TxM6-- Taxi Murders
Murder 'Cross the Bridge
Taxi man Henry Whitman drove the
George Washington Memorial Bridge
20 times every day. West to east and return -- the span creaked under him. He had predicted long ago that someday the bridge would fall down like "Humpty-Dumpy."
He never tired of the span during early morning hours. Sometimes the sky was an almond green to yellow to brown to orange to scarlet. "Just chemicals in air" he told any fare, and then he laughed silently, and his fist tightened on the steering wheel. How he loved sick colors. One day, about 6 AM, he told some "Suit" from some shit-burg Ville in the Midwest.
"Someday the bridge will quit. You know, fall down."
The fare laughed. "Not today. If I don't get home on time my wife will fuck with me."
"Don't worry, I'd catch you and if you did fall, go bump, I'd take care of your wife."
The man twanged. "Hell, boy, you're too big for me to catch, and besides you don't know my bitching wife."
"I like tough women, but not Pro wrestlers."
"How did you know that's what she does?
The fare couldn't see Henry's shit eating grin. Henry knew the asshole had smiled. The rube had forgotten that Henry had picked up Mr. Slick Saturday night, drunk on his ass. He was trying to fuck some girl he met at the Gables strip joint, but she wasn't having any, and he struck out.
On the way back to his motel Gary as he called himself (who knows if that was his actual name) told him about his wife, a former WDD world champion whore wrestler who could bench 250.
He didn't know that Henry knew all the ladies who worked the Gables. No way, this girl would take on this rube when she saw Henry. In fact, Henry's lady, Laurie, ran the Gables, and she didn't hire girls who worked off premises.
When the "rube' ran his mouth on Henry, he leaned over the front seat and got in Henry's face. Henry stopped smiling. Henry hated rookie taxi drivers and rubes who pushed their way into his space. Henry thought of all out-of-towners as "rubes." He had seen it in some movie, and the word stuck. Most drivers hated their customers unless they knew they were great tips or sexy women who flirted.
"Better sit back." Henry said straight up.
The man ignored Henry.
"Hey that's fucking funny. You earned an extra tip. In fact, if you take her off my hands, I would pay... Fuck it. You wouldn't want her. Yea, my wife she teaches gym in some big Chicago High School. She loves them niggers. She's coached the number one girl's basketball team in the state. She also coaches boys wrestling."
"Just sit back." Henry spoke up and said it like any Regular Army Sgt. The man shrunk back, but was obviously miffed at the driver.
Henry was more than pissed. Henry hated racists. They think because you are white you can say anything. Fuck him. Laughter ends suddenly in a taxi cab.
By the way you fuck, Henry looked the fare in the eye when he shut off the meter and pulled up to the Port Authority bus station.
"My nephew's a black man. Better be careful what the fuck you say in New York. You could wind up dead."
Henry dropped the rube and of course the fare scared shitless over paid.
Suddenly, during the turn around on the New York side at 181st and Fort Washington, Henry saw the flash as he passed. It was now almost 6:30 AM.
Body bag leaned on the curb in the gutter. Murder had waited for Henry back in Manhattan at 181st across the bridge.
Violence perpetrated by persons unknown: the body-bag had been there for at least a two hours Henry learned later from the cops. It wasn't there some rookie cop told Henry. The chief of patrol had ridden by at 4AM.
Henry called 911 from a pay phone. Some people find a buck in the street next to a bar. Henry discovers dead bodies. This was the second time he ran across death in his taxi. Some drug ho had kicked the bucket there from an OD of smack.
Just as he was going to leave the crime scene, he blew a tire.
