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Down in the Dirt (v127) (the Jan./Feb. 2015 Issue)




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The Basket Case

Norm Hudson

    “Maybe you should hire a hit-man!”
    Ed turned round from the driving seat of the trolley bus and looked with surprise at the silver-haired old lady that had boarded his bus some five seconds before.
    “Yeah, right!” he laughed, pointing to his tips basket. “As though I could afford one!”
    A couple of doleful dimes lay on the bottom like hamsters in a cage and one solitary dollar bill poked up like a chimney in a smokeless zone.
    The day’s tips. For batting his brains out. Hell, the last couple of passengers hadn’t even left a tip!
    He watched Dan’s trolley tour disappear into the distance. Stacked full of passengers. Laughing and joking. He pictured Dan’s basket brimming over with dollar bills.
    And here he was sitting with one old biddy waiting for some other passengers to materialise out of somewhere so he could cover the cost of his gas.
    That’s when they’d got into conversation. For the second time.
    She’d been on his bus earlier, covering most of the tour of Boston, before she’d got off. He was surprised to see her again. He was surprised to see most people again. Once they’d been on Dan’s bus, they didn’t come back.
    He’d commented on the fact. And apologised for the fact his bus was so empty. That she’d had such a long wait. And why.
    That’s when she had said.
    “Maybe you should hire a hit-man!”
    He hadn’t reckoned on her having a wacky sense of humour.
    She must have been on board Dan’s bus earlier. It smacked of Dan’s humour. The kind that got his trolley full and kept it that way.
    But why wasn’t she on it now?
    For one crazy moment he thought he’d seen her get off Dan’s Trolley and get on his without stepping off to see one of the sights on the Boston tour.
    Not that he could blame her if she had. It was perishing cold out there. And she was British. Not used to the biting Boston blasts.
    That’s probably what defeated them, more than the patriots, thought Ed, smiling, remembering all the history he’d learnt for the job. They couldn’t take it! Though they’d taken everything else. Before and during the Revolutionary War. Taxes. Money. Lives. Still that was all in the past. He didn’t hold grudges. Though he knew some still did. You only had to mention the word British in some trolleys and a silence would descend. An uncomfortable silence. A damning silence. Even after all this time. But he’d travelled too widely. Seen far worse. Even in his own country. No sir, he treated the British like he treated everyone else. American or otherwise.
    Not that it did any good. His trolley was empty. And Dan’s and the others’ were full.
    Maybe it was time he gave up. Retired. He couldn’t compete against youth, flirtation and fast chat. All he had was knowledge, the fact he was well-travelled and experience.
    And who wanted that these days?
    Only this old biddy. Old like himself. A dinosaur in a new age.
    “They don’t get paid till after the event,” she said.
    She sure is a bit of a wacko, thought Ed.
    And yet she didn’t look it. She was neat, dapper. Like a school teacher hoping to disguise herself on vacation and unable to do it.
    “Before or after. It’ll make no difference. The money’s not forthcoming!” laughed Ed.
    “It’s surprising where money comes from,” she persisted. “After the job.”
    Christ, he was in for a big tip after the job! That made a change. Not that he did the job for money. Anything but. He loved people. He loved history. And he loved Boston. He’d miss all that if he gave it up. And yet there was no alternative. He couldn’t cover his costs.
    Still a big tip would cheer him up. Prove someone appreciated his efforts.
    “Well it doesn’t look like anyone else is getting on so we’ll head out, shall we?” he said.
    He settled comfortably into the driving seat and moved off. Quincy Market and the crowds thronging it were left behind.
    He felt temporarily at ease. Only the disquieting thought that he might catch up with Dan’s trolley disturbed his equilibrium. Dan’s full trolley.
    There was a comfortable silence from behind him.
    Ed started his banter. Not like Dan’s of course. No jokes. No border-line vulgarity. No flirtatious behaviour. Straight talking. Straight history.
    “The next stop will be Paul Revere’s house. The oldest house in Boston and the home of the patriot Paul Revere who achieved fame for his midnight ride to Lexington to warn the patriots the British were coming.”
    He wondered if the old biddy would get off there. If she did he could say goodbye to her. The chances are he wouldn’t see her again. Still he had his gratuity to look forward to. That should at least cover the cost of his gas.
    But there was no sound of movement from the back of the coach.
    “The silversmith with a side business in false teeth,” a voice shouted.
    He looked in his rear-view mirror.
    The old woman had put her hand in her mouth, removed her false teeth and was waving them at him.
    Christ, she’s a basket case, thought Ed. It could only happen to me.
    But a knowledgeable basket case, he thought. Not many people knew about Paul Revere’s side business.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said courteously. “How did you know that?”
    “I make it my business to find out things,” she said. “I always do my homework.”
    Definitely an ex-schoolteacher, he thought. Everything about her said that. Except the false teeth in her hand. A batty, old ex-schoolteacher. He wondered if he’d be a batty, old ex-trolley tour driver. All that knowledge gone to waste.
    Soon.
    It was a depressing thought.
    “Are you getting off here, ma’am?”
    “No, I’m looking for somewhere with a bit more action,” she said.
    A bit more action! Christ, where did this old bat think she was? Dallas! There was no Bonnie and Clyde here.
    “And where would that be, ma’am?”
    “I’ll let you know when we get there,” she replied, shoving her false teeth back into her mouth, just as he pulled up at the stop. A Chinese couple were standing there. Ed remembered them from earlier in the day. He opened the trolley door and waited for them to board. But they took one look at him, said they’d changed their mind and would wait for the next trolley.
    He knew they meant Dan’s. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Well, they’d have a long, cold wait, he thought before Dan returned to this spot.
    He closed the door on the biting, early spring blast of wind that had already chilled the inside of the trolley.
    Damn! thought Ed. My tour’s not that bad!
    But he knew he couldn’t compete with Dan. And his Boston charm.
    He moved off trying to quell his feeling of inadequacy. But at the sight of the Old North Church, he forgot them and lost himself recounting its history.
    Basket case or no basket case. British or not. The old woman had a right to the best he could produce.
    And produce the best he did.
    Until he approached Copps Hill Burial Ground.
    “There was action going on here in 1775!” he said, looking in his rear-view mirror.
    The old lady lady’s eyes met his. There was a flash of navy blue. Like powder igniting.
    “If you look at the gravestones, you’ll see chunks missing. The British soldiers used them for target practice during the siege of Boston!”
    The navy blue eyes didn’t waver but held his though he thought he detected a flash of red. And something else. Disappointment?
    “We all need a little practice now and then,” she said. “And a target.”
    Ed felt his neck redden. Hell, he deserved that! He’d targeted her all right. Targeted her because she was British. Waiting for a reaction. Hell, he was no better than the other drivers. It was mean and inhospitable of him. Sure she was a basket case but he should have thought before he spoke. After all, wouldn’t he be a basket case one day? One day soon. He pulled up at the stop. To let her out. The former convivial atmosphere had evaporated. But to his surprise the old biddy didn’t get out there. He pulled away.
    Poor old dear, he thought. He’d be like that shortly. Whiling his time away in the back of a bus instead of driving it. The thought made him sick. So sick he barely caught the woman’s murmur some short time later.
    “I’ll get off here.”
    They were just approaching the Old State House.
    “Guess you want to see the Boston Massacre Site,” said Ed. “Where the British fired on Bostonians and killed five of them.”
    So that was the action she was after.
    “We were always a military nation,” she said, moving to the front of the bus.
    “We’ve forgiven you,” laughed Ed.
    “You forgive a lot, don’t you?” said the woman. “We’re not all like that.”
    “No use harbouring resentment,” said Ed. “ Life’s too short.”
    “It can be,” said the old woman, passing by his basket and descending the steps as the bus came to a halt and the doors opened. “Very short.”
    And with that she was gone.
    Before Ed realised she hadn’t left a tip.
    Damn! Damn! Damn! No gratuity. After all his effort.
    Then he felt ashamed of himself. The poor old woman probably didn’t have any spare cash. Had probably bankrupted herself getting here in the first place. Her last chance to do America. To do Boston.
    He closed the doors of the trolley and sat back in the driving seat. He’d take a rest here. A well-earned rest. After all no-one was clamouring to get on his trolley.
    He must have dozed off for when he came to, the clock showed a lost half hour. A lost half hour and no customers.
    Ed felt even more depressed. He opened the trolley doors and climbed down. He made his way across to the circle of cobblestones that marked the site of The Boston Massacre. The old lady was nowhere to be seen.
    Probably moved on to greener pastures, thought Ed.
    He wondered if he’d see her again. She’d seemed to enjoy his commentary.
    At least there’s one person my tour appeals to, thought Ed, even if she’s an old basket case.
    He smiled at the thought.
    From somewhere he was aware of a police siren.
    Action. He bet the old lady was there.
    He walked in the direction of the sound, glad to stretch his body. He might as well find out what all the ruckus was.
    The old lady was right. Life was short. Very short.
    For Dan.
    He knew it was Dan as soon as he saw the empty trolley.
    Empty except for Dan’s body slumped in the driving seat. Slumped where he’d been shot.
    The passengers were huddled round a police officer who was taking notes.
    “He’d just opened the door to let her board,” said a semi-hysterical woman’s voice. “When there was a sound of gunshot————————————and he slumped forward like———————————.”
    Her voice tailed off as her eyes hit Dan’s body.
    “She grabbed the money and took off. And he was such a nice man. I can’t think why anyone—————————————.”
    She put her hand in her pocket and drew out a Kleenex.
    “It’s the action of a lunatic!” she added, dabbing her eyes. “A basket case!”
    Ed melted back into the shade of the building.
    “A basket case!”
    He thought of the old woman’s words.
    “Maybe you should hire a hit-man!”
    What if the old bat hadn’t been joking? What if the old bat had hit Dan?
    And what about him? Did she have him lined up as next target?
    He had to get back to his trolley.
    He’d speak to the cops later.
    He hurried along the street until he reached his trolley. He opened the door and mounted the steps, closing the door securely behind him.
    Now to get out of here, he thought.
    Before that old basket case targeted him.
    Basket case. There was something different about his basket case. It was full. Full of rolled up dollar bills sticking up like tombstones in a graveyard.
    The old bat had left him a tip after all.
    He remembered her words.
    “It’s surprising where money comes from!————————— After the job.”
    Hell, she’d hit Dan, cleaned out his basket and given it to him!
    But why?
    Had she felt sorry for him? Like he had for her? Or was she planning on doing the same to him she’d done to Dan?
    Hell, driving a trolley tour was getting way too dangerous. Maybe retiral wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It wasn’t what he’d planned perhaps but he was confident the cops would catch that old biddy. Who’d have thought she was the hit-man? A woman? He’d never have suspected it would be a woman.
    When he hired a hit-man.
    He remembered the grubby office in Soho, London, and the seedy guy who’d assured him he had the perfect person for the job. Perfect person? Hell, the old woman was a basket case. A British basket-case. Past her sell-by-date. What kind of professional was that?
    I guess, I just got what I paid for, thought Ed. Then he smiled. After all she’d cost him nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but forged bills. The forged bills he’d used to pay for the job. And she’d done the job, hadn’t she? And maybe the old woman being a basket case would be an advantage. If they caught her and she tried to implicate him. All it needed was a phone call and a tip-off to the cops. And, well, who was going to believe a basket case like her? As for the money in the basket. That hadn’t been part of the plan. But it would come in handy. Maybe the old bat appreciated a job well done.
    The door of the trolley opened.
    The police officer’s eyes scanned the money basket.
    “Looks like you had a busy day!”
    “The rewards of a job well done,” said Ed.
    “An open display of money like that. It could be dangerous you know. A target for thieves.”
    Ed waited for him to mention Dan and what had happened. He felt the sweat gather between his neck and his collar. Had the cop seen him previously?
    Did the cop think he’d shot Dan and pocketed his takings?
    No, there was no way he could prove that. It was a woman who had shot Dan. Everyone knew that. But Ed felt an uncomfortable anxiety as the cop pulled a dollar bill from his basket.
    Why was the cop here? Why wasn’t he out chasing the hit?
    “We got a tip-off,” he said. “A woman.”
    He held the dollar bill up to the light.
    Even from where he was Ed recognised the forged note.
    That basket case wasn’t such a basket case after all. It wasn’t Dan’s takings that filled his basket. It was the forged notes he’d paid with. The forged notes he’d paid with to have Dan killed.
    The old basket-case had left him a tip after all.
    “Maybe you should have hired a hit-man,” said the cop.



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