Demon Fare

Chapter One

Chapter One

Clouds of steam billowed through manhole covers and sewer grates, making it extra hard for Henry to see while driving in the dark. The taxi’s smudged headlamps didn’t help. He opened the throttle and the twenty-first century Model T barely sped up. “Mystic, can’t you go any faster?”

Lights blinked on the possessed taxi’s dashboard and the tuner flickered through a dozen stations before finding what it wanted. A Victrola horn protruding from the dash blared a few words chosen from the airwaves: “Need... water… for steam.”

“Dammit.” Henry would rather not be late for tonight’s pick-up. Levi was his best friend, but the man had no patience when it came to business. He’d lock Hell’s Gate just to keep Henry from getting what he needed.

The radio sputtered so he reached outside the cab’s window to give the antenna a twist. The static cleared and a sultry melody of band music hummed through the cab. Henry shook his head. After a century and a half of recovery from The Great Earthquake, you’d think the industrial world would be caught up by now. But no. Not even a freaking radio worked right.

He patted Mystic’s steering wheel and shifted in the seat, his cramped knees hitting the dashboard. Releasing the lever on his back-up water supply, he said, “Full steam ahead.”

“I’m… on it.”

The taxi lurched forward and the sudden force shoved the hair back from Henry’s face. That’s more like it. They sped over the Brooklyn Bridge, suspension cables strobing by on either side, the cab’s spindled wheels thrumming over bumpy pavement. The radio cycled to a new station. A Barbershop quartet crooned a catchy harmony until it came to the chorus, where it repeated two words over and over.

“Call the police coz you’ve stolen my heart… the police… the police… the police…”

A police steam car sidled up beside them on the driver’s side. A cop stared in through the window of the cab.

Henry leaned forward, relaxed arms folded across the dashboard, though his heart hammered against his ribs. The last thing he wanted was to get rousted by the cops for speeding.  Hoping to come off as friendly, he called out the window, “Evening, Officer!”

Eyes wide enough to show their whites, the cop flushed crimson. He looked madder than a mule chewing bumblebees.

“Hands on the wheel, mister! Pull over!”

Crap. “Better do as the man says,” Henry muttered.

Mystic slowed down and steered to the curb. At three in the morning, the streets weren’t nearly as congested as they’d been during the day. The cab angled into a deserted alley. “Ticket,” Mystic said through the radio. “Traffic… Ticket.”

Not if Henry had anything to say about it. One more ticket and he’d lose his hack license and would no longer be allowed to operate his taxi business. Legally, anyway.

The police car parked behind them, and its driver stayed in the car while his red-faced partner lunged from the vehicle as if launched by a slingshot. He slammed the door behind him and stomped up to the cab.

“This your rig?” The cop jabbed the brim of his police-issued derby back from his forehead. The act of aggression made the scales on Henry’s spine stiffen in response.

“Yes, sir.” Just be polite. Nothing to get worked up about. He might still be able to talk his way out of this and only talk. None of the tricky stuff like he used to do. Those days were over.