looks when itâs pointed just right.
I fished in my pockets for change, emptied them.
âIs that all?â
âYou want the gold cap on my left front molar?â I said.
âTurn around,â the guy barked. âKeep both hands on the steering wheel. High.â
I heard jingling, then a quick intake of breath.
âOkay,â the crook said, sounding happy as a clam, âIâm gonna take my leaveââ
âGood. Donât call this cab again.â
âListen!â The gun tapped. âYou cool it here for ten minutes. And I mean frozen. Donât twitch. Donât blow your nose. Then take off.â
âGee, thanks.â
âThank you ,â he said politely. The door slammed.
At times like that, you just feel ridiculous. You know the guy isnât going to hang around, waiting to see whether youâre big on insubordination. But , he might. And who wants to tangle with a .22 slug? I rate pretty high on insubordination. Thatâs why I messed up as a cop. I figured Iâd give him two minutes to get lost. Meantime I listened.
Not much traffic goes by those little streets on Beacon Hill at one oâclock on a Wednesday mom. Too residential. So I could hear the guyâs footsteps tap along the pavement. About ten steps back, he stopped. Was he the one in a million whoâd wait to see if I turned around? I heard a funny kind of whooshing noise. Not loud enough to make me jump, and anything much louder than the ticking of my watch would have put me through the roof. Then the footsteps patted on, straight back and out of hearing.
One minute more. The only saving grace of the situation was the location: District One. Thatâs Mooneyâs district. Nice guy to talk to.
I took a deep breath, hoping it would have an encore, and pivoted quickly, keeping my head low. Makes you feel stupid when you do that and thereâs no one around.
I got out and strolled to the corner, stuck my head around a building kind of cautiously. Nothing, of course.
I backtracked. Ten steps, then whoosh. Along the sidewalk stood one of those new âKeep Beacon Hill Beautifulâ trash cans, the kind with the swinging lid. I gave it a shove as I passed. I could just as easily have kicked it; I was in that kind of funk.
Whoosh, it said, just as pretty as could be.
Breaking into one of those trash cans is probably tougher than busting into your local bank vault. Since I didnât even have a dime left to fiddle the screws on the lid, I was forced to deface city property. I got the damn thing open and dumped the contents on somebodyâs front lawn, smack in the middle of a circle of light from one of those snooty Beacon Hill gas streetlamps.
Halfway through the whiskey bottles, wadded napkins, and beer cans, I made my discovery. I was doing a thorough search. If youâre going to stink like garbage anyway, why leave anything untouched, right? So I was opening all the brown bagsâyou know, the good old brown lunch-and-bottle bagsâlooking for a clue. My most valuable find so far had been the moldy rind of a bologna sandwich. Then I hit it big: one neatly creased bag stuffed full of cash.
To say I was stunned is to entirely underestimate how I felt as I crouched there, knee-deep in garbage, my jaw hanging wide. I donât know what Iâd expected to find. Maybe the guyâs gloves. Or his hat, if heâd wanted to get rid of it fast in order to melt back into anonymity. I pawed through the rest of the debris. My change was gone.
I was so befuddled I left the trash right on the front lawn. Thereâs probably still a warrant out for my arrest.
District One headquarters is off the beaten path, over on New Sudbury Street. I would have called first, if Iâd had a dime.
One of the few things Iâd enjoyed about being a cop was gabbing with Mooney. I like driving a cab better, but, face it, most of my fares arenât scintillating