Further Adventures of Carlotta Carlyle by Linda Barnes Page A

looks when it’s pointed just right.
    I fished in my pockets for change, emptied them.
    â€œIs that all?”
    â€œYou want the gold cap on my left front molar?” I said.
    â€œTurn around,” the guy barked. “Keep both hands on the steering wheel. High.”
    I heard jingling, then a quick intake of breath.
    â€œOkay,” the crook said, sounding happy as a clam, “I’m gonna take my leave—”
    â€œGood. Don’t call this cab again.”
    â€œListen!” The gun tapped. “You cool it here for ten minutes. And I mean frozen. Don’t twitch. Don’t blow your nose. Then take off.”
    â€œGee, thanks.”
    â€œThank you ,” he said politely. The door slammed.
    At times like that, you just feel ridiculous. You know the guy isn’t going to hang around, waiting to see whether you’re big on insubordination. But , he might. And who wants to tangle with a .22 slug? I rate pretty high on insubordination. That’s why I messed up as a cop. I figured I’d give him two minutes to get lost. Meantime I listened.
    Not much traffic goes by those little streets on Beacon Hill at one o’clock on a Wednesday mom. Too residential. So I could hear the guy’s footsteps tap along the pavement. About ten steps back, he stopped. Was he the one in a million who’d wait to see if I turned around? I heard a funny kind of whooshing noise. Not loud enough to make me jump, and anything much louder than the ticking of my watch would have put me through the roof. Then the footsteps patted on, straight back and out of hearing.
    One minute more. The only saving grace of the situation was the location: District One. That’s Mooney’s district. Nice guy to talk to.
    I took a deep breath, hoping it would have an encore, and pivoted quickly, keeping my head low. Makes you feel stupid when you do that and there’s no one around.
    I got out and strolled to the corner, stuck my head around a building kind of cautiously. Nothing, of course.
    I backtracked. Ten steps, then whoosh. Along the sidewalk stood one of those new “Keep Beacon Hill Beautiful” trash cans, the kind with the swinging lid. I gave it a shove as I passed. I could just as easily have kicked it; I was in that kind of funk.
    Whoosh, it said, just as pretty as could be.
    Breaking into one of those trash cans is probably tougher than busting into your local bank vault. Since I didn’t even have a dime left to fiddle the screws on the lid, I was forced to deface city property. I got the damn thing open and dumped the contents on somebody’s front lawn, smack in the middle of a circle of light from one of those snooty Beacon Hill gas streetlamps.
    Halfway through the whiskey bottles, wadded napkins, and beer cans, I made my discovery. I was doing a thorough search. If you’re going to stink like garbage anyway, why leave anything untouched, right? So I was opening all the brown bags—you know, the good old brown lunch-and-bottle bags—looking for a clue. My most valuable find so far had been the moldy rind of a bologna sandwich. Then I hit it big: one neatly creased bag stuffed full of cash.
    To say I was stunned is to entirely underestimate how I felt as I crouched there, knee-deep in garbage, my jaw hanging wide. I don’t know what I’d expected to find. Maybe the guy’s gloves. Or his hat, if he’d wanted to get rid of it fast in order to melt back into anonymity. I pawed through the rest of the debris. My change was gone.
    I was so befuddled I left the trash right on the front lawn. There’s probably still a warrant out for my arrest.
    District One headquarters is off the beaten path, over on New Sudbury Street. I would have called first, if I’d had a dime.
    One of the few things I’d enjoyed about being a cop was gabbing with Mooney. I like driving a cab better, but, face it, most of my fares aren’t scintillating