Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle by Linda Barnes

Lucky Penny
    Lieutenant Mooney made me dish it all out for the record. He’s a good cop, if such an animal exists. We used to work the same shift before I decided—wrongly—that there was room for a lady PI in this town. Who knows? With this case under my belt, maybe business’ll take a 180-degree spin, and I can quit driving a hack.
    See, I’ve already written the official report for Mooney and the cops, but the kind of stuff they wanted: date, place, and time, cold as ice and submitted in triplicate, doesn’t even start to tell the tale. So I’m doing it over again, my way.
    Don’t worry, Mooney. I’m not gonna file this one.
    The Thayler case was still splattered across the front page of the Boston Globe . I’d soaked it up with my midnight coffee and was puzzling it out—my cab on automatic pilot, my mind on crime—when the mad tea party began.
    â€œTake your next right, sister. Then pull over, and douse the lights. Quick!”
    I heard the bastard all right, but it must have taken me thirty seconds or so to react. Something hard rapped on the cab’s dividing shield. I didn’t bother turning around. I hate staring down gun barrels.
    I said, “Jimmy Cagney, right? No, your voice is too high. Let me guess, don’t tell me—”
    â€œShut up!”
    â€œ Kill the lights, turn off the lights, okay. But douse the lights? You’ve been tuning in too many old gangster flicks.”
    â€œI hate a mouthy broad,” the guy snarled. I kid you not.
    â€œ Broad, ” I said. “Christ! Broad ? You trying to grow hair on your balls?”
    â€œLook, I mean it, lady!”
    â€œ Lady’s better. Now you wanna vacate my cab and go rob a phone booth?” My heart was beating like a tin drum, but I didn’t let my voice shake, and all the time I was gabbing at him, I kept trying to catch his face in the mirror. He must have been crouching way back on the passenger side. I couldn’t see a damn thing.
    â€œI want all your dough,” he said.
    Who can you trust? This guy was a spiffy dresser: charcoal-gray three-piece suit and rep tie, no less. And picked up in front of the swank Copley Plaza. I looked like I needed the bucks more than he did, and I’m no charity case. A woman can make good tips driving a hack in Boston. Oh, she’s gotta take precautions, all right. When you can’t smell a disaster fare from thirty feet, it’s time to quit. I pride myself on my judgment. I’m careful. I always know where the police checkpoints are, so I can roll my cab past and flash the old lights if a guy starts acting up. This dude fooled me cold.
    I was ripped. Not only had I been conned, I had a considerable wad to give away. It was near the end of my shift, and like I said, I do all right. I’ve got a lot of regulars. Once you see me, you don’t forget me—or my cab.
    It’s gorgeous. Part of my inheritance. A ’59 Chevy, shiny as new, kept on blocks in a heated garage by the proverbial dotty old lady. It’s the pits of the design world. Glossy blue with those giant chromium fins. Restrained decor: just the phone number and a few gilt curlicues on the door. I was afraid all my old pals at the police department would pull me over for minor traffic violations if I went whole hog and painted “Carlotta’s Cab” in ornate script on the hood. Some do it anyway.
    So where the hell were all the cops now? Where are they when you need ’em?
    He told me to shove the cash through that little hole they leave for the passenger to pass the fare forward. I told him he had it backwards. He didn’t laugh. I shoved bills.
    â€œNow the change,” the guy said. Can you imagine the nerve?
    I must have cast my eyes up to heaven. I do that a lot these days.
    â€œI mean it.” He rapped the plastic shield with the shiny barrel of his gun. I checked it out this time. Funny how big a little .22