A Fistful of Nothing: A Dieselpunk Noir Novel by Dan Glaser

Author:Dan Glaser [Glaser, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titanomachy Printing
Published: 2014-03-13T11:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NIGHTCAP

The pedicab pedaled away from the manmade inlet, less a smooth glide across asphalt so much as a series of halting jumps and judders forward, the nautical nonsense of the bay shrinking smaller with each jerk. The cab carriage was painted the familiar yellow of its topside counterpart, a distinction that few chauffeurs still clung to. Nowadays, taxi-men opted rather to branch out into other tints and hues, starting their own cabbie gangs—an undulating wave of warring colors, the boutique businesses all vying for the patronage of the surrounding foot traffic. But Jim liked the throwback paint job. It was oddly comforting. He wondered if the motorist snagged more clientele due to the nostalgia, or if it mattered little amid the burnt wash of Blacktop citizenry blasé.

“I recognize ya, y’know.”

Jim started when the cabbie spoke, the motion wasted on the back of the driver’s head. “That right? Haven’t been in town all that long, friend.”

“I meant from afore. From them Los Angeles days long past.” The driver said Angeles like Angle-less. “A slice ‘a time outta that old life… You was a dick up top, weren’tcha, pardner?”

“Sure I was.” Jim finished the stub of his pawned cigarette, sad to see it go. He flicked the still-smoking butt curbside. “I do a job for you?”

The back of the cabbie’s head bobbed, yes. His southern drawl was thickly sweet and hollow, like an airstream sneaking through a honeycomb. “Blew open skinny on a roundheeled toots fer me.”

“That right?”

“As rain, feller. She was my wife, at the time.”

“Yeesh. Well, sorry for the ill news.”

A shrug of the nondescript shoulders ahead. “Nah, I’m better oft knowin’ it.”

“Glad you see it that way. Few do.”

“Cain’t do nuthin’ about what’s past.”

“Sure. I suppose that’s so.”

The pedalman spat chew, the stink of the spray hugging to the air like spackle. “Listen feller…didn’t have much scratch to offer ya back then—an’ I’m a man, likes to square his debts. You need fer anythin’, you jus’ gimme the ol’ flag down.”

“Noted…thanks, partner.” Jim instinctively pawed the inside of his jacket for another cigarette, forgetting he was spent. “In fact…there’s a thing you could do me, time being.”

“Oh yeah? Whassat?”

“Keep tabs on the name ‘Beaumont’ for me. Anybody drops that name, or mentions a ‘Henry,’ ‘Hank,’ whatever…you let me know, huh?”

“You bet, mister.”

Jim paused. “Call me Jimbo.”

“You bet.” The driver didn’t turn back, even to introduce himself, Jim reacquainted with nothing more than the back of a furrowed, piebald head. “Denny.”

“Good to run into ya.”

“Yessir.” Denny lobbed more tobacco onto the lurching strip of road. “Whelp, pardner…where to now?”

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