ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 13: hanging about

      “I swear to God I will bust a cap on your arse if you don’t drive faster!”

      I’m currently in the passenger seat of a cab, screaming at the driver to go faster. The poor man, wearing a fishing vest and fingerless gloves, slams on the gas at my command as we speed through two sets of red lights. I have ten minutes to get to East Village when the cab’s still going through Midtown.

      “Don’t shoot me lady,” the driver changes gears and we go through yet another set of lights. I’m glad no cars are on patrol in our area because I can’t risk getting booked for speeding.

      “I’ve already explained this to you, I’m a Detective of the NYPD, I won’t shoot you unless you speed up,” I check the amount of ammunition in my gun and fidget nervously when the driver quickens the pace of the cab.

      I’ve tried to call Sam five times but he’s ignoring me, mainly because I think he’s still pissed that I snapped at his…girl…friend. I mean really she doesn’t even know who the Rolling Stones are apart from sharing a name (minus the ‘s’) with a magazine, you can’t possibly date someone that doesn’t know the difference between a band and magazine.

      I have five minutes left to save Snag and Joseph, I’m starting to panic. I dial Sam’s number two more times, just to be greeted by his formal voicemail about reaching Agent Samuel Pingelly and call back again later. Prat, as if he wouldn’t answer my calls―but then I think, I never answer his so he’s possibly giving me a taste of my own medicine.

Me:
Prat answer your phone >:-(  

      When there’s three minutes to go and Sam hasn’t replied, I get the feeling that he’s seen the message but turned his phone over or simply locked it while he continues to drink his alcoholic concoction and talk with is beloved AJ. He’s a smart man, why doesn’t he see how toxic she is? The proof’s in the pudding with the ‘fought for the motherland’ card, what did he fight in, the Civil War?

Me:
ANSWER ME!!!

      Two minutes and ten seconds and there’s still no response. My eyebrows twitch in agitation and I bite down hard on my knuckles to stop myself from planting the heel of Banks’ Litas through the cabbies windshield. The fare’s already up to $8.50, I don’t want to add another eight hundred onto the bill.

Me:
Answer my calls. I swear to GOD.

      The cabbie slams on the brakes and the yellow car skids to a halt in front of the Seventh Precinct. I jolt forward in my seat as the belt digs into my shoulder and torso. I wince while the cabbie pants and turns to me, an unimpressed look smeared across his features, he opens his hand for the money. The thing is, I’m scant on cash since I didn’t bring any because I wouldn’t be drinking at Four Horsemen. Maybe I should’ve bummed more than a cigarette from Blake.

      “You’ll have to put it on my tab,” I open the cab door.

      “Until I see a badge, I’m putting in a complaint,” the cabbie replies.

      “We’ve been through this!” I slam the door and run towards the glass doors before I stop, “Just wait there okay?”

      “Psht, whatever it’s not like I have other people to ferry around this shit hole,” he turns the keys in the ignition but keeps the metre running. 

      The cabbie is the least of my worries, I don’t have my ID to unlock the doors but it seems like someone hotwired the security system so the doors opened under my touch. The whole precinct is blacked out, only the neon insignia outside on the wall glows―something’s wrong.