She stood close to me, wrapping her arms around me like a referee with a beaten fighter, whispering the same words. 'You can always do it, honey,' she crooned. 'Tonight's not your night.'
Not this one, anyway.
I stayed to myself. In my office. My cell. Did a lot of reading, the way I did when they had me locked down. Built up all this vocabulary I had no place to use.
I didn't have the heart for any of my usual scams. I waited to save it for the pain.
More than a year passed, and they never came around. Maybe they knew and just didn't care.
It could be. I knew, and
I twisted the ignition key and the cab's engine kicked over. I put it in gear and pulled away from the curb on Franklin Street, circling the block, canceling the rooftop OFF DUTY sign with a flick of my thumb. When I came back around, the redhead was still striding along. She hailed my cab and I pulled over.
She climbed in the back seat, keeping one hand on a big black leather pocketbook.
'Where to?' I asked her.
'Central Park West and Seventy–seventh,' she said in a hard, measured voice. 'You know where that is?' she challenged, glancing at my hack license framed on the dash. Maybe she thought Juan Rodriguez didn't speak English.
'Yes ma'am,' I told her. 'West Side Highway to Tenth okay?'
'Isn't straight up Sixth shorter?' she asked, a hostile overtone to her throaty voice.
'Lots of traffic now, ma'am. It's quicker the way I said…but anything you say, that's okay.'
'Oh, go your way,' she snapped, lighting a cigarette, blowing a jet–stream at the yellow decal I had plastered on the partition between the front and back seats. The one that said No Smoking Please— Driver Allergic in bold black letters.
When I pulled over on CP West, she tipped me two bucks— I guess she liked docile drivers.
I watched her go into the high–rise. The doorman smiled as if he'd seen her before.
I parked the cab at a hack stand, pulled my gym bag off the front seat and walked along until I found a bar that didn't have ferns in the window.
'Absolut rocks,' I told the bartender. 'Water on the side.'
The place was nearly empty. I left the change from my twenty on the bar, waited until the bartender was down at the other end, drank most of the water, poured some of the vodka into the water glass. I picked up my gym bag and carried it into the Men's Room. It was empty.
I took off my leather jacket, pulled the sweatshirt over my head, took off the oversize chino pants. Underneath, I had on a pair of dark gray wool slacks and a light gray silk shirt. I took an unstructured navy blue linen jacket from the gym bag, shrugged into it, checked for fit. Then I peeled off the phony mustache, squeezed some gel into the palm of my hand, ran it through my hair. When my hair got heavy and greasy enough, I combed it straight back, secured the little ponytail with a rubber band. I put the cabdriver clothes in the gym bag, walked out of the Men's Room and out the front door of the bar.
The doorman was still at his post, dressed like a lieutenant in some banana republic, standing with his hands behind his back.
I closed up the space between us, hands open at my sides, palms down.
'How you doing?' I asked him.
'Okay, man. What's up?'
'I'm looking for a little information. Lightweight stuff. Thought maybe you could help me out…
'You the po–leece?'
'The police this polite?' I asked him, holding out my hand to shake.
He did it, palmed the three twenties I had folded up.
'Woman came in maybe twenty minutes ago. Tall redhead. You smiled at her— she's been in before?'
'I'm not sure, man.'
'Yeah, you're sure. You didn't know her, you'd have to play the role,' I said, glancing at the sign posted at the door: ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED.
'I don't know her name, just…'
'I know her name, pal. Which apartment does she go to?'
He tilted his head back, looked into my eyes.
I looked back.
He took his hand out of his pocket, looked over the money I'd passed him.
'It's enough,' I told him.
'She goes to twenty–seven–G, man. Every time.'
'Who's there?'
He looked back at the money in his hand.
