6. Red wine for a blue lady

Harley’s passenger was waiting with a suitcase outside the Civic police station in the dark. When he saw who it was, Harley almost drove off again.

“2A Monash Drive, Campbell 2612,” Quint said.

“I know,” Harley replied. Just how did taxidrivers become so instantly forgettable? In the same way that most passengers all ran together after a while, he supposed.

Quint stared out through the windscreen as Harley turned into London Circuit. Only a short fare, but shorts were the best if you could string them together. That $4.40 flagfall made up for a few longer kilometres.

Harley pulled up exactly outside 2A. “Ah, that’s exactly $7.30, please.”

Quint jerked his head around. Dazed or drunk, Harley thought, having seen a lot of both in his time.

“Seven dollars and thirty cents, please. I’ve got plenty of change.”

Quint offered a ten, and Harley poured as many five cent pieces back into his hand as he dared.

Quint shoved the coins into his pocket, opened the door and walked towards his flat.

“Bloody hell,” Harley muttered, popping the boot.

Harley’s suitcase was light. Must have gotten rid of the morning’s bricks. Perhaps the police had kept them.

He caught Quint just before the front door closed, jamming the case into the gap.

“Oh, thank you,” Quint said. He appeared to wake up. “Is that all right?”

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” Harley replied.

He had a job offer on the dispatch screen when he returned to the cab. A timed booking in ten minutes time, for a pickup not far away.

Seize the moment. Harley drove to the shops, parked, entered Heartbake and made his usual “bloody big mug of coffee” gesture to the barista.

“Flat white. Takeaway. Family size.”

He looked at the free bookshelf while his coffee brewed. A good book helped fill the empty hours in a cabbie’s life.

He drew up outside 65 Monash Drive two minutes later, fresh coffee secure in the beverage holder, fresh novel in the door pocket, a fresh job ahead.

A door opened and a blonde woman came out. “You can start your meter if you want. My husband just called and he’s only a few minutes away. We’ll be going to the Griffith shops.”

She went inside, back to where it was warm. Harley could see inside to a sitting room, where the woman joined another, a younger redhead. They were chatting as they drank glasses of wine. Harley sipped his coffee.

Fifteen minutes later and the meter total was growing to a respectable size. Inside, the women looked out every few minutes, to check that the taxi was still there, Harley supposed. It looked like the wine glasses had been refreshed and a party was developing. He could almost hear the jazz playing. Harley sipped his cooling coffee.

Finally a BMW pulled into the drive and a man emerged. Through the window, Harley saw the two women embrace. The blonde came out, joined the man, and they got into the cab.

“Christ, Lee,” said the man, looking at the meter, “Why didn’t you call another cab? I said I’d be late.”

“You said you were just around the corner, darling.”

“I got tied up in Civic. Cabbie, could you go past the Campbell bottle shop? If they are still open, that is.”

Harley backed down the driveway, the redhead standing in the window, watching them, waving.

The bottle shop was open. “Just turn the meter off for a moment, will you?”

Harley complied, although he was entitled to waiting time.

Five minutes passed. Through the lighted shop window, Harley could see the man apparently having an animated conversation with the proprietor. The way things were going, they’d be opening a flagon together.

But he came out eventually, a bottle in a paper bag.

“That guy really knows his wine. Or at least he talked this one up.”

“Kim, dearest, we’re going to be late, and you know how they like you to be seated on time at Aubergine.”

“Right. Griffith shops, driver. And step on it.”

Harley stepped on it. A bit. He wasn’t going to go too far over the limit – it wasn’t worth risking his licence for some dickhead who couldn’t plan his time – but he could be brisk.

“Zoe’s looking after the twins,” the woman said. “She’s back from Brisbane for a while.”

“Is she?” Kim said, an expression of what might be surprise appearing on his face. “I hope we’re paying her well.”

“I’m buying her dinner on Saturday. We’ll see a movie. Have a girls’ night out.”

“I don’t suppose I could come along? They tell me at work I can be a real bitch sometimes.”

“We’ll need you to babysit, dear. I hope you don’t mind. I see so little of her nowadays, and we used to be so close in school.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing more of Zoe, too.”

“Kim!”

He shut up. Harley took the Kings Avenue bridge over the lake, the floodlit Carillon golden-white and sharp-edged against the dark water. Frank Sinatra came up on the golden oldies station, singing about Chicago.

A phone rang in the back seat. Harley turned Frank down.

“Kim here. I’m in a taxi. No, that’s alright. I was called into Civic. Some fu… um, fruitloop on the site. The security guys hauled him in, thought he might have a bomb or something. Yeah, he might have blown up a tree before they could chainsaw it. Didn’t say much. They gave him a hard time, I think. No, of course he wasn’t charged. It’s not a crime to sit under a tree with a suitcase in a public park. He seems harmless, but he doesn’t like ASIO one little bit. Okay. You’ll have the report in the morning.”

Kim put his phone away. Harley turned Sinatra back up, just in time for the song to end.

“Sorry, Lee. Work never stops.”

“It better stop right now. We don’t have an anniversary every night. Five years we’ve been together, and this should be a special night for us. Just for once, can we enjoy ourselves a little?”

They arrived at the restaurant. Kim paid with a credit card – no tip – and he ceremoniously took Lee’s arm as he escorted her into the restaurant.

Harley cleared the meter and headed for the Manuka rank. Just a couple more fares and he’d call it a night. His phone rang.

“Harley? Sharkey here. You driving? I need you for that job I mentioned.”

 

Copyright (c) 2009 Peter Mackay