So now, after a little over a year, she was still getting used to the city’s changes. Who’d have believed they’d be able to scour off the grim sleaziness that she’d assumed to be permanently etched on Times Square?

Cabbies too. What had happened to them? They’d always been pushy, brazen drivers—you had to be to get around in this city—but this new crop were maniacs.

Finally they hit the Forties.

Almost there, Alicia thought. Maybe I’ll live to see another sunset after all.

But as they neared Forty-eighth she noticed her cab was still in the center lane, accelerating. At first she thought he was going to miss her turn off, then she saw the opening: two lanes to the right, behind a graffiti-coated delivery truck and just ahead of a bus pulling away from the curb.

“You’re not!” Alicia cried. “Please tell me you’re not going to try to—”

He did. And he made it—just barely—but not without forcing the bus to slam on its brakes and give him a deafening blast from its horn.

The cabbie floored it along the open stretch of Forty-eighth, then swerved violently rightward toward the curb. The cab jerked to a halt at the address Alicia had given him when she’d slid into its rear seat down in Greenwich Village.

“Six-seventy-five,” he said.

Alicia sat there fuming, wishing she were strong enough to break through the partition and throttle him. She wasn’t. But she could give him a taste of his own medicine—in reverse.

Slowly, she inched toward the curbside door, opened it with the greatest of care, and edged herself out. Then she took out her wallet and began to count her change… carefully. She had about two dollars’ worth. She picked out a dollar-seventy-five in dimes and nickels.

“Come on, lady,” the cabbie said, leaning over the passenger seat and looking up at her through the window. “I haven’t got all day.”

Alicia made no sign she’d heard him as she slowly pulled five singles from her wallet, one… at… a… time. Finally, when she had exactly six-seventy-five in her hand, she handed it through the window.

And waited.

It didn’t take long—three seconds, tops—before the driver popped out his door and glared at her over the roof of his cab.

“Ay! Where is tip?” He pronounced it teep.

“Pardon me?” Alicia said sweetly. “I can’t hear you.”

“My tip, lady! Where is it?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, holding a hand to her ear. “Your lips appear to be moving, but I can’t hear a word you’re saying. Something about my slip?”

“My tip, goddammit! My tip! My tip! My fucking tip!”

“Did I enjoy my trip?” she said, then let her voice go icy. “On a scale of one to ten, I enjoyed it zero… exactly the amount of your tip.”

He made a move to come around the cab, probably figuring he could intimidate this slight, pale woman with the fine features and the glossy black hair, but Alicia held her ground. He gave her a venomous look and slipped back into his seat.