Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1)

by Harriet Rogers

  When I got to the counter, Annie was holding a monster sherry bottle by the neck. The clerk had his hands in the air and his mouth open. There was a body on the floor. Then I noticed the gun. I leaned over and pried it out of the body’s hand. I laid it carefully on the counter. It wasn’t plastic. The clerk lowered his hands and leaned over to see the body better.

  “Golly, lady. Thanks.”

  “Well, I never. He was about to cut the queue. No one butts in front of me. I don’t care what he needed. I had my sherry all set and he had no right.”

  I sighed. It had been a boring afternoon. I guess I was due for a duct-tape experience.

  “Did you hit the alarm?” I asked the clerk.

  “No, but jeez. The boss is going to be rip shit. We get charged for the alarm. Maybe I could just call the police business line.” He looked at Annie and me for approval.

  “Well, I don’t think you need police for cutting the line. But whatever you think is best. Could we go now? Is it 5 o’clock yet?” Annie asked.

  “It’s always 5 o’clock somewhere, but we need to wait here a few more minutes.”

  I told the clerk to hold off while I speed-dialed Jon’s cell phone and explained the situation. I held it away from my ear while he ranted about civilian involvement.

  “Are we fighting?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not close enough to fight. But I will be in five minutes. Will it make a difference if I say, don’t move?”

  I punched the phone off.

  Annie said, “Just as long as we get home by 5 o’clock. What day is it? Is it Monday? I certainly hope not. I could really use a drink.”

  “It’s getting closer to 5.” And by the time she got back, it would be close enough.

  Jon arrived, took a look at the guy and said, “Shit, that’s Lenny Zipco.”

  “You know him?” I asked.

  “He’s a small-time heroin dealer out of Springfield. The supply lines must be in really bad shape if the dealers are holding up liquor stores.”

  “Maybe dealing heroin isn’t scary enough for him,” I said.

  “Probably safer,” Jon answered.

  They finished loading the would-be robber into the patrol car, getting a statement from Annie who mostly addressed the bad manners of this younger generation, the clerk who commented on the sturdiness of the sherry bottle, and me, who had arrived after the fact. It was 4:30. Annie could have her drink as soon as she hit the retirement home.

  Jon stared at me, eyes narrowed, scowling in frustration. “What part of don’t move don’t you understand?”

  “I figured you’d be home late.”

  “Tonight, I’m going to cuff you to the bed.”

  Hmmmm.

  He leaned over, brushed his lips past my forehead, and stalked out the door.

  I was thinking about moving back to my apartment tonight. Maybe I could delay that until tomorrow or the next day...or the next.

  I dropped Annie off at her condo in the retirement village. She offered me a nightcap. It was nowhere near night but respectable enough for cocktail hour. I declined but noticed several of her friends had gathered at her front door. I headed back to Cool Rides, leaving a roomful of elderly cocktail swigging ladies laughing about Annie’s adventure.

  Mona, Willie and Belle were playing cards when I trotted through the door. There was a stack of driver applications sitting on the table next to Mona. They looked untouched. We currently had four drivers if you counted Belle and Willie. We had five cars.

  “Spit!” Willie laid down his cards with a grin. It looked like Belle had made the grade as a driver.

  “So, how was your day?” I asked her.

  “I think there’s weirdness in the air today,” she grumbled.

  “Yeah? What happened?”

  “The first fare was a mother and daughter fighting over cleaning guess whose room. Then a father and son arguing about school. Then a couple fighting over sex. She’s screaming, he’s yelling. All of a sudden, they start groping like friggin’ porn stars. It’s getting so hot I have to up the air conditioning. I made it to the house just before the zippers came down. He throws a 50 at me and they jump out like their pants are on fire. It was a 10-dollar fare.”

  “Are we going shoe shopping?”

  For a minute, I thought Belle was blushing. With her color, it was hard to tell.

  “Nah. After I dropped them off, I swung by the porn store and blew the tip on a new vibrator. I took a break after the next three fares in a row propositioned me. I need to go clothes shopping. Taxi driving and ho work need different duds.”

  “Maybe you need to cut the bling a little,” I said. Her glittering spandex top caught sunlight coming in the window. I squinted at the blinding sparkle bouncing off her barely contained chest. “And maybe a higher neckline?”

  I looked down at my plain T-shirt, faded jeans and worn sneakers. There had to be a middle ground that would de-bling Belle and re-bling me.

  She picked up a few cards and laid them on the table. “See, I might have got you in the next hand,” she said to Willie.

  The landline started ringing. Mona picked it up. “Honey, it’s for you. The lieutenant, I think.”

  Belle waved at the phone. “Say hi for me.”

  I stepped into the office and closed the door. “Hi, what’s up?”

  “I’m coming over to pick you and Belle up and take you to my house. I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Don’t move! I mean it, Honey.”

  “Wait,” I squeaked. “I need to take a cab home with me tonight. I’m scheduled to work at 9 tomorrow. What’s so important?”

  “We’ll talk when I get there.” Click.

  I hate being hung up on.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “What’s the good cop say?” Belle was laying out a game of solitaire.

  “If he’s the good cop, who’s the bad cop? And he’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll talk.” I shrugged.

  Jon pulled up in front of the garage in three minutes and came in.

  “Honey, Belle.” Jon nodded to us. “We need to talk.”

  “Uh-oh, he’s got his cop face on. I really don’t like that one,” Belle said and moved a few cards around.

  Me neither. It usually means my control buttons are about to get pushed.

  “We found your friend Bozo, whose name, by the way, was Lester Cardozzo.”

  “Was?” I had a bad feeling suddenly.

  “He was bailed out of our nice, secure, jail cell yesterday and was head down, feet up at a construction site in Springfield by morning. He was in the Porta Potti, shot in the back of the head. The other two have declined bail.”

  My stomach did a fast roll. I didn’t like Bozo. He had put a gun in my face, kidnapped Belle and, I had no doubt, committed some very nasty crimes. Not a nice person. But he had become a passing acquaintance and I didn’t know many people who had died violently and died young. I had seen too many dead people recently but he was the first one I had any personal contact with, however unsatisfactory it was. He wasn’t much older than me. Some mother, somewhere, would grieve, maybe. I grabbed the table and shoved my chair back with a jerk.

  Belle glanced up at my face, turned over the ace of spades with one hand and casually reached over and pushed my head down between my knees with the other.

  Jon came around the table and put a hand on my back. “Breathe deep,” he said. “So, I’m thinking either Scarpelli is cleaning house or Susan Young is in panic mode. The Springfield police are watching Scarpelli. A body in their jurisdiction, which Cardozzo was, convinced them to cooperate in the investigation.” He paused. “His daughter is another question. We can’t find her. You two will stay at my place until we do. She may be operating on her own. Right now, she’s a person of interest in enough murders to bring her in for some questions.” Jon rubbed my back.

  None of this was a request. My defiant personality tapped me on one shoulder and whispered, “Make
your own decisions.” My manipulating side tapped the other shoulder and said, “You can use this situation!” Somewhere between my shoulder blades, caution raised its ugly head. There wasn’t any room left for normal.

  I straightened up slowly. “I’m okay now. Yeah, we could keep the sleepover going a while longer.” I looked at Belle.

  “Hey, having our own house cop around right now might be just dandy.”

  Jon narrowed his eyes at her and grunted.

  Although my job required some independence, I knew when to pick my fights. Jon had to go to work tomorrow morning, too. I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to handcuff me to the bed unless he was in there with me. Even if he did, Belle was on my side, and between the two of us, we could defeat any serious restraints Jon had.

  We trooped out to Jon’s car. He got into the driver’s side. I looked wistfully at my taxi. Mona needed drivers as much as drivers needed her. She would give me fares. Belle and I could stick together and be safe enough. At least from Susan Scarpelli. The rest of the crazies out there were a different problem.

  We spent the evening eating more Chinese take-out and watching the comedy channel. I temporarily forgot my problems in the face of Stephen Colbert’s brain-candy comedy.

  Jon went back to work for a few hours and didn’t get home until I was in bed and asleep. He left before I got up. Unless he had the time to check up on us, Belle and I were on our way uptown. We could snag coffee and a taxi.

  It was a glorious summer day. We loaded up on caffeine and sugar and headed to Cool Rides.

  Mona’s eyes opened a little wider and her mouth puckered, but she handed me car keys and two slips. Both were local short hauls. They wouldn’t pay much rent, but they might help Belle get a more appropriate wardrobe.

  We took some teenagers to the tattoo parlor even though they already had tattoos covering arms, necks, and ankles and three piercings in each ear. One had a brand and the other had a distended earlobe, the latest fashion statement for the pierced and skin art crowd. Since we had an hour before the next pickup, we decided to go shopping. It was strange to shop and still keep an eye out for crazy Susan. I was imagining Susan as an insane, murdering monster, lurking behind a rack of brown, uniform style pants in Wal-Mart.

  Belle was trying to imagine herself in anything besides spandex and glitter.

  I handed her a pair of plain brown slacks. “Brown is the new black.”

  “Those look like shit,” Belle said, holding up the pants.

  “You haven’t tried them on yet.”

  “No, I mean, they really look like poop. You could stain your pants and no one would notice.”

  “Maybe that’s the advantage. To the brown.”

  “Yeah, with an aging population, incontinence won’t show so much.”

  Belle finally found a white shirt that didn’t hide her boobs, but they weren’t overflowing either. And a pair of straight black pants toned down her silver 3-inch heels. Definitely de-blinged but not enough that she looked like she was attending church.

  On the way out, we passed the shoe department. I stopped at a pair of gold sparkly stilettos with 6-inch spike heels. “How do you walk in those?” I ran a finger down the heel.

  “Why would you walk in them? They’re slut shoes. You don’t walk in slut shoes.”

  “What do you do with them? Where could you wear them without tipping over?”

  “Tipping over is the point. You wear those to bed, he’s gonna stuff the cannoli with the best chocolate. Every box of those shoes should be required to contain a slew of condoms.”

  My gaze went back to the shoes. Sighing, I thought about Jon and then about control issues and cannoli stuffing.

  I followed Belle to the car. We headed to Florence Heights for our next fare.

  Florence Heights is the alternative to Hampshire Heights. The only height in most public housing is in the name, and this was no exception. Florence Heights is six miles from downtown if you have wings and travel in a straight line. There is no easy, direct driving route to Florence Heights. Most drivers avoid it for the same reasons they avoid Hamp Heights. No tips, long waits, possible violence.

  Our guy lived three buildings from the main road. Because Florence Heights was more isolated than Hamp Heights, it had less highway trash in the landscape. The apartment we pulled up to actually had flowers planted by the door. Maybe the tenant did some gardening.

  Maybe not, I thought as a muscular black guy with a shaved head came out. He had on blue jeans that fit with the waist...amazingly...at his waist. He was about 35 and wore a wife-beater T-shirt that showed off tattoos on both arms. One tat said “I’m in love” with no name, leaving his options open. The other said, “Here come de judge” and had a tiny scale under it. It wasn’t clear whether the scale represented the weighing of justice or drugs.

  Belle jumped out and opened the door for him, getting a good look at his package in the process.

  “Thanks,” he said, smiling. His teeth were way too good for Florence Heights. State-funded dental care was my guess.

  He slid in and fastened his seat belt.

  “So, where you goin’?” Belle asked.

  “The courthouse.”

  “Ah, so, what’s your name?”

  “Carlton”

  “I’m Belle, and this here’s Honey. We be at your service and your means of transport for the afternoon. You just tell us what you need and we will make you happy.”

  I rolled my eyes and poked Belle in the thigh.

  For the rest of the ride, Carlton and Belle exchanged stories about the two Heights, comparing living conditions, police attention and general mayhem. The consensus was they were pretty much the same. If you kept your head down and minded your own business, it wasn’t bad. Public transportation was lousy from either.

  When we got to the courthouse, Belle and I both got out, expecting someone to meet our fare...a lawyer or a cop...and pay the bill. The only person outside the courthouse entrance was the elderly door guard.

  “Mornin’, Judge Witherspoon,” he greeted Carlton. “Been stayin’ at your momma’s house again, I see. How is that lovely lady?”

  Belle looked at me.

  Carlton winked at Belle. “Nice meeting you ladies,” he said. “Hope we meet again, not in my courtroom, of course.” He handed Belle thirty dollars. “Keep the change. The ride was a great way to start the morning.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” Belle stared after him. “He don’t look like any judge I’ve ever seen.”

  The guard sidled over to us. “I can always tell when he’s visiting his mother. He dresses different. Likes to fit in, I guess. I sure do wish she’d move in with him. But she likes it there. One of the best judges I’ve seen on the bench in thirty years.”

  “There goes the judge,” Belle grunted. “And I thought I could’a been in love.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, opening the driver’s door. “You were interested when you thought he was a felon. Just because he went to law school and got educated, he’s off limits?”

  “Well, duh! It’s not the college education. Hell, I got one of those. It’s the law, as in which side he’s on.” Belle looked at me like I was beyond dumb.

  “You’ve got an education? Like how much?”

  “I did college. My degree is in government with a minor in social work. Came in handy in my previous line of employment. I knew which lines to cross from my government classes and how to cross them from my social work.”

  I wondered if the judge had assumed as much about Belle and me as we had about him? Big tip, so who cares? I disagreed, but I understood Belle’s attitude. She assumed a judge would never be interested in a relationship with a former prostitute, so why waste her time on a relationship that would never happen? It made me wonder if she was really sure she was done with her former life. But it was interesting to know she had a better formal education than I did.

  Ten minutes later, we were back at Cool Rides to see what kind of people m
oving we needed to do.

  Mona stuck her head out the door. “Don’t bother to get out of the car. I got two more for you. One right now. One in an hour. Short hauls, no conflict, but you’ll need to hustle.” She handed us the yellow slips with names, locations, destinations and phone numbers.

  The first pickup was uptown to the hospital. It was Spike. He was one of our regulars, and his eight-inch mohawk he dyed different colors, mood-dependent, had earned him the nickname. He dressed in black leather and chains with multiple piercings. Visually, he was what you never want your daughter or your son to bring home. But the accessory that really stood out with Spike was the baby stroller. The stroller was filled with mini-Spike. An angel of a two-year-old boy with his hair mohawked, spiked and colored to match dad, accompanied Spike everywhere. Spike was a stay-at-home father, and a damn fine one.

  He was taking his son to the free clinic at the hospital for a checkup which probably included shots of some sort.

  We dropped them at the ER and off-loaded the stroller, the baby blankets, the pacifiers, the toys, the car seat and the diaper bag. We left them standing next to a pile of gear that would make a mountain climber happy.

  “We’ll wait for half an hour. If you get done by then, you get half-fare home. Otherwise, we have a pickup in an hour so we’ll have to come back for you.”

  “Hey, that’s great. We’ll hustle, right, Samuel?” He leaned over and patted his son on the cheek. The angel giggled.

  “Jeez, that is so cute.” Belle watched him walk through the swinging doors.

  We sat for about five minutes. That doesn’t sound like very long but completely lacking entertainment for longer than five minutes was tough and very boring. We parked the car in the massive parking lot and began the wait.

  “I’m hungry.” Belle rolled down her window. “I wonder what they got for hospital food in there.”

  “Okey, dokey,” I said. We went through the emergency room filled with screaming children, sniffling and coughing adults, probably a few plague victims, and found the breakfast café. We were the only customers.

  We had settled into a booth with our tray of sugar-based food of indeterminate origin when a woman in a baggy flowered jumper, a big-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses slipped in next to me. She looked like Annie Hall doing Iowa farm girl. Right off the bus, waiting for the first pimp to commandeer her.