on Bigger’s butt, pulled out his dirty leather wallet and found his driver’s license.
“Mickey McElhone? Are you kidding me? Ginny’s your sister?”
He didn’t answer until I poked his tender gut. “Uh-hunh.”
“How about you?” I asked Big, dropping Mickey’s wallet. “You another brother?”
“Sean,” he whined.
“Mickey and Sean. Pleased to meet you guys. I gotta run. Say hi to Ginny for me. Or was there something you wanted to say to me?”
There wasn’t.
16.
I walked to the end of the block but it took me a while to find a cab. As a new New Yorker, I was still figuring out how to tell which ones were available. What was clear was that whenever I needed a cab, so did everyone else. The trick was apparently to need a cab when no one else did. While I was waiting, I called my new stuff into the
Mail
, including the testing and the drugs in Neil’s system, which made Nigel happy. Just as I snagged an empty yellow cab, I noticed two silhouettes sitting in a blue Honda parked down the block, looking at me. As my cab left, the car pulled away from the curb and followed. At the first traffic light I noticed the Honda had NYP plates, the same as the staff at the
Mail.
There were special free parking zones for them around Manhattan. The passenger tried to sink low in her seat but I caught the flashing eyes, the floating red hair. Beware, beware. Ginny McElhone, my favorite
Daily Press
reporter was on my tail.
Again, I recognized the Baluchistani pop music in the cab, even though it was a different cabbie. I spoke to him in a language he understood but he replied in English, suddenly nervous.
“You want me to evade someone? Where can I go that he cannot in this traffic, sir? Who is following you, please? I want no police, no trouble, boss.”
Just when it was getting to be fun. In the movies, cabbies lived to lose tails and were rewarded with big tips. Of course, an immigrant Muslim cabbie would want no trouble in post-9/11 New York. I told him to pull over and gave him a nice tip for a short trip. Behind me, I saw the Honda had also pulled over and was waiting behind an SUV. I ignored them, pretending I didn’t know they were following me. I spun and walked quickly down the sidewalk toward them. When I passed, they slid down in the seats. I kept walking briskly. By the time I reached the next corner, I saw their car had done a U-turn and was heading back down the block, still on my ass. I should have done it on a one-way street. I was a new guy on their turf. This might not be so easy.
I kept walking, aware of them shadowing me at a discreet distance. I thought as I walked. Different turf but it wasn’t like I didn’t have experience with this. The only problem was I had no backup. No resources, no team. And no car to race away from the bad guys. There were two of them, so if I took a bus or subway, one could follow. Three blocks later, the solution presented itself.
I read the sign and took out my wallet. The price of $9.99 was a good deal for a getaway car. Well, not an actual getaway car. A bicycle. A big, blue, clunky girl’s bike in fact. They were called Citi Bikes rentals and they were all over town. I swiped my new credit card and in a minute, I was off. I could see Ginny and her driver arguing. Should she rent one too or stay with the car? I spotted Ginny trying to get her own wheels but she was having trouble with the machine and gave up. I was a block away when they followed, both still in the car. Wrong move.
I let them follow me for a while as I pedaled leisurely, a slow-speed chase. I waited until I reached a block without any bike kiosk and decided to make my move. While the light was still red but cross-traffic on the avenue had thinned out, I scanned for cops. None. I floored it, sort of, through the red light. I went outlaw, weaving through the stopped traffic at the next light. A quick glance back and I saw Ginny running through the intersection, while her driver honked and
“Mickey McElhone? Are you kidding me? Ginny’s your sister?”
He didn’t answer until I poked his tender gut. “Uh-hunh.”
“How about you?” I asked Big, dropping Mickey’s wallet. “You another brother?”
“Sean,” he whined.
“Mickey and Sean. Pleased to meet you guys. I gotta run. Say hi to Ginny for me. Or was there something you wanted to say to me?”
There wasn’t.
16.
I walked to the end of the block but it took me a while to find a cab. As a new New Yorker, I was still figuring out how to tell which ones were available. What was clear was that whenever I needed a cab, so did everyone else. The trick was apparently to need a cab when no one else did. While I was waiting, I called my new stuff into the
, including the testing and the drugs in Neil’s system, which made Nigel happy. Just as I snagged an empty yellow cab, I noticed two silhouettes sitting in a blue Honda parked down the block, looking at me. As my cab left, the car pulled away from the curb and followed. At the first traffic light I noticed the Honda had NYP plates, the same as the staff at the
Mail.
There were special free parking zones for them around Manhattan. The passenger tried to sink low in her seat but I caught the flashing eyes, the floating red hair. Beware, beware. Ginny McElhone, my favorite
Daily Press
reporter was on my tail.
Again, I recognized the Baluchistani pop music in the cab, even though it was a different cabbie. I spoke to him in a language he understood but he replied in English, suddenly nervous.
“You want me to evade someone? Where can I go that he cannot in this traffic, sir? Who is following you, please? I want no police, no trouble, boss.”
Just when it was getting to be fun. In the movies, cabbies lived to lose tails and were rewarded with big tips. Of course, an immigrant Muslim cabbie would want no trouble in post-9/11 New York. I told him to pull over and gave him a nice tip for a short trip. Behind me, I saw the Honda had also pulled over and was waiting behind an SUV. I ignored them, pretending I didn’t know they were following me. I spun and walked quickly down the sidewalk toward them. When I passed, they slid down in the seats. I kept walking briskly. By the time I reached the next corner, I saw their car had done a U-turn and was heading back down the block, still on my ass. I should have done it on a one-way street. I was a new guy on their turf. This might not be so easy.
I kept walking, aware of them shadowing me at a discreet distance. I thought as I walked. Different turf but it wasn’t like I didn’t have experience with this. The only problem was I had no backup. No resources, no team. And no car to race away from the bad guys. There were two of them, so if I took a bus or subway, one could follow. Three blocks later, the solution presented itself.
I read the sign and took out my wallet. The price of $9.99 was a good deal for a getaway car. Well, not an actual getaway car. A bicycle. A big, blue, clunky girl’s bike in fact. They were called Citi Bikes rentals and they were all over town. I swiped my new credit card and in a minute, I was off. I could see Ginny and her driver arguing. Should she rent one too or stay with the car? I spotted Ginny trying to get her own wheels but she was having trouble with the machine and gave up. I was a block away when they followed, both still in the car. Wrong move.
I let them follow me for a while as I pedaled leisurely, a slow-speed chase. I waited until I reached a block without any bike kiosk and decided to make my move. While the light was still red but cross-traffic on the avenue had thinned out, I scanned for cops. None. I floored it, sort of, through the red light. I went outlaw, weaving through the stopped traffic at the next light. A quick glance back and I saw Ginny running through the intersection, while her driver honked and
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