, Lieutenant…Jonny, and how did you know I was going to be here?” He hated to be called Jonny. I think it made him feel too young or immature or less authoritative. I didn’t care how he felt as long as he was distracted. I wanted some answers from Belle or Susan. Jon would clam up the minute I started asking questions about an open investigation. And Belle and Susan wouldn’t be as willing to talk with Jon hanging on their every word.

  So we had a brief staring contest. Nose to nose. Scowl to scowl. Suddenly he grinned and ran a finger down my cheek. I tried to swat his hand away, but he was faster, grabbed my hand and held it. His eyes got a little more intense.

  “Wouldn’t want you getting injured in the line of duty. And Willie told me where you would be. Remember, you always call in your location.” He kept grinning. I felt my heat rising. I started to lean forward, rethought that idea and jerked away from his grasp. I felt suddenly rebellious. Of course, before that very second, I had been considering saying no to Belle. Now I might have to insist she stay with me.

  “I just offered Belle a place to stay. It’s not like I’m interfering. I’m hardly ever home anyway. I mean, between my job and my fabulous social life.”

  Jon frowned. “I don’t know what’s going on with this yet. I don’t need a civilian wandering around where I might have to worry… What social life?”

  “I’m flattered you’re worried about me. Now that you’ve rescued the maiden in distress, you want to go beat your chest?”

  Jon eyed my chest speculatively.

  “Don’t even think about it.” I backed up another step.

  “You’re not a maiden…are you?” He realized we had an audience. Belle and Susan were watching our little interaction with fascination.

  “I don’t want any more casualties. Too much paperwork.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “You’re telling me you don’t want Belle to stay with me because there might be danger. Where do you want her to stay? And how much danger are we talking here? This is Northampton, not some inner city, crime ridden, drive-by shoot-out, gang infested ghetto. I think you’re exaggerating reality.”

  “Jesus.” Jon shook his head as if to clear away some fuzz. “This is a murder investigation. A person got killed.”

  Belle mumbled under her breath.

  “What?” Jon turned toward her.

  She returned his stare. “I just said I wasn’t sure Horace could be considered a person. And we don’t know whoever did him is looking at anyone else. I just need a place to regroup. I didn’t like the man, but I did know him intimately, and staying where we lived together is just creepy. Okay? Besides, you probably still have all that yellow tape stuff strung around like Christmas lights. It’ll kill business.” Belle paused, remembering Jon was a cop. She was using her high-class accent but still managed to convey a lot of defiance. “And there must be more evidence you can find,” she finished.

  “Okay, I know you can’t go back there. Maybe we could set up some sort of surveillance wherever you end up.” Jon sighed and turned to me. “I can reroute a squad car by Honey’s apartment every hour or so.”

  I thought about the possibility of Belle staying at a motel but realized Jon wasn’t about to send her off to somewhere she might continue her profession. It probably wouldn’t work to turn tricks off my sofa bed. And I was pretty sure the police department didn’t have the funds to pay for a motel.

  He turned back to Belle. “But your ‘business’ is over now. Nothing happens out of Honey’s apartment.” Jon, the Lieutenant, was with us in full force. I decided I had asserted my independence from his control enough. What Belle decided to do was now her business.

  We went back and forth for a few more minutes. Jon was not happy about Susan or Belle. Susan had just given the legal system the finger when she shot her husband in the lower right cheek in the middle of the most secure place in town. Lawyers have a way of working that system the rest of us pay them dearly for. When it involves their own behavior, they can slip through like eels. Susan stayed surprisingly silent, but she had made bail and walked, and that had to irk the hell out of Jon.

  Belle baited Jon for a while about her profession, wondering aloud how she would make a living now. He gritted his teeth and didn’t say much. We finally settled on me not taking the taxi home and Belle and Susan not telling anyone about where Belle was staying. Jon would check on us in the evening when he could. I figured he would also send a squad car around with or without our approval. This plan was going to try my already minimal social life and I really, really hoped it wouldn’t last long.

  In the meantime, Mona called.

  “You got a pickup at the train station. You remember to pack your mace this morning? I still don’t know why you won’t get a gun.”

  “So I won’t shoot myself.” I had reluctantly put the mace canister in my oversize bag that morning, hoping I wouldn’t spray my face. Weapons are an “oops” kind of situation for me. I headed south on the interstate.

  Chapter Three

  The train station was in Springfield, twenty minutes south of Northampton. Springfield was a city with a history of politicians who somehow managed to avoid indictment. Their style of leadership has induced a lack of confidence from the general population. Violence was not unheard of. Thus the mace in my bag. The Springfield cabbies were probably the toughest in the state. And there were places that even they wouldn’t go in that town, no matter what they were packing. A cabbie had been shot there recently, so everyone was a little on edge.

  Once upon a time, the train station was one of those fabulous Grand Central-like structures. They took out the Grand and the Central until it looked more like the servant’s entrance to the castle. It was a wall of spectacular oversized stone blocks with a door that looked like you were going into the neighborhood Laundromat. We just called it The Station. Rumor was it would be rebuilt soon.

  It’s not in a great neighborhood, but the city has a lot of cops on patrol in that area. And hanging flower baskets. And extra lighting. If they didn’t, Amtrak might whip right on through and forget to stop. Politicians w
ould have to leap from a moving train. To avoid this embarrassing possibility, they keep it safe enough for most passengers to make it from the train to a waiting taxi. Passengers do not linger. Taxis, however, have no choice.

  I pulled up to the station in time for the 11 o’clock arrivals. Of course the train was late. There were three other taxis waiting. Two locals and one from Holyoke. The crime rate in that city, which lay about halfway between Springfield and Northampton, didn’t even get mentioned anymore. Holyoke was synonymous with the phrase “steer clear.”

  The other drivers were out of their cars, smoking or leaning against fenders. Cool Rides drivers aren’t allowed to smoke around the car or eat or drink or have sex or do anything except be nice to customers and drive. I decided to stay in my cab.

  I was watching two cabbies in front of me when a parking-enforcement officer pulled up in her gas-powered three-wheeler. She parked on the sidewalk, hopped out and rushed into the building. Based on her posture, my guess was bathroom break. One cabby grunted and chomped down harder on his soggy, smoking, smelly cigar.

  The sound of an incoming train triggered a Pavlovian reaction in the cabbies. It means money and money means food and rent and clothes and a life. Cabbies here are extremely protective of their turf.

  The first passenger came out of the station lugging a huge suitcase. The second cabby in line opened his back door and trunk. The passenger steered her overstuffed baggage toward him.

  The first cab in line was a Springfield Cab, and the driver looked like he was moonlighting from a local semipro hockey team. He was huge and tough and he viewed this fare as his. Unless you’ve been called ahead and are doing a by-appointment, there is a protocol for fetching fares. First cab in line gets first guy off train. And the big guy wanted that fare.

  I sank below window level so as not to get involved. My hand inched over toward my bag and the mace. Thoughts of guns danced in my head. But then thoughts of what might happen if I had a gun in my possession and even the mace seemed like overkill.

  The drivers were in each other’s faces with lots of hand waving, loud voices and creative language. The Springfield driver had a gun and was holding it in the air, pointing at the sky. The other driver had his hand on the one tucked in his pants. He was smaller than the Springfield driver but he looked like a pissed-off weasel. He wasn’t going to give an inch even if cabbie number one outweighed him by about 80 pounds. The passenger loaded her luggage in the second cab and slammed the trunk. The sound set off a fight-or-flight reaction and both drivers chose the fight option. Another gun came out, and one of them started firing off rounds. I felt a bullet hit the passenger side of my car. The second two shots connected with the parking cart, which started spurting gas from its now-ruptured tank. One last round was fired off and the second driver dived over the hood of his cab, threw his gun onto the seat and took off, triumphantly, with the fare. Not to be left behind, the local tossed his cigar over his shoulder and pursued. The last I saw of them, they’d run a red light and were flying down the road playing bumper car.

  I once saw a program on the Discovery Channel where someone set out to prove that, contrary to urban myth, a gas tank ruptured by a bullet would not explode. They couldn’t get theirs to explode, but then again, they didn’t have a lit cigar.

  The bullets had stopped flying and I wasn’t real close to the leaking gas tank, so I slunk out to view the damage to my cab.

  I was leaning over the hole when my fare appeared.

  “Whatcha’ doin’?”

  I looked up at a young man wearing a black T-shirt that said “My bad ass misses your bad ass” in white letters. I wondered what his parents thought of his college career. Whipping a tissue out of my pocket, I pretended to polish the front fender, strategically placing myself between my passenger and the telltale mark.

  “Oh, just taking off a spot of mud.” I opened the door for him.

  “Thanks.” He slid in.

  I got in the driver’s side, made sure his seat belt was fastened and fastened my own. As I pulled out, there was a loud kawhump. The parking-enforcement cart rose gracefully in the air, sparks erupting from the gas tank. It flipped onto its side, wheels spinning madly, looking like a giant cockroach someone hadn’t completely squashed. I guess the cigar wasn’t as soggy as it looked.

  “Holy shit!” My passenger craned his neck to see the smoking ruin.

  I nailed the accelerator, heading back to the throughway. The meter maid ran out of the building waving madly. I sped up.

  About five miles up the interstate, we passed a taxi on the side of the road. It had a flat tire and two windows with what might have been bullet holes in them and no driver. I ducked and sped up. When you see a burned-out vehicle on the highway in New York City, it’s probably an illegal cab with a stolen fare. Cabbies can be really sensitive when it comes to fares.

  Once past the larger cities, the scenery turned into pastoral farmland, green forest interspersed with corn, potatoes and squash. It was like entering a different country when you headed north. By the time you got to Northampton, the insanity and violence of the bigger cities faded to invisibility. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist. It was just more difficult to see. I suspected Lieutenant Jon Stevens saw it all too often. Since taxi drivers pick up a cross section of the population, I probably had seen the players from the more violent culture to the south but if I was driving someone to a drug deal or an assassination, I didn’t want to know.

  I dropped off my passenger and headed into town.

  I was driving down Main Street when I spotted Jon. He was wearing a suit and tie so I assumed he was taking a work break. I pulled over and stopped. As he strolled up to the window, his eyes were riveted on the passenger-side fender.

  “What’s that?” he asked. He knelt and traced a finger over the hole. “Looks like a bullet hole.”

  “What?” I smiled innocently.

  “You’ve been in Springfield again, huh?”

  “Train station.”

  “Drug deal?” He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Cabbie wars.”

  “Ah. Those cabbies can be temperamental.”

  “Need a ride? No charge.” I leaned over and pushed the door open.

  “Is this a bribe?” He got in anyway. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Uh-oh.” I had almost forgotten he was a cop.

  “Springfield called.” He leaned back and clicked his seat belt. “They seem to think there was a Cool Rides cab at the scene of severe damage to a city vehicle.”

  I smiled sweetly at him. “We have five cabs.” One of the good things about our cabs is they are very recognizable. Sometimes that’s also a bad thing.

  “A woman was driving.” He tapped his fingers on the dash and stared into my eyes. “How many women drive for Cool Rides?”

  I sighed. “Just me.”

  “They also were curious what a Cool Rides driver might know about a taxi deserted on the highway. Tires shot out, two windows. You’re a scary person.”

  “What? Hey, I just drive.”

  “And I’m sure you do a fine job of that. It’s the extracurricular stuff that worries me.” He leaned over close to me and ran a finger down my cheek. “Maybe a bit of ash from some sort of fire on your face right there.”

  I shrugged. “Well then, hold onto your seat, stud muffin. I’ll get you back to the cop house in record time.”

  A smile played across Jon’s mouth. I purposefully screeched away from the curb and was at the police station in about three minutes. Jon stepped out and knelt next to the open window. He glanced at the bullet hole again.

  “Don’t get that fixed. It may be evidence.” His eyes darkened. “Stud muffin? I like that.”

  “Like my boss can let it alone.” I breathed out. “I haven’t told him about it yet.”

  “The stud muffin?”

  “The bullet hole!”

  Jon tapped the door. “I work until eight tonight. Stop by and give me a statement
…please.” He said the last word with reluctance, so I nodded in agreement. He sauntered into the cop house, and I watched him and his fine butt disappear inside. Umm. Resistance to whatever I was resisting might be fading.

  I swung the cab back around to the Cool Rides office. We had agreed I would stop by and talk about the Springfield shooting incident, so that would take care of his evening checkup. I was viewing Jon as less of a cop and more of a friend as I got to know him. I wasn’t sure I wanted him around my apartment, even with Belle as a chaperone. She was, after all, of a special sexual persuasion. Mostly it was all right anywhere, anytime, with anyone. And probably better if money changed hands.

  I ran two more short hauls. One was an older lady who needed batteries for her flashlights. It took her a half an hour in Radio Shack to match batteries to flashlights. When she was done, the clerk looked like he’d been staring into a thousand-watt bulb. It was an eight-dollar fare and a ten-dollar wait fee. She gave me $25. Sometimes, life is good. I could feel those shoes on my feet. The ones with the sequined heels I had seen in one of the uptown stores. Where do people wear these shoes? Who cares? I just wanted them to be on my feet or in my closet. I had visions of my slut- shoe-clad foot draped over Jon’s shoulder.

  After I dropped off the flashlight lady, Mona called me with a couple of old geezers who had been out shopping for gifts for their girlfriends who shared a birthday. How sweet was that, I thought, noting the address. It was the local hard-core porn shop. I pulled up to the back of the building where the hidden entrance opened onto the parking lot. One of the old guys had a walker with a convenient basket attached to the front. It was full to overflowing with bags and boxes. They started pulling crotch-less panties, silk handcuffs, and dildos that belonged on an elephant out of the shopping bags along with some hard-core videos.

  “What ya think, lady? You being a woman and all. Should we start with Debbie Does Dallas or Deep Throat? What would get you most riled up? At our age, we only get one shot at this.” He looked me up and down with a grin as I loaded his walker into the back of the cab.