Hardware (19 page)

“Look, Carlotta, all I did was tell him you were an okay P.I. when he asked. I'm sorry if I did something wrong. I won't do it again.”

“Did you happen to spread the news of my upcoming meeting with Mr. Cochran?” I asked.

“Honey, I don't gossip unless I mean to gossip. Lee didn't exactly tell me the gruesome details, so I didn't have anything juicy to pass along.”

I believed her.

“Now, if you want to tell me what it's all about,” she continued, “if Lee's wife's leaving him, or he wants you to kidnap his kids and deprogram them from the Church of the Holy Nutritionist, I'll be happy to put it out over the radio.”

“Diet getting on your nerves?” I asked.

“Huh,” she said. “With Marvin living here, it's gonna be rough on me. I only get to eat when he sleeps.”

She was taking advantage of the opportunity. Hostess Sno Ball wrappers covered her desk. An almost empty sack of M&M's drooped near the phone console. She opened a desk drawer, hauled out a jar of Planters peanuts, and twisted the lid.

“Want some?”

“No, thanks. You got that list of former employees who hate your guts?” I asked.

“Why's that important? You think somebody's beating on cabbies 'cause they hate me? Just as easy to come by and beat on me.”

“People are devious.”

“Most of 'em are plain stupid, Carlotta. Look how they're willin' to pay to lose weight. These diet places charge more than a fine restaurant would. That's crazy.”

“Hackney Carriage Bureau says the hotel lobby's gearing up for a new push. Talking about adding seven hundred medallions.”

“See,” she said. “People are crazy.”

“Gloria, would the cabbie organizations, like Cochran's STA, be telling the truth if they told the Hackney Bureau there aren't enough drivers to handle the cabs already on the road?”

She stopped eating for a moment. “There's heavy unemployment. Heavy unemployment usually means plenty of drivers.”

“But you're having trouble staffing the night shift.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So if a lot of cabbies got beaten up and stopped working …”

“Carlotta, what are you saying? That the small owners are rousting their own cabbies so they can tell the city there's no point issuing more medallions 'cause nobody's willin' to drive?”

Didn't sound likely, phrased that way. “Let me have the list, Gloria.”

“Take the phones. I got it in the back room and I don't want you wakin' Marvin.”

“I never mess with hungry tigers.”

“Just pick up the calls. You know the routine. I could use a little movement.”

Probably had a stash of potato chips in the back room along with Marvin.

I got busy on the console, plugging one ear with my index finger so Aretha's “Respect” wouldn't block out the callers. A man wanted a cab on Hemenway Street—right now, please—and a woman with a high, prissy voice needed one near Boston College. I took names, addresses, apartment numbers, and gave out the standard ten-minute spiel. Lots of cabstands near Symphony Hall. I wasn't sure who was out near B.C. I punched buttons.

“Who wants four fifty-eight Hemenway?” I asked.

“I do. Number forty-three. You ain't Gloria talking.”

“I know. Can you take Hemenway?”

“Got it. That you, Carlotta?”

“Yeah, who's that?”

“Come on, you remember Al DiMag?”

“How you been, Al?”

“Thriving. You?”

“Okay.”

“Haven't seen you. You riding dispatch?”

“Filling in.”

“Take care.”

“Al, hold it a minute. You, or anybody out there, you been robbed or threatened lately?”

“I heard some guys got their butts kicked real good,” Al said.

“Names?”

“Just talk.”

“Anybody else?”

Three minutes of jumbled free-for-all in several languages followed, with partial translations. Everybody'd heard rumors. Nobody mentioned Marvin. Details were few and sketchy. Street names. Bar talk. Drunk talk.

“Twenty bucks for anybody writes me up a report with a genuine name and an address to match,” I said. “Leave it with Gloria at Green and White.”

“And trust you for the money?”

I thought I recognized Al's skeptical voice.

“I'm putting two tens in an envelope even as we speak,” I said.

Gloria wheeled her chair into position. “Bribin' my drivers?” she asked.

“That okay with you?”

“Anything makes 'em drive faster. Here. List goes back a year.”

Two pages, double-sided. “You've got some turnover problems,” I said.

“Average for the industry.”

“If I check for prior arrests, how many you figure I'll net?”

“Hon, this is a cab company. They got a license, they can drive. They don't need to be perfect. You gonna have Mooney run 'em?”

“I can run 'em myself. I have access. Anybody you'd start with?”

“None of these boys gonna win the Nobel peace prize.”

“Any real nasty little snots?”

“This one,” she said, tapping the starred name of Zachary Robards with the eraser end of a yellow pencil. “But that probably ain't his real name, 'cause he dropped right after I asked him for some papers, Social Security, stuff like that.”

“What did he look like?”

“White kid. Local. No immigration problems; I cut more slack for immigrants. He just didn't seem to like the job. Didn't like answering to a black woman boss, maybe.”

“Give you a reason when he quit?”

“Didn't show one day, didn't show the next. Little creep. I called the cops.”

“'Cause he didn't show for work? You should have called his mother.”

“He didn't bring a cab back. Cops found it someplace in Southie. No damage. Goddamn miracle.”

“They find the guy?”

“Wrong name, wrong address; guess they gave it a look.”

“He on a missing persons?”

“I didn't file on him. Ain't no dearly beloved of mine.”

I underlined Zachary's name on the list.

“Marvin awake?”

“Sleepin' like a baby.” Gloria hesitated, selected the bag of M&M's, shook it over her desk till it was empty. The twenty or so candies must have looked lonely, so she added a handful of peanuts, blending her own trail mix. “Uh, you sure you haven't seen Sam?” she asked after downing a mouthful.

“Nope.” I hoped I didn't sound as guilty as I felt.

“Must be in Washington.”

“He got a lady there?”

“Not so he'd tell me.”

“You get your computers?”

“Not yet.”

“Did Sam mention a guy named Frank?”

She shook her head. “No. Is that the computer freak?”

“Maybe he brought him by.” I described the man I knew as Frank, but even as I spoke I realized how useless the words were. Beard, no beard. Silvery hair, dark hair. The things people remember are the easiest things to change.

Gloria took two more calls on the console, urged a cabbie onward toward B.C. “Sam doesn't share this place much,” she said. “It's not exactly snazzy reception desks with cute little secretaries. And Sam doesn't seem to have many men friends, you know what I mean? His brothers, he's not real close to.”

“Let me know if Sam shows up with Frank,” I said.

“You and Sam getting along?”

I said, “Can't get along with him when I don't see him.”

“Look, would you please ride graveyard tonight? Otherwise I got a cab with no driver.”

“It's time away from the investigation,” I said.

She grinned. “You might get lucky. Beaten and robbed. ID the suspects.”

“I thought Sam grounded me,” I said.

She shrugged her massive shoulders. “He ain't around, he won't know,” she said, placid as a huge Buddha, nodding and munching in her metal chair.

TWENTY-THREE

By eleven forty-five, a full moon hung lazily in the sky, surrounded by a corona, gleaming like scoured bone. Scudding clouds covered it, dimming the glow before I could slam the door against the biting wind. The motor groaned twice, turned over. I shivered in spite of two pairs of wool socks and a heavy cable-knit sweater worn over a cotton turtleneck. I'd tucked the shirt into houndstooth-checked men's slacks, thirty-four-inch in-seam, elastic waist, a Filene's basement bargain too flamboyant to bring top dollar retail.

No gloves. They get between me and the feel of the wheel, interfere with the connection.

Midnight's my favorite driving time. The regular folks are home in bed, kiddies tucked under quilts, furnaces roaring. The impatient horn-honking commuters are gone, banished from sight and mind.

Night people are more relaxed in some ways, edgier in others. When I drive graveyard, my senses come alive; my whole body tingles on alert. Sometimes I feel like I'm back in a squad car, searching alleyways for the unexpected shadow, listening for the sound of running feet.

I felt a rush of anger at Sam Gianelli, at anyone who'd try to deprive me of this blustery star-pocked night, shelter me in some spun-sugar cocoon.

“Twelve seventy-eight,” I sang into the radio. “What've you got for me?”

Gloria's voice came over the box, relaxed and easy, Aretha singing backup. “A good one. French Consulate clear to Sudbury.”

“Giving me cushy jobs? Sam's orders?”

“You don't want it, I got other customers, babe.”

“Thank you much,” I said, goosing the accelerator, catching the yellow light. An upper Comm. Ave. to Sudbury is a cabbie's dream: forty bucks and a fat tip. Party for the Francophiles tonight, maybe. Charity shindig with too many free drinks. I sped up. Didn't want my party guest to tire of waiting and stumble over to the Ritz-Carlton's cabstand. Didn't want some cruising independent to steal my big tipper.

Wait inside the consulate, I willed him or her. Have another drink. Wait for the Green & White.

Bare elms and maples lined Comm. Ave.'s well-groomed strolling mall. In front of the multistoried brownstones, twisty-branched magnolia trees loomed like witches' broomsticks. I cut a close corner and my tires churned up spray from leaf-choked gutters, the leaves a brown and shapeless gunk, tattered remains of red-gold October.

G&W 1278 had a working heater, a luxury.

As I drove, I considered Gloria's list. Zachary Robards was a dead end, a phony name. One Gustave Fabian had a juvie record that was sealed for all eternity, as did two of Gloria's other former employees. Either G&W was fielding a lower class of applicant these days or general standards were down. Gustave had done time as an adult too. Arson. Favor for a friend in a failing Lowell furniture business. Short sentence. Good behavior. Record cleansed so he could get his hack license. How many second chances did someone with a record stretching back to childhood deserve?

Out of prison at twenty-two, had he paid his debt? I'd be the last to condemn a kid in his twenties to a life of unemployment. On the other hand, as someone who runs her own small business, I'd think twice about hiring a happy firebug.

“Psychologically well-adjusted,” some shrink had written on Gustave's parole recommendation. “Responds well to penal regimentation.” If he behaved so nicely in prison, became so “well-adjusted,” I thought, maybe he should rot there.

I wondered what Keith Donovan would say to that, found it odd that I had no idea. We hadn't talked much.… It used to seem so important to me—talking, knowing you shared certain ideas and values before you hit the sheets. Instead of becoming more conservative with age, I seemed to be getting more reckless. Except about disease. Maybe it boils down to AIDS fear. If the man seemed clean—smart enough to know the risks and take precautions—he became desirable. Not desirable enough to forgo a friendly condom, mind you.

Just chemistry, I thought. Just that old boy-girl positive-negative charge I don't understand and have quit trying to analyze. What I had with Sam. What I have with Donovan. What I can't quite spark with Mooney.

I pulled the cab to a halt in front of the consulate. It was not a honking neighborhood. Chandeliers blazed, and I strained to see if someone kept watch out the window. I counted to twenty, then mounted the stairs and pushed the bell.

A tiny woman, well over sixty, vigorous, opened the door. A stream of French issued from her heavily lipsticked mouth, a different brand of French from Louis and Jean's, but recognizably the same language. I was glad it was addressed to someone inside the consulate, not to me. She hesitated at the top of the steps, and I guided her down with a little elbow assistance. Tipsy or nearsighted. Maybe just having trouble adjusting her eyes to the dark after the glitter of so many jeweled necks.

She gave the address in accented English. Easy half-hour ride out. Turnpike to 128 to 20. I checked in with Gloria. I'd have to deadhead back. Boston cabs can't pick up in other towns, not even in friendly Cambridge right across the Charles. And who'd I pick up at midnight in respectable Sudbury, where everybody's fast asleep except the teenagers screwing on the family room rug?

The lady didn't speak; neither did I. I wanted to punch on an old blues tape, but the fare, in her twinkling jewelry, looked like classical music. I turned to WBUR and watched a smile flicker across her wrinkled cheeks. Good guess. Better tip. The psychological art of cab driving.

On the return trip, I played blues at top volume, shaking off the melancholy sonatas with a dose of Blind Lemon Jefferson:

“Have you ever heard a coffin sound?

Have you ever heard a coffin sound?

Have you ever heard a coffin sound?

And you know a good boy's in the ground.”

Talk about melancholy.

“Twelve seventy-eight.”