Small Town Taxi (Honey Walker Adventures Book 1) Page 3

  “You good-for-nothin’ cocksucker! What’ve you done? What’m I gonna do now? Huh?” she screeched, throwing the body to the ground. She marched back to my taxi. Why couldn’t she march to someone else’s car? I noticed the police ranks parted to give her easy access. Even men with guns know when to give a woman her space.

  “Take me back downtown,” she demanded and glowered.

  I looked at the nearest police officer and lifted my hands in a “what now?” gesture. He trotted to where Jon and several officers were watching the EMTs reload the body onto the gurney. As the officer waved his hand in my direction everyone stared at me. Jon hung his head in a frustrated way. Hey, I thought, I didn’t cause any of this.

  He walked over to my cab and leaned down to the open window.

  “I got no reason to hold her. Take her where she wants to go. But—” he pointed at her— “don’t go far. I will want to talk to you.”

  My spandex Wonder Woman slumped in the backseat and scowled. Hoping Jon didn’t see what her middle finger did, I eased out and then floored it, ready to drop my very pissed-off passenger anywhere, fast. I like to know what’s going on, but I draw the line at dead bodies. For once, I didn’t think about who was going to pay the fare.

  She directed me to an ornate in-town Victorian with a wrap-around porch. There was a set of white wicker furniture on the porch and two signs close to the sidewalk. One sign was for a dentist. The other said “Susan Young, Attorney at Law” in gold letters across a black background. Classy sign. My passenger might need someone with class. I wasn’t sure why she needed a lawyer, but some guidance with her wardrobe might help her stay out of trouble.

  I didn’t volunteer to assist her out of the car this time. As my fare fumbled with the door, who should walk up to the house, briefcase in hand, but Lady Red Shoes. Didn’t shooting someone in the courthouse constitute grounds for not being allowed to practice law? How about stiffing a cabdriver? That was definitely cause for disbarment. I jumped out of my cab and reached her before the Amazon could.

  “Hi, remember me?” I stood between her and the building and got up close and personal. Little is more personal to a cabdriver than collecting a legitimate fare. This woman was a lawyer and she owed me money. She was at the top of my “I hope you die after you pay me” list. If the apocalypse came, I wanted her right up front.

  The Amazon approached from behind. We had her sandwiched. The only question was which one of us wanted her more. It was the principle more than the $20 she owed me. Cabbies can’t afford to let the world think they can be taken advantage of. Anyway, not on my watch, and not with my cab company. I wanted that fare. I didn’t know what Amazon might want, other than a new ankle bracelet, maybe gold with some cute beads this time.

  Lady Red Shoes looked over her shoulder and saw the Amazon closing in from behind. She turned back to me and realized I was blocking her way.

  “You owe me, lady.”

  Amazon crowded closer. “I got a problem, too.”

  “I’m sure we can settle this,” she replied, facing me first. “What do I owe you?” She was dressed in a dark pantsuit and looked lawyerlike and intimidating. She had the posture down: arrogant, aggressive, clenching the briefcase like it was a permanent part of her body. I always have trouble figuring out what to do with my hands which are usually out, upturned, asking for money. I stuffed them into my pockets and stood fast. I admired the chutzpah it took to walk into a courthouse and unload a bullet into someone’s rear end. It was creepy that Amazon, who had recently dealt with a body full of bullet holes, was meeting a woman who had just drilled bullet holes into her own husband’s still alive body. I decided to get my fare money and not worry about Amazon and Susan Young.

  “Ten dollars for the ride and ten for the wait. And any tip you might want to use to make up for the trauma.”

  Lady Red Shoes, whom I assumed was the Susan Young, attorney at law, referenced on the sign, reached into her oversized designer bag and rummaged around. We all stepped up onto the porch where she sat down to give herself better access to the cavernous interior of the bag. She pulled out a notebook, a set of keys, brass knuckles, pepper spray, a hardcover law book, a trashy paperback and a gun.

  The Amazon paced and fidgeted and muttered, back and forth across the porch. I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but the gist of it was her stupid dog of a husband and, by the way, her pimp and currently a major source of income, had fucked up again. My problems seemed trivial by comparison. I had a pissed-off boss and a short fare till. She had a dead body in her life.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lady Red Shoes said and emptied her purse onto the wicker chair next to her. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor from the pile of purse detritus. I glanced down. It wasn’t a grocery list. It was a list of taxi companies from the area, written in careful block letters. There were six other companies on the list, but Cool Rides was highlighted in yellow, with three checkmarks next to it. If she liked us best, I didn’t return the sentiment.

  “How much do I owe you again?” She snatched the taxi list off the floor and stuffed it back in her purse.

  “Are you giving me danger compensation? How about material damages? Emotional distress? To both me and my boss. He gets very emotional about the cars. And I haven’t told him about the bullet hole yet.”

  “Look, I’m really sorry about that stuff at the courthouse. I got crazy when I heard my husband had surfaced. I needed to make a clear statement about how I felt about the fucker.” Her defiance didn’t back up the apology.

  “Next time don’t take a taxi to do it. Walk! It’s good for your health. And mine.” I huffed a bit. “Twenty dollars. And you can take us off that list.”

  She looked at me with an odd expression, somewhere between anger and guilt. She should have felt guilty. She tried to burn a taxi driver. And she shot her husband.

  “That’s what you owe me. Fare plus wait fee.”

  “Right.” Her attention had shifted to Amazon, who was becoming increasingly agitated. Susan Young, attorney at law, gave me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Keep it,” she said. I stared at it, trying not to grumble about tips.

  “Thanks loads.” I shuffled toward the steps leading me back to my taxi. I had my money, but my curiosity was gaining ground. What did Amazon want with a lawyer? And what did she know about the dead body? And who was the dead body? And…I pulled a wallet out of my bag, leaned against the doorjamb and stuffed in the twenty. I was just short of being rude when Susan turned and asked what else I needed.

  I turned to Amazon. “You gonna need a ride home?”

  She slumped into the wicker swing that faced the chairs. The swing groaned and Amazon sniffled. She looked like a stray puppy, a very tall stray puppy.

  “I guess. I’m not sure I can go back there.” She whimpered a little. I had just seen her throw a body to the ground one-handed, and now she was whimpering. It was strange. I continued to lean, looking away from the lawyer lady.

  I sighed. I knew what it was like to be alone, but I’d been lucky. Willie had taken me under his wing, stuck me in a taxi, handed me an address and told me to drive. I’d considered him an angel of major proportions when he let me sleep on the couch in the office for six months while I saved up enough to even get into subsidized housing and, soon thereafter, my own apartment. For the first week of my employment, I lived off stale bread and a jar of mayonnaise some previous driver had left in the office fridge. I don’t recommend it as a long-term diet, but it did let me save my fares and, realistically, it was probably just as good for me as any of the fast food offered on the strip. The reality was Willie was desperate for drivers. I had a valid driver’s license and no felony convictions. Turned out I was good at it.

  I sank onto the chair next to Amazon. Susan sat opposite us. That was a good sign. Lawyers usually don’t promote comfort and sympathy. They always try to stay in charge. Amazon didn’t need any more intimidation. She had been flying on anger since the dead body. Now tha
t her adrenaline had evaporated, she slumped, and her eyes drooped.

  Susan leaned toward Amazon. She had an almost sympathetic expression.

  “What brings you here, Belle?”

  Belle? I looked at Amazon. I had trouble making the name fit.

  Belle sniffed. She pulled herself up straight and raised her chin. I was impressed and reassessed my opinion. She could have class, even in spandex glitter.

  “Horace is dead,” she said without any of the anger she’d had when she confronted dead Horace.

  “What!?” Susan slid off her chair and sat on the other side of Belle. “Oh, Belle, I’m so sorry.”

  Belle put her hand over Susan’s. “Oh, he was never much to me but a pimp. I didn’t waste any like on him. So, don’t you.”

  Susan sat back. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” She glanced at me. “Do we need some privacy? Let’s go inside.”

  There was an irony to someone who had just been in police custody asking for privacy. But I stood up and leaned against the porch railing figuring Belle could ask me to leave if she wanted me to. She might need a friend more than she needed a lawyer. The lawyer in question gave me an odd look when I followed them inside. I figured Belle might be turning into girlfriend material and I didn’t think Susan qualified for that position for anyone.

  Belle smiled sadly. “Naw. Not that there weren’t times I wanted to. But I’ve got an alibi even the cops won’t break. I was in court witnessing against some idiot who beat up a friend of mine. They even gave me a tracker bracelet when he threatened to kidnap me. Anyway, I heard a few of the cops talking about that Scarpelli guy out of Springfield, from the crime family, and that scared me. He’s got a nasty rep for disappearing people who turn up in pieces later. I don’t really need a lawyer but if I need some place to stay for a while. I thought you might have a safe-house where you send clients.”

  I stared at her. She was still using inner-city slang, but the accent was straight out of the British upper class. How weird was that? My native tongue crossed with the Queen’s English.

  All I was really sure of was her profession. She was a prostitute. Horace was her pimp and possibly her husband. And who the hell was Scarpelli? Susan had looked startled at the mention of his name.

  Belle continued. “I’m not particularly sad to see Horace gone. He was a mean fucker. The only reason he didn’t whack me around is that I’m big. And he wasn’t.” The refined accent remained. Maybe it was her first language.

  Right now, Susan was the friend Belle needed, but lawyers can be anyone’s best friend until the law locks the client up forever. Then they would be on to their next best friend and the someone, who had paid them a small fortune, would be out of luck.

  Susan looked intently at Belle. “What did the police say about Scarpelli?”

  “Not much.” Belle rose and started pacing around the office. She walked with a new grace. No more stomping, striding or slouching. Her posture said, I’m in charge of myself. Regal. Okay, African Queen, I thought. Either way, no one would mess with her. She wasn’t overweight but she was tall and well built. She projected self-assurance.

  “What worries me is who did kill Horace. The police will be as tight as their sphincters about giving me information. Horace knew the Scarpellis, but I never met any of them personally. If someone is gunning for me, I want to know. And I have to find some place to stay off their radar. Most of my friends are in the business so the Scarpellis know them. I need someone they wouldn’t think of.” That was when she turned to me.

  “No,” I blurted. “I don’t even know you. One minute you’re a pissed-off Amazon and the next you’re a British…princess.”

  “Ah,” she said. “The accent? I’m bilingual.”

  Maybe bipolar too, I thought. Did I want to be roomies with a pissed-off royal hooker possibly being stalked by a deranged mafia killer? The police did have a body and they might want to know why it was a dead one. My apartment only had one bed. And a fold-out sofa. A short fold-out sofa.

  Susan brightened and looked at me. “It would only be for a few days. Until I can find out what the police know and what kind of problems Belle has.” She turned to Belle. “If I’m your attorney, your location would be privileged. We would be the only ones who know where she is.”

  Belle looked at me speculatively. “Who would think I’d be staying with my taxi driver? And I could pay you some rent money.” Her gaze traveled down to my sneaker-clad feet. “Enough for a new pair of shoes.”

  I was thinking about how to say no when my cell phone rang. When had I become her taxi driver? I did need some new shoes, and she probably knew where to get the best shoes at the best price.

  “Cool Rides, Honey Walker,” I answered in my most professional voice.

  “You got an airport,” Mona purred into the phone. “Pick up at Smith’s Funeral Home ASAP. She’s a special consideration.”

  “I’m on it.” I answered loud enough both Susan and Belle could hear and understand I had a job to do.

  “Just a few days,” Susan said. She put her hand on my shoulder, possibly trying to look sincere. “We would both owe you.”

  I could see having a lawyer indebted to me might be helpful in future life experiences. But a prostitute? Why would I want that? Of course, she did have fabulous taste in footwear and probably a few sources for them I had never heard of. And fingernails to die for I thought, looking at my own blunt cut, slightly ragged ones. Maybe she would turn out to be girlfriend material after all.

  Right now, I needed to get my airport fare. “Okay,” I blurted. Crap. I needed to slow down. “Just stay here until I get back from this fare. It should be about two hours.” Special consideration meant extra time while I parked, accompanied the fare into the airport and through security. It usually involved a wheelchair.

  “Thank you,” Belle said with the grace of royalty. I felt, but resisted, an urge to curtsey.

  As I headed out to the car, I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

  I pulled up to the funeral home and found an elderly woman sitting in a cast-iron chair by the door. She was short with curly white hair and nicely built for her age. She wore an old-lady big print dress and cross trainers on her feet. A plain cardboard box sat next to her. The man standing behind her must have been the funeral-home director because he was dressed completely in black except for his white shirt. She looked pretty happy with the world and was ignoring him completely.

  I hopped out of the cab and grabbed her box. The funeral-home director melted away.

  “Whoa!” I said. “What’s in here?” The box was small and heavy for its size.

  “Oh, that’s my dearly departed husband. And a right big one he was, too. I’m going to scatter his ashes.” She smiled beatifically. “Do you need some assistance? I was always able to move him by myself. Of course, I never tried doing it with anyone helping. That would be a threesome, wouldn’t it?” She beamed at me.

  “I think I can handle it. Do you want him in the backseat?”

  “No, no. I do believe I’d prefer him right here on my lap. That will be a nice reversal of position, won’t it? I didn’t let him get on top all that often.”

  “Umm …” I fastened her seat belt and eased her husband on top of her. She seemed oddly cheerful about the purpose of her trip.

  When we got to the airport, I parked in short-term, helped the widow into the shuttle, and heaved the box onto the rack. It settled like a sandbag. I hoped the old man was well wrapped. When we pulled up in front of the terminal, I hustled inside and snagged a wheelchair.

  The shuttle driver helped Granny off and got her settled into the wheelchair. I thanked God for accessibility as I staggered back from the shuttle with the box of Granddad. Placing him gently on Granny’s lap, I slung my handbag over my shoulder, shoved through the automatic doors and we were off toward the long line at check-in. The airport was crowded. Security was tight but not restrictive. I could take my fare as far as final check in. An airline e
mployee would take over from there.

  “Oh, what a cute little dog.” Granny noticed the drug-sniffing beagle pacing the walkway with its handler. As we passed it, I heard the dog sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze. I turned around and noticed a thin gray line between Grandma, Granddad and the dog. The dog was following the trail. I leaned over and pushed the torn corner back into the box. Digging in my oversize bag while I picked up the pace to get to the wheelchair line, I came up with the standard solution to everything. Duct tape. I tore off a piece, slapped it on Granddad’s escape hole and took off in a hurry. The dog stopped sneezing, threw back his head and howled.

  “What the hell?” His handler stared at the trail of ash ending in the middle of the walkway, a good 20 feet from us. I was trying not to watch the beagle when I noticed the ride around vacuum making its hourly sweep of the main concourse. It rumbled from one end of the terminal to the other, making a graceful arc at the far end to turn back and follow our trail past the cute beagle and the hordes of people waiting at security. It roared by, sucking up dust and stray bits of human remains inadvertently scattered on the wall-to-wall carpet. Pieces of Granddad were whisked away with dust and grit from around the world. Now he would be mixing with a lot of interesting international stories and characters. Who knew, maybe there was some space dust mixed in on that carpet.

  “Is there a problem?” Granny noticed me staring at the giant vacuum.

  “Oh, no. I just wonder how they keep this place clean. With so many people and all.” A little bit of Granddad wouldn’t make it to his final resting place. Most of him would be spread to the wind. And the wind would spread him across the planet. And some of him would end up in the same place vacuum cleaners and everything else go sooner or later. The dump.

  I turned Granny over to a young female airline agent in a crisp blue uniform.

  “Hope Granddad enjoys the new location,” I said.

  The agent looked around for Granddad. I patted the cardboard box. “Granddad,” I added.

  “Oh, my mother just told me where to scatter her.” The agent smiled.