Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [58]
“That sounds a bit complicated.”
“Suit yourself.”
Another short silence. Then, “Okay, Burke, tell your cabby to meet us at—”
“Never mind all that. The cabby will be at the same corner you’re standing on right now. And don’t waste your time trying to talk to him, he won’t say a word. Yes or no?”
Silence, a muffled conversation. Then, “Yes, we’ll—” I unhooked the alligator clips, terminating the conversation. If they weren’t on the same corner as the pay phone when the cab rolled up, that would be the end. I went back the way I’d come, returning the equipment and the keys, and rejoined Max in the warehouse.
When I put the hack license on the table in front of Max his face broke into a joyful grin—he loved to drive the cab. I got out paper and a marking pen, showed him the corner where he’d pick up the two clowns, and gestured that he should bring them back to this neighborhood. He nodded and I diagrammed that he should bring them only to the far corner, make the turn, stash the cab in the back of the warehouse, then go back and escort them inside.
Max patted his face with both hands, shrugged his shoulders, and spread his palms out wide, asking me if they wouldn’t recognize him as the driver of the cab when he brought them inside. I held up one finger, got up, and walked over to the big trunk where we kept our supplies—hats, wigs, false beards, face putty, stuff like that. Max was in seventh heaven now. This was perfection—not only would he get to drive the cab, but he’d have a disguise too. We brought the mirror out from the bathroom and tried on a few different versions of Max’s face. His favorite was the Zapata mustache, which, together with mirror-finish sunglasses and a fat cigar in his mouth, made him impossible to recognize. I added a jaunty beret in a dashing shade of pink. Max wasn’t crazy about the color but he did smile at the sight of the hat, no doubt remembering the would-be mugger who had donated it to our collection one dark night last summer.
We found Max an old army jacket and some regulation combat boots, very comfortable for driving. Everything went fine until I got out the gloves—Max never wore gloves even in the dead of winter. But his hands were more recognizable than most people’s faces. I didn’t know how observant these guys were, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Max slammed the gloves down on the table in a gesture of total refusal. I grabbed the gloves in one hand and balled the other into a threatening fist, telling him to put on the damn gloves or I’d break his face. His face broke all right, into silent laughter. Then he lightly touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his forehead and to his heart, and opened his two hands in front of me. This was an apology, not for refusing to wear the gloves but for laughing at me. Max thinks I’m more sensitive than I am. At least I think he does.
We went to examine the cab. It was typical of the breed, a battered old Dodge with hundreds of thousands of no-maintenance miles on the clock. The trunk, as expected, was empty, since fleet owners don’t want the cabbies to sell the spare tire and claim it was stolen. We spread a heavy quilt on the floor of the trunk, checked to make sure the exhaust system was free of leaks, and Max punched a few tiny holes in the trunk lid with an icepick. I’d be wearing a one-piece padded refrigerator suit while I rode along in the trunk, the kind guys use to work inside meat lockers. That, plus the quilt, would keep me from breaking a few bones when Max slammed the cab around like I expected.