Night Film

40

Hopper was halfway down the block, running in the middle of the street. I caught up with him at the corner of Lafayette.

“He just took off,” he yelled, pointing at a cab accelerating toward Houston. Hopper stepped into the traffic, trying to flag down another, and I headed after the taxi.

Far ahead at the intersection, the light turned yellow, and the cab, swerving into the center lane, was flooring it. He was going to fly right through — and that would be that. But then suddenly the taxi slammed on its brakes, coming to an abrupt halt at the red light.

I had seconds. I weaved between the cars, darting along the right-hand side. I could see the man — a dark silhouette in the backseat, looking over his shoulder — probably to see if Hopper was behind him. I tried the door.

He whipped around, startled. His shock quickly gave way to cold calm as he realized the doors were locked. He looked distantly familiar.

“Who are you?” I shouted. “What do you want?”

He shook his head, shrugging as if he had no idea who I was. Did I have the wrong taxi? The cab crept forward, the man’s face slipping into the shadows. Then the light turned green and the taxi shot across Houston, cars honking as they swerved around me.

Just as the cab pulled away, his left hand had slipped into the light.

The man was missing three fingers.