Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1)

by Harriet Rogers

I pulled out my fare slip. The name written on it was Mr. Smith. Well, there are a lot of real Mr. Smiths in the world. I looked at the unit number Mona had jotted down. Number 5. Unfortunately, number 5 was occupied by a lot of police officers, probably none of them named Mr. Smith. As I thought about how to find out if I still had an airport run, Jon turned and spotted the cab. Then he saw me. He jammed his fists in his pockets and walked slowly to the taxi.

  “Don’t tell me.” He leaned against the passenger door. Belle tried to sink lower. “What’s the name of your fare?”

  I stared at my feet and mumbled the name. “I don’t have a fare, do I?” I asked.

  Belle sank as low as she could in the seat. Jon alone, she could tolerate. A parking lot full of cops was too much. Six feet of female with another few inches of Afro is hard to hide in a Scion XB or, for that matter, in a tractor-trailer.

  “We’ll talk later.” Jon ran a hand down his face, shook his head, and strode back to the crime scene. On the upside, we wouldn’t be late for Iggi Paluska. I turned the cab around and headed back toward town. We even had time for a quick coffee before we picked him up.

  Iggi was a regular user of our car service. Today’s trip was to the hospital for blood tests and then back to his house to get his cat and truck it to the vet. I drove, with Belle riding shotgun. Once she knew his errand pattern, she could pick him up by herself.

  At 88, Iggi had given up his car. This was good because he had a lot of memory lapses. Like where he lived and what he’d done yesterday. That had occasionally led to lost car syndrome. We were his only reliable form of transport.

  I parked in the driveway. The garage door slid up. Iggi stood at the top of a long wooden ramp, back lighted by the windows in the house. His dogs set up a howl as the door closed and he descended the ramp, pushing his walker and oxygen ahead.

  “He knows how to make an entrance,” Belle said. She unfolded herself out of the car and opened the door for him.

  “Hey, chicky, you the new driver?” Iggi looked Belle over as she loaded his walker behind the seat and set his oxygen tank on the floor between his feet.

  “You bet. I’m gonna show this crew what real driving is about. I could do driving stunts for Hollywood.” Belle smiled.

  We got to the hospital, delivered Iggi to the entrance where a nurse met him and we went off to run his errands. We delivered his cleaning, picked up kitty litter, milk, Ritz crackers and Cheese Whiz. When we returned, the nurse said Iggi had finished and left. We circled the hospital until we found him at an unused side entrance, carefully studying a blank wall. No one was around to notice an old man standing alone. I wondered how long it might have been before someone noticed he was missing if we hadn’t been the transportation company of choice.

  As Belle got out to help Iggi, a black Lincoln town car slid up behind the cab. Bozo, surprisingly nimble for a man with his arm in a cast, jumped out, wrapped his fist in Belle’s hair and yanked her toward the Lincoln. Iggi, sensing this was not on the agenda, raised his walker and charged after Belle. Except he forgot about the oxygen tank. It spilled off his walker, tubes trailing, and rolled toward Bozo and Belle. Bozo caught movement out of the corner of his eye, pulled his gun and fired off a shot. He missed the target but hit the tire of his car. Belle planted her feet and yanked back. Bozo stumbled and dropped his gun. It fired off another bullet which blew off the release valve on Iggi’s oxygen tank. The tank took off like a rocket, blasting around the parking lot like it was in a pinball machine. Belle jumped sideways as it whistled by her legs. It hit Bozo’s foot and flipped him onto his back. His head hit the pavement with a kerthunk. The oxygen tank zinged off the rear bumper of the Lincoln, bounced off the fender of the cab and sailed straight up in the air. It turned a graceful arc, shot back down like an armor-piercing bullet, and stopped, stuck, top down, in the roof of the Lincoln. It fizzed out the last of the oxygen and stayed put.

  Belle stuffed Iggi into the backseat of the cab, barreled into the front, and yelled, “Drive!”

  I nailed it up the hill and out of the parking lot, looking back long enough to see Bozo lying on the ground with his leg sticking out at an ugly angle. My last visual in the rear view mirror was Bongo trying to get Bozo into the Lincoln. I hoped they forgot to replace the spare tire.

  “Hey, you guys are a lot more fun than Willie, but I think I have to add a new oxygen tank to my shopping list. You know those guys?” Iggi looked at Belle. His breathing was a little heavy.

  “Unh, not really. Maybe friends of Honey’s?”

  “Nope!” I replied to Iggi’s questioning look.

  I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He was grinning from ear to ear, but his breath had started a wheezy, sucky sound. The oxygen tank definitely needed to be our next stop. I headed out North Prince Street to the medical-supply store.

  Now I needed to assess the danger level and decide how much, if any, of this stuff I should tell Jon, who, being a cop, would act like a cop. Belle wouldn’t talk and Iggi Paluska would forget it before we got his new oxygen tank.

  If I told the police about Bozo and Bongo stalking me or Belle, Jon would have a patrol car on my tail. That would seriously cramp my style and cut into my tips. And I didn’t want to squeal on Lucille. I didn’t know whether Jon even knew she had a gun. I was sure Officer Rodriguez had told him about the guys changing a tire near the house. But I didn’t think Rodriguez knew why the tire was flat.

  This time they had gone straight for Belle, so I figured I wasn’t as important to them. They had made their move when a quiet opportunity presented itself, which meant they were watching us. I didn’t think anyone had witnessed the hospital attack because no one came to the rescue and no police arrived. If I reported this to Jon, he might slap Belle into protective custody or something equally self-defeating. I was getting to know Belle and I was sure she wouldn’t react well. On the other hand, there might be some real danger. And I didn’t want to make Jon angry enough to damage our budding relationship. I decided to think about it for a while before I over-reacted.

  We arrived at the medical-supply store and I hopped out with my charge card. I really didn’t think Iggi should pay for this.

  Belle beat me to the door. She had her credit card in hand as well.

  “I’ll get this one. Those assholes weren’t after Iggi…or you.” She opened the door.

  “Belle, you haven’t made any fares yet. Ever hear of cash flow?”

  “Sweetie, don’t you worry about Belle. I made plenty of money as a ho. I stashed some and invested most of it. Cash flow is not my current problem.”

  We got Iggi’s canned breath and took him home. He said he was feeling lightheaded, so I told him the cat could wait until tomorrow. I helped him make an appointment with the vet for the next morning, promising to pick up, transport, and return the cat, whose name was Ferocious. It was one of those laid-back-rag-doll kinds of cats and Ferocious was as far from a fitting name as possible. It took a lot to get Ferocious excited but Iggi said it occasionally happened and then the feline definitely lived up to his name.

  I went back to work, taking an elderly lady to the grocery store where she examined every can of cat food with a flashlight and a magnifying glass. Belle was in a cooking mood so she went back to Jon’s house. Acting normal is how I deal with not normal. Belle seemed to share my approach.

  The elderly gentlemen had visited the porn store again and needed a ride to the retirement home. They argued over who would wear the black thong that had Northampton, eat here embroidered in candy apple red on the crotch.

  My next fare was a fifty or older woman suffering through the change of life. She turned the air conditioning on full and fanned her face.

  “Raging hormones, sweetie. That’s what this is about. If I had a sex life, I bet this wouldn’t happen. My hormones would get all used up. What I need is a young stud. And maybe a good dildo. Can’t you turn the air conditioning up any higher? It’s hotter than a whore’s tit in here.”


  My teeth were chattering.

  “How much you figure a good gigolo is gonna cost me? Would that be a problem in a divorce case?” She dropped the fan. “Jesus, it’s cold in here. Maybe you should turn on the heat. What, is your air conditioning busted?”

  Her flushed face had turned pasty white. I flipped the air off, thinking fifty is only twenty years away from thirty and that milestone wasn’t that far away from me.

  When I got back to the garage, I decided to wash the car. I was rinsing it off when Jon sauntered out of the office. He was in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, with no indication he was a cop. Belle would approve.

  “Need some help?” He took the hose from my hand. I was hot and sweaty from working on the car, and my excessively curly hair was in an uproar.

  Jon smiled. “I see wet T-shirts in your future.”

  And he held the hose over my head. I squeaked and grabbed for his hand which he held out of reach, grinning broadly as he checked out my wet T-shirt. We looked like a couple of teenagers, wrestling for the hose until we were both soaked. Suddenly we were close up and personal and his hand was on my butt. The hose cascaded water over the car and the office window. Mona came barreling out the door just as Jon’s other hand lowered itself to cup my head, changing the direction of the hose. Mona got drenched. Jon kissed me anyway. Did my toes curl? You betcha!

  “Aaack,” Mona spluttered. “It’s clean enough already. Go home! Find a bedroom.” She turned off the water at the faucet and stomped back into the office.

  I backed away from Jon. His eyes followed me. “I’ll give you a ride to my house.”

  We made it to Jon’s doorstep before his cell phone rang.

  “Shit,” he mumbled and turned away. “Yeah, okay.” He pushed a stray hair out of my eyes, brushed his lips over mine and sighed. “I’ve been summoned,” he said and turned back to his car, walking a little stiffly.

  I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed. I hoped he had a change of clothes at the station.

  “Oohwee, what was that about? And what happened to your clothes?” Belle came out of the kitchen and looked at me.

  “Give me dessert. I’ll skip dinner.” I went inside and locked the door. Jon didn’t get home until sometime in the wee hours.

  Belle and I left early and didn’t disturb him. There was no sign of any bad guys.

  We had to pick up Iggi Paluska’s cat for a few minutes of pain and then we could bundle it back home.

  When we arrived at the Vet’s office, the parking lot was empty. After twenty minutes, Belle came out with the cat slung over her shoulder like the rag doll that it imitated. She had the carrying box under her arm. I was moving her oversize bag off the seat when I heard the screech of brakes. The Lincoln Town Car rocked to a stop behind the cab.

  They had increased their ranks to three. The new guy was bigger but lost the intimidation factor by wearing a lopsided toupee. Bozo was at the wheel. The other two jumped out and flanked Belle. One pulled, the other pushed. Belle balked. Ferocious the cat saw an escape route. He bounced off Belle, onto the toupee and dug in. The rag slid down over new guy’s face. Feline claws sank into bare flesh, launched off, and the cat slithered under the cab. Lines of blood oozed down the bald head. It was like a target. I swung Belle’s purse as hard as I could and scored a direct hit. He went down like a tree in the forest, but definitely with noise. The Lincoln screeched out of the parking lot with me screaming obscenities as it flew off down the street. Belle’s foot hung out the window. Her gold shoe sparkled in the sunlight. It flipped off and flew a graceful arc onto the pavement as the car door slammed shut. The string of profanities that came out of my mouth shocked even me. I bent and picked up the shoe.

  I couldn’t catch up with the retreating car, so I turned back to corral the cat. The third guy was still spread-eagled in the parking lot next to the cab. I wondered what was in Belle’s bag. I bound his wrists and ankles with my roll of duct tape and accidentally kicked him in the ribs. I managed to coax Ferocious, who had regained his composure and was relaxing in the shade of the cab, back into his mini-house and tripped over the bald guy’s head. I stepped on his leg on my way to get the cell phone to call Jon.

  “Stevens.”

  “They got Belle. They snatched her in broad daylight at the vet’s office. But I got one of them. I hit him with Belle’s bag.” I was past the adrenaline rush and my speech was getting slightly chaotic.

  I leaned on the car and looked at the shoe in my hand. All I’d wanted was to make the rent. Belle had become a friend and I wanted to keep her. Someone was derailing my plan. Anger replaced adrenaline.

  “I’m on my way. Give me a description of the car. Did you get a license?” Jon sounded unusually frantic. He screeched into the parking lot in two minutes, jumped out almost before his car stopped and grabbed me, pulling me up against his nice, safe, masculine chest.

  “I’m fine,” I said into his shirt.

  By the time the first patrol car arrived, I had added more tape and the guy had gone from looking like a roped steer to a movie prop out of Cocoon. With great restraint, I left breathing space around his nose.

  An hour later, I had finished giving my statement to Jon, who was reluctant to let go of me but looked at the cat and mumbled about being careful, please.

  I delivered the cat back to Iggi and we all headed home. Without Belle.

  By this time, I knew Bozo well enough to identify him if the police could drag his ass into the station. Jon had seen him when we were leaving Holyoke and knew him as one of Scarpelli’s goons. It was only a matter of time before they found him—if he stayed in the area, and if he stayed alive. No one knew what made Belle valuable to the Scarpellis. They seemed to want her alive, so my guess was information.

  Money, drugs, and guns came to mind. The guy I had nailed at the vet’s office was in police custody. I hoped he would talk his toupee off.

  My apartment had been processed for evidence and cleaned in record time, but I didn’t feel like facing it right now. And Jon didn’t want me wandering around by myself. I slumped on the sofa in Jon’s living room while he paced around me.

  “Jesus, this is Northampton. How can we be getting this kind of violence? Springfield is giving me a hard time about trying to find Belle. Either they aren’t interested, or they don’t want her to be found. They told my superiors it’s a turf war and implied she went off with a new pimp. Tell me she hasn’t gone back to turning tricks.”

  “When would she have time? She hasn’t even started driving by herself yet.” The implication I didn’t know the difference between Belle going willingly or being taken bugged me. “She’s spending her nights here, days at the cab company. I refuse to believe she could be doing that kind of business out of the taxi between fares, which she hasn’t had yet. We would notice if that ever happened with anyone.” I was pissy already, and Jon’s question, justified though it was, sent me over the edge. I stomped off to my assigned bedroom.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the morning, Jon was gone. I stuck my head in the fridge. Nothing screamed breakfast to me. God, I missed Belle. I decided to go to the mini-mart for some orange juice. And some donuts. And some coffee.

  The store clerk was restocking shelves and dancing to the iPod noise streaming into his skull. I walked to the big cooling unit in the back. Another customer was head in, rear out of the fridge. I had seen that butt before. The door was opened wide to accommodate his shoulders and the glass reflected his face. Shit! Bozo! I should have called the cops, but rage short-circuited my brain. I went straight for revenge. I snuck up as quietly as sneaker-sucking floors allowed. The reflection of his face didn’t look good. His eyes were turning yellow and he had the same band-aid on his nose. As he began to back out, I slammed the door on his head. He went to his knees. I grabbed a half-gallon of frozen ice cream and hit him in the face. Then I grabbed a gallon of milk. Then I grabbed a bottle of soda. I was out of control. His eyes were wide and glazed. A can of Che
ez Whiz somehow ended up in my hand. I sprayed his face. I wondered what was in Cheez Whiz. He screamed and flipped over backward into a shelf of ancient Twinkies. His feet slid on the Twinkies and he landed headfirst on the floor. My rage began to fade as I fished out my duct tape.

  By the time Jon got there, I had calmed myself down. I had calmed the clerk down and helped him restock the Twinkie shelf. I bought the OJ and the extra-hard ice cream and a package of doughnuts. I recapped the Cheez Whiz and put it back on the shelf.

  “Honey.” Jon nodded to me. He looked around the 7-Eleven. “You’re depleting Scarpelli’s ranks.”

  I looked down. “I got some orange juice and doughnuts. In case you forgot breakfast.” I paused. “And ice cream. It’s too hard to eat right now.”

  I looked at the carton in my hand. There was a head-shaped dent in it. Maybe I didn’t want it for breakfast.

  “You need a ride? We need to talk,” Jon said. The officers loaded Bozo into the patrol car.

  “No, I have the cab. I need to go make a living. You will call me with any new developments, right?” I tried to look deeply into Jon’s eyes. He was wearing sunglasses and was in his cop head again. All I saw was my face reflected back at me.

  “I need to see that house where they tried to take you. I don’t think Scarpelli is dumb enough to use one of his own, but so far smart hasn’t been his M.O. All this shit has to be related to getting the damn drugs up the interstate,” Jon said.

  “I guess I could call Willie. See what’s happening right now.”

  “Good,” Jon said. He walked over and talked to the uniforms. One of them got in Jon’s car and drove off. I called Mona.

  Jon looked at me. “We have a person-of-interest warrant out on Bozo, so we can hold onto him. I don’t think he’s going to talk, but it’s gotta piss Scarpelli off. Maybe he’ll be even more stupid.”

  Yeah, like shoot me. I didn’t say this out loud since Jon might move me to a more secure place…like jail.

  “Mona wants me back at the office by 10. Have a doughnut.” I tossed the ice cream into the trash.