Dark Passage (8 page)

The taxi came to a reluctant stop. The
driver was a thick-faced man close to forty. The driver said, “How
far? I’m on my way to a fare.”

“It’s not far.”

The driver examined the grey worsted suit.
“North?”

“Yes. A couple miles. Just keep going
north and I’ll tell you how to get there.”

“All right, hop in. Mind a little
speed?”

“I like speed.”

The taxi went into a sprint, made a lot of
wracking noise as it turned a corner to get on a wider street.
Parry sat low, trying to get his face away from the rear-view
mirror because he sensed the driver was studying the mirror. He
wondered why the driver was studying the mirror.

“That’s a nice suit you're wearing,” the
driver said.

“I’m glad you like it. What are we
doing?”

“Forty. Another turn and we’ll do fifty.
On this kind of deal I usually take her up to sixty.”

“What do you mean this kind of a deal?” He
could see the driver grinning at him in the rear-view mirror. He
wondered why the driver was grinning.

“A double job,” the driver said. “Two
fares on one trip. Is your trip really necessary?”

“Sort of,” Parry said.

“It’s crazy the way they get these slogans
out,” the driver said. “What they do with words. Take necessary,
for in- stance. It means different things to different people. Like
me. What’s necessary to me?”

“Passengers,” Parry said. “And I’ll tell
you what's necessary to passengers—getting where they want to go
without a lot of talk.”

He thought that would make the driver shut
up. The driver took the taxi up to fifty and said, “I don’t know.
Some passengers don't mind talk.”

“I do.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always,” Parry said. “That’s why I
don't have many friends.”

“You know,” the driver said, “it’s funny
about friends—”

“It’s funny the way you can't take a
hint,” Parry said.

The driver laughed. He said, “Brother, you
never drove a cab. You got no idea how lonely it gets.”

“What’s lonely about it? You see
people.”

“That’s just it, brother. I see so many
people, I take them to so many places. I see them getting out and
going in to places. I pick up other people and I hear them talking
in the back seat. I'm up here all alone and I get
lonely.”

“That’s tough,” Parry said.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Sure,” Parry said. “I believe you. My
heart goes out to you. All right, turn here, to the left. Stay on
this street.”

“Where we going?”

“If I give you that you’ll ask me why I'm
going there and what I'm going to do there. After all, a guy gets
lonely driving a taxi.”

“That’s right, lonely,” the driver said.
“Lonely and smart.”

Parry noticed that the driver was no
longer watching the rear-view mirror. Parry said, “Smart in what
way?”

“People.”

“Talking to people?”

“And looking at people. Looking at their
faces.”

Parry started to shake. He glanced at his
shaking hand. He measured the distance from his hand to the door
handle. He said, “What about faces?”

“Well, it’s funny,” the driver said. “From
faces I can tell what people think. I can tell what they do.
Sometimes I can even tell who they are.”

And now the driver again watched the
rear-view mirror.

Parry reached over and put his hand on the
door handle. He told himself he had to do it and do it now and do
it fast. And not sit here and hope he was wrong, because he
couldn’t be wrong, because it was an equation again and it checked.
The evening papers were out long ago and the taxi driver had to
read one of those papers, had to see the picture that had to be on
the front page. The taxi driver had time to read the write-up.
Front-page stories were made to order for taxi drivers who didn't
have time to read the back pages.

“You, for instance,” the driver
said.

“All right, me. What about me?”

“You’re a guy with troubles.”

“I don’t have a trouble in the world,”
Parry said.

“Don’t tell me, brother,” the driver said.
“I know. I know people. I'll tell you something else. Your trouble
is women.”

Parry took his hand from the door handle.
It was all right. He had to stop this business of worrying about
things before they happened.

He said, “Strike one. I’m happily
married.”

“Call it two-base hit. You’re not married.
But you used to be, and it wasn't happy.”

“Oh, I get it. You were there. You were
hiding in the closet all the time.”

The driver said, “I’ll tell you about her.
She wasn't easy to get along with. She wanted things. The more she
got, the more she wanted. And she always got what she wanted.
That's the picture.”

“That’s strike two.”

“That’s the picture,” the driver said.
“She never made much noise and she was always a couple steps ahead
of you. Sometimes she wasn't even there at all. That gave her the
upper hand, because she could keep an eye on you and you didn't
know it.”

“Strike three.”

“Strike three my eye. You were a rubber
band on her little finger.”

“All right, make a left-hand turn. Go
right at the next light.”

“So finally-” The taxi made a wide, fast
turn.” So finally it was up to your neck and you couldn’t take it
any more. You were tired of boxing with her—so you slugged
her.”

Parry was shaking again. He had his hand
going toward the door handle. He said, “You know, you ought to do
something with that. You could make money at carnivals.”

“It’s a thought.”

Parry put his hand on the door
handle.

The taxi made a right turn. Two neon signs
flashed past, one yellow, the other violet. It was a market
section. It was busy. There were people, too many people. But he
didn’t care. He started to work the handle.

“Yep,” the driver said. “She gave you
plenty of trouble. I don’t blame you. I don't blame you one
bit.”

The handle was halfway down. Perspiration
dripped onto grey worsted. The handle was almost all the way
down.

“Not now,” the driver said. “And not here.
There’s too many cops around.”

CHAPTER 7

Parry let go of the handle. He sagged. He
started to breathe as if he had just finished a two-mile run and
the officials said it didn’t count and wanted to get another race
going immediately.

The driver said, “Is it far from
here?”

“I’ll give you five hundred dollars,”
Parry blurted. “I'll give you—”

“Don’t give me anything,” the driver said.
“Just let me know where it is and I'll pick out a dark street
that's empty and you can walk the rest of the way. And don't try
hitting me on the head or I'll run us up on the pavement and into a
wall.”

Parry had his head almost to his knees. He
made fists and pressed them against his forehead. He said, “The
hell with it, the hell with it. Take me to a police
station.”

“Don’t be that way. You're doing all
right. You're doing fine.”

“No,” Parry groaned. “It’s no go. It was
easy for you to see. It'll be easy for others to see.”

“Now that’s where you're wrong,” the
driver said. He twisted the taxi into a sharp turn and sent it
sliding down a narrow street that was empty and very dark. Halfway
down the street he brought the taxi to a smooth stop. He rested his
arm on the back of the seat and turned and faced Parry. He said,
“And here’s why. I'm out of the ordinary. Not my eyes, but the way
I stick things on my brain and keep them there. And the way I put
things together. I get five or six little things and I put them
together and I get one big thing.”

“What’s the difference?” Parry said. He
wasn't talking to the driver. “The worst I can get is a week in
solitary. And no privileges. And no chance of a parole. But there
wasn't a chance anyway. They told me I was lucky I didn't get the
chair. That's something I've got to remember—I'm lucky. I'll always
be lucky because I didn't get the chair.” He looked up and saw the
driver watching him. He said, “Go on—take me to a police
station.”

“I don’t see no sense in that,” the driver
said. “Unless you think you'll be happier in Quentin.”

“Sure,” Parry said. “I’ll be happier
there. That's why they send us there. To keep us happy.”

The driver brought up a forearm, put most
of his weight on the elbow, leaning his face against a big hand. “I
got a better idea for you. Let me take you over the Bridge. You can
jump off and it’ll be over in no time.”

“The Bridge?”

“Sure. All you gotta do is step off and
you faint on the way down. It’s like going to a painless
dentist.”

“I’m young,” Parry said, again talking
aloud to himself. “There's a lot of years ahead of me.”

“Why spend them in Quentin?”

“What else can I do?” Parry
asked.

“I want to know something,” the driver
said. “Did you really bump her off?”

“No.”

“That’s not the way I figure it,” the
driver said. “I figure she made life miserable for you and finally
you lost your head and you picked up that ash tray and slugged her.
I know how it is. I live with my sister and my brother-in-law. They
get along fine. They get along so fine that once he threw a bread
knife at her. She ducked. And that's the way it goes. Maybe if your
wife ducked there wouldn't be any trial, there wouldn't be any
Quentin. But that's the way it goes. You want a smoke?”

“All right,” Parry said. He accepted a
cigarette and a light.

The driver filled his lungs with smoke,
sent the smoke out through the side of his mouth. He said, “Let me
find out something, just to see if I got it right. What was she
like?”

“She was all right,” Parry said. “She
wasn’t a bad soul. She just hated my guts. For a long time I tried
to find out why. Then it got to a point where I didn't care any
more. I started going out. I knew she was going out so it didn't
make any difference. We hardly ever talked to each other. It was a
very happy home.”

“What made you marry her in the first
place?”

“The old story.”

“I almost got roped in a couple of times,”
the driver said.

“If you find the right person it’s okay,”
Parry said.

Then they were quiet for a while. They sat
there blowing smoke. After a time the driver said, “Where we
going?”

“I don’t know,” Parry said. “What should I
do?”

“You won’t listen.”

“I’ll listen,” Parry said. “I want ideas.
That's what I need more than anything else. Ideas. Look, I didn't
kill her. Why should I go back to San Quentin and stay there the
rest of my life if I didn't kill her?”

The driver shifted his position so that he
faced Parry directly. He beckoned to Parry. He said, “Come up a few
inches. Let’s see if he can do anything with your face.”

“Who?”

“A friend of mine.” The driver was
studying Parry’s face. The driver said, “This guy's good. He knows
his stuff.”

“What would he want?”

“What do you have?”

“A thousand.”

“To spend?”

“No,” Parry said. “A thousand’s all I
have.”

“He’d take a couple hundred.”

“What would he want afterward?”

“Not a cent. He’s a friend of
mine.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.” The driver got paper and a stub
of pencil from an inside pocket and he was writing
something.

“How long will it take?” Parry
asked.

“Maybe a week if he doesn’t touch your
nose. I've seen him work. He's good. I don't think he'll touch your
nose. I think he'll fix up you around the eyes. But you can't stay
there. You got a place to stay?”

“I think so,” Parry said.

The driver handed Parry a slip of paper.
Parry folded it and put it in his coat pocket.

“I’ll call him tonight,” the driver said.
“Maybe he can do it tonight. Maybe I better call him right now. You
got the cash with you?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure about tonight.
Let's work it this way—you call him and say there's a good chance
I'll be there at two in the morning. Or better make it three. Are
you sure this guy's okay?”

“He’s okay as long as he knows you're
okay. That good enough?”

“I’ll gamble,” Parry said. “How do I get
in?”

“It’s an old building on Post. One of them
dried-up places filled with two-by-four offices. He's got his
office Oil the third floor. There's an alley on the left side of
the building. There's a back door and he'll have it open for you.
He works fast and you'll be out of there before it gets
light.”