Master of Death

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“STOP beyond the corner, driver.”

The taximan swerved toward the curb as he crossed Sixty-sixth Street and stopped free of the Broadway traffic. The passenger, leaning forward with his face beside the window, smiled as the cab halted at the designated spot beyond the corner.

Opening the door, the man alighted and paid the driver. He was still wearing his smile. The taxi driver noted it in the dim light, and gazed askance at the sallow face. There was something about the passenger’s smile which the driver did not like.

As the man pocketed his change, the driver pulled the cab from the curb and glanced back. His ex-passenger was still standing by the corner, waiting for the flow of traffic to cease.

Even from the distance, the taximan fancied that he could see the ugly leer upon the fellow’s face. The driver shrugged his shoulders, and let the cab roll on. After all, the man had been just another passenger; yet even this hard-boiled jehu felt a sense of relief to know that he was rid of this fare.

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