1:31 P.M.

Dana said, "Pepsi Street, please."

The driver was an older man with beefy arms and jowls. He looked up at her in the rear-view mirror and grunted, acknowledging her presence. They drove slowly through the heavy foot-traffic, the driver muttering as they pulled up behind an elderly feline woman on a bicycle.

Dana opened her briefcase and tried to concentrate on her work, calculating the closing costs and drawing up her own fee in her head, but she found herself staring at the black and white photo of Mr. Crook's driver's license, the one she'd had her secretary fax over to her house last night. She had the strangest feeling she'd seen him before somewhere, maybe on television or in one of the papers. She'd shown the picture to her son Randy, who had shrugged, staring into his cereal bowl and saying, "Maybe his dinky little store got robbed and he was on the late edition, how should I know?"

"Oh, Randy, honestly. You could be a little nicer you know."

"Yeah, and I could be meaner too. You don't know how lucky you got it compared to some parents. At least I'm not out killing people or stealing money from your purse for needle drugs. Not that I would touch that ratty thing anyway. Faux fur is so last season, mom."

She'd looked over at her purse, slumped dejectedly on the kitchen counter.

"Anyway, I'm under a lot of pressure at school, ok?"

"What, summer school?"

He rolled his eyes but didn't say anything.

"I really hate this fucking street," the driver was muttering, "Nothing but scuzzy peddlers and hookers and fags."

"I didn't ask your opinion," she said sharply, "Just drive the fucking car."

He looked up into the mirror again, visibly stunned. Obviously he was shocked to hear a woman speak to him so frankly, and with such conviction. His was a world of wives and mothers, women who cooked and cleaned and looked after the children.

"I'm sorry I'm not at home, fixing a stew," she hissed, "But I have a job. I happen to make a lot more money than my husband as a matter of fact."

He averted his gaze, turning up his radio and letting out an explosion of noxious gas. Dana choked and made to open her window, but there was no handle.

The driver laughed much more than he needed to, all the way to Pepsi Street, where she refused to tip him and he drove off, his middle finger in the air, screaming, "Fuck you, lesbian!"