A Fare To Remember: Just Whistle\Driven To Distraction\Taken For A Ride (25 page)

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A FARE TO REMEMBER

BONUS FEATURES INSIDE

Adventures in Cab Riding by Julie Elizabeth Leto

Sneak Peek: The Mighty Quinns: Marcus by Kate Hoffmann

Drive Me Crazy by Vicki Lewis Thompson

Adventures in Cab Riding

by Julie Elizabeth Leto

Because of my husband’s job, we travel a lot. Lately, thanks to my job, I’ve been heading to New York with more frequency, as well as other cities. My experiences with taxicabs have been varied, but in keeping with the theme of this collection, I thought I’d share a few tips and experiences based on the cities I’ve visited.

First, the tips (mostly apply to New York, but other cities, as well):

• It’s easy to tell if a cab is available to pick you up. When the numbers on the top of the cab are illuminated, it is empty. When the numbers are off, the cab is either occupied or on its way back to base.
  
• To hail a cab, stand at the curb with your arm held straight up and out. Someone called this the Statue of Liberty imitation. Yeah, that fits!
  
• When you enter cab, speak loud and clear to the driver of your destination. Not only are many of them foreign-born, but the city is noisy and it’s hard to hear through the Plexiglas partition.
  
• Taxi drivers can try to rip you off by taking a longer route if you don’t seem to know where you’re going. Study your map
  before you get
  into the cab and if you can, ask a hotel concierge or doorman what the quickest route is and then tell the driver. Be specific about cross streets. Let them think you know what you’re talking about!
  
• Wear your seat belt.
  
• Don’t smoke. It’s against the law and you can be ticketed if stopped by the police.
  
• Always get a receipt! In New York, at least, the receipts are generated through the meter and have all the information you’ll need to lodge a complaint, send a compliment (those are appreciated, I’m sure) or if you left something in the cab you need to retrieve.
  
• Always exit the cab on the curbside so you don’t get hit by traffic.
  
• Tipping isn’t necessary, but it is nice if the driver did his job exceptionally well. And in New York traffic, getting you to your destination in one piece is exceptional in my estimation!
  
• Remember that New York streets often run one way. Be aware of which direction you are heading in before you decide where to pick up the cab. This can save you both time and money.
  
• Cabdrivers in New York will wave you off if they don’t want to go where you are headed—even though it is against the rules—especially at the end of their shifts. Keep that in mind when planning travel time.
  
• Fares to and from the airports in New York have fixed rates. You can check the airport Web site to find out the going rate.
  
• “Gypsy cabs” are illegal in New York, but they are still everywhere. If it’s not yellow, it’s not an official, regulated cab. It’s best to avoid these cabs if you can as they are often not the safest way to travel since they are not marked nor are they regulated.
  
• Consider not only regular rush-hour traffic when planning travel through the city, but also location. If you’re in the Theater District, pay attention to showtimes. Getting a cab at four o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon can be tough because of the Broadway matinees!
  
• Passenger rights are usually posted in the back of a cab, but even if they are not, don’t be afraid to insist that the driver turn the radio down or off, turn the heater or air conditioner on or off, close the windows, stop talking on their cell phone, etc. If they don’t comply, report them, but most will do as you ask.
  

My personal taxi reviews by city:

New York

New York City cabs are pretty much everything you expect. The drivers are often foreign-speaking, but I have to say that only last trip there, I rode in at least ten taxis and while all my drivers had accents, all but one conversed easily in English and most had been in our country for a very long time. One reminded me a lot of Mario, as a matter of fact, and he told me stories on our short trip that were fascinating. I was careful not to distract him with chatter, though. I did want to arrive alive and New York traffic can be frightening!

Interesting New York Taxi Facts:

• The first female taxi driver in New York got behind the wheel in 1925.
  
• The last Checker cab in New York City was retired July 26, 1999.
  
• In 2003, 238 million people rode in New York taxicabs.
  

Chicago

This is my favorite city to ride in a cab. I don’t know what it is about Chicago, but all the cabdrivers I’ve ridden with (and I go to Chicago about once a year—twice, if I can) have been super friendly, helpful and hardworking. I’ve never once been waved off by a Chicago cabdriver and on my last trip, my cabdriver asked if he could pick up an extra fare on the way to my destination and he’d give me a discount if I agreed. He had two fares, two travelers got a ride and I got a break on the fare and everyone was happy. Chicago cabs are not exclusively yellow as they are in New York, but I only ride in the ones with clear markings.

Fun Chicago Taxi Facts:

• Yellow Cab of Chicago was founded in 1915 by John Hertz, the same man who later started Hertz Rent-A-Car. He was the first taxi company owner to pick yellow as the taxi color of choice and his idea clearly spread to other cities, including New York, like wildfire!
  
• Chicago has a famous singing cabdriver named Ray St. Ray who croons love ballads and pop songs with his own social commentary to his fares.
  

Las Vegas

Like all of Las Vegas, the cabdrivers here are efficient and friendly. Las Vegas is not a big place, so getting from point A to point B is more a matter of traffic than it is distance. The driveways into the resort hotels are sometimes longer and more congested than the main thoroughfares. The taxi drivers here do know what’s going on where. They were always helpful if I had any questions. I’ve never tried to catch a cab in Las Vegas during the daytime in July, but I guess it wouldn’t be an easy task unless you’re at the entrance to one of the hotels. I can’t imagine catching one in the street would be easy, so keep that in mind when you go out for a walk.

• Clark County taxicabs are fitted with surveillance cameras that have helped them catch people who have committed crimes in cabs, including stealing the cab from the driver.
  
• Cabs in Nevada base their fares on both time and distance—if the cab is moving at less than eight-to-twelve miles per hour, it calculates by time—over that speed, and it calculates by distance.
  

Reno

I have to mention the little town of Reno because on my most recent trip, I noticed that Reno had the most colorful cabdrivers I’ve ever encountered anywhere. One might have been partying a little hard before picking me up, if you know what I mean. But we arrived safely at our destination and he was super friendly. Another had fingernails much longer and prettier than mine—and he wasn’t a she. In fact, he had formerly been a truck driver. I had a blast listening to the explanation regarding his manicure (due in part to an industrial accident), but thought when I did my taxi guide, I had to include this story. Be prepared to wait for a taxi in Reno; they don’t just hang around outside of all the casinos and often have to be called. Also, Reno cabs sometimes won’t take more than four passengers in one cab, so if you’re a large party, even if a van approaches, you’ll need more than one cab. It’s at the driver’s discretion, but five is the max.

Here’s a sneak peek…

The Mighty Quinns: Marcus

by
Kate Hoffmann

In bookstores October 2006

CHAPTER ONE

“’T
IS A FINE THING
, Friday nights at Finnerty’s Pub. Cold beer and warm women. What more could we want?” Declan Quinn took a long sip of his Guinness, then set the pint glass down on the table in front of him.

The pub was dark and smoky, and a neon beer light on the wall illuminated the table where the three Quinn brothers sat. Over the bar, a television played a Red Sox game, now well into extra innings. The seven pubs in Bonnet Harbor, Rhode Island, could be divided into two types, those that rooted for the Yankees and those that cheered on the Sox. But Finnerty’s was the only true Irish pub, with corned-beef sandwiches on command, an endless supply of Guinness on tap and a live Irish band on Friday and Saturday nights. It had become the pub of choice for Marcus and his brothers.

The pub drew a working-class crowd from the surrounding areas—fishermen, factory workers, shopkeepers and people that worked for the people who worked in the big houses in nearby Newport. It made for a rowdy mix of longtime residents and newcomers, nearly all of them claiming a drop or two of Irish blood.

Bonnet Harbor lay on the western shore of Narragansett Bay directly across the water from Jamestown and Newport, and was still relatively unspoiled by tourism, although that was slowly changing. New shops and restaurants opened every few months and even now, Marcus could pick out the tourists among those enjoying a drink at the bar.

Though Bonnet Harbor was technically his hometown, Marcus had always felt like an outsider. He’d spent most of his childhood in Ireland, and when he thought of home, he thought of the stone manor house where his maternal grandmother lived and the old stable where he used to play. Bonnet Harbor was where his parents had settled after leaving Boston and this is where the family business, Quinn’s Boat Works, was located. Marcus’s own business, Q Yacht Design, operated from a building tucked in the corner of the boatyard and he lived in a small apartment above his workroom.

“If I recall, Dec, you said that exact same thing last week,” Ian commented. “We were sitting right over there and—” At the loud shout of a drunken darts player, Ian twisted in his chair. He’d changed out of his work attire, shedding the uniform in favor of a faded polo shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans. But he still watched the crowd with a careful eye, ready to step in if a simple argument turned physical.

Ian was police chief of Bonnet Harbor. Declan owned his own security firm headquartered in Providence. And though Dec kept an apartment in the city, he rolled into Bonnet Harbor nearly every weekend, camping out with either Ian or Marcus. They had been close as boys and now, as adults, they were even closer, enjoying a bond that could never be broken.

“It’s true,” Marcus said. “You did. Those very same words.”

Declan frowned. He looked oddly out of place, dressed in a tux and pleated shirt, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He’d come from another of his high-society parties. But Dec exuded a steely confidence that silently warned against any comment about his highbrow appearance.

“We were sitting right over there at that table by the window,” Marcus added.

Ian and Declan both looked at him, as if surprised by his entrance into the conversation. Marcus had always been known as the quiet Quinn, the only one in a family of seven children who didn’t engage in the boisterous family arguments that took place over Sunday supper at their parents’ house. If there was ever a disagreement, Marcus could be counted on to remain neutral. Declan was usually the one to start the argument, then sit back and watch as Ian did everything he could to win the argument.

Marcus just didn’t see the point in arguing unless the subject was important to him. And there was very little he found to arouse either his ire or his passion. He reached out for his own beer and took a long drink. “Do you ever wonder if we’re maybe in a wee bit of rut?”

“Jaysus, maybe we are,” Ian said, allowing his Irish accent to tinge his words. “We’ve done this same bloody thing so many times, we’ve begun to repeat ourselves, like those old men down at the docks who tell the same stories over and over again.”

“At least we still have our own teeth,” Marcus commented.

“We go out, we look for women, we drink a little too much and then we go home,” Ian added. “If we get lucky, we hook up with a pretty girl. If not, we wake up alone the next morning with a blazing headache.”

“Predictable,” Marcus murmured. As much as he wanted to deny it, it was true. He loved hanging with his brothers. But lately, he was beginning to feel restless, as if there were something better he ought to be doing with his time, some elusive goal he ought to pursue.

“Most of the guys our age are married,” Ian said. “Our older brothers, the Quinn cousins, nearly all my friends done it. I haven’t dated one woman that I’d consider marrying.”

“What happened to Caroline?” Declan asked, reaching for the bowl of pretzels. “I thought you two were in love.”

“She went back to her old boyfriend,” Ian said morosely. “Said I was a great guy, but he was ready to make a commitment.” Ian shuddered. “God, I hate that word.”

“Well, there’s your problem,” Marcus muttered.

“I’m not interested in getting married, either,” Dec offered. “And I make that very clear from the start. It’s all about the sex. Most women appreciate my honesty.”

“Yeah, right,” Ian said. “Most women think they can change your mind. It’s only after they realize they can’t, they move on.”

Dec groaned. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Why? Women spend most of their time talking about us,” Marcus said.

Ian nodded in agreement, popping a pretzel into his mouth. “If we spent more time trying to figure women out, we’d probably have better luck. I’ll wager I could have a five-minute conversation with any woman in this bar and she’d have me figured out, head to toe.”

“You’re just about as deep a mud puddle,” Dec said. “It doesn’t take a major intellect to figure you out.” He glanced over at Marcus. “Now our baby brother, he’s a different story. The girls like him because he has an air of mystery about him. He never speaks, so they don’t know where he stands. And he’s not all that interested in figuring them out, so they’re even more intrigued.”

“He’s quiet because he can’t think of anything intelligent to say,” Ian teased.

“I know what your problem is,” Marcus said after a long silence. “Instant gratification.”

“What?” Dec and Ian said in tandem.

“That’s all you look for. You find a girl, hook up and never call her again. The next weekend, you’re right back out there looking for someone new.”

“I’m not looking for a wife,” Dec insisted.

“Neither was Conor or Dylan or Brendan,” Marcus said. “Or Brian or Sean or Liam. They didn’t want to get married until they found a woman they wanted to marry. And then they got married.”

Dec took a moment to digest his brother’s words then shook his head. “Wonky reasoning, that is,” he said.

“I think finding a woman is a lot like fishing,” Ian declared, leaning back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head. “You just keep hauling ’em into the boat until you get a keeper.”

“And then you stuff it and hang it on the wall,” Dec said with a chuckle.

Ian sighed. “Maybe we’ve been fishing with the wrong bait. Or maybe we’re fishing in the wrong waters.”

“And what fishing spots would you suggest?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t know. Pubs haven’t been working for us. So…” Ian drew a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know. I hear the Internet works pretty well.”

“We’re smart guys,” Dec said. “I don’t think we need to resort to electronic means. We can certainly figure this out.”

“I say we stop picking up random women,” Marcus said. “Full stop. We try to get to know them before we sleep with them. We haul all kinds of fish into the boat, then take some time to decide which fish to throw back.”

“I think I date some pretty decent women,” Declan said.

“Ha!” Ian leaned back in his chair. “What about Danielle? She ties you to the bed during sex, then goes out to get breakfast for the two of you. On the way back, she gets distracted by…”

“A sale at Bloomingdales,” Dec said. “It was Bloomingdales. Purses, I think. The girl really liked purses. More than sex.” He turned to Marcus. “What about that woman you dated who couldn’t get excited unless you spanked her.”

“It was exciting the first few times, but when she pulled out a whip, I had to draw the line,” Marcus murmured, shaking his head.

“Remember Giselle, that dancer from my building?” Dec asked. “What happened to her?”

“Exhibitionist,” Ian said. “She liked to do it in front of the windows of her apartment, with the curtains open. I guess she’s known in the neighborhood for her…performances. There were guys across the street with binoculars and video cameras.”

“I’ve seen those guys,” Dec said to Marcus. “I always thought they were watching birds.”

“So we’ve all had our share of strange sexual encounters. If we want things to change, Marcus is right. We need to make a plan,” Ian said. “I say we go out there and look for keepers. No bleach blondes or fake boobs or overbaked bodies.”

“No aspiring Playboy models or ex–beauty queens or former professional cheerleaders, either,” Dec added. “And no strippers.”

“They prefer
exotic dancers,
” Ian corrected.

Marcus shook his head. There was a benefit to being reserved around women. He’d never had the courage to dip a toe into those dating pools.

“Just regular girls. I say, the three of us make a pact to meet one normal woman this week,” Ian suggested. “We report back here and compare notes.”

Marcus smiled inwardly. Ian had always been the competitive one. If an activity could be turned into a game, he found a way to do it. And he rarely lost. “I’m going to have to pass on this,” he said. “I’m stuck out in Newport on a boat for the rest of the summer. Alone.”

“Just you and your precious tools?” Ian asked.

“You took that job with Trevor Ross.” Declan nodded. “I hope he’s paying you well. He certainly can afford it.”

Dec had provided security at a number of Ross’s parties and also advised his corporate security office on a variety of matters. He had referred Marcus to the wealthy tycoon. “I figure if I impress him, I might be able to talk him into investing in my business,” Marcus said. “More capital means bigger yachts.”

“What’s his boat like?” Ian asked.

A grin curled the corners of Marcus’s mouth. “You should see her. She’s a beauty. Built in 1923. Schooner-rigged. Ninety-foot wood hull. He had the cabin completely refurbished and it’s sweet. But he wants more detailing so I’m adding some vintage carvings and a new figurehead. The crew is on vacation. I’m living on the boat while I work. He’s got it anchored off his place on Price’s Neck.”

“So you’re out of the game for now,” Ian said. “You can get in later. But you still have to pay up every week.”

“You’re turning this into some kind of pool?” Marcus asked.

“Every week we throw a twenty into the pot,” Ian explained. “First guy find a keeper—and keep her—wins it.”

“Fifty-two weeks, twenty dollars a week times three, that’s over three thousand in a year,” Dec said. “Not bad incentive to start fishing. But who’s to judge.”

“We all have to like her and agree that she’s worth marrying,” Ian said.

“But we don’t have to marry her, right?” Dec asked.

“Nope.” Ian held out a clenched fist. “Deal?”

Dec bumped his fist against Ian’s. “Deal.”

Marcus had never liked being left out of his older brothers’ games. Though he didn’t have a lot of extra cash, he could afford to play. And considering the track records of the two guys sitting at the table, he probably had a decent shot, even if he did join the game late.

“Deal,” Marcus finally said. “I’m in.”

A
SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT
filtered through the porthole and warmed Marcus Quinn’s face. He slowly opened his eyes and for a moment, he was transported back to his childhood, to those days spent playing in the stable at Porter Hall.

He rolled over in the narrow berth and grabbed his wristwatch from the small shelf above his head. Wiping at his bleary eyes, Marcus tried to focus on the time, ignoring the dull ache in his head. “Eight-thirty,” he murmured, sinking back into the pillows.

The schooner rocked gently in the water as the waves slapped against the hull. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, the movement of the boat lulling him back toward sleep. He’d stayed out with his brothers until well after one, playing pool and shooting darts at Finnerty’s.

He sat up and raked his hands through his rumpled hair, then swung his legs over the edge of the berth. When he’d come on board a week ago, he’d claimed an empty berth in the crew quarters next door to the captain’s cabin. But now that the crew had left, Marcus had the boat all to himself, luxurious accommodations for a guy who was used to a three-room apartment above an old boathouse.

He dug through his clothes scattered over the opposite berth, searching for something clean to wear, then gave up. It was about time to check out the small laundry room aft of the engine room—right after he started a pot of coffee. Marcus wandered sleepily down the narrow companionway, past the two spacious guest cabins.

From the time he could stand on a deck, Marcus had loved being on the water. His earliest memories were of his father, standing in the wheelhouse of the
Mighty Quinn,
the family sword-fishing boat. Paddy Quinn had been forced to sell his interest to Marcus’s uncle Seamus to help pay for his wife’s medical bills. The family moved to Rhode Island and Paddy worked for a boat repair business on the eastern shore of Narragansett Bay, a business he later bought from the elderly owner.

Before they were sent to Ireland, Marcus remembered one glorious summer spent racing little Sunfish sailboats on the bay, skimming across the water in hastily planned regattas. When they weren’t sailing, they were fishing from a small skiff their father had restored.

The ensuing years took them away from the water and their older brothers, Rory and Eddie, but the moment Marcus returned at age fifteen, he began to build his own sailboat in his father’s workshop. From that moment on, he knew he wanted to design boats—beautiful sleek sailboats that could cut through the water like a razor.