Take me here," the woman slurred in a vague British accent, as she tumbled in from the downpour. With a jingle, she plopped her purse on the seat, dug through it, and tossed a shiny matchbook to the front seat. She dabbed the rain from her neck with a tissue and slicked the rain from her chest. After tossing the tissue on the floor she tucked her dark hair behind her ears.
He flipped the matchbook open. "This is just on thirty-seventh." Adjusting the rear-view mirror he caught a glimpse of a scar from a small pox vaccine denting her bare, tanned shoulder.
"Alright, if that's what it says," she exhaled across his cheek in a cloud of sweet, alcoholic breath. "Because I'm pissed out of my tiny little mind."
"You'll need to find another cab." He took a pen knife from his back pocket and started picking at his fingernails. "I can't take you."
"What? What sort of a-well, I can tell you-I refuse, refuse, to leave this seat. Not in this, this storm."
"Sorry, lady, I'm only taking fares to the airport tonight." He lied, hoping her patience was as short as her judgement; that she would leave and he could find a more lucrative fare.
"Airport?" She grabbed his seat back and screwed up her face, her hair falling from behind her ears. "But can't you see? Can't you see that I've just come from the airport two-" She spun the band of her dainty wristwatch. "Oh fuck me-four hours ago. Can't you see, you-" She composed herself, momentarily tightening her accent. "I'm a bloody flight attendant."
"Okay, lady. Fine, just sit back, okay?" He smudged a hand across his eyes and picked up a clipboard from the passenger seat. After writing something on the clipboard, he pocketed the bills from his last fare-folded over and compressed like a chapbook by the board's sturdy, metal clip. The driver pulled the taxi from the curb. Ahead, between clear passes of the windshield, he saw a black umbrella glistening beneath a street lamp. At the corner he passed a man with a leather garment bag and arm raised. Under the discord of splashing tires and the whum-whum of the wipers, he cursed his drunken passenger. "You know your place, it's only a mile or two from here. I could've picked up that guy back there. Fifty easy."
"I'm not fifty, you. Now take me to Randy Roderick's. He's beautiful, and he's got red hair. Do you know Randy? Because he's dead gorgeous and he's got red hair!" She burst into laughter and fell from the bench seat to the floor. Without notice she popped up, her head resting on the back of the front seat. "I say, do you know where a girl can get some," she plugged her left nostril and snorted twice with the right. "You know-a little charlie darling." She snorted again.
"Lady, I don't know nothing about that."
"Where does one go in this town for a bit of fun? I want to get some coke and go dancing! I want to be coked off my tits!"
"Lady-"
"I want the world," she trilled. "I want the whole world!"
"Just relax, OK, Lady?" He splashed right at the corner, and she slipped from the seat on to the floor.
"Ohh. I'm not accustomed to drinking. I swear it. Really we must find him-Randy Rodery-Roderick. Can you take me to him? He's got red hair. Red, mister."
"You gotta sit down, OK? I don't know nobody with red hair."
"Why, are you from Mumbai?"
"No. I'm from here, lady." He turned to answer. Her skirt lay hiked upon her lap, and he saw the white lace of her panties.
"Mumbai-Mumby-Mumbai. Me too. I too am from Mumbai, but I was born in Bombay. Bombs away in old Bom-bay!" She crumpled to the seat in laughter. "Hey, did you know those bastards in Brussels wanted to rename that delicious Bombay mix because of colonization? - colonation? - colonialism?" Staring at the fabric that had separated from the roof she grabbed it and pulled herself up, tearing it farther away.
"Hey."
"That was the name of the curry shop I used to frequent in Highbury. Or was it in Islington? Mumbai-Bombai. That's what they ought to have called it: Moobie-Boobie! My-ind the gap! Pickpockets operate the Moobie-Boobie station. Ooh, I'm not accustomed to drinking. Really I'm not. You must absolutely hate me."
"Lady, I just want to get you to the address on that matchbook so I can move on, and maybe make enough to pay my rent and tuition."
"You, I'm-I'm no lady. I told you-I'm awfully pissed." She sat back, and for a moment was quiet, nodding her head under the weight of the drink.
He pulled the car onto Thirty-Seventh Street, where the illuminated digits on the meter clicked to 5.65.
"OK, lady, wake up. We're here. Ten." He turned and tapped her on the leg.
"What?"
"You're home." He handed her the matchbook with the address.
"This is not my home, you little-why, it's Randy Roderick's home."
"OK, fine. Ten."
"Why, you uneducated little monkey. No-no-no. I may be pissed, but my tiny little mind tells me that number says five. Five! I'm very good at maths, and I haven't got a fiver."
"Hey, I go to college, just like you."
"No, you do not-you are rubbish-and that little red number says five, and that is all you get."
"Yeah, rubbish? Well the number on the door says: ten-minimum, lady." He slapped the lettering on the side of the cab. "You can thank the city council for that."
She reached into her purse and pulled out a red leather wallet. "Randy bought me this and it's Hermes and it's worth more than seven hundred pounds." She flapped the wallet hard against his ear.
"Lady! Cut it out. Ten!"
"I'll thank you to get your dirty little finger out of my face. And no tip for you, you hairy-fingered beast."
"Ten, OK. Then we can all go to sleep."
"Welly-welly-well... I simply haven't got it. You cute little monkey." She grabbed at his hand. "And where's my charlie-darling... my little beastie."
"Don't call me that, lady. You have something for drugs and none to pay me? Disgraceful. You better go ask your friend for the money. I'm going to wait here until you do. And then I'll call the cops."
"Why you little brat. Cops? Cops!" She burst from the seat and tripped on the curb, landing on all fours. Her purse spilled into the wet grass and her phone skidded across a puddle on the sidewalk.
"Oh poo! Poo! Me new moby! You've scratched it all to hell. And it's drenched!" She collapsed, rolling to her back where the remaining drizzle fell upon her chest. Her skirt flopped to her belly and spots of rain dotted the delicate fabric of her panties, plotting the contours of her soft geography. Flailing her arms above her head she fingered the mobile, pushing it further from her reach. "I have to pee. What... what? Are you staring at my fanny? You dirty beastly brown little beastie!"
"You watch your mouth, lady. OK? I just want my goddamn fare. Don't push me."
"You dirty little brown beast! I don't need your help." She collected her things. Standing, she twisted her ankle and fell to the yard. Prone and streaked with wet grass, she screamed with laughter. "Say what are you-you fanny-looking beastie. Randy will pay you and he's got red hair and a thousand dollars. Two thousand, really. And a big camera. Randy!" she called to the house. "Strike this dirty little brat!"
She crawled up the stairs and pushed the door open. The front window fired a yellow light to the street. As the rain had stopped, he waited with his door open. The radio crackled with banter between the dispatcher and another driver. He took three deep breaths and closed his eyes. When the meter clicked over to 12.20, he turned off the engine, and approached the house.
"Hello. Lady, you in there?" The front door stood open, and a broken high-heel tipped in the entry. He wiped his shoes on the mat before walking through the house. "Lady, you here? You still owe me for the ride. Lady?"
The scent of leather and dried ferns floated between the dark walls. His wet shoes clicked and squeaked on the hardwood floor and he followed a trail of tipped lamps from the parlor to the stairs at end of the hall. From beneath a door to the left of the stairs, a ruddy glow crept across the floor. He knocked and called to her before tipping the lever handle, drawing the door open quickly. High on the wall a cylinder burned, filling the darkroom with sanguine light. The room lay empty, except for two strings of glossy photos hung there, images twisting like malignant acrobats in the air he had pulled from the room. Without closing the door he looked to the staircase, its bannisters lit as though a hellish prison upon the far wall. The boards creaked as he ascended, his shadow languishing behind the bars of a fiery cage.
At the landing, a portrait-presumably of Randy Roderick-stared toward the left of the frame, as if admiring an inheritance he had not lifted a finger to earn. Along the wall atop the staircase, a single row of black and white portraits glared across at the blank wall opposite. Each framed in ordered lines of brushed aluminum and lit by tiny spotlights dangling from the ceiling. Randy Roderick's aggressive pencil scroll and a nearly valueless fraction scratched the margin of every print.
The third door on the right had been left open a crack, and a pale light beckoned him from within. He nudged the bathroom door open and it gave a low-pitched squeak. The room smelled as though a candle had burned all day, but had now gone out. It too was decorated in deep shades: black marble beneath cherry cabinets. His gaze fell upon the shining floor. He followed a pair of legs from the ankles up to a now familiar pair of wet, lace underwear. She was sprawled out unconscious, her skirt bunched up around her waist.
"Lady? You all right?" He nudged her bare foot with his boot. No response. The contents of her purse spilled against the glass door of the shower, the red leather wallet splayed open but upsidedown. He knelt at her side. Putting his hand on her knee, he shook it to wake her. Her chest rose and fell but she did not react, he looked again at the pointed corners of the wallet-the pores in the leather, the rich, red color. Crisp green notes with borders of ivory were tucked neatly within, their sharp edges standing out against the dark floor. He reached into his pocket, and from her he took.