Free Mortality Bridge by Steven R. Boyett

Black Taxi slows to a crawl and then speeds away. The cabbie guns the engine.
    Niko grips the back of the front seat. “Where’s he trying to get to?”
    “Red Line tunnel.” The cabbie points down. “Underground.”
    They pass the entrance to the Red Line station on their left and Niko sees long steep escalators and staircases. “He’s trying to get in there from here?”
    “Not with us on his tail. He’ll head to the next station at Fourth. We’re riding above the Red Line route right now.”
    A few streets over to their left is the quaint old gumshoe movie backdrop of City Hall with the Lindbergh light revolving like a lighthouse beacon warning traffic not to founder on some downtown shoal.
    They cross Second Street and the light turns green for them. Bunker Hill a clump of skyscrapers above them and to the right. The twin towers of the California Plaza with their neonbanded tops. The palegreen robot of Library Tower. The glossy tiled tube of Second Street tunnel whips by. Beyond this a black and orange gateway reading ANGEL’S FLIGHT RAILWAY stands alone along the sidewalk at the foot of the hill, railtrack slanting up to meet a matching gateway on the hilltop at the California Plaza. On the track two black and orange railway cars are shaped like parallelograms to fit along the slope.
    “He’s slowing down again.”
    The cabbie nods. “Red Line station on both sides at Fourth. And he might give that a try.” She points to a building up ahead on Fourth Street. Niko stares out at trompe l’oeil window-washers cleaning painted-on windows. “The old Subway Terminal Building. In the Twenties there was a mile’s worth of subway running under Bunker Hill. The tunnel’s still there, they broke into it when they dug the foundation for the Bonaventure in the Seventies. Runs all the way to where Beverly and Second meet.”
    “Why isn’t he going faster?”
    “He’s trying to time it so he loses us at the lights.” As if to illustrate her point the traffic light turns yellow as the Franklin speeds across Fourth Street. The Checker Cab is close behind and the light turns from yellow back to green. Two cars run the light in opposite directions and without even looking at them the cabbie taps the brakes just so and avoids a broadside.
    “I like your greenlight trick,” says Niko. Because if he doesn’t say something he will scream.
    “Good one, huh?” They pass the defunct Subway Terminal Building and the cabbie waves her cigarillo at it. “There’s a huge copy of The Thinker in the lobby of that.”
    “Do you sell maps to the stars’ homes too?”
    She arches her eyebrows in the rearview. “The Thinker was originally the figure on top of Rodin’s Gates of Hell. Which he never finished.” She smiles. “You should look up what he was working on when he died.”
    Niko studies the cabbie’s profile as they chase the Black Taxi toward the Jewelry District. Crow’s feet but her eyes seem young. Beautiful color really. Forehead that wrinkles when waiting for an answer. Beautifully sculpted lip, the upper wanting to favor one side. Barely glancing at traffic as she drives. She knows this cab and its surround like an old pair of jeans. Dark hair without gray. Hardworked hands. How old is she I wonder.
    They pass Fifth Street and the Red Line station entrance across from the yellow and purple building blocks of Pershing Square. The Black Taxi puts on speed and cuts left onto Seventh.
    The cabbie hangs a long and screaming left to follow. “I bet we’re really pissing him off,” she says. “There’s no point in him getting in there if we just follow him on through.”
    “Where’s he headed now?”
    “I’m betting Union Station. All roads lead to Rome. It’s what I’d do if I was still driving black cab.”
    The bottom falls out of Niko’s stomach. “When was that?”
    “Oh, a long time ago. In London.” She hits the gas and the engine misses once then surges and they pull around a Prius with a