“Why aren’t you printing one from the meter?” Liz demanded.
“Not working,” he said, driving off as soon as Liz was clear of the cab.
The hand-written receipt delivered far less information than did the printed one.
After an evening of laughter and delicious dining with Janice, Liz rose early and phoned the telephone number on the taxi receipt. It seemed the “Consumer Hotline” was hot indeed, since it was constantly busy. When half an hour of calling kept producing a busy signal, Liz decided to seek out another cabdriver.
At Janice’s street corner, she hailed a cab. Once inside, she began with a less honest conversational gambit.
Giving the driver an address located far downtown, Liz turned her smile on him and said, “I wonder if you could help me? I’m writing a book with a taxi driver as the hero. Just one of his good qualities is his helpfulness when a woman leaves a diamond ring in his car. I’m trying to find out what a driver like you would do if he found something valuable in his car.”
“I would turn it in, of course.”
“Where would you turn it in, I wonder?”
“At the nearest precinct.”
“Do you mean a police station?”
“If it was valuable, yes. Sometimes I also have called people on the phone, you know, when they drop something like a wallet that has an address in it. Then I meet them in a coffee shop and return it myself.”
“What a nice thing to do!” Liz enthused.
“Well, honestly, I sometimes get a reward if I do it in person. So it pays to be nice. Of course, it isn’t always a happy ending like that. It all depends on the next rider. After someone loses something in the cab, it is usually the next passenger who finds it, not the cabdriver. We can’t check the backseat every time someone gets out of our cab.”
“Of course not. Do you ever take things back to the dispatcher’s office?”
“We’re hail-only in New York.”
“What?”
“We don’t need dispatchers in Manhattan. People flag us down in the street.”
“What about your garage?”
“I don’t have one. I’m independent. I got my own vehicle. I park this at my place at night, not at some garage. That’s why I take valuables to the precinct. I guess drivers that work from garages might take valuables to their bosses.”
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 ou
t 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—forevah.”
“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.”
“I can’t promise the police will never be involved, but I can tell you that at this point, my interest in your cab and driver is a question of grasping at straws. Is the cab here?”
“No, it’s with the jerk-off I was just trying to haul back from the boroughs. What use would the cab be to you, anyway?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I know the missing woman rode in this cab. And it’s just about the only lead I have. I thought I’d see if she left anything behind in the cab, or maybe retrace where she’d been by looking at cab records. Now there’s the stunner that the cabdriver’s unaccounted for.”
“Not only that. . . ” Jake broke off. “The hell with the other foreigners. I wanna know what Hasan’s up to.”
“That his name?”
“Yeah, Hasan. Sonofabitch calls himself Samir Hasan. OK, how about you go to the corner felafel place and get us a couple o’ coffees? I take mine black. Then I’ll see what I can do.”
As Liz left the office, she heard Jake radio a cabbie.
“Shit!” he shouted. “Why did you have to pick today of all days to follow my orders for the first time? Get your ass in here!”
When Liz returned with the coffee, Jake was standing outside the garage beside an idling cab. “Here it is, spick-’n’-span for the first time in memory.”
“Ah, no! He cleaned the cab?”
“Inside and out!” Jake said, opening the trunk. “What’s this?” he demanded of the driver who could do nothing right.
“Just junk. No valuables.”
Jake joined Liz as he opened the plastic shopping bag. Inside were a small child’s Yankee-insignia sweatshirt, a couple of cardboard coffee cups, and a book of matches. While Jake angrily dismissed the driver, Liz got into the front seat and opened the ashtray. Butts galore. She dumped the contents into a Ziploc bag. Then she looked in the glove compartment. It contained the vehicle’s registration and a grocery list. Nothing more. She pocketed the list.
“Hey, what are you taking from that glove compartment?”
“Just a grocery list. It might have been Ellen’s.”
“In the glove compartment? Why would a passenger’s list be in the glove compartment?”
“Looks like one of your drivers used it to test a pen on.” Liz turned the paper over and pointed to some squiggles. “Would you like to keep it?”
“Nah!” Jake said, tying up the plastic bag and setting it on top of the one untidy item in the room, an overfilled trash container.
“I’ve got just a few more questions.”
“Yeah?”
“Hasan’s home address.”
“Not sure.”
“What?”
“I have one on record, but when he went missing, I found out he doesn’t live there. He’s been feeding me a load of bull.”
“You must be furious. Do you keep a log of trips made by your drivers?”
“Sure. It’s required by law.”
“Can you tell me anything about Hasan’s remaining hours at work before he went missing?”
Jake paged through his log book.
“How do you like that?” he asked. “Right after he made that trip with your gal, he has more than forty-five minutes unaccounted for. Then again, throughout the day, more of the same. No metered rides after 3:00 p.m. on December 16.”
Two days before Ellen went missing.
Jake’s phone rang and he engaged in another adversarial conversation with a driver while Liz waited. “Look,” he said, turning to Liz after hanging up the phone. “I know what you’re going to ask me next. What kind of guy is he? Am I right?”
Liz nodded.
“Well, I don’t know. These Arabs, they have a different language, a different cultcha. I know he smoked in the cab. We got complaints. I know he played Middle Eastern music in his vehicle, too. Hasan sometimes turned in valuables. We logged them in here.” He opened a well-worn logbook to a page headed “December 16, 2000.”
“No, he didn’t turn in anything on his last day at work,” Jake went on. “I know he rarely turned down a fare. He kept that cab moving. Beyond that, the guy was a closed book. Didn’t talk about a wife, kids, sports, anything.”
“What’s this?” Liz asked, pointing to some wiring on the dashboard that seemed to lead nowhere.
“That’s the connection for his two-way.”
“Radio?”
“Yeah. He was always yakking on that thing.”
“Did he use it to communicate with you?”
“Nah. I told you, in the city we don’t dispatch cabs via radio. He used it to talk with his buddies. We allow this, if it doesn’t interfere with the driver’s work. But you have to be licensed to operate a two-way from the cab. He had to remove his when he wasn’t using it so the other drivers couldn’t use it. I got the documentation filed here, don’t worry.”
Like the rest of the office, the filing cabinet was orderly. It held several original documents pertaining to the missing cabbie, and photocopies of each. Jake handed Liz an extra copy of the radio license.
“Take it,” he said.
The document had the same false address that Liz had seen before. But the face in the photo was new to her.
“A dark horse,” Jake concluded. “That Hasan was one dark horse.”
December 16, 2000
The word Shukran was astonishing enough coming from the mouth of that whdah franjiyah, that non-Arab. But the remark, “Ya saqiqati al-habibah aa rifuki kull al-awqat,” was more alarming still.
“My beloved friend, I know you always.”
This is not the “How do you do?” greeting a foreigner might learn from a phrase book. Colloquially correct and properly, if slowly, pronounced, this was the statement of a person conversant in the Arabic language.
That shaqra, that blonde. Help me, Allah, she can ind
eed speak the language.
Such were the thoughts that drove Samir Hasan, cabdriver, to follow the pair of women into the elevator, even while his cab was idling at the curb. Making sure to turn around and face the elevator door as soon as he entered it, he heard the pale-haired woman ask someone to push the button for the top floor where the Windows on the World restaurant was located. When she awkwardly interjected the word mishmish into some silly conversation about fashion, the cabdriver decided to get out the next time the elevator doors opened and take another one back down to the lobby.
Hardly able to disguise his agitation, Hasan hurried back to his two-way radio to broadcast his panic to a compatriot he only knew as Fa’ud, the same man who had, while assuming the cabbie was alone, radioed a grocery list of highly secret code words.
“Ladhibhah teena is not enough. How tall is she? How is she dressed? Where is she at this moment?” Fa’ud demanded.
“Why are you asking this? I am telling you the words are no good now. The shaqra heard them but she doesn’t know why we are using them. We must change them.”
“It’s too late. Allah save us. You must take care of her.”
“You cannot be saying. . .”
Chapter 12
New York City, December 23, 2000
Liz decided to lose no time in getting back to Boston. But there was something she wanted to accomplish before leaving the city.
Hiring a cab from the garage, she got in the vehicle and opened her envelope containing Ellen’s photos. Squinting to read the print on the shopping bags held by Ellen and Nadia in the photo taken at the New York Public Library, she asked the driver to take her to Florissa’s Gift Emporium on 44th Street.
“Got a street number?” the cabbie asked.
“Sorry, no.”
“East or west?” he asked.
“Not sure.”
“Forty-fourth is one-way running west. Unless you hit it lucky, this’ll cost ya.”
“Let’s start near the New York Public Library and take our chances.”
“You’re the boss.”
Liz was in luck. The gift shop was just two blocks west of the library. She paid the cab and entered a shop that exuded a sickeningly sweet smell of potpourri pillows and scented soaps. It hardly seemed the sort of place a woman like Ellen would find attractive. Nor did it look like the kind of shop a tourist would favor. Even the generous stock of crystal and china sold here was largely imported from Ireland and the British Isles, making it an unlikely choice for anyone wishing to bring home something made in America. There wasn’t even a rack of postcards in the place.
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