True Crime is Criminal

Episode 1-- Molly Arrives

Molly

They say Southern Belles don't sweat; they glisten.

Well, this New Yorker, unused to Southern nuances, dripped.

Set free by the automatic doors of New Orleans International I drag my belongings in a rolling brick and step out of the refrigerated air. I am assaulted by the Gulf's August morning swelter.

I lift my hand, hailing a cab as in New York, expecting an eager welcome from a sea of yellow sharks.

Instead, I'm stranded on a sidewalk, blinded by a heated whiteness, suffocated by the sky's milky haze. The air is stiff with car exhaust. The cement landscape sizzles. I give up hopes of looking professional. Forget about composed.

Giant sweat drops rolling down my spine, I tug my shirttails out of my pants and yank the linen jacket off my back. My brown mane frizzing in its bun, I twist wet strands behind my fogged glasses, hoping to cool. My clothes wrinkle. Damp, dark-colored in the worst places, I am a skinny, ragdoll wreck.

I search my phone, standing on the curb like a twig in a stream. People move around me, hurrying inside and not out.

Ten New Orleans taxis quote travel to the airport. The standard to the French Quarter is $36.00. The only airport pickup is on Level One at Baggage Claim Door Seven.

A door sign above me reads Level Three.

I call the first listing with the word airport in its description and an accented man answers. I try to place the man's country of origin, as he repeats, "Taxi at airport!"

"Yes, but please send one to Level Three." I say for the fourth time and disconnect.

A shiny silver four-door sedan zips from behind a line of passenger drop-offs and pulls up next to me. The car mark is number 6. It's a Nissan, sporty and not cab-like. It carries a door sign announcing in patriotic colors, American Taxi Company.

A tall, white, toned, older man, with wavy silver hair and a sharp boxed beard, steps out of the car's driver's side. His brow is high and intelligent, with nose and chin chiseled, noble. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners. A loose, round-necked flaxen shirt opens enough to show his white curls of hair. Pressed black slacks jingle coins. In polished tassel loafers he glides around the trunk. He points with a gold-ringed finger to sit in the back.

Handsome, distinguished in his carriage and bearing, he doesn't fit my stereotype of a cab driver.

He pushes in front of me, opening the door, suppressing a smile. "You want to go to French Quarter?" He asks in a familiar, thick accent.

"No. The Riverside. The Hilton. I have the address."

"I take. Please, get in car."

Did he offer or order me?

Pressed lips, his mustache puffing, he appraises me. Most likely dismissing me as a hot mess unprepared for an adventure in the Deep South. He moves to seize my roll-around, and I clutch the bag to my side.

Patience tested, he tilts his face, tightening his temples. "We go?"

I lift my suitcase to shove into the car. He brushes his manicured hands past mine, taking charge, placing my gear on the seat behind his.

I step away, his touch surprising, pleasing, but his insistence unsettling.

"Now we go?"

Without options, I agree and adopt his clipped speech. "Yes, we go."

Satisfied, he returns to his side of the car, strapping himself. He waits for me to untangle my seat belt and lock it.

He adjusts the vents on the dash, directing the flow to the rear, and studies me in his mirror, his eyes a hard pale blue. I lean back into the stiff vinyl and receive a welcome blast of air on my chest, chilling my sweat.

He waits. I flash a grin at the mirror, at his eyes, and nod yes, I'm ready. His eyes shift, going empty on mine. He punches the car's accelerator, twisting the steering wheel and whipping us away from the curb. I catch him smiling again.

We speed through the airport parking lot, ignoring traffic signs and pedestrians. Our car whines in high gear up the highway ramp. He picks up a radio hand mic and speaks soft in a language not German, French, or Spanish.

The dispatcher drones in a similar tongue, and they sign-out. He returns the handset, apologizing. "I'm sorry is rude of me to speak in foreign language."

I move forward, hovering between the front seats. I check the laminated car registration and driver ID on the dash. The man in the photo is young, skinny, sneering, with a shaven head, a criminal face with a tattoo on his neck. He doesn't match the man sitting in front of me.

"No problem," I say, despite my alarm bells ringing.

He cuts off a car and enters I-10 eastbound.

I grip the back of his seat for balance.

"You are nervous?" His eyes warm with what I assume is a true concern.

Releasing my hold on his car seat, I sink back, nodding, unsure of his larger meaning. "Not as much as in New York."