by Adam Dunn
“My compliments to the chef,” Santiago said wryly, with a sidelong glance at Javaid, who was positively beaming now.
“Thank you, detective. My foreman Manesh and I spent many nights planning the layout for the service area. Our objective was simple: No taxi should spend more than one shift in the shop. A taxi on a lift earns no money. Manesh was the fastest taxi mechanic on McGinnis Boulevard. I knew when I had a fleet of my own I wanted him to be the one who would maintain it.” Javaid punctuated this compliment by nodding toward the gorilla in overalls who was looking toward the floor—not averting his eyes, Santiago realized, but keeping watch on something on the floor. What the hell was he doing? And where the hell was More?
As if in answer, More emerged duck-like from behind the cab he had first approached upon their arrival, walking on his haunches, his eyes roughly level with the cab’s headlights. He showed no concern for having a man Santiago’s size, within arm’s reach of a wide array of heavy metal tools, plodding a few feet behind him. Tariq also took notice of More’s reappearance, and he seemed annoyed at having to divide his spiteful glare in two directions. Santiago knew he had to maintain control of the situation—More did not seem to give a shit—and keep these jittery cabbies cool. That brought him back to the cabs themselves.
Which were hardly TLC standard issue. The cab on the nearest lift was a brand-new Honda Fit, painted an outrageous mix of the usual yellow and black laced with a red-white-and-blue-striped pattern that Santiago knew he’d seen somewhere before, but could not readily identify. The wheels were obviously brand-new alloys, but their style was also vaguely familiar and seemed foreign, in an old-fashioned way. The dome light was a smooth wide fairing, like an eyebrow ridge over the windscreen, with a second fairing running perpendicular from the middle rear of the eyebrow partway down the center of the roof—a long dorsal fin that Santiago guessed housed an integral satellite antenna. “And an LCD display for advertising,” Javaid said with a clairvoyance that rattled Santiago.
All the while, More kept peering over his nose at the car from about four inches away, so Santiago was grateful when Javaid stepped into the breach. “This is our model taxi of the future, detective. The Honda Fit TDI. My son calls it the ‘Fat.’ ” (This elicited a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle from More, and even Santiago couldn’t resist half a grin despite himself.) “It has a two-point-two-liter i-DTEC turbo diesel engine with a combined fuel economy of forty-five miles per gallon, with a fifteen-gallon fuel tank, and a new catalytic converter system that breaks down NOX pollutants without urea injection, as well as diesel particulate filters fitted on the exhaust and good for the lifetime of the car.” Javaid paused to let the detective catch up. “Honda does not ordinarily supply taxi fleets, although some individual owner-operators have successfully introduced them into service. Manesh came up with an aftermarket titanium suspension upgrade that met with TLC fleet standards.” Santiago nodded, his mouth tightly closed. He had not understood a thing Javaid had just said but hoped he looked like he had.
More’s voice, brittle from lack of use, sounded distant and alien as it rattled off the concrete floor. “There hasn’t been a diesel medallion issued since 1984,” he muttered. “How’d you get one?”
How the fuck did More know that?! Santiago asked himself yet again.
Javaid smiled even more broadly and benignly, a proud patriarch with teeth like the Burgess Shale. “By giving the TLC what it asked for, detective. While it’s true that the TLC, as well as the Mayor’s Office, would like to see a fully hybrid fleet by the end of the century’s second decade, it acknowledges that there is no way to meet all the demands placed by various political lobbies around the city.
“Based on these conditions, and armed with our own experiences working within the industry for several years, we—my son, my foreman, and I—devised a new, more efficient mini-fleet, one we could make work for ourselves. You see the results before you.” Javaid spread his arms and opened his hands. “This corporation is entirely self-sufficient. It has its own medallions, its own taxicabs, its own service area and fuel supply. Behind the office, there—” he pointed toward a door behind the hulking foreman—“are the drivers’ lockers, toilets, and showers. Any time a driver needs a bathroom, he can find one here.” Javaid’s smile cratered for a moment into a hard grin. “I can assure you, detectives, being seated at the wheel for twelve hours a shift without a bathroom break is not what the human animal was made for. I can give you the names of at least three drivers who now require dialysis three times a week because of it.”
The grandfatherly smile returned. “Ten cabs, three men to a cab. Three eight-hour shifts instead of two twelve-hour shifts. The drivers choose shifts based on seniority, that is, number of years on the road. Top man gets first pick. Free parking on-site for staff vehicles.” Javaid paused, as though preparing himself for something unpleasant, Santiago wasn’t sure what. “Health insurance for all staff.”
Fucking More did it again. “Taxi drivers are independent contractors. Under state law, they can’t unionize. So how’d you get them health insurance?”
Javaid’s smile went from grandfather to Grand Inquisitor. “You seem to know a bit about the business, detective. May I ask how?”
“No,” More grunted nasally. “Suffice it to say I bothered to check. How’d you get the insurance?”
Santiago felt like he was watching a tennis match. Something was being lobbed back and forth between More and Javaid, and he wasn’t getting it. He settled for keeping watch on Tariq and the big blank-faced mechanic, who still stood uncomfortably close to More. But Santiago sensed something, a change in the pressure between the cabbies and the cops. It took him exactly three-and-a-half seconds to grasp what it was. More had gotten their attention. He had shown interest in what they had to say, and now they were reciprocating. The tension coming off the cabbies was changing to curiosity. It’s working, Santiago yearned to tell More. You’ve got ’em. Now reel ’em in. But for Christ’s sake, clear your throat.
Javaid was standing up very straight, looking down intently at More, who seemed to have no circulatory issues with squatting indefinitely on the cold concrete floor. “This is a private corporation, detective,” Javaid said, speaking slowly and evenly, though in a softer tone than one begging confrontation. “We have contracted with a national health insurance provider through a local hospital network, which offered us a group rate for our employees, which also offers limited coverage for dependents. A fixed percentage is withheld from each employee’s wages, calculated by the amount of quarterly premiums charged to the corporation.” Javaid’s smile warmed up a couple of degrees. “We also have an IRA program set up for—” Javaid halted abruptly in midsentence.
“Where’s the real money coming from?” More asked in a clear voice.
Javaid sighed. “I don’t suppose you know what a hawaladar is, detective? No? He is, shall we say, the bedrock upon which the Islamic financial system has rested until very recently, and he still is, for millions of disenfranchised Muslims around the world with totalitarian governments over their heads, religious or secular, and no vast lakes of oil beneath their feet. Simply put, his job is to transfer monies from one party in one location to a second party in another. This transaction may, and often does, transcend international borders. There are no records kept. One could think of it as the world’s oldest off-balance-sheet transaction. It is based entirely upon trust, and the hawaladar’s relationship with his clientele may stretch across generations.”
The cops said nothing. The big one, Javaid surmised, had no idea what he was talking about, and masked his ignorance with stolid silence, trying to look like Manesh. The smaller one on the floor didn’t move, his breathing was lost beneath his baggy clothing, and his eyes didn’t seem to blink as much as biology required. Javaid pressed on.
“Such was my family’s relationship with our hawaladar, who had received my family’s patronage since long before I was born,” he continued. “Ou
r hawaladar’s eldest son is now an executive at the Abu Dhabi Investment Authority, what you here call a sovereign wealth fund. The Gulf League states are enjoying unprecedented wealth at the moment, and constantly seek new opportunities for investment. Having already spent large amounts on faltering international financial institutions, such investment groups are now looking for, shall we say, less risky ventures, with a more reliable return on equity. For a minute fraction of the sums the ADIA spends on capital infusions for banks and brokerage firms, the amount required to purchase land, plant, equipment, and medallions, a taxi corporation run by veterans of the industry can obtain hard assets, real estate, and experienced management with a built-in line of succession.” The big cop was losing some of his composure, Javaid thought; his lips were parted, he appeared to be sweating slightly.
“More, what the fuck is this shit?” Santiago snapped.
Immobile, More replied, “New York’s broke. These guys come along with money from Abu Dhabi ready to pour in millions, maybe billions, into an industry central to city infrastructure. The U.S. can’t audit a foreign country, and even if it got a list of accounts, there’d probably be a broker’s name, or a lawyer’s, nothing more.”
While speaking, More had somehow gotten to his feet with neither a rustle of clothing nor a crackling of joints.
“We’re not here to hurt you. We will need copies of your financial statements, receipts of purchase for equipment, copies of inspection certificates by the TLC, DEP, DOB, every city agency you went through to obtain permission to set up your operation. You seem to have gone to great lengths to put this corporation together legally; all we’re asking for is a copy of the paper trail. Can you oblige us?”
This one didn’t bluster like the big one did, Javaid thought. Concise and to the point. He should have gone into business instead of frittering away his life on this ujar. But that was no concern of his. The business was legal, and there were reams of paper to prove it. Once Urbank and the ADIA were brought in, it was out of his hands.
More turned to Tariq.
“Why the Minilites? Couldn’t you get Sunraysias?”
Whatever More’s words meant, they had a truly shocking effect. The kid’s features twitched, his shoulders relaxed, and he smiled—actually smiled, baring eggshell-white teeth in the regimental alignment that Santiago knew the NYPD’s dental plan would never cover.
“Not for Honda, and they’d never fit over the brakes we got,” Tariq replied. He spoke the Queen’s English, clarion London, not a trace of his father’s accent. “Dad thought the Minilites would give a more classic look, and the vendor had a fitment package for Honda ready to go. It’s all in the paperwork.”
Santiago had no idea what was happening.
“Tell your painter he did a great job,” More said with an incongruous grin, pivoting neatly on the ball of one foot and sliding just out of range of the bolt cutter. “I hope the filmmakers don’t sue you.” He slid to a stop between Santiago and Javaid and held out a card to the latter. “Let us know when the copies are ready. If you’ve got a scanner, you can e-mail the files directly to Detective Santiago.”
That motherfucker had even swiped his cards! Santiago couldn’t believe it. This guy broke every rule in the book.
But then again, Santiago cautioned himself, this guy was no cop. That was becoming clearer by the minute.
“Tell me,” More continued nonchalantly, “do you get many drivers from other garages applying to work here?”
“Of course,” Tariq said with the same pride in his voice as his father’s. “Every driver in town wants to work with us. We only pick those we think are the best qualified. We can afford to be choosy.”
More, riding the drift upward: “And do you keep records of all those applicants?”
Father and son exchanged glances. Santiago could actually see the weight of their mutual wrangling over the decision to open up to the cops or not hanging in the air.
More, you motherfucker, Santiago raged silently. See what clearing your throat once in a while can do?
Santiago knew something was wrong as they walked back toward their battered hack, which stood out in stark contrast to the shiny new Hondas, resplendent in their unusual livery. Santiago was sure he’d seen the paint scheme somewhere but still couldn’t place it. Now, however, he got curious. More had pulled out his phone.
It was bigger than a standard iPhone and covered in some kind of thick heavy-duty plastic. It reminded Santiago of a pygmy version of the device his asshole brother carried on the job as a UPS driver; he bet himself it was waterproof and impact-resistant. He hadn’t seen where More had pulled it from, but noticed that he kept it next to and slightly behind his left thigh, with his hand concealing it from forward view. Santiago’s antennae went up.
“Wassup? Your date cancel on you or something?” Santiago didn’t know why he said it. More didn’t seem like a guy who went on dates, more like a guy who snatched women off the street in a van.
“Two o’clock, fifty meters, behind the dumpster, gray four-door,” More said in a low, clear voice, with no trace of interference. He sounded like he was already on a radio.
Without turning his head from More, and without changing his stride, Santiago let his eyes move left to the edge of his peripheral vision. It was there, all right. Might as well have been lit up in neon: UNMARKED CAR.
“So?”
More was working his phone with his thumb without looking at the screen.
“The plate’s coming up as a delivery van for a flower shop. That means two things. One, it’s stolen.”
This guy is going to drive me batshit, Santiago thought. How the hell could he run a plate so fast? “Two?”
“Whoever sent the car doesn’t want us to find out who they are.”
Now Santiago felt uneasy. “More, we’re cops investigating two murders. Nobody would fuck with that.”
“Detective, we start out looking for drugs in bars, which leads to dead cabdrivers, then we turn up a money pipeline to the United Arab Emirates. Now we’ve picked up a tail. Maybe this guy Javaid is on the level; we’ll find out when we check the paper trail. But one thing about SWFs is you don’t know where every dollar comes from, or where it ends up. Maybe this hawaladar backed a legit cab company. Who knows what his other projects are? I think whoever’s in that car there might be able to tell us.”
Now Santiago got nervous because, for the very first time, he thought he might have seen the beginnings of a smile.
“So let’s ask ’em,” he said, reaching for his badge.
“I’ve got a better idea,” More said, reverting to his razor-wire voice. They had reached their cab and More was in the driver’s seat and had the engine ticking over before Santiago even had his hand on the door handle. He yanked open the door, stuck his head inside, and said, “May I remind you I have the keys?”
“I copied them. Get in.”
“You fucking did—”
“Get in.” More had his Fish Face on. Whatever it was, it was going down now.
Fuck me, Santiago thought bitterly as he jumped inside, having to pull his right leg in fast or have it severed by the closing door; More already had the cab moving.
More drove fairly slowly off the lot and past the intersection where the unmarked squatted, then punched the gas as soon as they were out of sight. He had his phone to his ear, barking orders in a tone Santiago had never heard him use, but that he recognized instantly. More was giving commands like he expected them to be obeyed. More was acting like he was in charge. Santiago heard him telling something to somebody, somewhere, and caught the call sign for the NYPD Aviation Unit, at which point he reached for his seatbelt and buckled himself in securely. Fuck me, he thought again.
“McKeutchen says you came up through Traffic,” More said, his voice clear and strong. Santiago noticed that More had his left foot lightly resting on the brake pedal while his right more firmly pushed the gas. The speedo hovered at thirty-five. The tail car filled the re
arview, gaining on them.
What the fuck are you getting at now, Santiago moaned inwardly, feeling a bit like Charlie Brown. Why couldn’t he have a normal partner like everyone else? “Yeah.”
“Show me.”
I N T E R L U D E II
( A L L E G R O C O N B R I O)
Vă rog, te implor,” Reza pleaded, “you’ve got to listen to me.”
“Nu, ascultă-mă,” rasped the Slav in his ear. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“But you’re going to destroy everything we’ve worked for!”
“Reza, you need to understand. We’re on a tight schedule. We have to have our positions secured as soon as possible.”
“But why? It’s taken years to get to where we are, and taking the time to plan our moves has worked beautifully. The authorities had no idea, and we almost never had to do anything that would get their attention, like we’re doing now. It’s a mistake to—”
