Chapter 1

The first time I met Anita Alvarez was October third, in the middle of an afternoon thunderstorm. The sky was so dark the street lights came on by the time I let two ladies from the high-rise off at the bank. I was getting ready to radio in and take a lunch break. Rain was coming down in sheets and my windows were fogged. I hit the turn signal to pull back into traffic when a woman, who was fighting a red umbrella that had turned itself inside out, waved and ran toward the cab. It wasn’t unusual to pick up a fare uptown, and I didn’t think much more about it until two weeks later when the police came to see me.

I remember her dark hair was wet and pasted to her head as she pulled the rear door open. She wore a black double-breasted suit, the skirt of which was short and snug. Her matching shoes were sling-backed pumps. She tossed her brief case across the back seat, pulled the strap of her leather purse from her shoulder, slid in and closed the door. The address she gave me was only four blocks away, one of those old hotels near the Governor’s Mansion.

Rain beat on the hood of the cab and the wipers wouldn’t go fast enough to keep the wind shield clear. Usually when the weather is bad, some ass hole decides he’s in a hurry and cuts me off. That day was no different. I don’t mind driving in a storm. Hell, my dad taught me to drive when I was an oversized (for a girl anyway) twelve-years-old with braids and braces, and he told me that if you couldn’t drive in rain or show then you had no business on the road, because in this part of the country we get weather. I could understand the idiots who learned to drive in Arizona. I actually knew one of them a few years ago. But not many folks move here from there. So I had to concentrate on driving and we were almost to Fourth Street when I checked the rearview mirror and caught her patting her forehead with a tissue and combing her short, dripping hair back from her face. She was the type who wasn’t used to getting wet or taking a cab in the middle of the day. Her complexion was creamy, like an expensive, hand-painted doll. She was young, I figured mid-twenties, and pretty, though her nose was large--not enormous, but a flaw that made her seem more human. She looked into a compact and applied bright red lipstick as we pulled under the green canvas awning of the Manor View Hotel.

The fare was five dollars and forty-five cents. She gave me a ten and with a big cherry red smile told me to keep the change. She wiggled her ass a little as she tugged the damp skirt into place and walked through the revolving doors into the lobby.

And that would have been that if I hadn’t needed to use the can. I pulled the cab around the side, away from the circle drive that they reserve for guests, and went in to find the ladies room. Leaving the building through the rich carpeted corridor, on the way out past the hotel café, the smell of hot coffee and food reminded me of my lunch break.

I circled the cab slowly behind the building and pulled onto Fourth Street. When I missed the light at Capital, I used the opportunity to radio in to Betty. She asked if I would take a trip north on the way home and I was writing down the address when I glanced in the rearview mirror. The back window was foggy and raindrops thundered against it, but I know I saw the red umbrella behind me, crossing the street toward the gates of the Mansion. I must of sat through the green too long because the limp-dick behind me hit the horn and after flipping him off, I went on with my day.

I didn’t really wonder until later what business she had at the Governor’s Mansion. I was thinking about the next fare, and my lunch, trying to remember if I’d finished the left over chili the night before and, if not, how long the stuff had been in the refrigerator.

The trees along North Fourth Street were bright colors of red and gold. Intersections were flooded and traffic was slow. The brakes on number four were grabbing the way they did when they were wet. I picked up an old woman at the grocery store and took her to a high-rise on Eighth. That’s how I remember it was the third. Social Security check day. When you drive a cab you can tell time by the people you haul and the places you haul them. Friday nights I pick up men too drunk to drive the family station wagon home from the bar. We pull up in front of a house and I know before I look that there will be a porch light on and a woman waiting. Those guys are the biggest tippers. It’s like they think if they can buy my approval at least someone will be on their side. On Sundays you got church and on Thursdays you got bingo.

I’ve been working for the Red, White and Blue Cab Company since they bought out Yellow. I started at Yellow right out of high school as a dispatcher and part-time mechanic, worked in the office for a while then found out that the drivers made more money--the smart ones anyway. See, there are a lot of fringes to driving a cab. I know where the illegal card games are. I know four or five working girls. And I can help a fare find anything but drugs. If they want drugs I just drive them by the projects and point. No cabby with half a brain would go in there.

I pulled into the trailer park. The streets were so clogged with rain and leaves that I could barely tell where they were. I aimed the cab between the rows of trailers and hoped. The sky was clearing some, but the street lamps were still on. My trailer is the last one, next to the fence on the northeast end. I have a larger yard than the others because the owner can’t fit another trailer in there. It’s a little more to mow, but nice for the dog.

Alex is a border-collie-lab-type-mut that Georgia brought home from the park a few years back. No tags. Hungry. An oversized puppy, really, with ribs sticking out. Some idiot probably dumped him figuring he stood a better chance on his own than in the pound. That was a long time ago. Georgia’s gone now, and Alex and me are growing old together. We’re both set in our ways. Both creatures of habit. We’re both a little past forty-seven, him in dog years, of course.

I drive six in the morning to six in the evening, sometimes later, except weekends when I work nights because the tips are better. I come home every day to let Alex out. It would be easier to eat fast food in town, but twelve hours is too long for a dog.

That’s about all I remember about October third unless you want to hear about the Chilli that was left over but smelled bad and how I ate a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and burped for the rest of my shift.

Anyway, two weeks later in the middle of the morning rush, Betty radioed for me to stop by the garage when I let my fare out. I wondered what I had done this time. Getting called in when you were busy usually meant that Ralph wanted to chew you out. Forty-five minutes later I rolled onto the lot and parked number four next to a black and white. They were waiting for me at the door. Two uniforms with Styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands. The older one was maybe my age, a black guy with a big belly. The smaller one was a woman though it took me a minute to notice.

"You Trudy Thomas?" the black guy said.

"That’s me."

"I’m officer Wilson." He glanced at the woman. "My partner Officer Matulis. We have some questions for you about a passenger you carried two weeks ago."

I motioned them toward the waiting room, which was really a wide area in the hallway with four black and chrome kitchen chairs, a table, six ashtrays and a cart with a Mr. Coffee. Cops are always coming to cab drivers on television, but this was my first time. In fact, the event was so rare that I could see some of the guys watching, trying to appear busy or nonchalant.

"They all run together," I told Wilson as I pulled out a chair. "I see so many people."

That’s when he showed me the picture and I remembered her right away.

"What’s she done?" It was a stupid question, I could see in their eyes I’d tipped my hand.

So Wilson said, "We just want to ask her some questions."

"Concerning?" I was trying to stall them so I could think. I don’t really trust the police. I’ve always had a problem with authority figures.

"Ms. Thomas," Officer Matulis said. "Did you pick up this woman outside of Bank One on October third?"

"It could be the woman."

"Could be?" Wilson said.

"I did pick up a woman, right before lunch," I said. "Rain was pretty bad. How do you figure it was my cab?"

"A witness saw a lavender cab," said Wilson. "It didn’t take us long to find out you drive the only one in the city."

"Oh." Still studying the photo, I fished a cigarette out of my shirt pocket and lit it. Officer Matulis looked offended and pulled back from the smoke.

Wilson asked, "Where did you take her?"

I shrugged. "Betty would have the records. I don’t remember." One thing I knew for sure. Betty would not have the records. She never writes down fares we catch for ourselves. I figure it’s none of my business why.

"Think, Ms. Thomas," Officer Matulis urged. "It’s important."

"What’s happened?" I asked.

"There was a little trouble over at the Governor’s Mansion," said Wilson.

I remembered the red umbrella crossing the street toward the mansion in the rain. That made me nervous and I started spilling my guts. "I took the woman to the Manor View, over that direction."

"And she went in?" said Wilson.

"I saw her go though the revolving doors," I said. "At the time I figured she was a guest."

Matulis was smart and she caught me on that. "At the time?" she said. "Did something happen to make you change your mind?"

Besides the fact that Anita was a twentish nymph with dark hair and a nice back side, there was no reason for me to cover for her. I’m no hero. Just a cab driver. I shrugged and said, "I might have seen her cross the street to the Mansion after I let her out. I’m not sure."

"When was this?" Wilson demanded.

"A couple of minutes later." I was damned if I was going to tell them about the pit stop. Next they’d want to know whether it was number one or two.

"That was all?" asked Wilson. "Did she leave anything in the cab?"

"Look," I said. "If this is the woman, the trip lasted five minutes or so. She said nothing and left nothing. Now if you don’t mind I need to get back to work. I don’t get paid to sit here and talk."

Matulis pulled a card from her breast pocket and said, "Call us if you think of anything else. Or if you hear from her."

I shoved the card under the cellophane of my cigarette pack. "There’s no reason for her to contact me. She was just a fare in the middle of a busy day."

We stood and I hooked my thumbs in my jeans pocket, letting the cigarette droop from my lips like Bogart. Wilson thanked me for my time, extended his hand and after we shook he led the way outside.

Matulis held back. She slanted her head, and said, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

I gave her a good look then. "I don’t think so. I never had any problems with the police." None that I was going to tell her about anyway.

"You look familiar."

"I’m a familiar looking person." I try to look different, but the effect always comes out like a middle-aged, dyke cab driver.

"Maybe the Crone’s Nest?"

That got me. I looked at her real careful then. "I go there sometimes."

She smiled and said, "I thought so."

"Wouldn’t have spotted you as a patron."

She shrugged. "Well, I guess you can’t always tell, can you?"

If I can see a woman walk about twelve steps, even if her hair was long, and she is in heels and makeup I usually can tell. Once I saw a movie where models walked out on the platform naked. One was a lesbian and even with her clothes off, I knew by the way she carried herself. But, I had been so focused on the fact that I was talking to the police, so paranoid, that I forgot to watch Matulis walk. So I shrugged and said, "No, you never can."

She stepped closer to me then. I could see Betty at the phones over Matulis’ shoulder, watching out of the corner of her eyes. They were unusually quiet. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, oil and exhaust fumes. "Really," said Officer Matulis. "If you see or hear anything else, if you remember anything, call me. It’s very important."

"What’d she do?"

"Just call me, okay?"

I nodded in agreement, thinking the only reason she came out to me was to make it seem like we were on the same team. Get my cooperation. The other drivers ribbed me later about how Matulis had hung back, and how she looked at me. I let them have their fun. If I got upset about that kind of thing, I’d be mad all the time. You know, we all have to live in an imperfect world, and some things simply aren’t worth the energy.

That night when I turned the cab in, I cleaned it real good. I swept under the front seat and shoved my hand down the crease in the back. I found a half-eaten candy bar, gum wrappers, a broken filtered cigarette, the new purple pilot pen I lost sometime last summer, three pennies, a baby’s pacifier, a key and a used condom. The rest was just the usual dust and grime.

When I checked out that night I noticed all the other day drivers were gone. I shoved my roll of cash in my jeans pocket, zipped my bomber jacket all the way to my neck and pulled a stocking cap down over my ears. It would be dark by the time I got to the trailer court.

See, my other car is a Harley. I keep it parked just inside the doors on the last bay. That evening the air was cold and crisp and the setting sun lighted up the western sky. I straddled the bike, pulled it upright, pushed back the kick-stand and inserted the key.