The thinner one continued undeterred. His voice remained calm and cold. “My name is Mr. Tabert. This is my associate, Mr. Ball.” The seated man waved his hand in a lazy kind of ‘hello’ way.
Rick charged ahead. “Tabert and Ball? Sounds like two out of work porn actors.”
Mr. Ball spoke as if Rick had said nothing. His voice was soft, filled with empathy and colored with a distinct southern twang, possibly from North Carolina. “Mr. Carter we understand you are particularly skilled at your job,” He added.
Rick sighed as he took the statement from the right field where it was delivered from on purpose. He took a deep breath. “You know, I didn’t wake up this morning wanting to be a jackass, but…”
“Relax Mr. Carter, we’re not here to ambush you.” Mr. Ball said, still as calm and unmoved as before.
Rick looked at him sharply. “Then what’s with the locker room treatment boys? I’ve got bigger things going on at the moment…”
The thinner man stood upright. He pulled a folder from beneath his right arm and opened it and proceeded to read from its contents. “Richard Garner Carter, born 9 April 1968 to unknown parents in Georgia and given up for adoption to a Mr. and Mrs. Henry Carter of Panama City Florida on 2 May 1968. Current marital status: single. Current residence: 1451 Stillheart Way, Tampa, Florida, Terrace View, apartment 231. Education level: High School graduate, one year of college. No military service, no felony convictions or misdemeanors. Current occupation: cab driver. No known living relatives, Caucasian, six foot two inches tall, brown hair, brown eyes and weight: 330 lbs.”
Rick tried to suppress the look of surprise and anger creeping into his face. Clearly this was someone with access to a great deal of information, or, at least, the local DMV database. He began to worry that he might be in trouble with some people he didn’t want to be in trouble with. “340 lbs.” He corrected him. “Thanks for telling me how pitiful my life sounds. You didn’t answer my question. What do you guys want?”
The thin man shut the folder abruptly and looked very sternly at Rick. “We represent the controlling interest in this company. Call us managers, if you will. And we have had our eye on you for a very long time.”
It seemed odd to Rick that managers, if that’s what they were, would show up like this at 2 AM in the morning with all of his biographical data and want to meet in an abandoned store room. Mr. Tabert moved away from the wall. His suit was pressed, and his black tie sported a silver tie tack that Rick could not quite make out in the light. “What is this?”
“I assure you, Mr. Carter, we are who we say we are. I know the manner and circumstances of this meeting might seem a little odd to you but, this is how we like to meet our new recruits. Sort of get things started with as little fanfare as possible, you might say.” Tabert was looking at him strangely, almost not blinking. Once again Mr. Ball took the next line in the conversation.
“Your presence, here at Tampa Taxi, has had our attention for some time. Recent events have compelled us to move forward with this, um, introduction of sorts. You see, there is a job offer we would like to make you.” He said.
“But,” Mr. Tabert waved his hand with the cigarette perched between two fingers in the air. “There are some things we would like to air out first.”
“You guys are full of crap,” Rick responded. His mood had not improved, and he was not willing to suffer foolishness.
Mr. Ball began to smile slightly. “We understand things have been a little stressful for you lately. Please just indulge us a little while, and I think you’ll find this whole inconvenience very accommodating.” There was a very soothing tone to his voice. He was almost the polar opposite to his partner’s stiff business-like persona.
Mr. Tabert continued. “There are a few personal matters we would like to address before we continue, Mr. Carter. We understand that you have had a problem in the past with gambling.”
Rick was not amused. “Is that what this is all about? Look, I’m not in the habit of discussing my personal life with…well, anyone. Nor am I in the habit of justifying myself. So, what are you two getting at?”
Mr. Ball smiled again. “No justifications, Rick. Just concerns. Where would you say you are with that?”
“My friends call me Rick. I don’t see any friends here.” Rick hammered back.
Mr. Ball waved his hand again lazily as if shooing away a fly. “Please answer the question for us,” He said.
Rick shook his head. “I used to hit the casinos, some, I’ll admit. Probably too much. But, I stopped going. I put myself on the do-not-admit list. I still go to the tracks occasionally just to relax, and I buy a lottery ticket each week. There’s nothing illegal about that. And I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Please,” Mr. Ball spoke again, “just indulge us.”
Rick wasn’t persuaded, and he wasn’t intimidated by their switch off tactics. He was as familiar with the good cop/bad cop routine as anyone. “Look you guys, I’ve been working with this company for 15 years. I never heard or seen you guys before, and my boss doesn’t seem to know who you are either. Are you with the government?”
Mr. Tabert replied quickly and coldly. “No, not government, as such. We represent other interests. We just prefer the term Managers.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a single laminated card for Rick to see. Rick squinted at it and tried quickly to read it before Tabert returned it to his pocket.
“Seriously? Is that out of a cereal box?” Rick asked suspiciously.
Mr. Ball looked at his partner confidently. “I don’t think the gambling is an issue.”
Mr. Tabert nodded in agreement and started again. “We are trying to tell you that we have a job for you, Mr. Carter, if you’re interested. Who we are is really irrelevant at this point. Who you are is irrelevant at this point. This is simply a remarkably unique job that requires the skills of a person with almost flawless abilities and an unparalleled knowledge of the entire Tampa area, and most importantly; works night shift.”
“But, I already have a job. This is what I do.” Rick responded just as coldly.
Mr. Ball spoke again, “This wouldn’t take you away from your normal job as a taxi driver. In fact, it would compliment it. And, there’s no need for any new training or change of location. When would you say is your least busy time of the night?”
Rick reflected a moment and then found himself responding even though he felt he should not. “Usually from 2 or 3 to about 6. Why?”
Mr. Ball continued, “That would be perfect. We need you, Mr. Carter, to be available to pick up some, what we like to call, “special” fares from time to time. They would only be during this time and would not hamper or hinder your life in any other way. We need you to be available during this time on our call and our call alone. You would be given an address and told to meet a single individual at that address. That person will then hand you a note telling you where to take them. The fare will be paid directly into your account. And, Mr. Carter,” Mr. Ball moved slightly forward in his seat and looked very seriously directly into Rick’s eyes as if to emphasis the point, “the company will make this very worth your while. Each fare will be worth a thousand dollars apiece.”
Rick was stunned. If anything spoke loudly to Rick these days, it was the unmistakable and angelic like sound of dollars followed by several zeroes. “What? Are you serious?”
Mr. Tabert spoke again, his serious tone never wavered. “We are deadly serious, Mr. Carter. Though it may sound slightly odd on the outside, what we are offering you is a very important and detrimental job that must get done. But, remember this; should you accept, never forget this: you are not allowed to breathe a word of your activities to anyone, including your shop boss here. Not a word, to family, friend or girlfriend. Just be available to take the fares, do the job, ask no questions and collect the fares.”
Mr. Ball sat back again, the casual Carolina inflections returning to his voice. ”What do you think Mr. Carter? Interest
ed?”
Offers this good usually came with the word felony attached to a lengthy jail time. “Is this something illegal?”
“Nothing illegal about it, Mr. Carter,” Mr. Tabert responded, “Just fares like any other fares. We’re not asking you to transport anything but human cargo. But you must be available to us only during that time. You must not speak to anyone else about it, and you must get the fares to their destinations as specified. Sound interesting?”
Rick thought for a moment as silence descended on the room, both men watching and waiting for his reply. The whole thing sounded way too out there, but then there was that thousand bucks per offer. He felt a gnawing voice of skepticism growing in his gut and a multitude of fears creep into the back of his mind…..but, then there was that thousand bucks. He had responded before he realized he was about to. “Yes, I’m interested, if you’re not trying to pull my leg.”
Mr. Ball rose from his seat and grabbed his suit jacket from the little wooden table.” Good! Our data said you were our man. And, I assure you there is no leg pulling of any kind.”
Mr. Tabert moved over to where Mr. Ball stood. “Good, then that’s done. You’ll start tomorrow night. Remember, you must be totally at our call from 3 AM to 6 AM.”
“And please do not have any interactions with the fares. We prefer you speak to them only if spoken to. There must be limited interaction.” Mr. Tabert added. And with that they both moved to the doorway, causing Rick to step out of the way before he realized what he was doing. They vanished down the hallway toward the front of the building leaving him Rick standing there alone. “We’ll be in touch.” Mr. Ball’s voice echoed back down the hallway as they left the building. Rick still wasn’t sure what had just happened, but one thing was definite: life was rolling in the floor laughing now.
When Rick finally woke up the next afternoon, he realized he was still in his work clothes, his shorts, and a tropical shirt. He rolled over in the bed onto his back and stared at the ceiling, watching the slits of sunlight through the window blinds illuminate the heavy dust floating in the air. Something was terribly wrong. Something very unkind had happened, and now he was dealing with it like a bad hang over. His head was hurting, and he could vaguely remember Mel talking to him. At first, he thought it had all been a dream. When he sat up, he saw the empty soda bottles lying all around the bed. This was the reason why his bladder felt like the size of a hot air balloon. Grape soda was his beverage of choice when the stressful side of life collided with the emotional side, and there was nowhere to run. He had never been a drinker. Alcoholism was never a vice he had to worry with. Instead, he usually kept a few cases of the bubbly grape stuff around for general refreshment and the ever possible binge night.
He moved himself to the edge of the bed trying to remember what it was Mel was telling him in the car the night before. That was Mel, wasn’t it? Where did he come from? Blast all that, where had he been? There were 26 years of explanations waiting out there in the wind, and he suddenly pops up, says hello and then goes running off in the night. How can that be? It smacked of fiction, the really bad kind where the author struggles to figure out how to tie a sketchy plot together with a limited vocabulary and a stalled out imagination.
He rubbed his hair and got up, grunting as he made his way to the toilet down the hall of his apartment to have his morning constitution. As he stood gratefully over the toilet relieving his over-burdened bladder and yawning, he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye in the nearby mirror. Something was wrong. He narrowed his eyes and he turned to look directly in the mirror. What the..!
On his head, starting from the forehead and running back to the top of his head, highlighted by his naturally dark brown hair was a silvery white streak of hair about 2 inches wide. His mouth opened in amazement. He looked like a skunk, a one-sided skunk. He stood staring at it, mouth open, unable to say anything. He didn’t understand why things like this had to happen. He rubbed his hand through it, reassuring himself that it was his hair and not some nasty brain sucking alien slug that had crawled through his bedroom window during the night. It was his alright, just white as snow. He had heard of people having this happen, people who went through dramatic shocks and gray streaks appearing in their hair from the stress. But, this wasn’t a streak. It was a swath. He shook his head in disbelief. I need food, really good food he thought. Or I need to hit something. He decided he would fix something, something he liked, for dinner that was complicated and took a long time to prepare. It would give him time to think, time to put the night before into perspective. After all, hadn’t he agreed to a new job too? Somewhere in that mess of deranged lunacy where he spent last night he remembered accepting a new job. Maybe I need to start drinking, he thought. I think I have a good reason to. He decided to get a shower first then get into the kitchen.
Culinary art was one of Rick’s real passions in life. It went well with one of his other passions: eating. He loved cooking, and he was good at it. When he stepped into the kitchen and started laying out ingredients, preparing meats, sauces, spices, chopping vegetables, marinating that, pounding on this, glazing something else, angels began to sing in heaven. And it was practically all self-taught, something he took a lot of pride in. His dad had passed this love for cooking down to him. Henry, in his younger days, had owned a fry joint. His place wasn’t the typical greasy spoon. It was a place where a cheeseburger took on a whole new experience in your mouth and where even the strictest vegan would have thrown caution to the wind. Rick grew up under his tutelage. He eagerly learned all the old man had to teach and then, he moved on to other aspects of plate decorations until he had raised his abilities to almost world class level. French chefs would tremble at his soufflé. That is if they knew about it, which they didn’t. Instead, Rick used his time in the kitchen to think, to prepare for his night, to occupy his time, so he stayed away from the casinos and to hone a craft that he never grew tired off.
Tonight’s best beef stew had all the hallmarks of complexity and attention to detail that would occupy his over-active mind. Unfortunately, it was up against some pretty stiff competition, and in the end not even the greatest stew known to man could get Mel off his mind. The meeting with the two weird government guys was almost an after-thought now. He knew it happened; he knew it was important and that he had agreed to do something he was very unsure of, but his mind didn’t want to dwell on that. Instead, his mental processes were consumed with Melvin Thibadeaux, the happy go lucky disappearing jerk that left a town full of people thinking he had been dead for nearly thirty years. Rick was trying to grasp the sheer randomness of the whole thing and how utterly pointless his twenty-six years of self-imposed survivor’s guilt had been. How did he do it? Why did he do it? Where in the black hole of weird crap has he been all this time? The more he thought about it the madder he got. Finally the desire to hit something started to overwhelm his stomach. He spent the rest of his time with his stew thinking about which part of Mel’s face he was going to hit first if he had a second chance.
In the end, he finished his stew, prepared his dinner on a wooden tray in front of the small television and watched some old episodes of a science fiction drama from the sixties. It wasn’t until ten thirty that he remembered he had a job to do and that he had agreed to run some special fares for the two suits. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to change from a used pair of shorts and tropical shirt to another of the same. It’s what he did every night. But even this simple process was hampered when he discovered he had no clean clothes. He had to search through a pile of dirty laundry to find something that he had only worn once and that he could spritz up with a bit of fabric softener and be on his way. By eleven thirty he was out the door and for the first time in fifteen years, he was nervous, apprehensive about what this night might bring.
The slow seething anger Rick felt as he grabbed his lunch, locked his apartment door and headed downstairs to the parking lot was only accentuated by accidently jamming his finger in
the car door as he tried to close it. Several expletives later he was pulling out of the parking lot grimacing from the pain in his finger and prepared for a bitter fight with the enemies of happiness in the night. He wasn’t disappointed. It didn’t take long for the battle to begin. The first two hours of the night found him driving from bar to bar with no takers, and nothing popping up on his computer to bid on. Business wasn’t just dead, it was cold, stiff and being embalmed. The only thought that kept him from rolling his window down and screaming bad things to the world was the promise of a lucrative morning by the two suits from last night. They had better not have been messing with him. He couldn’t take that now. He pulled into the empty parking lot of a closed business and parked. It was 0155, and he was determined to wait out the last few minutes watching the clock tick away. One by one the minutes went by until at last the digital clock turned 0200. For a moment, nothing happened. The worry began to creep into his mind. Had he been played after all? He sat holding his breath looking at the clock until a flicker of light caught his attention. It was his company radio. The back light flickered off and then back on a second later. But, this time, the backlight had changed colors to deep green. That was odd. It had never done that before. He reached down and flicked the front of the radio, but nothing happened. He fiddled with knobs, buttons, and switches. It seemed to be working, except now it was glowing green, a nasty, unhealthy green that looked like a cross between gamma radiation and swamp gas. At 0205 the radio squawked to life and nearly gave him a heart attack. He jerked back in his seat, and the big Crown Vic. rocked. “Mr. Carter?” The voice was strange, not one of the usual dispatchers. It sounded old, distinctly feminine and slightly grandmotherly like. He hadn’t ever had a grandmother, but he had seen enough of them on television to imagine what they would sound like. Maybe she was on the other end holding a plate of warm cookies and a glass of milk.
Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1) Page 4