“Lucille has plenty of condoms. She wouldn’t need to tap anyone else’s supply.”
“What’s his name?” Belle assumed I had taken the time to get some information. She was right but not nearly enough.
“Arnie Delisle.”
“You’re kidding. Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, Lucille and Arnie?”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t think about that.” I giggled.
We were about to stop the giggles and start the real conversation when Mona came out with fare slips.
“You got Sister Mary Claire,” she said, handing me the slip. “She’s flying to New York to meet with her publisher.”
“You got Mrs. Witherspoon who is going to visit her sister in Baltimore.” She handed Belle the slip.
“What!? Give the judge’s mother to Honey. I’ll take the Sister Mary Claire. I’ll even drive her to New York. Did you tell her I could do that?”
“Mrs. W is a long-time customer and she requested you. Probably wants to see why her son is in such a lousy mood these days. Because somebody won’t even go have a cup of freakin’ coffee with the man. Anyway, what she wants, she gets.” Mona glowered and Belle knew there was no arguing. Okay with me. I loved driving Sister Mary Claire. I gave Belle a finger wave and drove off.
Chapter Eighteen
Sister Mary Claire was dressed in a light blue civilian power suit and waiting in front of one of the few Catholic churches left in town. With a shrinking population and four churches the congregations had combined to support the one building the Springfield diocese deemed to be the chosen one. The other buildings were up for sale. But with a new Pope the Sister had high hopes. She was busily raising money for her church’s many projects. She worked with the homeless, the poor, sick children, poor children, the poor elderly, the sick elderly and any other group of disadvantaged and disenfranchised souls that would have her. She raised money, lots of it, for her various charities in a most unique and discreet manner.
Sister Mary Claire wrote porn. Sometimes she wrote erotica. But mostly she said she didn’t have time to make up plots and characters required by erotica. Straight out porn took no time and paid well. All proceeds went to charity. Her vow of poverty was as intact as her vow of chastity which, according to the Sister, was never in doubt. Most of the world assumed the cute short stories she occasionally published were the source of her cash flow. But the taxi driver always knows the truth. Put two people in a car together for any length of time and talk happens. I had become Sister’s confessor; my taxi, the confessional. And I kept the secrets to myself. I had, in the privacy of my apartment, proof-read some of the Sister’s material. Wowza! Even in the porn industry, there are standards and spell check doesn’t catch everything. So the Sister had a problem finding people to help with the proofing. Discretion was extremely important. I was one of her privileged beta readers. God! I loved my job.
I would enjoy the ride to the airport and then I could listen to what happened between Belle and Mrs. Witherspoon when I got back.
The Sister got in the front seat. That meant she wanted to talk. If she had chosen the back seat, she was in work mode, would have her laptop out and would not want to be disturbed. The ride to the airport was too short for writing mode.
“I need a name,” she said without any lead in.
“Whose name do you need?”
“The hunk. And he needs to be virile but mature enough to have outgrown his stupid days. Successful and really hot in bed. Has to know what a female orgasm is and how to coax it out of a woman of any age and experience. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah.” I thought immediately about Jon but decided not to suggest it. My experience to date was limited to foreplay but I was pretty sure Jon was going to fill my fantasies just fine. I might be the Sister’s confessor, but she didn’t fill the confessor role for me. Belle was as close to having a confessor as I came.
“Right now, I’m just looking for the name. I’ve got the character, but names are important. I think this may be a romance. I’m running the possibility by my publisher. That’s why we’re having a face to face. I need to convince him I can do plot and character more effectively than one needs in pornography.”
“Sister, you work with a lot of people in harsh circumstances, right?”
“Oh, yes. Part of my calling.”
“Why don’t you write about them? A love conquers all sort of theme?”
Dead silence filled the car. I hoped I hadn’t crossed some sort of line. Could she really put her separate lives in closed compartments and never let them cross over?
Suddenly Sister Mary Claire turned to me. “Oh, my Lord! The Holy Father must have sent you to me today. How could I have not thought of that? I know exactly what I can write. Oh, I am so excited. I still need a name.”
“How about Captain America’s alter ego? He’s real popular right now.”
“Captain who?”
“Steve Rogers. He’s a comic book character who goes around saving the world.”
“That’s a good name. Short, easily remembered.”
We still had a half hour to go before we got to the airport, but the sister leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
“I must think for a few moments. Will you wake me when we get to the off-ramp?”
“No problem.” I smiled.
As I helped Sister out of the cab and unloaded her carry-on, she handed me her charge card. “Please add a thirty-dollar tip.”
“Whoa, are you sure?”
“Honey, this concept is going to sell like hotcakes. I just know it. I’ll tell you all about it when you pick me up.”
I ran the charge card through my phone attachment and handed it back to her, hoping she wasn’t being too optimistic. When she had disappeared into the terminal I spotted Belle pulling in behind me with Mrs. Witherspoon.
“Now, my dear, I have never had such a pleasant ride to the airport. You be sure to put that tip on there,” she said, handing over her charge card. I grinned and waited so we could caravan back.
We did a sedate seventy until we got off the highway. I let my mind wander to Jon’s problem about how the drugs were being moved on this road I was traveling. We pulled up in front of Cool Rides together. Belle came over and opened my door for me.
“Those slut shoes are real close to my closet. That woman knows how to tip.”
“Geez, Sister Mary Claire too. Shopping tonight. Maybe I’ll pay the rent too.” I grinned and worked hard not to giggle.
“I saw some purple pumps, ankle strap, only a three-inch heel, dual purpose. I can wear them to choir practice. I need those shoes!” Belle fist pumped the air.
“New undies for me,” I sighed happily.
“Yeah, gotta have something for the hot Lieutenant to take off your overheated bod.” Belle beamed.
“Uh, huh.” I smirked.
We went inside to tell Mona how much we loved her.
“Next rides are at twelve thirty so you should take an early lunch.” Mona held up two fare slips. “I take it you’re willing to take Mrs. W wherever she wants to go. I’ll put you down for her pick-up. Same for you and the Sister?” Mona looked to me.
“You betcha! How many colors of thongs do they make and how do you wear them outside the bedroom?” I asked to the room in general. I wondered if Mona ever wore thongs.
“You don’t,” said Belle. “Let’s do lunch. Call if you need us.” She saluted Mona and we trooped out the door.
“So, I take it the judge wasn’t discussed.” I tried to match Belle’s stride.
“Hell, no. His mama is a lady of big brain. She knows when to let it rest. Unlike other people I might know. We talked accessories. Shoes, bags, scarves, the woman knows her fashion.”
“Okay, fine,” I grumped.
“Pizza, pizza?” Belle sashayed up the hill to Main Street. I really needed her to teach me how to walk. I flumped after her.
The crowd at the counter of Pizza Palace was three deep and long. We were working our way forw
ard when we heard a commotion behind us. Mister Slime, one of the local street dealers, staggered forward, knocking his way through the crowd.
“Gimme the key to the can. I gotta take a shit fast!” he yelled at the kid behind the counter. He jittered around, eyes bouncing from wall to ceiling and back.
“Oh joy!” muttered Belle, “Now we all get to eat with that image in our mental makeup.”
I stared morosely at the display of pizza. Eating suddenly became less important. But my stomach won out over the gross Mr. Slime and I ordered a slice of black bean avocado with lots of other stuff on it.
Mr. Slime pushed his way back through the line to the men’s room. He had some trouble inserting the key but, finally, got it open and lurched inside.
We all knew Mr. Slime not because he was a taxi customer but because he was the dealer for the street people and downtown teenage population. He had big expensive cars and gold chains around his neck. Recently he had started using his product and wasn’t looking good. The police watched him but hadn’t been able to bust him. He was a complete reprobate but a smart one. They couldn’t catch him actually doing any of the deals we all knew he did. He specialized in schizophrenic cocaine addicts and runaway teens. They made terrible witnesses.
We finally got food, slid into a booth unfortunately near the men’s room, and ate in record time. Then we started on dessert. Normally we wouldn’t do dessert after pizza, but the Palace was having a special on organic chocolate covered bacon. What could be more nutritious and healthy? Belle was sucking on the last bite when someone yelled out, “He’s been in there too long. Gimme the damn key.”
Someone came out from behind the counter with the spare key. He knocked on the door. No answer so he unlocked the door. Regrettably we had a perfect sight line to the toilet. Mr. Slime had used a bit too much of his product, pitched forward off the commode, bashed his face and left a pool of blood on the floor. A trail of slimy brown followed him from the seat to his ass. His pants were around his knees and a needle flopped out of his arm.
“Shit!” whispered the counter kid. “Call 911!!” he screamed, backing out of the closet sized space. My phone was on the table in front of me so I made the call but I noticed at least five other people with cell phones out. The dispatch console must have lit up like a fireworks factory hit by lightning.
In less than two minutes we heard sirens and in three minutes the EMT was through the door. He knelt next to Slime’s body, feeling for a pulse.
“Bring the stretcher,” he spoke into his shoulder radio. “And a body bag. No hurry.”
“That’s not good,” said Belle. I wasn’t so sure she was right but I kept silent. If someone had to go, at least it wasn’t one of the teenagers he sold his lethal product to.
Fifteen minutes later we walked down the hill, listening to the siren wail its way up to the hospital. We knew Mr. Slime would be declared DOA, Jon would hear about it immediately, and it would be all over the front page in the morning. The police would be frustrated about their inability to find Scarpelli’s transportation lines. Not many people would grieve the loss of Mr. Slime. He would be replaced as a retailer of fine drugs fast enough that his customers would only suffer a short and temporary bout of hysteria. But now I had seen first-hand how messy an overdose could be. No one deserved that.
Belle and I spent the rest of the day running short hauls to court dates, lawyer dates, and a few report-for-incarceration dates. We even had a few doctor dates. By the end of our shifts we were ready to crash. Belle headed for her newly rented apartment and I walked over to Jon’s house. Belle offered me a ride but I needed to be alone and quiet for a few minutes. I really didn’t like Mr. Slime but I had made the mistake of naming him. So his death was a shock. The walk to Jon’s house was all of ten minutes but it put me in a better mood.
Jon, on the other hand, was still in his frenzy of having been presented with another heroin overdose. He was pacing around the house, muttering to himself when I walked in.
He turned when I opened the door and stared blankly at me. Then he wrapped me in his arms and held me for a long minute.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that mess,” he whispered.
“I’m okay. I didn’t really know him very well. He was a slimy guy. We called him Mr. Slime.”
Jon leaned back from his embrace. “Not to his face, I hope.”
“No, I never talked to him and he never used a taxi because he had those big cars. I did watch him sell to someone who should not have had more medication than his doctor gave him. You do know that was his specialty? That and kids.”
“Yeah, we knew. We just wanted to find out who supplied him before we busted his ass.”
“I guess no one deserves to die young.” But if anyone did, I thought, it would have been Mr. Slime. I kept that to myself.
Jon dropped his arms but held onto my hand. “I picked up Italian take-out on the way home. I guess we should eat.” We sat and watched the mind-numbing account of the afternoon events on the local news. By the time we had worked our way through the Comedy Channel for a few hours, we were both giving in to the exhaustion of a long day.
We sat on the couch for a little longer and held each other. Death made both of us need some live physical contact without any sex involved. We fell asleep wrapped around each other.
That attitude lasted until sometime in the wee hours of the morning when I woke up to something long and hard resting between us. Unfortunately for Jon’s erection, it was his cell phone that interrupted our sleep. He groaned and rolled off the bed. I knew he wouldn’t be back for hours so I rolled the other direction and went back to sleep. The next thing I remembered was the smell of fresh coffee brewing. I found him in the kitchen looking far too awake for someone who had been up since four in the morning.
Jon gave me a ride to work and followed me in the door.
Mona handed me a ten-dollar bill, pointed to one of the cabs and said, “Lucille, an emergency. Arnie forgot to pick up condoms. Go by Quik Shop and pick up a package of large and take them over to her house. Don’t stop, do not collect two hundred dollars, and don’t land on boardwalk. She seems to be in a hurry.”
Jon rolled his eyes. “Jesus! I don’t want to hear any more. I’m at work now.” And he shoved out the door.
Welcome to my world, Jon. We deliver whatever you need—people, toilet paper, condoms. My guess was he knew about Arnie, had probably even met him, but didn’t want to think about Lucille pounding the mattress.
“Go!” said Mona, and I hustled off on my mission. I got to the grocery store where you could buy a lot more than groceries. The condoms were prominently displayed by the pharmacy counter. There were different sizes, materials, colors, smells, shapes and probably some other possibilities I missed. Strangely, I had never purchased condoms. I certainly had no idea what size Arnie might be or what color Lucille might like. I had never asked, in the course of conversation; “So what’s your favorite color in condoms?” I finally grabbed the regular large pack, dashed to check-out and left the store more aware of the difficult decisions men have to make.
When I got to Lucille’s house and rang the bell, I heard the locks throw, slide and finally click back. Lucille peeked out.
“Oh, thank God. I was running out of ways to keep it on track and upright. At our age, it can be difficult. And we don’t really need the glove, but it’s just so much fun to slide the little...well, big, actually...maybe enormous is more accurate...onto that oversized dong. And I do always practice safe sex.”
Lucille slammed the door and I heard her footsteps retreat at a rapid pace. I realized she had been wearing an identical silver sparkle teddy to mine. I hadn’t been able to see Lucille’s bottom half so the thong was still a mystery. This had been my first fare of the day so Arnie had spent the night again.
I drove slowly back to Cool Rides, thinking about growing old. Lucille seemed to be in the peak of health for someone of elderly but unknown age. But what happened when your b
ody or mind failed you? This was one of the few times I had heard Lucille make a reference to aging and it was in reference to her favorite topic—sex. How did she deal with what I’m told by the media is a significant loss of sexual activity over the age of fifty? Would Jon still find me interesting when I’m sixty-four? More important, of course, is whether I will find him interesting. A good topic for woman talk. I decided to ask Belle what she thought. Then I mentally kicked myself. I was thinking thirty plus, big plus, years in the future. Would Jon still be around, would the world still exist or would the comet finally have found our blue planet and decided it was time to start the long process of evolution over again?
Asking Belle had to wait until afternoon because Mona came out with fare slips before I even got out of the car. Five local fares, all with their own wheelchairs, light weight and collapsible. I could do one right after the other and do enough lifting that I wouldn’t dream of joining a gym. Even the light weight chairs needed to be wrestled into the back of the car. A lot of our clients and the population in general use wheelchairs, walkers, canes, or some sort of assistance staying upright and mobile.
Belle had snagged a run to Logan Airport in Boston. Those shoes would be hers before the gold lamé thong would be part of my bedroom wardrobe. Short hauls were always interesting and usually fun but they didn’t pay the bills and they rarely tipped. When Belle finally returned, she was moaning about the Mass Pike traffic. It was so bad she had to stop at one of the mega-malls just off the highway which just happened to be having a huge shoe sale which just happened to have lots of shoes in her size.
“Being a lady of height, I have size 10 feet. My size goes on sale first.”
I thought Mona might be angry that Belle had stopped on company time and in a company vehicle but Belle pulled out a pair of red suede ankle boots in, of course, Mona’s size, which proved Belle had a well-developed sense of survival. She handed me a pair of red thongs with a big black arrow pointing down.
“I’m pretty sure your Lieutenant knows the right direction, but it never hurts to reinforce it,” she said.
Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1) Page 20
