Running for my life with a backpack of money, dressed in a little black dress, long blonde hair in a sleek ponytail, the retro army green backpack on my front, and crushed velvet green pointy elf shoes on my feet in the second week of April.
No sign of Not Dick Tracy so far, and there is a yellow taxicab, so I wave it down while running toward it.
I get to the back door behind the driver’s and am just about to pull the door handle when the cab accelerates.
Shit!
I see another cab. This one a powder blue one. I dash that way and he stops. Mercifully. And with an amused look on his face.
Yeah, the shoes with the cocktail dress, I know.
I hear nothing with the adrenalin combined with the alarm sounds still vibrating my eardrums, but I climb in and breathe out relief.
“Airport,” I say, still exhaling. “As fast as you can safely get me there, pretty please. I tip very well, by the way.”
He immediately palms the meter and I breathe out more relief as the car surges forward.
My pulse? Racing. My body? Shaking. I wipe my clammy hands on my dress and take in the cabbie ID on display.
Holy shit.
I blink a few times to make sure I’m really seeing what I see.
As the car pulls up to line up three cars back from the stoplight to go left out onto the main drag, I see a hat and trench coat emerge from a mall entrance, so I slide halfway down in the seat and drop my head like I’m searching for something in an effort to hide.
That’s when I catch what looks to be a pink stuffed animal on top of a dark jacket on the floor of this cab.
Reaching down, I start to say, “Someone forgot a-” Oh. As I lift it I realize it’s a wig.
A baby pink wig. A dark purple blazer.
My luck sucks hairy monkey balls; it really does.
What’s happened to me lately has me convinced of it.
But at the sight of the wig and the blazer coupled with whose cab I just happened to climb into, I feel like that luck is changing.
Folded over, I quickly wind my ponytail into a knot and pull the pink wig over it. I straighten up and shrug the blazer on, then I look up.
The driver laughs.
I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror.
“That works for you, love,” the older guy with gray hair and kind, crinkling hazel eyes says.
“Does it? You have no idea how much I needed to find this in here. Can you go any faster? I want to make sure I lose somebody. You drive fast and I’ll wear this, and I just might have a shot.”
“Someone after you?” he asks, looking concerned. “Boyfriend? Boyfriend’s wife?”
I pause briefly and my eyes graze the cabbie ID on his visor again to make sure I really read what I think I read.
“Gangster,” I correct, feeling a peaceful sensation flood me. “Well, someone on a gangster’s payroll who is pretending to protect me. But I see through it.”
The cabbie hits the pedal, and we swerve into another lane, sending me flying to the opposite end of the back seat.
“Best get movin’, then.”
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“Not super-smart of you to tell strangers this stuff, little lady.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t been real smart at all lately. That’s about to change.”
I see the frown line over the bridge of his nose in the mirror.
I dare to glance behind us, and Not Dick Tracy is nowhere in sight. Phew.
“You have kind eyes. I’d probably want to trust you based on that, but truthfully, I see your name on your permit.” I gesture to the back of his seat.
His eyebrows shoot up in question.
“My dad was a cabbie. He had a friend named Scotty King that used to be his day driver. Hack Team King and McQueen. So, I’m thinking we might sort of not be strangers.”
He stares into the mirror a beat and then his face changes. “You’re not Marty McQueen’s little girl!”
“The one, the only.”
“Alyssa! Loved your old man. He was like a brother.”
We’re in the fast lane on the highway now and Scotty King is pushing the speed limit. We’re making good time.
“Haven’t seen you since his funeral. I didn’t recognize you. I’m sorry about that.”
“Think nothing of it,” I say, “It’s been over twelve years. And we only met a handful of times.”
“Where are you heading from here?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, “I need to hide, I think. I’m … I’m in big trouble.”
“Right. Okay, so go to Baltimore. When we park, I’ll give you a number for a friend of mine, Tori. She runs a temp agency and a rooming house. She’ll rent you a room and get you a job while you figure out your next move. She’s got ways to help people hide.”