Rosemary Herbert - Front Page Teaser

The cab came to a halt in traffic.

“If I gave you a printed receipt, could you tell me which garage the cab came from?” Liz asked. She handed the driver the copy of Ellen’s receipt.

“For that, you have to call the number on the receipt.”

“It’s always busy. Could you radio in and get the information for me?”

The driver hesitated.

“I’ll pay double for this ride.”

That decided it. The driver pulled over, and with the cab idling and the meter running, he took his time gathering the information.

“Do you know where that taxi garage is located?” Liz asked.

“You should’da asked me that when you got in my cab. It’s a block from where you got in.”

“Would you mind turning around and taking me there?”

“The things people will do for a story!” the driver said. “You realize it’s quite a few blocks, in traffic? And at double the fare, it’ll cost ya.”

“No problem. With this receipt, should I be able to find out who was driving a certain cab during a particular trip?”

“If it was my cab, they could. Like I told you, this is my vehicle. Unless I’m on vacation and I rent it to another driver when I’m away, I’m the one driving it. If you called the number on the receipt, they’d ask you the medallion number. That’s my cab. The taxi commission would point you to me. But, like I said, it isn’t always up to me to find your valuables. You’re outta luck when you lose something if the next rider doesn’t turn it in.”

“I see. I’m not too worried about valuables. What if you drove a cab from a garage? Then how would I know if you were the driver at a particular time?”

“You can ask at the garage. Here it is,” he said pulling up to the curb.

The taxi garage was located next door to a red-painted building that looked like it had been custom built as the subject for an Edward Hopper painting. A lone customer sat absorbed in the New York Post behind the plate glass window, which was painted with a salmon-pink image of a minaret and the words “Fabulous Falafel” in bright blue lettering.

Liz passed by the felafel shop and made her way into the garage. There, two mechanics, supine under a battered taxi, leered at Liz, behaving far more like alpha males than did the Banner ’s mailers. One of them directed Liz to an office at the far end of the work area. On her way past the men, Liz tried, with difficulty, to feign interest in the surroundings. There wasn’t much to catch the eye: a few out-of-date license plates, a vending machine offering “Salted Peanuts: 25 cents,” and a girlie calendar.

The office held more to look at, as Liz soon learned. As she entered the room, its sole occupant signaled her to wait while he carried on a heated telephone conversation with a taxi driver.

“I’m telling you, my friend, that’s how it is,” he said. “You either get in here with that cab this minute and turn it over to the guy on the next shift, or I consider you on duty and earning. Don’t give me a song and dance about being in the boroughs. I don’t care if you’re at Montauk Point,” he added, referring to the easternmost point of 118-mile-long Long Island. “You’re due in now , pal. And make sure your cab’s clean. I’ve had two complaints in the last three weeks about your filthy trunk.”

Liz took the opportunity to look around the office and found it to be well organized. Keys to cabs were hung on numbered cup hooks screwed into one wall. Below the keys was a system of open cubbyholes, each one labeled with a driver’s last name. Another wall was hung with fan belts, numerous family photos of the man in the office and his brood, and an oil painting of Mount Fuji, done in flaming hues that suggested either a violent sunset or an ongoing eruption of this symbol of Japan.

Slamming down the phone, and shrugging his shoulder in the direction of the painting, the garage manager said, “One of our drivers painted that.”

“It’s pretty good.”

“Yeah? Maybe for a guy from Canarsie who’s never been east of Queens. Frankly, I think he got the Jap mountain mixed up with the Eye-talian one. You know, Mount Vesuvius. The thing looks ready to blow.”

“Or like it’s already flowing with lava,” Liz laughed.

“You didn’t come in here to discuss art. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m here because I’m writing a mystery novel. . .”

“I don’t want anything to do with that.”

“Please, hear me out. I’ve got a taxi driver in my book—who saves the day. But before he does, he gets in some hot water. I don’t want him to be too goody-goody, you know, because then it won’t be surprising if he’s the hero.”

“Yeah?”

“I was hoping you’d let me know some things a driver could do that would jeopardize his career, like keeping his vehicle messy.”

“That’ll do it. Or smoking without the passenger’s permission. Or keeping the cab out beyond your hours so the next guy can’t drive it, like the clown I was just talking to is doing, as we speak.”

“That’s really helpful,” Liz gushed. “I was thinking about having a character lose something in a cab. Then she tries to find it by using her receipt. I probably have a receipt here,” Liz said, digging in her pocket. “Here’s one. What would happen if she followed up on this receipt?”

Her companion examined the receipt and narrowed his eyes.

“By the way, my name is Liz,” she said, turning a big smile on him. “What’s yours?”

“It’s Jake. Hey, listen, if you’re trying to get one of my guys in trouble, you’ve come to the wrong garage. This cab isn’t one of ours.”

“Let’s try another one,” Liz said, pulling out the hand-written receipt.

“This one’ll tell you jack-shit,” Jake said. “It’s not legal.”

“What do you mean?”

“See here,” Jake said, pointing to the printed receipt. “This one has the medallion number. It I.D.s the cab and much more. This other one here doesn’t tell you a thing. You lose something in that cab and it’s gone—for evah .”

“I gather your drivers use the right kind of receipt.”

“You bet!”

“And they return found articles to you?”

“Right again.”

“So, if my character loses something in one of your cabs, you’d be able to tell if it was turned in.”

“Assuming it was turned in and not taken by the next rider in the cab. Listen, what is it you’re looking for? I don’t believe you’re a mystery writer. You’re looking for something for yourself, aren’t you?”

“You ought to be a detective yourself, Jake. You’re right. The missing item I’m looking for is the cab itself. And here’s the receipt that identifies it.”

Jake scrutinized the receipt. Then he looked Liz over slowly.

“You a cop?” he demanded.

Liz remained silent until Jake realized his mistake. Obviously, the cab was one of his. And there was something questionable about it.

“This isn’t a real receipt. The paper’s too good and the edges aren’t torn. Who are you and what are you after?”

“A reporter. Beantown Banner . A woman called Ellen rode in that cab before she went missing from a Boston suburb a few days ago. She’s just a librarian and housewife and mother of an eight-year-old daughter,” Liz said, moving her gaze to the Jake’s family photos. “I’m trying to find her.”

“Cut the violins,” Jake said. “ And the appeal to my fatherly instincts. If I help you, it’s more a question of this,” he said patting his pants.

Liz looked away and stood up from the stool.

“Not that ! My pockets,” Jake said. “That guy brought in the bucks. And now he’s not showing up for work. I want my driver but I don’t want to call the cops on him. I’ve got a lot of foreigners working for me. Cops make them nervous.”