“No offense, but I’d rather take a cab,” I said the way people do when they really do intend to give offense. I didn’t usually act that way, but I’d had it with all of them. Besides, I could just see Jeff’s reaction if I showed up at his place in a police car. He’d be out the back before I could knock on the front door.
I started to stand up, but Phil put a hand on my shoulder. “Wait,” she said. “You’ve been through a lot today. At least let me call a cab for you. I have a couple of cab company’s numbers by the phone in the kitchen. I can get one that’ll be here right away. Okay?”
I sank back into the chair. “Okay. Thanks.” No point in being stupidly surly at this point. I would’ve had to have asked to use her phone anyway, since Jeff had walked off with mine along with my money.
Phil ducked into the kitchen to make the call. I leaned my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I’d missed my chance with Elizabeth. How many more years before I’d track her down again? She didn’t leave forwarding addresses. Now I had to start all over. Only this time she knew I was looking for her. Even steely-eyed Phil had avoided my gaze when she told me that Elizabeth had run out and left me to Dwayne’s uncertain mercies. No surprise there. It wasn’t the first time.
I opened my eyes. No point in thinking about that now. I’d missed Elizabeth, but I absolutely had to find Jeff. Once he’d handed over my money, I’d be able to rent a room for the night and buy a meal. Hey, I could even spring for a new toothbrush.
Phil came over to me and held out a small envelope.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Some pain pills.”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“You’re managing now, but later it’s going to catch up with you. It’s just insurance in case you feel rotten later. You don’t have to take them unless you need to.”
I took the envelope. “Thanks.”
She shook her head. “Don’t thank me. You got hurt because I misjudged the situation.”
Lopez’s cell phone chirped. He answered with a curt, “Yes.” Then, “That was fast. She’ll be right down.” He hung up and looked at me. “Taxi’s here.”
“Here,” Phil said. “Let me walk you out.”
When I reached the door, Lopez said, “Call me when you get where you’re going. We’ll get your things to you tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Phil and I descended the stairs in silence. When we were outside, she said, “If you think of anyplace that Elizabeth might go or anyone she’d contact, will you let us know?”
“Which us?”
She gave me a brief glimpse of the lopsided grin I’d seen when she’d told me to call her Phil. It made her look more approachable and trustworthy. “The FBI us—specifically me. Let me see the card Inspector Lopez gave you.”
“You don’t have your own card?”
“I do, but not on me. I’m still undercover until I get new orders.”
I handed it to her and she scrawled two numbers on the back. “The first number’s my cell. If I don’t answer and it’s urgent, call the second number and explain who you are. Day or night. Someone will answer.” She gestured to a red taxi with white writing on the side that had pulled up behind a double-parked police car. “There’s your ride. You take care.”
“You too,” I said and walked toward the waiting taxi. I glanced at the gawkers across the street. There were about the same number as before, but of the original five who’d been there all along, only Green Sneakers and Lies-About-Her-Age remained.
I opened the back door of the taxi and slid inside. The interior was filled with cigarette smoke. The cab driver sat slouched behind the wheel, one arm resting along the top of the seats. All I could see was the back of his head. He needed a haircut.
“Hi,” I said and glanced at the large No Smoking sign that decorated the sliding plastic panels between the front from the back. Did the sign mean that only passengers couldn’t smoke?
He turned his head. I caught a bit of profile. Hawkish nose and an unambiguous chin that could’ve used a shave three days ago. “Where to?”
“I have the address right here.” I dug Jeff’s letter out of my jeans pocket and glanced at it. “It’s on Alvin Street. 145 Alvin.”
“Alvin? It’s in the city?”
“Yes.”
“Never heard of it. Let me look it up.” He punched the address into a GPS on the dash. “Okay. I got it. Off South Van Ness?”
“I don’t know.”
“No problem. I’ll get you there.”
That was encouraging. I leaned back and tried to concentrate on the streets we were taking. I always tried to learn my way around any new city as soon as possible. I’d been to San Francisco before with Aunt June. We’d take the bus down from Petaluma and visit the library or the museums. None of the streets the taxi took looked familiar. It had been some years, though. I might’ve forgotten.
We rapidly descended steep streets with upscale houses to less steep ones with apartment buildings that still looked upscale to my eye. Then we were in the stop-and-go of a wide busy street. I checked the street sign—Van Ness. Not far then.
I was wrong. We traveled quite a way on Van Ness and came across some familiar sights.
“That’s City Hall,” I said. “And the Opera House and Davies Hall.” I peered at them through the smeared window as we whipped by. A stab of nostalgia and loss had me pressing my fist against my chest.
“You from out of town?”
“Yes, but I used to live in Petaluma. I’d come here with my aunt. Once we saw the ballet at the Opera House. Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. It was fantastic.”
The cabbie glanced at me briefly in the rearview mirror. He nodded but didn’t say anything. I didn’t usually offer up bits of trivia about my past to strangers, but I hadn’t been so poignantly reminded of Aunt June in a long time.
I blanked out the next few blocks and missed how far we’d gone. We’d crossed some invisible boundary, though, because the buildings that lined the street were noticeably shoddy. Spare-changers and homeless people stood in traffic with signs handwritten on cardboard that pleaded their particular case.
At a red light, one of them shuffled up to the cabbie’s open window and mumbled something. The cabbie waved him away with a curt gesture. The man noticed me in the backseat and tapped on my window. He said something, but I couldn’t make out what. I rubbed my toe over the money I’d stashed in my shoe.
“Don’t give him anything,” the cabbie said. “It doesn’t help. It just makes it worse.”
I met his eyes in the mirror. “Okay.” I dropped my gaze. He’d misjudged me. It hadn’t occurred to me to give the man some money. All I could think of was my own situation and how I’d always kept a cushion so I’d never end up like that man. Until now. Jeff had my cushion and I had to get it back.
The light changed and we moved away. I couldn’t keep track of the streets or the route. We turned into a narrower street lined with houses. A few looked slightly gentrified with fresh paint, but most ranged from rundown to nearly derelict. All had wrought-iron gratings over their street level windows. We stopped in front of one of the more dilapidated houses.
“Here you go,” the driver said.
“Would you please wait? It shouldn’t take long.”
He shrugged. “Okay, but I have to keep the meter running.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll be right back. Just wait, please.” I got out of the car and mounted the steps to the front door. The roof over the front porch was supported by columns topped by carved wooden millwork. The house could’ve been nice with a little paint and attention. I rang the bell but didn’t hear any sound inside the house.
I heard a car door slam and turned around. The cabbie stood next to his taxi, his hands cupped around the flame he held to a fresh cigarette. Maybe he welcomed a chance to stretch hi
s legs, especially since he was doing it on my dime. I turned back to the house and pounded on the door.
The door was opened by a woman wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a black eye. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me.
“Hi. I’m looking for Jeff.”
“He’s not here.”
“When are you expecting him?”
“I’m not. He’s gone.”
“Are you his sister? He said this was his sister’s address and he’d be here. He promised he’d be here today.” Some of my desperation must have leaked into my voice, because she looked at me more intently.
“He’s gone,” she repeated.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Los Angeles?” She tossed out the city as if we were playing a guessing game.
“Look, this is very important.”
“What’s going on?” A man’s voice came from the room behind Jeff’s sister. He appeared in the flesh a second later. A lot of flesh. About three hundred pounds of it. A good fifty of them bulged out in a potbelly that draped over his belt. He shoved Jeff’s sister aside and let his bulk fill the doorway. “Whaddya want?”
“Jeff. He has something of mine, and he promised that he’d give it back when I came here.”
“He’s not here, and we don’t know nothing about any money,” he said.
I stared at him. First Dwayne the Dumb, then this bozo. Maybe there was something in the water around here. “I didn’t say anything about money.”
His reply was to take a step back and try to shut the door in my face. My foot beat him by a half second. My side might hurt, but my reflexes were still good.
“Jeff stole my money. I have his confession in his own handwriting. He swore he’d give it back when I got here. I don’t want to have to call the cops.”
At the mention of the police, Bozo opened the door wide. “You fuckin’ bitch. Get outta here.” He moved toward me, and before I could back out of his way, he body-checked me. I slammed back against the porch pillar. The pain in my chest shot off fireworks in my head. My knees gave out and I slid down the pillar. All I could see were bright shooting lights. I heard the door slam.
Someone helped me to my feet and supported me by gripping my upper arm. I forced my eyes to focus. The cabbie. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that featured oversized monkeys swinging from undersized coconut trees. I stared at the shirt for several seconds and worked on getting air. “Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
I pulled away and leaned instead against the porch railing. “Bozo?”
“No, I’m not Bozo.”
“I mean.” I paused for a breath. “The fat bozo. He gone?” I couldn’t seem to find enough air to make whole sentences.
“Locked himself in the house. Want me to call the cops?”
“No.” I turned and faced the street. “Car.”
The cabbie stood back, and I edged down the front steps, clinging to the railing. It was just a couple of yards from the bottom step to the cab. The cabbie went ahead and opened the door for me. I sank down onto the backseat and pulled my legs inside. Once he’d closed the door, I slipped off my left shoe. When the cabbie got into the driver’s seat, I said, “Just around the corner. Anywhere Bozo can’t see us.”
While he drove, I fished the money out of my shoe. A twenty, two tens and three ones. They looked worn and wrinkled after all the time they’d spent rolled up in my shoe. Pathetic really.
The cabbie pulled over and turned his head in my direction. He glanced at the money in my hand, turned forward and flipped off the meter.
I edged forward in my seat so I could see his face better. I had a plan—of sorts. My version of standing in traffic with a handwritten sign. “The brother of the woman who answered the door took my money. When I find him, he’ll give it back to me. Meanwhile, all I have is forty-three dollars and some change. I can pay you now. And I will, if that’s what you want. But, if you could lend me enough money for a hotel for one night, I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
“You think you’re going to find him tomorrow?” Skeptical, but he hadn’t flat out refused.
“No, I don’t. But, I’ll be able to earn money busking tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”
“Busking? What’s that? A new word for hooking?” He ran an eye over me as if assessing my possibilities.
“No!” I paused. Had to be calm about this. Calm and convincing. “I’m a street performer—a magician. I can make money with my street act.”
“You have an act? You don’t even have a suitcase.”
“I’m getting my suitcase back tonight or tomorrow at the latest.”
“Who’s got your suitcase? The guy who took your money?”
“No.” My promise to Phil made it hard to explain my situation convincingly, but it had been worth a try anyway. I held out thirteen dollars, which covered the fare with a small tip.
He looked at the money, but didn’t move to take it.
“I’d give you a much bigger tip, if I could. I really appreciate your helping me back there.” When he didn’t take the money, I dropped it on the seat next to him.
“Oh hell,” he said. “Hold it. Just hold it.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “You don’t want to get out in this neighborhood. What if I take you back to where I picked you up? You were talking to some people there. Maybe they could help you.”
“No, they can’t.” I reached for the door handle.
“Wait a minute. I’ll take you anywhere in the city. How’s that? Anywhere you want. Off the meter. And you can keep your money.” He grabbed up the bills I’d given him and stuffed them into my hand. “So, where do you want to go?”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand. I don’t take charity.” I dropped the bills back into the front seat.
“What do you mean? You just asked me for money.”
“A loan. I’ll pay you back.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I don’t lie.”
He laughed. He didn’t believe me. Not that I could blame him. I was probably the only person who’d believe me, and that was only because I could always tell if someone was lying. He tossed his still lit cigarette out the window, put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
“Stop. I’m getting out here.”
“I don’t think so,” he said and took a corner at speed. “This isn’t a good neighborhood.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed.
“Just stop the car, okay?”
“Be quiet. I’m trying to think.” A light turned yellow, and he accelerated through it as it turned red.
“There’s nothing to think about. It’s okay. You don’t have to loan me money. I’ll be fine.”
“Just shut the hell up, okay?”
“There’s no need to swear.”
He turned a corner without slowing down, and I slid against the door. “Ow,” I said. I straightened and pressed my hand to my side.
“Shit,” he said. He pulled over and stopped.
“There’s really no need to…”
He looked at me in his rearview mirror. “I know. No need to swear. Like you never swear.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t lie. You don’t swear. Anything else?”
“I don’t hit, unless someone hits me first.”
“That must’ve been what the fat guy was counting on, otherwise he would’ve been shaking in his shoes.”
“Go ahead and laugh. It’s the right way to live, so I’m going to stick with it.” I tried to pulled on the door handle, but the door wouldn’t open. “Hey, unlock the door. Isn’t that illegal or something in a taxi?”
“Just hang on,” he said. “I want to help you, but I’m not going to give you money.”
“What then?”
> “First, can we clear up this thing about the guy owing you money? I heard you tell the fat guy…”
“Bozo,” I put in.
“Yeah. You told Mr. Bozo that the guy wrote a confession?”
“Yes. He did.”
“Why didn’t you take it to the police?”
“It’s complicated. I had to come to San Francisco today, and Jeff knew it. If I’d gone to the police, it would’ve delayed me. Also, since Jeff was here, it wouldn’t have helped me to go to the police in Las Vegas.”
“You were in Vegas? Doing what? Gambling?”
“Working. I was Eddie the Wizard’s assistant. He’s a magician.”
“And you’re a magician.”
“Right. Only I’m not to the point where I can do a whole Vegas show yet.” I didn’t mention there was also the problem of no social security number and no formal identification.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I know a guy who lets me use this place whenever I want. No one’s staying there. I got my own place. You could stay there, no charge. One night only.”
Things might work out after all, but first I had to check this guy out. “Unlock the door,” I said.
Without hesitation, he flipped the lock toggle. Okay, first test passed. I slid out of the backseat, closed the door, opened the passenger side of the front seat and got in. I didn’t try to rush it. If I moved slowly and deliberately, then my side didn’t hurt. As much.
I took a good look at his face. “You’re unusual. Most American-born taxi drivers are older. The young guys are almost always foreigners. I’d guess you come from New York or New Jersey.”
“For some people, Jersey is a foreign country.”
I peered at the driver’s ID clipped to the sun visor. The plastic covering it had yellowed and cracked, practically obscuring both the photo and the writing. “Okay, you have black hair, but even if you grew a mustache, you couldn’t pass for Ali Muhammad.”
“Name’s Rico,”
“I’m Valentine. You have a cabbie’s license?”
“I drive for Ali. It’s his cab. You saw it said ‘owner operated’ on the side? He takes nights. I do days sometimes. And what’s the deal with the third degree? I’m getting you a place to stay—for free.”
The Magician's Daughter Page 6
