Free 4 Shelter From The Storm by Tony Dunbar Page B

engine, impervious to the woman angrily pounding on his hood and splashed through a shallow lake in the parking lot. The rain was coming down in sheets and drumming on his roof. Hossein had to cut off a bus to make a U-turn, and his White Cloud Caddy did a wide slide on the slick asphalt and sent a monster wave over a dog and his master on the sidewalk. Praise Allah, this was a lot of rain.
    It took more than the promised five minutes to get there because all of the cars on Claiborne Avenue were crawling along, intimidated by the rising tide that was obliterating the curbside lanes. Hoss tried switching his lights on and off and blowing his horn, but nobody would move out of his way.
    At last he reached Versailles, which was entirely covered by water. He shot up it like a speedboat on the lake, wake arching behind him, looking for the address. Stopping in the center of the street, he blew his horn.
    The door of the two-story brick home flew open and his two fares, towels covering their heads, ran toward him on the slate walkway. They had no luggage, meaning no airport trip, but anyone in this neighborhood ought to be a good tipper.
    Collette and Bradley vaulted the last big puddle and fell into the back seat of the Cadillac. She was laughing. He was miserable.
    “Wheee!” she screamed, flinging water everywhere.
    “Where to, sir?” Hossein asked the young man.
    “We’re just trying to get home,” Bradley said. “My car’s flooded and I’m going after a tow truck. But I guess we’ll take her home first.” He glanced at Collette with some annoyance, which she failed to notice.
    She gave the cabdriver her address.
    “That’s not very far,” Hossein commented.
    Bradley told him that he lived out by the Lake.
    “That’s a little better,” the driver said, only partly mollified.
    “This sure is some rain,” Bradley said.
    “Yes, sir. I have not seen much worse. It may be a flood.”
    Indeed, a car up ahead had its emergency flashers on and was refusing to cross a particularly long pool.
    “Sissies,” Hossein spat. He turned off onto a side street. “I do not think this will make for a good Mardi Gras,” he said. His taxi was fishtailing on the narrow street, almost colliding with the rows of cars parked along the sides. Collette grabbed the strap above the door for security.
    “I bet you guys are really busy,” Bradley called to the front seat. “I couldn’t even get through on the phone to the other companies.”
    “Very busy, sir. Everybody wants to ride a taxi when it rains. You must be very careful whom you pick up though.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “People want rides into the projects where they rob you. You can’t pick up everybody.”
    “How do you know we won’t rob you?” Collette asked, holding tightly to the strap.
    “Oh, miss, I know,” Hossein laughed. “I can look at you.”
    “What he means,” Bradley explained to the dummy, “is he doesn’t pick up black people, isn’t that right?”
    “That’s right, sir. Very seldom. One must be practical.”
    “I can’t believe I heard that,” Collette cried. “You don’t pick up black people? I’m sure that’s illegal.”
    “Well!” Hossein clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.
    “C’mon, Collette,” Bradley said. “Get real. Once you let somebody in your cab you’re at their mercy. He’s right to be careful.”
    “Of course you should be careful,” she said angrily, “but you can’t judge whether someone is dangerous by the color of their skin.”
    “I bet you can ninety-nine percent of the time,” Bradley said.
    “I can’t believe you’re saying this,” Collette shrieked. Didn’t these people know what century this was? And Bradley was supposedly from Ohio.
    “I must say he’s quite right, ma’am,” Hossein chimed in. “Colored people are not at all to be trusted.”
    Collette refused to look at either one of them. Seething, she stared out the steamy window at the rain pouring down. “You’re