Chapter 6

HE HAD A GORGEOUS PLAN mapped out. He would pick up only those few passengers — “fares” — who caught his eye, fired up his imagination to the limit. He wasn’t in a hurry. He had all night; he had all weekend. He was on a busman’s holiday.

His route had been laid out beforehand. First, he drove to the fashionable Adams-Morgan neighborhood. He watched the busy sidewalks, which seemed one long syncopated rhythm of movement. Bar-grazers slouching toward hipness. It seemed that every other restaurant in Adams-Morgan called itself a café. Driving slowly and checking the glittery sights, he passed Café Picasso, Café Lautrec, La Fourchette Café, Bukom Café, Café Dalbol, Montego Café, Sheba Café.

Around eleven-thirty, on Columbia Road, he slowed the taxicab. His heart began to thump. Something very good was shaping up ahead.

A handsome-looking couple was leaving the popular Chief Ike’s Mambo Room. A man and a woman, Hispanic, probably in their late twenties. Sensual beyond belief.

He rolled the dice across the front seat: six, five, four — a total of fifteen. A high count.

Danger! That made sense. A couple was always tricky and risky.

Shafer waited for them to cross the pavement, moving away from the restaurant canopy. They came right toward him. How accommodating. He touched the handle of the magnum that he kept under the front seat. He was ready for anything.

As they started to climb into the taxi, he changed his mind. He could do that!

Shafer saw that neither of them was as attractive as he’d thought. The man’s cheeks and forehead were slightly mottled; the pomade in his black hair was too thick and greasy. The woman was a few pounds heavier than he liked, plumper than she’d looked from a distance in the flattering streetlights.

“Off duty,” he said, and sped away. Both of them gave him the finger.

Shafer laughed out loud. “You’re in luck tonight! Fools! Luckiest night of your lives, and you don’t even know it.”

The incomparable thrill of the fantasy had completely taken hold of him. He’d had total power over the couple. He had control of life and death.

“Death be proud,” he whispered.

He stopped for more coffee at a Starbucks on Rhode Island Avenue. Nothing like it. He purchased three black coffees and heaped six sugars in each.

An hour later, he was in Southeast. He hadn’t stopped for another fare. The streets were crowded to the max with pedestrians. There weren’t enough taxis, not even gypsies in this part of Washington.