“Is that right?” Haklander replied without interest.
“That’s what they said.”
Haklander held my gaze for a few moments. “Just make sure you’re on time.” He wrote down the arrival time and held out his hand for the cash. “By the way, the oil gauge isn’t working.”
“I told you that last week,” I said, as Haklander’s phone started ringing.
He waved me out the door.
The flight must have landed early because as soon as I held up the sign with Ramirez’s name on it, he walked straight up to me. Or maybe he’d caught a different flight, I thought.
“You’re Mr. Ramirez?” I asked.
He nodded a bit too eagerly. “Ramirez. Yes.”
He was young, early twenties. He had bad skin and teeth that had never seen a dentist, but his Nike trainers were brand new. When I asked where he’d come from, he said, “Miami, Florida.” It sounded rehearsed, a phrase he’d spent time practicing in front of a mirror. As I threw his suitcase into the boot I noticed a half-torn tag on the handle from Bogota, Colombia: Aeropuerto Internacional El Dorado. Suit yourself, I thought. None of my business.
“You’re going to the city?” I asked, since that was what Haklander had told me.
Ramirez — if that was his real name — looked momentarily confused. Then he showed me a scrap of paper with an address written on it: Park Regis Concierge Apartments, Cremorne.
“Are you sure?”
Ramirez pointed to the address on the paper.
“Okay,” I said. It didn’t matter to me where I took him. Besides, I’d make twenty dollars more by driving him across the harbor. I got in and started the meter.
“Long queue?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly.
“Customs,” I said. “They’ve been on strike. It was chaos yesterday.”
Ramirez held the scrap of paper in front of my face.
“Park Regis Apartments,” I repeated. “I saw it the first time.”
I told him he had to wear the seat belt. He pretended not to hear, just sat there clutching a bag from Downtown Duty Free.
“Mate,” I said, “I’m not copping a fine because you refuse to wear a belt.” I tugged at the inertia reel to show him what I meant. He showed me the address again. I decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
Ramirez wasn’t a talker. That didn’t bother me. You get used to all sorts: the ones who won’t shut up, the living dead, and everything between.
The traffic on Southern Cross Drive was a nightmare — two lanes closed, police cars and flashing lights everywhere. I warned Ramirez the trip was going to be expensive but told him there wasn’t much I could do about it. I turned on the radio: Ray Hadley. I wouldn’t want him sitting next to me in the cab but on the radio he’s alright. You can always switch him off.
I asked Ramirez if he had Australian money. I’ve had people try to pay me in rupees, pesos, cigarettes. He didn’t understand. I rubbed my finger and thumb together. Ramirez pulled out his wallet. He must have been carrying a thousand dollars in new fifty-dollar notes.
“Bridge or tunnel?” I always ask. Some passengers think it’s a trick question. Lion or tiger? Chicken or egg? I know one driver — Iranian, used to be a dentist — who refuses to use the tunnel. It’s the lights. They remind him of the months he spent in one of the Ayatollah’s prisons. I’ve never heard of a driver who won’t use the bridge. You can’t drive a taxi in Sydney if you’re scared of crossing water. If the passenger doesn’t have a preference, I always take the bridge. I’ve never liked the thought of all that water above my head. Once I picked up an old bloke who had worked all his life as a bridge painter. His skin was gray from all the paint in his pores. He told me he had talked seven people out of jumping; he still remembered their names. There was one he couldn’t stop — it was the one name he’d forgotten.
I waited for Ramirez to answer. He was staring straight ahead, both hands gripping the duty free bag in his lap. I pointed out the Opera House. You’d be surprised how many people don’t notice it, especially traveling north. Ramirez shook his head, as if I was trying to sell it to him.
By the time I pulled up outside the Park Regis Apartments, the meter showed $137.30. Normally I’d knock a few dollars off to make up for the traffic, but this time I didn’t. Ramirez pulled a bunch of fifties out of his wallet. I took three and tried to give him the change but he wouldn’t take it. I didn’t offer him a receipt.
He stayed in the taxi as I walked around to open the boot. A police car with flashing lights was parked fifty meters down the road. The cops had pulled over a P-plater in a black Audi TT. The driver looked about seventeen, black singlet, tattoos down one side of his neck.
As I popped the boot, Ramirez got out of the taxi and started walking away. “Whoa, mate!” I shouted. “Don’t leave this behind.” He looked back. For a second I thought he was going to make a run for it. Then he came back for the suitcase. The cops were still dealing with the P-plater, who was leaning against the Audi with his arms folded.
I left Ramirez standing on the porch of the Park Regis Apartments, hitting the numbers on his phone. It was only later, as I vacuumed out the taxi for the night driver, that I noticed the plastic duty free bag lying under the driver’s seat.
Inside the bag I found a bottle of Gordon’s gin and a Seagate computer hard drive. It would have taken me half an hour to drive back to the Park Regis Apartments. I called reception and asked if a guest checking in this morning had reported any missing baggage. The woman who answered had just started her shift. She put me on hold for a couple of minutes. Then she came back on and said, “Nobody checked in this morning.” I thanked her and hung up. It was just after three thirty p.m. I called the taxi controller. No one had reported losing a duty free shopping bag.
I took the gin and the hard drive out of the bag and stuffed them in my backpack. As I walked down Foveaux Street, a dero in an army coat asked me for money. I gave him a handful of coins and dropped the empty bag in a bin outside Central Station.
As soon as I got home I put the chain on the door. Ramirez’s story — the version Haklander had given me — didn’t add up. Haklander had told me just enough to get me to take the job but not enough for it to make sense. Ten to one Ramirez was Colombian, not Mexican, and his name wasn’t Ramirez.
The silver seal on the Seagate box was still intact but when I unwrapped the hard drive and plugged it in, nothing happened. A sticker underneath said, Made in Thailand. I used a kitchen knife to pry the plastic case apart. The circuitry and components had been stripped out. Inside the case was a vacuum-sealed slab of white powder.
I sat for a long time in silence. I remembered Ramirez’s reaction when he saw the police car parked across the road from the Park Regis Apartments, the way he started walking away without his suitcase. It dawned on me that Ramirez had panicked at the sight of the cops and left the duty free bag behind on purpose. Luckily for me, he had paid in cash and hadn’t taken a receipt. Chances were, he hadn’t noticed my license number. However, my face and that stupid sign would be all over the airport CCTV. What I wanted to know was, did Haklander know what Ramirez was carrying?
Haklander lived in a 1930s mansion in Bellevue Hill with stone lions on the front porch. I had been there once for a barbecue. Usually I called him at his office in Bondi Junction. I dialed the number.
“Hello, Mr. Haklander,” I said. “I picked up your friend Ramirez.”
“Who?”
“Ramirez. The guy you asked me to pick up at the airport.”
“Oh, yes,” said Haklander.