Ned had protested that it was much too dangerous. And Nancy did agree with him, but she also felt she had no other choice. With the pretrial date right around the corner, she had to go with what she had. And what she had was the Gold Star Cab Company.
The girl who walked into the garage of Gold Star Cab an hour and a half later had a mop of short, mahogany-brown curls and enormous round glasses. She was chewing gum as if she hadn’t eaten in a week, and the outfit she wore—an oversize top and baggy jeans—disguised her slender figure.
Even Bess and George wouldn’t recognize me, Nancy told herself, making her gum sound off in a series of firecracker pop-pop-pops. It was a part of her new character. She was about to do the acting job of her life.
Gold Star used half of the street-level space of a five-story parking garage, and a business called Fleet’s had the other half. The garage had been built with two entrances, one on McConnell Street and the other on the street behind, Bennett Avenue. The cab company and Fleet’s used the entrance on McConnell, so after Nancy left her Mustang on the third level of the public garage, she had to walk around the block to get to Gold Star.
Just inside the door was the dispatcher’s office. Nancy ambled into it, eyeing the stocky redheaded man who was bellowing at a cabbie over a two-way radio. The voice was the same one she had heard when she was on the floor of that car.
I’m definitely in the right place, she thought. While she waited for the dispatcher to finish, she examined the cabs parked along the walls on the side.
Four were old, dented, and rusty. The rest—she counted thirteen before the man finished—were late models, clean, bright, and shiny, and their gold paint glistened under the fluorescent lights. There were more cabs, but only the front half of the space was lit, so she couldn’t see the ones along the rear wall.
Here was another interesting mystery. According to the Hacks Bureau, Gold Star was a small business with only ten cars in its fleet.
“Need a cab?” the man asked, and Nancy turned around.
“Huh-uh,” she said with a saucy smile. “A job. I’ve worked as a dispatcher since I was sixteen. Want references?”
“No. Don’t want another dispatcher, either.”
Nancy arranged her face in an expression of deep disappointment. “Hey, you aren’t going to cry, are you?” He jammed a long, fat cigar into his mouth. “It won’t get you a job as a dispatcher, but smile and you may get a job as a cabbie. How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen.” Nancy looked hopeful—she hoped.
“Got a driver’s license?”
“Sure, but it takes time and money to get a hack license and I need the job now.”
The man winked. “We’ll take care of that for you.” Then he began testing her familiarity with River Heights and its surrounding areas. Nancy knew her hometown like the back of her hand. When he had finished questioning her, she knew he was impressed.
He ran a wooden match along the surface of his battered desk and lit the cigar. A cloud of foul yellow smoke drifted around his head. “What’s your name?”
“Nancy Nickerson. Here’s my ID.” She began rooting in her bag, made from a pair of old jeans. She removed a large yellow comb and put it on his desk. Then came a tube of lipstick, a paperback book, half a sandwich, a two-way mirror, and a candy bar. “It’s in here somewhere.”
“Never mind. Nancy Nickerson,” he mumbled, writing it down. “My name’s Brownley. I’m the boss.”
They were suddenly interrupted by a deep, male voice calling for him. “Mr. Brownley?”
“What is it, Dayton?” A good-looking, young blond cabbie appeared in the doorway—the same one who had picked up Nancy two days before.
“My lunch is over, and I’m going back out. Which car should I take?” Dayton looked over at Nancy. She could tell he was trying to decide if they’d ever met.
“Take the one you used earlier,” Brownley answered.