The Undertaker

“The airport?” Sandy whispered, confused. “I thought you said we couldn't fly.”

“I did.”

The cabbie had his CB radio turned on and we heard the incessant chatter of a dozen or more voices speaking in a language I was certain I never heard before. Every now and then, the talk would be punctuated by shrill laughter and our driver would pick up his microphone and chatter along with them.

“What language is that?” I finally leaned forward and asked.

“Oh, that is Bengali. A dialect from the north of India, near Calcutta. All the Bengali taxi drivers, we talk to each other on it. You know, we talk about the traffic, the weather, what's happening on the bridges, the best routes to take...”

“And tell a lot of dirty jokes? Sandy asked, as she kicked off her shoes and curled up on my lap.

“Oh, no, no. No dirty jokes,” he laughed. He picked up the microphone and chattered some more, looking at her in the mirror and laughing as we heard voices laughing on the radio even louder. “They say, maybe some dirty jokes,” he giggled.

The driver turned west on Forty-Sixth and the cab slowed to a snail's pace in the narrow two-lane street. The rain came down harder now, banging on the cab's roof like a tin drum. Jockeying inch-by-inch with the other cabs, we eventually made it over to Eighth Avenue where everything completely ground to a halt.

“With the rain, the traffic is more bad tonight,” the driver shook his head.

I looked around the interior of the cab. It was clean, not a speck of dirt or dust on the leather seats or floor. Even the windows had been recently washed, inside and out. Up on his visor and saw a city license with his photograph and the name Goutam Ray.

“Maybe he cleans apartments,” I said as I put my finger on Sandy's lips and leaned forward again. “Goutam, how long would it take for you to drive us to Philadelphia?”

“Philly? Oh, my. Maybe two hours, maybe a little more, once we get out of this.”

“What would the fare be?”

“That is a tariff fare, not metered, plus tolls, and I have to come back…” he looked at me in the rear view mirror. “And all that gasoline, Ayii! And…”

“How much!” Sandy cut him off.

“For you, lovely lady, three-hundred dollars.”

I looked down at Sandy and shrugged. “Even with your Swiss Army key chain-toolbox, changing license plates and hot-wiring a car in this rain will ruin those new clothes of yours,” I said as I ran my fingers through her hair. “And the lovely new do.”

“All because of me, eh, Talbott?”

I looked at my watch. “It's 6:30. When we get to Philly, we can catch a train to DC, or we can wait until morning.”

“No,” she shook her head. “As much as I'd love to shack up with you for another night of unbridled passion, let's get this thing done, tonight. That business in Washington Square scared the Hell out of me. I'm not brave anymore; I want this thing over.”

I leaned forward, “Okay, Goutam. We're going to miss our flight out of Newark anyway, so you can drive the lovely lady and me to Philly. But take your time. If you get us there by 9:00 with no problems and without the cops stopping you for any tickets, it's four hundred cash, okay?” I saw his face light up in a grin in the rear view mirror.

Goutam turned the cab west toward the Lincoln tunnel. “Let's call Hardin,” Sandy said. “I don't want to make it to Washington only to find an empty office at midnight.”

“Goutam, find a deli or coffee shop for a quick pit stop. I want to grab a couple of sandwiches and we need to make a phone call.”

Ten minutes later, the cab pulled over to the curb along 42^nd street at the door to a deli that had a big carryout sign. “This is my cousin's establishment,” Goutam said. “He has a pay phone and an excellent tongue if I may be bold enough to suggest, sir.”

“Tongue?” I looked down at her. “That would almost be cannibalism, wouldn't it.”

“How's the corned beef? Or, don't Hindus eat cow?” Sandy asked.

“Oh, pretty lady, to not eat kosher corned beef in New York City? With a fresh dill pickle and some potato latkes and a knish? That would truly be a sin.”

She went for the sandwiches while I went to the phones and dialed Hardin's office. He was not in, but his aide knew to immediately patch me through to his cell phone at the posh Georgetown hotel where he said Hardin was speaking at the annual dinner of the U. S, Association of Chiefs of Police. Totally appropriate, I thought.

“Senator, this is Pete Talbott,” I began. “Good swill at the Willard tonight?”

“One of the very few places in the District that still serves a decent foie gras,” he said softly. “You must excuse me for not using your name, but I'm sure you understand. Where have you been?” he pressed. “I thought you were going to get back in touch yesterday and I was getting very nervous. This business in Boston…”

“Boys will be boys, Senator, but you're right. It's time for us to come in. We'll be in your office tonight, I hope before midnight.”

“And, you're bringing everything with you? The data files and all?”

“Relax Senator, I have them.”