Stories from the Edge

Blackmail

The short man in the black raincoat walked crookedly in my direction, a hat pulled down over his eyes, his right hand holding his collar shut against the heavy rain. He had emerged from the glare of the shop lights, distorted by the water running down my windscreen. The odd way he moved caught my eye. He had a limp, with a jerking, swaying motion from side to side. I switched on my windscreen wipers to get a better look at him. He wore thick-rimmed spectacles and a beard lined his jaw. He came up to my cab, pulled open the passenger door and backed into the seat. As he swivelled around I saw on his right foot a large orthotic boot. Rainwater ran from his hat brim and dripped from his coat.

"Nasty weather," I said, starting the engine.

"Yes," he said. "Terrible."

I pressed the meter button and pulled away from the kerb. He was busy with his seatbelt and then he barked an address at me.

"Ok," I said. Luckily I was facing the right way. A U-turn in this traffic would have been near impossible. I slipped into a gap in the traffic but a bus up ahead stopped, waiting to pull into the left. There was a line of cars behind me and on my right. I couldn't move. Pedestrians hurried across the road around the cars, peering from under umbrellas.

Suddenly my passenger leaned forward and picked up one of the business cards I keep in a holder on the dashboard, to advertise my other job. He twisted the card, holding it up to the light at his window.

"Is this you?" he said.

"Sure is," I said. I glanced from the traffic to the card in his hand.

"What is this?" He read from the card. "Private Enquiries Agent. Is that some sort of Private Detective? What are you? A taxi driver or a Private Detective?" He turned his head toward me and his eyes, magnified by the spectacle lenses, stared.

"Both," I said. The bus inched forward. I switched on my right-hand indicator, intending to pull out. "The cab's not mine. A friend owns it. I have to live and pay bills. Real life isn't like in the movies or on TV, you know."

"No," he said. "I suppose not."

Eventually a driver of another cab let me out and I passed the bus, which seemed stuck. It was still raining heavily and I concentrated on the road. The man sat quietly. Neither of us spoke for a while. As we reached the main road to his suburb, he cleared his throat.

"I may want to see you. Professionally. In your other role."

"That would be fine," I said. I left him space to go on.

"I have a, -" He hesitated. "I have a problem. I don't know what to do about it. I need help."

"Ok, Mr..."

"Gilleck," he said. "Gerhard Gilleck. I am a dentist."

"Well, Dr Gilleck, we can make a time to meet. Tomorrow, perhaps? I can accommodate your practice hours, to suit."

"Thank you, yes. I actually finish early on Fridays, so tomorrow, in the late afternoon would be fine. Do you have an office?"

"Not as such." I told him where I meet clients. He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Really?" he said.

"Don't worry. It's more discrete than it sounds. If you have concerns when you get there, we needn't proceed."

He seemed to consider this for a moment. "Very well, then," he said.

We agreed on a time to meet and drove on in silence. If he was reluctant to speak about his problem, I wasn't going to push him. He spoke only to direct me to his residence, a ground floor home unit among a dozen similar, with a neat lawn at the front. He paid his fare with cash and got out, leaving a wet seat behind him. I would have to dry it before my next passenger. I watched him walk in his crooked gait to his front door and disappear inside. I thought I detected a movement of the curtain at the front window, but I wasn't certain. Then the light came on in the room. As I drove on, I wondered what his problem was and whether he would turn up for our meeting.