Hardware (The Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries)

by Linda Barnes

  “If I take your case, Lee, I’ll give it my full attention, but we ought to get something straight from the start.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t hire me to protect a thousand cabbies. The police are better at that kind of thing; they have the personnel. Your best bet would be to work through the Hackney Carriage Bureau, try to set up more safety guidelines, get more cab checkpoints. Convince the cops to use decoy drivers.”

  “You don’t understand,” Lee Cochran said, banging a clenched fist against his open palm for emphasis. “Cabbies are getting beaten for a reason.”

  Cabs get hit ’cause they’re out there, I thought. Mountains get climbed; cabbies get robbed.

  “I want the city to know. I want the mayor and the police chief and every asshole on the street to know,” Lee said, cranking himself up to full podium cry.

  I wished I’d thought to fetch a glass of water from Gloria’s kitchenette. I could have “accidently” left the water running.

  “So why come to me?” I asked. “I’m private. Talk to the mayor. Talk to the police chief. Hold a press conference.”

  If he spoke much louder he wouldn’t need to, I thought.

  “I want you to catch him in the act,” Lee said.

  “How about a drink, Lee? Water?”

  “Hell, are you listening to me or what?”

  “I hear you,” I assured him. “If you know who’s responsible, go to the police. They’ll listen. They’ll give you a medal.”

  “It’s political,” Lee said, finally lowering his voice. “It’s not random street crime like everybody says.”

  “Political,” I repeated.

  “It’s about medallions,” he said. “This whole business is about medallions, and if it doesn’t stop soon, somebody’s going to get killed.”

  “Killed over cab medallions?” I fished a notebook out of my handbag. “Try some facts, Lee.”

  “History lesson,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. “The number of cabs, the number of medallions, is fixed by law, by act of the state legislature. The 1934 state legislature.”

  “1934?”

  “Right. In 1934, our forefathers decreed there could be fifteen hundred and twenty-five cabs operating within the city limits. That number was reached—stop me if you’ve heard this before—in 1945.”

  “So?”

  “There’ve been no new licenses granted since,” Lee said.

  “Boston has the same number of cabs it had in 1945?”

  “Honest to God. No peeps about it either, until ’87, when a guy sued the state for restraint of trade, saying he couldn’t earn a livelihood because he was a cabdriver who couldn’t afford the going rate for a medallion.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which was ninety to a hundred grand. You limit the quantity of a thing, the price climbs. Like with original art, you know? Monet painted only a certain number of water lilies, the city of Boston doles out only a certain number of medallions.”

  “I understand the basic economics, Lee.”

  “The Department of Public Utilities gets into the ring with this guy, and all the hotel owners and restaurant owners crowd into his corner. The department caves in and says they’ll put five hundred more cabs on the street. In three months’ time!”

  “That must have made medallion owners happy.”

  “Overnight the price of medallions slides. Seventy-five, heading for seventy and lower. The DPU’s gonna issue the new medallions for a token fee. First, it’s gonna be a hundred and forty-five bucks, with the new medallions supposedly nontransferable and preference given to experienced Boston cabbies with good driving records.”

  I grunted and took notes.

  “Then the fee shoots up to three ninety-five. And the medallions can be immediately resold. We protested. Held a huge rally, a Taxi Mourning Week. You remember?”

  I remembered the protest week. In ’87, when the trouble began, I wasn’t driving a hack. I had a full-time job as a cop. Other problems.

  Lee went on, his lips easing into a smile as he reminisced. “We filed suit and we won. The only new cabs allowed were forty specially equipped handicapped-accessible vans. A victory for small owners, because you know damn well who would have bought up all those new medallions.”

  As his voice hit top volume, I faked a coughing fit.

  “Hang on, Lee, I need a drink,” I said, moving before he could jump up and pat me on the back. “Thirsty?”

  “You all right?”

  “Allergy,” I lied.

  “Don’t you want to know who?” he demanded.

  “In a minute. Water okay?”

  “You been taking notes? You got everything I said?”

  “Sure.” The sink’s low, like every other appliance in the place, geared for someone who sits all the time. I ran the water cold, filled two glasses, left both taps roaring like Niagara. Cochran didn’t seem to notice:

  “Now,” I said, handing over a glass. “Who?”

  “Who owns the three biggest fleets in town? Phil Yancey, that’s who. He’s the guy behind the beatings. And I want you to nab him.”

  “Whoa, Lee,” I said. “I’ve met Mr. Yancey. He’s what … seventy, seventy-five years old?”

  “I don’t mean he’s doing it himself. He’s hiring thugs. He’s trying to take over the industry. I figure he’s working both sides of the street. First he’s got his goons. Then he’s got the hotel and tourist associations fronting for him, demanding more medallions, more cabs on the street. We little guys turned them back in ’91, but I don’t know if we can pull it off again, what with the business jammed with immigrants like it is. They don’t exactly vote union; they’re too grateful to have a job.”

  Lee’s certainty about Yancey’s guilt seemed unreasonable, over the top.

  Unless he knew something he wasn’t telling me.

  Lee kept talking, his arms moving so expansively I was afraid his water glass would hit the floor. “The hotels and restaurants, they want a line of cabs sitting outside their doors all fucking night—you should excuse me. They don’t care the economy sucks and cabbies can’t earn enough to pay rent. Long as they got fifteen cabs lined up to ferry some Armani-suit guy from the Ritz-Carlton to the Four Seasons, God forbid he should walk a block in the cold.”

  “Lee,” I said slowly, tapping my pen on my notebook. “I don’t get the connection between roughing up drivers and getting hold of more medallions. It’s a paradox; it doesn’t make sense. If the Hackney Bureau issues new medallions, Yancey can grab them by the carload. So why would he get involved with beating drivers? Why take the risk?”

  Cochran said, “If I knew all the answers, I wouldn’t have to come to you, am I right?” His voice sank to a murmur. “I know this for a fact: Two of the guys who got beaten up on the q.t., they’re STA members. Not the kind of guys who run to the cops, understand? These are single medallion owners, independents. They don’t want trouble. They were maybe thinking of retiring in a couple years.”

  “Yeah,” I said, impatient for the punch line.

  “Suddenly, they’re both gonna sell their medallions, and guess who’s the only buyer in the market? Guess who’s offering top dollar?”

  “Yancey?”

  “I want you to nail him.”

  “Have you tried the police?” I said. “Lodged a complaint?”

  “What? Fill out a form and wait a hundred years? The man’s got to be stopped.”

  “There’s stuff I can do,” I said. “Follow him around, ask questions, see if his daily routine, his habits, have suddenly changed, but if he’s hiring outsiders to do the dirty work—”

  “I gotta tell you how to do your job? Tap his phone. Steal his mail.”

  “Both illegal, Lee.”

  He awarded me a withering glance.

  “What if it’s not Yancey?” I said. “Have you considered the possibility?”

  “It’s Yancey,” he said.

  “Since wiretaps and mail t
ampering are out,” I said, “I could start with the robberies. I’d need the names of your two cabbies, the ones who haven’t reported the crimes—”

  “Oh, no,” he said, waggling a finger at me. “You concentrate on Mr. Philip Yancey.”

  “You can hire me, Lee,” I said. “You can’t tell me how to run the show.”

  “When I pay the piper,” he said, “I get to call the tune.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “And we haven’t talked money yet.”

  “I can’t give you the names of the drivers. I can guarantee that Phil Yancey’s the guilty party.”

  I sipped water. Don’t be stubborn, Carlotta, I silently pleaded with myself. Take it, say you’ll do what he wants, then go your own way.

  When all else fails, lower your standards.

  “I’ll think about it, Lee,” I said. “If I decide to work for you, there’s a contract you’ll need to sign. And a check, as a retainer.”

  “Ask around about Yancey,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  He shook my hand before exiting via the ramp to the garage. I washed both glasses, left them in the wooden rack to drain. Turned off the raging waterfall. Didn’t spot a single mike.

  THREE

  I hurried back to the garage, my head spinning. Who’d hung the microphone? Why? How long ago?

  Everything had changed; nothing had changed. Fleckman was still haranguing “Not My Fault” Ralph, who seemed asleep on his feet, leaning against a wall. A beatific smile on Ralph’s face made me wonder which drug he was presently abusing.

  “You want to hear more about leases,” I murmured, “the grapevine says that Ralphie here had a fling with another cab co., searching for greener pastures.”

  “Hey,” Ralph said. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  Jerome and I exchanged glances.

  “It sounded friggin’ great,” Not My Fault went on. “You pay your money up front, then whatever you make’s your own.”

  “Anybody here speak Hindi?” Gloria’s voice echoed off the cinderblock walls. I don’t know how she gets that kind of volume without raising her pitch.

  An excited murmur erupted from the mechanics’ pit.

  Gloria said, “Got a lost cabbie out in Waban. Need somebody to talk him in, but I’m not making it in English.”

  A grease-spattered man proudly took to the microphone, spoke for an eternity, and then informed us, in triumphantly halting English, that he’d advised his colleague to “head for the rising sun.”

  “Or the Citgo Sign,” somebody chimed in.

  “Tell him to stop when he hits the harbor,” mumbled one of the Geezers in a rare show of concern.

  This is the kind of conversation someone wants to record for posterity? I thought.

  “I hear you had a great time leasing,” I said to Ralph.

  “Some deal,” Ralph said. “No health, no bennies, no gas, no repairs. You bring your cab back to the garage three friggin’ minutes late, they dock you. The medallion owners rake in their dough, no matter if you have the lousiest night on record. I couldn’t make my nut. No way, no how.”

  “It’s an immigrant-eating machine,” Jerome said, scowling and crossing his arms over his narrow chest. “Nothing but a legal scam. Six months driving a leased cab, working eight hours before they put a buck in their own pocket, they’re back to the shores of whatever godforsaken place they left, grateful to get out alive.”

  “So why do you drive, Jerry?” I asked with a smile.

  “Why do you?”

  “Oh,” I said, “the lure of the open road. The incredible sense of adventure. My grocery bill.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said wryly. “And there’s always the threat of violence. I really eat that up.” Peering nearsightedly from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, he didn’t look like an eager fighter.

  “It’s been crazy out there lately,” I said. “On the crime front.”

  “Yeah,” he said noncommitally.

  “You know anybody who’s been hit?” I asked quietly, hoping to steer the conversation to Lee’s unreported assaults.

  “Shhh,” Jerome said. “You’ll bring the evil eye.”

  “Keyn eyn-ore zol nit zayn!” I muttered automatically, spitting quickly over my left shoulder. Habits die hard.

  “A landsman?” Jerome said, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “With that hair?”

  “So you’re not researching a scholarly article?” I asked as if there’d been no evil-eye interruption. I rarely respond to comments about religion, hair, or height: I’m half-Jewish; it’s red; I’m tall.

  “Think I could find a topic here at the garage?” Jerome asked.

  “Hell, half a dozen,” I said.

  “Carlotta?”

  Sam’s voice, unmistakable. I was disturbed to discover that he’d approached without my sensing his presence, smelling his aftershave, feeling a jolt of electricity pulse through my veins.

  “Be seeing you.” Jerome backed off quickly. “Drive carefully.”

  “Gloria said I’d find you.” Was it me, or did Sam’s tone sound lazy and self-satisfied? The master’s voice.

  “And where’ve you been?” My words came out sharper than intended.

  He was so close I could feel his breath on my hair. I didn’t need to turn. I have Sam memorized from his unruly dark curls to the soles of his feet. All the good parts in between too.

  He said, “You drove graveyard?” Resting his big hands on my shoulders, he started massaging the stiffness away with practiced fingers.

  “That bother you?” I craned my neck, arching it slowly left and right. God, it felt good; the man knew where to rub.

  He stayed silent for a beat. “Gloria wants to know if the fan belt’s okay on three twenty-one.”

  “You’ve been demoted to errand boy?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “That’s a shame. You could make big bucks in massage. Work your way up to personal trainer.”

  “For you, anytime,” he said.

  I turned and faced him. Almost asked point-blank about the microphone. I couldn’t see one from where we stood. Which didn’t mean beans.

  I’d call him tonight. Sure. If the garage was miked, his phone could be bugged.

  Shit. I thought about taking his hand, pointing out the hanging mike. I considered the curious hordes who might observe us, decided against it.

  Sam doesn’t dress up for trips to the garage. Jeans and a navy sweatshirt, nothing fancier than cabbie garb. But you’d never mistake him for a cabbie. It’s the little things: the shoes, the haircut, the posture.

  You’d never peg him as Mafia, either. Honestly, around here those guys wrap themselves in enough gold jewelry to sink a galleon. Like they’ve seen too many Hollywood movies. Sam didn’t even wear a ring when he was married.

  “Sam,” I said, keeping my voice low, “Lee Cochran, from the Small Taxi Association, just tried to hire me. You have anything to do with that?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t put him up to it, to keep me from driving nights?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “As if you were ever a Boy Scout. Does Lee have any history with Phil Yancey?”

  “Just that they hate each other’s guts,” Sam said. “I was a Girl Scout.”

  “Cut it out. Do you know why they don’t get along?”

  “Carlotta, you could hold a Phil Yancey Admiration Day at Fenway Park and bring back Carl Yastrzemski to play left field and nobody would come.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody who knew Phil. That’s how popular the man is. Why do you want to know?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Well, if you ever consider going to work for Yancey, get the check in advance, and cash it before you lift a finger.”

  “Yancey’s not hiring,” I said. “I’m not sure I’m taking any case. So could you forget we had this little talk?”

  “What talk?” Sam said obligingly. “Let’s go tell Gloria I found you. She seemed to think
you were pissed at me.”

  “Just because I never see you.”

  “You could stay home nights.”

  “If I had a reason, I might,” I said. “I’m not staying home in case you decide to drop by for a quickie.”

  He wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “I’m glad Gloria was wrong. Angry? You?”

  “Sam,” I said. “Grow up.”

  Gloria grinned when she saw us. She’s convinced this “marriage” can be saved, and she’s the one to do it.

  “Fan belt?” she asked.

  “Lousy, like the rest of them.”

  “Three twenty-one’s got inspection next week. Don’t you check the schedule?”

  “It’ll never pass.”

  “Leroy’ll make it purr like a pussycat,” she insisted.

  “Only if he sticks one in the carburetor.”

  “Sam’s gonna get me a computer,” Gloria announced, deftly changing the subject. “He tell you? We’re on our way to high-tech city.”

  “No kidding,” I said, thinking about the microphones.

  “Well, you don’t have to get sarcastic,” Sam said.

  “No, really, I’m interested. Believe me. What kind? Where? I’ve been looking—”

  Gloria interrupted, sotto voce. “He’s got a friend, gonna give us the deal of a lifetime.”

  Sam leaped on the bandwagon. “It’s ridiculous, running this place without a computer. Gloria can link up with my PC, and I won’t have to keep racing around with trip sheets and insurance forms and medallion renewals. We can keep a client list on file. No more address mix-ups—”

  “How about me?” I said. “Can your friend do something for me?”

  “What?”

  “I’m looking to get on-line.”

  “No,” Sam said immediately.

  “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Let me think about it.”

  “What’s to think about, Sam? Your friend deals in stolen merchandise?”

  “No.”

  “Then why?”

  “Let me get back to you.”

  “When?” I said. “Seriously, Sam, who’s your friend?”

  “Nobody you know.”

  “Sam, come on.”

  “Really, Carlotta, he’s not somebody who can help you.”