“The taxi.”
“What?” he said. “What’re you doing driving a taxi?”
“It’s a long story. You gonna tow or what?”
“I’ll tow,” he said getting down to business. “Just because you’re a loyal customer. No questions asked.”
“So how many tows have I got?” I inquired.
“Why?”
“This one could be free.”
Joe had taken the taxi to a mechanic he knew. I was going to cover the costs, of course, but that was not the problem. How was I going to tell Mahmud? He trusted me and I’d let him down.
Maybe I could deny it.
What taxi? I never borrowed any taxi? I don’t even have a license to operate one, must be someone else?
No. I couldn’t do that.
Mahmud was a good person, a decent person. I didn’t know how I was going to tell him what had happened. This might even end our fragile relationship.
I got off and waited at the spot we had decided to meet. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was almost eleven. I paced back and forth, thinking of what to do next. Four long minutes later I saw Mahmud turn the corner and walk briskly towards me.
“Mahmud,” I said. “Buddy, pal, how are you doing?”
“Good, Officer Rupret, how about you?” he said smiling. His eyes darted behind me, searching. “Where is the taxi?”
I scratched my head. “Well, Mahmud…maybe you should sit down.”
He looked around. We were in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Standing might be better.” I took a step back. I said, “Mahmud, something happened to your taxi.”
His smile faded.
“There is a large dent on the right side.”
He nodded, slowly.
“But I’m going to pay for the repair.” I didn’t know how much was in that thick envelope Sergeant Motley gave me, but it would help.
There was a pause and then he finally said, “You are okay?”
“Yeah, couldn’t be better,” I shrugged.
“You hit another car?” he asked.
“No, recycling bin.”
“Recycling bin?” He paused. “But recycling bin is on the sidewalk.”
“Yeah, well, I kind of…you have to realize there was this kid with these big headphones walking down the street and to avoid hitting him I swerved…”
He nodded, trying hard to digest what I was saying.
“Mahmud, I’m really sorry,” I said.
Mahmud looked hurt. I understood. It was his only means of making a living.
His eyes narrowed as if thinking. He then moved his hand through his matted hair. He looked at me and then his eyes moved to the top of my head.
I pulled off the Blue Jays cap and handed it to him.
He put it on and then looked at the ground. “Maybe I made a mistake,” he said.
“I know. You shouldn’t have trusted me.”
He smiled. “I made a mistake of not running taxi over you before.”
I woke up in the middle of the night in the Beadsworth’s guest bedroom. I tossed and turned and tossed some more. I was having strange dreams. First, I was in a taxi with Marcus being pulled by Joe Coultier-not towed, but literally pulled by his massive arms. Then, I’m back in the taxi and I hit a recycling bin and out pops Mahmud. He demands why I hit his recycling bin and not someone else’s. Then I’m in the House of Jam and I’m being chased by Mahmud’s taxi. Finally, I’m standing near a lake and I decide to jump into the water, and when I do the water turns into pills and I get sucked in like quicksand. I scream but no one is there to help except for Clara Terries. I call for her and she reaches out to help me, but before I can grab her I wake up.
It was 3:21 in the morning. My stomach moaned. I got up and went downstairs. As I turned into the kitchen a boy leaped up, startled. He was holding a sandwich in his left hand and his right hand was covered in a cast.
“Hey, I’m not a robber,” I said. Black guy in the house in the middle of the night can send wrong messages to white kids. “I’m your father’s partner.”
“I know that,” he said. “I was surprised.”
“You’re…Christopher, right?” I said.
“No. Noel.”
Damn. Close, though. “Mind if I join you?”
He shook his head and sat down. He took a bite off his sandwich.
“That looks good,” I said.
“It’s tuna. I’ll show you were Mom keeps it.”
He pointed out all the ingredients and I made myself a similar sandwich.
Once we were seated I said, “By the way, my name is Jon.” I offered my hand as a late introduction. He shook it. “You couldn’t sleep either?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I couldn’t,” I said. “I had nightmares.”
“You did?” he said, looking up.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of nightmares? Scary monster nightmares?’
“You could say that,” I said.
“I get this nightmare where this humungous giant lizard with fangs and five tentacles comes out of the closet and eats me alive.”
Humungous lizard? I hope he doesn’t come after me.
“Are you a police officer just like dad?” he asked.
“Sure am,” I said, in my police-like tone.
“You catch bad guys every day?”
“Sure do.” I felt like John Wayne telling some whippersnapper about his sheriff duties.
He then said, “You make lots of money like dad?”
Uh? “What?”
“Dad makes lots of money.”
I paused. “Yes, he does.”
I slowly took a bite of the sandwich, thinking. “Your dad told you he makes lots of money from his job?”
“No, but I hear him talk to Mom. He brings her money in an envelope.”
“An envelope, eh?” I said, thinking deeper.
“Brown envelopes, sometimes white envelopes.”
I began to eye the kitchen suspiciously: marble countertop, stainless steel dishwasher, two-door refrigerator, all top-of-the-line stuff.
“What else did your dad tell you,” I asked, hoping to get more out of him.
He shrugged, suddenly disinterested.
I needed more information. “So, you broke your arm playing soccer?” I said.
He looked away.
I leaned in. “You didn’t break your arm playing soccer, did you?”
He made no comment.
“You got into a fight.”
He nodded, very slowly.
“Why?”
He looked up and opened his mouth into a wide smile.
I waited.
He pointed to his teeth.
“What?” I still did not understand.
He pointed more dramatically.
“Oh,” I said. “Kids made fun of your braces?”
He closed his mouth and lowered his head, staring at the empty plate.
“Your parents don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“Don’t worry about what those kids think,” I said. “When you’re older you’ll have a perfect smile and they’ll have crooked teeth like cats.”
He laughed.
Right then I should have told him an incident from my childhood, but I couldn’t think of one so I let it go. “You know,” I said. “You should tell your parents. Maybe they can help.”
I suddenly realized the hypocrisy of what I was saying. Here I was giving Noel advice about being open and honest while I was hiding my career from my mother.
When this was all over and done I was going to have a long talk with her. She would understand. She always did.
“Talk to your parents when you feel you’re up to it,” I finally said.
TWENTY-SEVEN
At the breakfast table I sipped coffee while eating a toast with marmalade. Beadsworth sat across from me with a newspaper. He was going over the front-page stories. Amy was upstairs with Liam. Noel had already gone to school.
I stared at Beadsworth intently. Something about him made me irritated. It wasn’t his trimmed beard, or his perfect ironed shirt, pants, or tie. It wasn’t even the way he was reading the paper, folding each page precisely to avoid any creases. It was what his son Noel had told me last night. Beadsworth gave his wife money in brown and white envelopes, and large sums of it, at that.