Race

“Watching what?”

“The car.”

“Why?”

“So nobody vandalizes it.” He looked at me as if I were dumb and stupid.

I quietly got in the car.

When we were out of Regent Park I asked, “What’s the story with Voshon?”

“A year ago we caught him stealing groceries from a variety store,” Beadsworth said.

“Groceries?”

“Yes. He said his younger brother was hungry and he didn’t have any money. Voshon’s a good kid, just in a bad environment. So we acquired him a job as a security guard.”

“A thief becomes a security guard. That’s a first,” I said.

“The security firm is owned and run by a retired police officer. Most of the people who work for him are young offenders looking for a second chance.”

“So when Voshon said he worked night shifts at the club he meant security work?”

“Voshon’s not into drugs. The only thing he cares about is his brother.”

This Voshon guy wasn’t all that bad. Come to think of it, Beadsworth didn’t look like a bad guy, either.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I shrugged.

“Don’t mention it, officer.”

“But I do think I should be able get to know you, y’know. You already know a lot about me.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked.

“Where you from?”

“England.”

“That explains your accent. But I’ve watched a lot of British soap operas and you don’t sound anything like them.”

“I was born there. But I spent most of my adolescence in the United States.”

“So you’re married with kids?” I said.

“Yes.” Beadsworth was about to say more when his cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. “Detective Phillip Beadsworth…” He listened. “Yes, dear…where is he now…is he okay…I’ll be right over.”

He hung up and continued driving. I could tell he was thinking.

“Why don’t you drop me off right here,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Headquarters is the other way. Don’t worry. Drop me off and go, do whatever you have to do.”

For the first time he looked at me as if there was more to me than met the eye.

“Are you certain?” he finally said.

“Yeah. Go. Don’t worry. I’ll call a taxi.”

“When I’m done, I’ll call you.”

He dropped me off and drove away. I looked around; this was unfamiliar territory. I pulled out my cell phone, ready to dial for a cab when I saw one come to a halt across the street. I squinted. It was orange and navy green. The cab plate number looked familiar and the driver did too. I rushed over.

A guy was approaching the vehicle when I intercepted.

“Sorry, sir,” I said, catching my breath. “Police business.” I waved my badge and got in.

“Police Headquarters. Fast,” I ordered the driver in a loud voice. He complied and put his foot on the pedal.

Once the guy was out of sight the driver slowed.

“You always do that,” said the driver in a slight accent. “He called for the taxi.”

“Hey, Mahmud,” I said, shocked. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, sure,” replied Mahmud Hanif.

Mahmud always wore a Blue Jays baseball cap, even though he’s not a baseball fan, and below that a plaid shirt and a sports jacket. He once tried to explain to me the similarities between baseball and cricket. Not sure what they were because I don’t know anything about cricket or baseball, for that matter. He’s from Pakistan and he came to our fine land almost three years ago with his wife and four children. Back in his country he was a qualified engineer, but once he arrived here, his experience and education were thrown out the window. He tried desperately to secure a job-any job-in his field, but it always came down to his zero Canadian experience. With a large family, going back to school was not an option. So he started driving a taxi to put roti, so to speak, on the table.

“Mahmud,” I said. “How come I always end up meeting you?”

There are five million people in the Greater Toronto Area and somehow I always managed to run into people I knew. Maybe it was my dashing good looks and sharp intellect-gravitating people toward me. Or maybe it was coincidences that only happened to me. That was the story of my life. Jon Rupret, man of infinite probabilities.

“So where is your car? Towed again?” he said smiling.

“I am ashamed, Mahmud, that you would say that,” I leaned over to the front seat.

“It happened before. Many, many, many times,” he said. “So what are you really doing with no car?” Mahmud asked.

“I’m glad you asked,” I said. “I’m on a case. A covert operation.”

“Covert?”

“Secret, top secret, to be precise. What I tell you must never leave this vehicle.”

“Sure,” he said, humouring me.

“I’m serious. I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Even some people I work with.”

“Then why tell me?”

“You know they have doctor-and-patient relationship? Lawyer-and-client relationship?”

“Yes.”

“You and I have passenger-and-taxi-driver relationship.”

“Yes, that’s very important.”

“So with our special relationship I can trust you. I know what I tell you will never leave this taxi.”

“You are correct.”

“I’m on a mission between good and evil.”

“Which side are you on?” he said. Then started to laugh.

“Very funny.” I said, slightly hurt. “Keep driving. No more of those smart-ass remarks or else our special relationship ends.”

“Sorry,” he said, still smiling.

“Like I was saying. There’s this new evil approaching our city and only one man can stop it-”

“-Sorry, I’m too busy driving taxi. Don’t have time.” Then he exploded.

“That’s it, Mahmud, our relationship ends right here.”

That didn’t bother him. He continued laughing.

“I’m warning you. I’ll find a new taxi driver. Someone who can appreciate our special relationship.”

“No, no. I’m sorry. Special relationship is very important.”

I sat back, crossing my arms. “Man, I was going to tell you everything. Now I’m not.” I pouted.

“No time. We are here,” he said looking at me through the rear-view mirror.

“So how much do I owe you?” I said putting my hand into my pocket.

“Forgot to turn on meter. Maybe next time,” he said.

Mahmud never charged me fare.

It happened eight months ago while I was driving through my usual route. I saw a taxi parked in front of a park with no driver in it. Parking around the park was not allowed. When I approached the vehicle, thinking I might get a tow, I heard a noise coming from the trunk. I pried it open and found the driver in bad shape. His was throat slashed, his palms bleeding, and he’d been stabbed in several places. I rushed Mahmud to the hospital. I guess I saved his life.