CHAPTER 1

Hailing a taxi in New Rodham can be hell.  You can walk around downtown waiting for a taxi for an hour before finally spotting one with its back seat crammed full with eager passengers.  And don’t think about sticking your hand out into the road to hail a cab; that is, unless getting a ride is more important to you than losing a hand.  You know what they say: “The only thing that’s worse than raining cats and dogs is hailing taxis.”  If you do finally manage to flag down a cab, the driver could be anyone from a psychotic maniac behind the wheel to a bible-thumping monk trying to convert you to the so-and-so religion.  That’s not to say all Rodhamians are psychotic maniacs or bible-thumping monks; oh, no, New Rodham is the home of many stranger personas who walked the littered streets.

I, however, managed to carry some respect around with me.  Maybe it was fear.  Whatever the cause, I managed to get a taxi that day, and there I was, in the back seat of that filthy, worn-down, utterly wonderful piece of machinery.  Buildings flashed by as I sat there, looking out the window, contemplating the future, wondering what lay ahead.

“Hey, hey!” I shouted as I saw the Percivalian Memorial begin to trail into the dust behind us as people seem to do when wandering in a fog.  “I said the Lionel Park, not the slumps!”

Veering quickly, the driver made a U-turn in the middle of the congested street (which resulted in some inappropriate name-calling) and swerved back to the correct road.  I settled back into my thoughts again before being jolted back into reality by an abrupt stop.

“That’s $17.58, pal,” the cab driver ejaculated roughly, poking his head between the front seats.  I gave him a twenty as I stepped out of the cab, and he sped off before I could receive my change.  Did I mention that Rodhamian cab drivers were thrifty?  My bad.

I pulled a crumpled, yellow note from my breast pocket.  It was almost in tatters from the constant handling to which it had been subjected.  Although I had read it countless times over and thoroughly memorized each word, I glanced over it again:

         Dear Mr. Lane,

I trust that by the time this letter is received you will be more than out of a job. If you require some money come to the Lionel Park on Sunday, March 12 at half-past seven.  Bring this note with you on the appointed day along with identification and seventy dollars in cash for a deposit to the bench by the Great Oak monument.  It’s time to wake up to the street life, Lane.

                                                          Roger

Well, those seventy bucks were a tight stretch, but I managed to find some money.  I carried all the things for which this Roger asked: the note, the seventy, and a driver’s license (fake).  I also had pocketed a little something that my friend Roger did not request: a small switchblade concealed in my Hunter’s boot.  You can never be too careful in New Rodham: the Home of Random.  This Roger guy could be anyone from, well, a psychotic maniac to bible-thumping monk.

The Great Oak monument isn’t really a monument; the tree, however, is riddled with so many etchings for loved ones during the Border War that some have come to regard it as a place of remembrance for those lost.  It was here that Roger invited me to rendezvous, and walking along the tulip beds that lined the path, I was more than ready to meet whatever challenge lay in store for me.

“Mr. Lane.  I suppose for you being late is acceptable,” a voice called from under the vast branches of the Great Oak.  “Walk to your own drumbeat,” Roger added dryly.

“Well, I suppose for you being rude is also acceptable,” I tried to counter, but I wasn’t in the mood to play around.  “What’s the gig today, Mr. Rogers?”

He scowled.  “You have always been an impudent young man.  Get that attitude fixed, or someone will fix it for you.”

“You know about me?” I raised an eyebrow.  I was speaking to an old man, frail looking, who was seated lazily on a marble bench, twirling a coin methodically on it.

“Everybody,” he spat.  “Everybody knows about you where I come from.  And a job?  Well,” he gave me a smirk that made me uneasy, “I can’t just hand you a job, can I?” With that, he flipped the coin at me.  Catching it deftly, I quickly scanned it with my eyes.  “2001 quarter, Rhode Island, the Ocean State, sailboat on the back.  What’s the deal?”  When I looked up, I saw the old man pointing a small Luger at me.  Then I saw a small bullet casing fall to the ground.