K. C. McBride had sung her way to Bay City, California - as far she get from the misery that was Lackawanna, New York. In between the singing, though, came a lot of waitressing, house-cleaning and even cab driving. But anything was better than getting slapped around by Jimmy Thornton, no matter what her mother said. Besides, she had big dreams. She was destined for stardom on the airwaves.
On her way she'd seen a lot and learned plenty more. Some things were nice and some were not. But the way those jeans stretched across the backside of the new cabbie as he pumped gas was one of the nicest thing she'd seen in a long time. It didn't even bother her that he might lean both ways. He seemed a little confused when she flirted with him, after all. But with the way he looked, she doubted it. Still, she didn't mind a few kinks in the road of life.
The cabbie, Dave Starsky, was a really nice guy. He was living proof that in fact all guys were not alike. She could tell he liked her. He didn't mind when she pulled out her guitar and serenaded him with corny songs from her admittedly weak repertoire while they waited for fares. And rather than turn all hands for her to bat away, he actually fell asleep at the wheel. It lead her to believe that cab-driving wasn't all he did.
K.C had learned how to hold her own against all the creepy horn dogs she'd met, but it was a relief to find a guy she could actually relax around. Not that she'd have turned down his advances if he actually made some. He was definitely sex on two legs. It was just her luck that for some reason he didn't seem interested. He acted more like a big brother. Well, if that's all she could get, she'd take it. She needed all the friends she could find. Life since Lackawanna had been a lonely long haul. Hell, she'd been lonely even before she left.
K.C. liked talking to Dave. He seemed to listen. More amazingly, he even seemed to care. He asked how she had come to be a singing California cabbie. Like some kind of chivalrous knight in a newsboy cap, he told her to keep her eyes open and not pick up any fares she didn't like the looks of. He could have spared her his advice. All the locals had been talking about was the recent murders of three other drivers. She would have quit and moved on but she was dangerously low on funds and besides, she felt her big break was just around the corner.
The murders stayed on K.C's mind, however, as she continued to make her rounds. Riders this week had been few and far between. It seemed like everyone was avoiding this part of town. It was just her luck that when she turned the corner toward the dispatch office a man stepped out in front of her cab and pointed a gun straight at her. She felt her heart explode as she slammed on her breaks.
"Hey, honey, all ya had to do was whistle." She turned to the bravado she'd learned to lean on months ago as the man jumped in her car. Big and blond, the man barely spared her a look. He grabbed the mouthpiece to her radio shouting for her dispatcher, Kingston St. John.
When he put aside the gun in his frantic attempts to reach her wacky Jamaican dispatcher, K.C.'s fear changed to annoyance. Yeah, she'd seen a lot of strange things on the road of life.
"Hey partner, I don't know what your problem is."
"Look Kingston, this is Hutchinson," the man continued to shout into the radio. "Get ahold of Starsky. I think he's picked up the killer."
Starsky. Killer. She might not have known who the blond man was, but he was terrified Dave had picked up the cabbie killer and was desperate to save him.
"Dave did?" K.C. hadn't escaped Jimmy Thorton and Lackawanna by playing it safe. She jammed down the gas pedal and peeled away toward Lincoln and Pine as Hutchinson fell back in the seat.
When they found the number nine cab sitting abandoned on the side of the road, Hutchinson didn't think twice. "Down the alley," he told her as if Dave was emitting some kind of homing frequency only the blond could hear. She didn't bother questioning him, just roared down the alley as he leaned on the horn. It was a signal he was on his way.
They found Dave and the killer at the end of the alley. The strange man dressed like an old woman seemed to melt in front of the cab, just like the stage makeup that melted grotesquely down his face. Dave sat back on a stack of crates disoriented and gasping for breath. Blood flowed from a gash in his head. Hutchinson barely gave the killer a second look but headed straight to Dave. He put one hand on Dave's ankle and lovingly carded his hair with the other.
It didn't matter whether Dave could see clearly or not. He know exactly who that touch belonged to.
"What took you so long?" he joked between breaths, relaxing into Hutchinson's ministrations.
"We stopped for ice cream. You okay?" The man who had pointed a gun at her was now tender, gentle, as he spoke to his friend.
K.C. suddenly knew why Dave had only taken a friendly interest in her. He might have exuded the kind of sex appeal that attracted women like butterflies to nectar, but that was irrelevant. She'd seen a lot in her life and had learned plenty more. Today the Lackawanna songbird learned the old saying is true. You can't judge a book by its cover.