Chapter 3

It was the next Monday before my cheque cleared. I was down to my last few bits of food from the bags of groceries I'd bought and had begun to think I'd have to resort to going to the homeless shelter for a meal. I checked with the bank every day, perturbed when they told me on Friday they were closed for the weekend. New York banks opened on Saturday mornings, but Gotham ones didn't.

I hadn't seen anymore of either Sophie or the clown, but I called Jazz on Monday around lunch time. He wasn't planning to start work until six and confirmed he would meet me at the garage to look for a car. I walked there and found him already looking at a blue Ford and chatting to a guy in a grey checked suit.

"Travis!" he called out. "This is Marcus. He owns the garage."

"Good to meet you, Travis." Marcus held out a hand for me to shake. "I understand you're setting up as a taxi driver, like Jazz here."

"Yes, that's right." I glanced at the Ford. The sign on its windscreen advertised its price, which would use up every cent of my money, leaving me with none leftover to pay for insurance, fuel, or anything else, such as food.

"What's your budget?"

"Less than that." I laughed uncomfortably.

"Ah, well, you see this is the price for the general public." Marcus grinned and winked. "The price for friends, or friends of friends, is fifteen hundred. It's a good car—old but solid, for putting a lot of miles in, stopping and starting and hovering, like you need in your job. Big, too. You can easily take four passengers with luggage."

"Marcus can point you in the right direction for good cheap insurance," Jazz said. "I'd take this car. I had the same model for my first taxi, and the same age. Lasted me three years with no trouble."

"Why don't you take it for a spin?" Marcus suggested. "See how you like it." He offered me a key attached to a keyring with his company logo on it.

"Sure, if that's okay." My mind was doing sums—fifteen hundred for the car, insurance in New York would have been at least five hundred, but was probably less here, a tank of fuel, a bag of groceries so I could eat this week, I could potentially start work tonight and earn enough to fill up the tank again.

"I'll go with you." Jazz slid into the passenger seat.

I got in and started the engine. As I steered the car out of the entrance onto the street, Jazz started talking again. "Marcus's insurance guy will sort you out for about three-fifty, but you can pay in instalments. The best fuel stop is the one on Laurel Avenue, about three blocks west of where you live. It's cheaper than the big ones on the main streets. Turn left at the next intersection and we'll go right by it."

"I have two thousand in the bank," I said. "I can just about manage it. I have to eat, too."

"Get your groceries at the market if you can," Jazz said. "You know where Arkham nuthouse is?"

"Uh, yeah." I snorted.

"It's right behind that. Open every day except Sundays. Everything is half the price of the grocery stores, because they don't have to pay store rent, only monthly tax. You can get everything there—food, clothes, electrical stuff, furnishings, whatever you want."

"That's great. I'll stop by there later," I confirmed. I turned the car left and spotted the fuel station, a large sign showing its price which was much lower than I expected. I turned left at the next two corners and looped back to the garage. The car ran well and was neat and clean inside. I'd probably have chosen it for myself, without Jazz's input, except that without his help I couldn't have afforded it.

Marcus took us into his office when I told him I'd take the car. I signed the papers and wrote out a cheque, assuming I'd have to wait for it to clear before I could take the car. But Marcus passed me the key, along with another spare. "Don't leave the country," he teased.

"I'm not planning on it. I really appreciate this."

"You'd better go and sort the insurance out before you drive it, though. Here." Marcus passed me a business card for an insurance broker. "He has an office near the market."

"I'll drive you over there," Jazz said at once. "Once you get it sorted, I'll drop you back here to get your car."

"You don't have to put yourself out," I protested. "I appreciate—"

"It's no trouble," Jazz interrupted. "I only wish I had a friend to help out when I was finding my feet. Come on." He led me over to his car.

"I look that needy?"

"Ha. New in the city, no money, I'd say you could use a helping hand."

"Well, thanks." I got in the car.

"You gonna tell me anything about yourself?" he prompted as he began to drive.

"What do you wanna know?" I clammed up. I hated talking about myself. I'd done nothing but that twice a week for the past five years, and my first appointment with my new care worker was looming the next morning.

"Anything. Other than drive a cab, what have you done in the past? Where did you live? Are ya married? You know, anything."

"Well, um, I was born in the Bronx in New York. I joined the marines when I was eighteen," I said awkwardly.

"Were you in Vietnam?"

"Yeah." I ducked my head and tried to think of a way to change the subject.

"That must have been tough."

"Yeah."

"You know, you can tell me to shut up." Jazz got the message by himself. "I'm sorry. I'm a nosy bastard."

"I just don't want to talk about that," I muttered.

"That's fine. Sorry," he repeated.

"It's okay. You could talk about you instead."

"Well—" He laughed. "You can still tell me to shut up. Once I get going, you know, I just talk. My parents brought us over from Pakistan back in the early seventies—"

"You don't have much of an accent," I put in.

"I worked hard to get rid of it. They wanted to set up in New York, but couldn't afford it, so we ended up here. I have two sisters and a brother. They're all older and married with three kids each and counting. I got married last summer and we have a baby on the way. She's the youngest daughter of another family that moved over with us the same time." He rambled on, telling me about his life with the young woman he'd known since childhood, their hopes and dreams, her work cleaning for a large department store, and his own taxi driver adventures. Somehow, he managed to fit a lot in on the short journey to the insurance broker's office.

Predictably, the man whose name was Bryce Jordan, eyed me warily when I walked through his door, but he greeted Jazz with a smile and settled down. The insurance for the new car was soon in place for only three hundred bucks, which I decided to pay in full, leaving me enough to stock up on groceries, fill the car's tank several times, and still treat Jazz to a few beers. I stuck with one. It was a long time since I'd had a drink, if you didn't count the first day I met Jazz, and I wanted to get out and work that night. Jazz told me the best place to pick up fares on a Monday night, was either at the cinema because they had half price tickets on Mondays and Tuesdays, or at a music club that had a live piano player on Mondays. There was also the train station, obviously.

I made myself some food later, and by six o'clock, I was kerb-crawling near the station, waiting for people on their way home from work. Jazz had given me a couple of spare "TAXI" stickers he had to affix to my car doors, so I didn't even have to sort that out. He was already a good friend, considering I was a weird-looking stranger.

I wore a grey peaked cap I'd picked up in the market, thinking I would be less likely to frighten off potential customers if I covered up the mohawk. I knew I should grow the damn thing out, but it would look ridiculous for months, with stubble either side, unless I shaved it off. Then I'd be a skinhead, which would be even worse.

I got my first fare after only a twenty-minute wait—a businessman in a hurry to get home. Jazz had given me a list of potential journeys and what the yellow cabs would charge, and to start with I deducted twenty-five percent. I spent a couple of hours going backwards and forwards between the station and various housing areas, then when the station quietened down, I headed for the cinema, which kept me busy for the next couple of hours. I spotted Jazz's car on one of my trips, and he flashed his lights and stuck his hand out of the window with the thumb up as he passed.

I kept going until the music club closed at one in the morning, and for that last hour, my prices went up, but not as much as the yellows. When I got back to my apartment and counted out the wad of crumpled notes and bag of change, I was amazed to find I already had enough to keep the car in fuel for a week. With nothing else to do with my life at the moment, the decision was easily made to work seven days a week