watch her in the rearview mirror as she gets into the backseat—showing plenty of leg with that short dress of hers and not shy about my seeing it. We both know that's all I'm getting and I'm lucky to get that much. She wrinkles her nose and I can't tell if it's some linger of l'eau de puke or the Lysol I sprayed on the seat after I cleaned up the mess my last fare left behind.
Hell, maybe it's me.
"What can I do for you, ma'am?" I ask.
She's got these big, dark eyes and they fix on mine in the rearview mirror, just holding on to my gaze like we're the only two people in the world.
"How far are you willing to go?" she asks.
Dressed like she is, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was a come-on. Hell, that was my first thought anyway, doesn't matter she's playing on that other team. But there's that cherub innocence thing she's got going for her and, well, take a look at a pug like me and you know the one thing that isn't going to happen is some pretty girl's going to make a play for me from the back seat of my cab.
"I can take you any place you need to go," I tell her, playing it safe.
"And if I need something else?" she asks.
I shake my head. "I don't deal with anything that might put me inside."
I almost said "back inside," but that's not something she needs to know. Though maybe she already does. Maybe when I pulled over she saw the prison tattoos on my arms—you know, you put them on with a pin and the ink from a ballpoint so they always come out looking kind of scratchy and blue.
"Someone has stolen my cat," she says. "I was hoping you might help me get her back."
I turn right around in my seat to look at her straight on. I decide she's Hispanic from her accent. I like the Spanish warmth it puts on her words.
"Your cat," I say. "You mean like a pet?"
"Something like that. I really do need someone to help me steal her back."
I laugh. I can't help it.
"So what, you flag down the first cab you see and figure whoever's driving it'll take a short break from cruising for fares to help you creep some joint?"
"Creep?" she asks.
"Break in. But quietly, you know, because you're hoping you won't get caught."
She shakes her head.
"No," she says. "I just thought you might."
"And that would be because . . . ?"
"You've got kind eyes."
People have said a lot of things about me over the years, but that's something I've never heard before. It's like telling a wolf he's got a nice smile. I've been told I've got dead eyes, or a hard stare, but no one's ever had anything nice to say about them before. I don't know if it's because of that, or if it's because of that innocence she carries that just makes you want to take care of her, but I find myself nodding.
"Sure," I tell her. "Why not? It's a slow night. Where can we find this cat of yours?"
"First I need to go home and get changed," she says. "I can't go—what was the word you used?" She smiles. "Creep a house wearing this."
Well, she could, I think, and it would sure make it interesting for me if I was hoisting her up to a window, but I just nod again.
"No problem," I tell her. "Where do you live?"
This whole situation would drive Hank crazy.
We did time together a while back—we'd each pulled a stretch and they ran in tandem for a few years. It's all gangs inside now and since we weren't either of us black or Indian or Hispanic, and we sure as hell weren't going to run with the Aryans, we ended up passing a lot of the time with each other. He told me to look him up when I got out and he'd fix me up. A lot of guys say that, but they don't mean it. You're trying to do good and you want some hardcase showing up at your home or place of employment? I don't think so.
So I wouldn't have bothered, but Hank never said something unless he meant it, and since I really did want to take a shot at walking the straight and narrow this time out, I took him up on it.
He hooked me up with this guy named Moth who runs