Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1)

by Harriet Rogers

  I shrugged. “If Julia Roberts needed it in Pretty Woman, why not?”

  Lucille dropped it into a pocket and pulled out a roll of toilet paper.

  “Is the supply at the senior center inadequate?” I asked.

  She smiled and tossed it in the direction of the bathroom. Assorted pens, pencils and note pads were tucked inside and zipped closed. Sunglasses, reading glasses, long-distance glasses, back-up glasses, matches, a flashlight. The last went back into the drawer. Her wallet, checkbook and passport went into a side pocket.

  “Now, do you think I need any more defensive weapons? I’ll leave the Glock at home, but possibly the brass knuckles? The checkbook in case I lose the bridge game. The passport in case I need to leave the country. And it’s a good I.D. More intimidating than a driver’s license.”

  “Lucille, you’re going to play bridge. None of the players are less than seventy years old. Where will you use the condoms? They don’t even have beds in the senior center.” I ignored the brass knuckles. Seniors are serious about their bridge games.

  “Honey, you have no imagination. Haven’t you ever done it in a dressing room?” Lucille’s eyes misted. “I remember one time in New York. We were in Saks Fifth Avenue…”

  “Time to go.”

  “Of course, these days, what with all the meds floating around, you never know when they might get it up. Too many pain killers, not enough Viagra.”

  Too much information, I thought as I hastily scooped everything into the oversized purse, sensing the beginning of one of our disjointed conversations. I hustled out the door.

  Lucille followed reluctantly, glancing around for something more to cram into the bag.

  A simple trip to the senior center probably wouldn’t cause any problems between me and Jon. On the rare occasions that our professions overlapped, the results weren’t pretty. A taxi is a magnet for people in a hurry. Sometimes they are more anxious to get away from somewhere than to go to somewhere. That may involve police cars in an equal hurry. We get calls from cop central telling us to please not pick up anyone in specific areas. It usually means that the anyone they are talking about is an escaped prisoner or may have just held up the local bank. Small town bank robbers are not known for their long-range plans and they occasionally forget about get-away transportation. More than one has called a cab to take them to and from a robbery. I once got the call from the cops right after I had picked up a scruffy looking character in the vicinity they were worried about. I told them to patch me through to Lt. Jon Stevens, pulled around the corner to the police station and told my fare to get out. There were three uniforms waiting.

  But probably not at the senior center. My biggest ambition is to live a life free of drama, filled with music and flowers everywhere. Taxi driving has the music if I put a disc in the player. And flowers, like my life, grow wild. Unfortunately, in the two years I’ve been driving, the taxi has also had a high level of drama.

  Still, before this morning, I hadn’t seen Jon for a few days. And, to paraphrase Three Dog Night, one is a lonely number. I wouldn’t mind seeing him in a more intimate setting, although Lucille might have encouraged me to seduce him on the table in the interrogation room.

  We got to the senior center in five minutes. Lucille got out and heaved her bag with everything that a long-march army would ever want over her shoulder, staggered up the sidewalk and disappeared into the gathering of elders.

  I headed back to the Cool Rides garage to see what Mona had on my agenda. Mona is slightly over five feet tall and guards the taxis like a pit bull. She keeps the drivers focused and on target. We always need new drivers. Some drivers, especially guys, have trouble with her dictatorial approach. I went inside to the office, hoping she might not notice the bullet bing.

  “You got a train station, prepaid charge card. Kid’s name is Terry,” Mona growled and handed me a fare slip.

  “I’m on it.” I trotted back outside.

  The slip gave me name, address, cell phone, time of pick-up and address of drop-off. Pickup was right away. The train station was twenty minutes down the interstate. I hustled just in case one of those pesky big rigs had turned over in the middle of the highway. Exiting the highway sent me through the nicer part of Springfield until I turned the corner to the train station. About a decade ago the station moved from a glorious Grand Central style building to a depressing pre-fab box attached to the front of a wall made of pyramid size stones. Around the corner is one of the biggest strip clubs in the city. It’s a tough part of town. Rumor is that the old station is going to be rebuilt. In the meantime, taxi drivers try not to linger.

  I pulled into a space near a fire hydrant but far enough from it that if the giant stones caught fire, I wouldn’t be in the way. There were no cars parked behind me. A big black caddy with tinted windows was three spaces ahead. Most of the passengers had hurriedly dispersed. Two people were left. One was a gangly sleepy-eyed teenager with too-big jeans. He was good-looking but had a veneer of grime, like he had been living on the street for a while. A big guy in a suit loomed over the kid, blocking the route to my cab. The suit’s body type reminded me of a TV show I had seen about mountain gorillas—big upper body, long arms and really short legs. The teen looked stoned. But he was my fare. I needed to distract the ape in a suit and grab my passenger before he turned into a stain on the sidewalk.

  “You owe me, fucking lowlife punk. Those were to sell.” The suit was loud and pissed. He had an odd lisp and a nasal tone, like maybe someone had knocked out one of his front teeth and flattened his nose. I lowered both windows on the driver’s side. The ape man grabbed the kid, lifting him off the ground. He shoved him against the wall and whispered something in his ear.

  “Hey, someone call a cab?” I yelled.

  The big guy turned and slid his right hand under his jacket. I’ve watched Lucille practice drawing her weapon at the shooting range. I recognized the move. But he let go of the kid when he went for his gun. In a split second the kid was on the ground and running. Luckily I had lowered the windows because the kid dove through the back one. I felt him hit the seat. The big guy was slower with his big bulk and short legs, but he was still only two steps behind. He thrust a huge arm through my open window. His other hand waved a gun. Up close and personal he smelled like a vat of mint julep. Too much aftershave. My eyes watered.

  “Shit!” I yelped.

  About the Author:

  When Harriet Rogers was fourteen, she picked tobacco and didn’t learn to smoke for three years. When she was seventeen, she picked oranges in Israel and had Ben-Gurion’s revenge for a month. When she was nineteen, she worked the night shift at the Oxford pickle factory and couldn’t have relish on her hot dogs for five years. She spent ten years getting through three years of college and, while she still doesn’t have any letters after her name, she can say “shit” in five languages.

  She has some 2nd and 3rd place ribbons from horseback riding...and a bad back, knee and elbow from the same.

  When she was driving a taxi, she started a ten-book series about a taxi driver. Small Town Taxi is the first book in this series.

  Her mission is to make people laugh. Laughter is the soul of the human machine.