by George Blum
all, in unison, looked up from the haze of their booze. After about fifteen seconds, someone near the jukebox struggled to his feet; I had found my customer. I flipped open the back door impatiently (I get that way toward the end of my shift), waited until he crawled in, and slammed it behind him, almost catching the tip of his left foot.
I already had on the dome light and neatly printed "MYS. MAN." in the "From" column, then looked around and saw my now wide-awake fare straightening his tie, probably conjuring up a line to feed the little lady upon arriving home at such an ungodly hour. He cleared his throat and then belched out the address: 1441 Boston Place. After about three minutes of virtual silence--the guy didn't even cough--we pulled up in front of his totally dark residence. He paid me with a ten dollar bill for a $4.20 fare and told me to keep the rest. I was, to say the least, pleasantly surprised, but before I could even utter a "thank you," he was slinking up his red-brick walkway with head bowed--the guilty prisoner approaching his impending execution.
I pulled the taxi up the street about a half a block (I didn't want to hear the fireworks when this guy tripped on the stairway and woke up the warden), then eased it to the curb. It would be time to quit pretty soon, and I like to double-check my trip sheet before bringing the cab into the garage. I also like to collect my thoughts in the filmy quiet of the night, the time when the raspy breathing of the trees mingles with the distant, almost agonized pounding of the waves against the beaches of Grenville.
I thought about some of my fares from the evening, toying once again with the idea of finally starting that journal; I could probably write a novel about my little world of outcasts. But it wasn't until I reached for the mike to clear my position on Boston Place that I realized I was once again sitting directly in front of the Grady house. There was something about the place that made me uneasy, but I couldn't put my finger on it. There was something I didn't like about that whole run, in fact: the giggling man, the flimsy story, that taunting you're jealous, aren't you? expression which crinkled like parched paper around the corners of his eyes. And as I looked up at flickering candlelight and the grotesquely dancing shadows in one of the upstairs bedrooms, I knew, of course, that that man wasn't Emma Grady's brother.
Yes Danny, wherever you are, I know it ain't none of my business--wives cheat on their husbands all the time, and vice versa--but it bothered me nonetheless.
11:45. Time for rejoicing, although the last fifteen minutes of any shift seem to take a good hour and a half. If Marlene had been working dispatch, I could've headed in by then, but when Bernice is on, forget about it. I didn't even try to phone in a 10-21 yet. Instead, I headed for the Central Street stand.
Luckily, Phil (the only driver I seem to get along with) was already at Central, sitting on the hood of his cab, legs and arms crossed guru fashion. As I pulled my car behind his, he waved his typically friendly greeting. That's when I noticed it. He must have had at least twenty-five stitches across the very brim of his forehead--ugly-looking stitches at that. Worse yet, the soft area of skin beneath his left eye was a yellow-blue-orange mixture of color, and still pretty well swollen up. His chin and jaw had been smacked around a bit, too, and some of the now-dried-up gashes in his face shone a sickly pinkish-red as he stood in the subdued glare of the nearby liquor store's tacky neon lights.
The cause of it all? According to Phil, he had tried to break up a fight between three sailors over a "cheap-looking blond-haired babe in a dress about four sizes too small for her." See what happens to a cabbie who didn't have the pleasure of meeting Danny Zito? He tries to get involved, he tries to do what's "right," he tries to take action in what "ain't none of his business" . . . and he gets the crap kicked out of him.
After chatting for a few minutes, Phil got a call back to the Navy base and left me sitting alone at Central. Until 11:52, that is.
"Forty-two!"
"Four two."
"Pick up at Beam's Castle. He'll be out front."
As I jotted down the pick-up site on my trip sheet, I had an uneasy premonition. Happens sometimes. I pulled a U-turn from Central, almost demolishing a stray cat while doing so, and headed toward Beam's, one of the classier saloons in Grenville. I pulled up to the curb swiftly, but carefully. The streets were still a bit wet from the sprinklers, and I wouldn't have wanted this prima-donna to get wet.
He stood before the bar's huge oak door in a three-piece tweed; he was a solemn-looking, middle-aged man. My hunch was that he was used to smiling, but that he didn't have any cause to do much of it in recent times.
"Orange Cab, sir," I said, opening the back door.
After offering me a pseudo-nod, he slipped into the back seat, disappearing into the darkness within.
"Where to?" I said, turning the ignition.
"Home . . ."
I always get ticked off when people say that--like I'm supposed to know where the hell they live--but as I looked in the rear-view mirror, I saw not a common drunk, but a quite composed man.
"Can you be any more specific than that?" I said lightly.
"Um . . . why don't you take a spin by the bay first? Is that okay with you?"
"Sure. " I knew we were supposed to get a definite address before we even put the cab in gear, but I felt, for some reason, like I shouldn't push this guy. As we drove down Stanton Avenue, I glanced every now and again into the rear view mirror, wanting to size up my enigmatic customer.
It's funny the way the lights play on the features of people's faces when they're sitting in the back of your cab. The illumination of street lights, neon lights, stop lights, even the dull glow of the meter light, all modify faces into ever-changing shapes and colors. Except this guy's face did none of that--no changes, no melting of features, no transformation of colors. Instead, whatever light was available leapt into his eyes. They seemed to glow fiercely from the back seat, growing brighter every once in awhile, as a tobacco ash flares up when someone blows on the tip of a cigarette ever so gently.
But the eyes didn't look at me; rather, they stared straight ahead, burning two imaginary, perfectly round holes through my finger-smudged, road-stained windshield. He asked me to stop by the city park down near the bay. We sat for a good five or six minutes before he said, in a peculiar, soft voice: "How I cherish the water . . . a good place for lovers . . . I've been here on occasion."
We sat for another minute or two, with only the mechanical ticking of the meter breaking the silence, when he said in a voice neither as soft nor mystical: "Home, please."
"Well, like I said, sir, if you'd be more . . ."
"1417 Boston Place. It's only a few blocks from here."
It hit me immediately. There had to be something to premonitions. Of course I had felt an inexplicable churning in my stomach earlier in the evening.
1417 Boston Place.
And this was undoubtedly Mister Grady.
I'm no genius, but Mrs. Grady was obviously gonna get caught in the company of her darling "brother" by Sugar Daddy himself.
Did Grady know all about his wife's extra, occasional lover? Perhaps not, perhaps he was just home a bit early from his latest business trip with a gift to surprise the little woman. Or was that bulge beneath his top jacket pocket something else again?
We didn't speak at all, and after a long two-and-a-half minutes, I pulled up in front of his beautiful home, not wanting to, but noticing nonetheless the still-flickering light in the upstairs bedroom window. Grady flipped me a twenty dollar bill, grunted a thank you, and got out of the car determinedly. He was a man with a purpose.
12:07. I radioed in that I was through for the night and headed back for the garage. I didn't want to think about what had happened during the evening, or, more importantly, what might happen in the next several minutes of the dark night ahead. It was truly none of my business--Danny had been absolutely right.
But I just knew I was gonna hate the headlines in the morning paper.
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About the Author
Synopsis of Murder on Retreat: Hubert Maston, managing partner of the San Diego branch of a California law firm, has many enemies, both inside and outside the firm. Maston is found dead on the beach during the firm’s annual getaway "retreat." Maston did not suffer a heart attack, and did not experience an "accident." The police believe it is murder, and begin a vigorous investigation. Among the leading suspects are: an associate who has been falsely accused by Maston of committing malpractice; a pair of junior partners who dream of taking control of the firm; Maston’s senior partners, who suspect him of tampering with firm funds; a defense attorney who has suffered the ultimate betrayal by Maston; and the victim’s wife, who is angered over her husband’s most current affair. An attorney within the firm unwittingly becomes an important player in the investigation, and sets a dangerous trap to catch the murderer.
