2

HOW OFTEN DOES Fisher’s phone ring in the next two hours? Later, when he counts, he’ll come up with four times: he’ll remember that it rang in the supermarket parking lot as he was helping a skinny old guy into the backseat and settling his groceries beside him; that it rang as he was nosing the cab through the fog downtown with a smug, overweight teenager in the back ferociously chewing gum until he let out a stiff laugh and caught Fisher’s eye in the mirror and said, “Bear Cabs—dude, how the hell did you come up with that? You should dress up in a bear suit. Wouldn’t that be crazy?”; that it rang again while he was on the expressway getting a lecture from a bland-faced, bristle-haired old woman about not wearing his seatbelt, and trying to tell her no cab driver does, it’s too risky, and that it rang again while he was trying to pull out from a stop sign into the thick of the five-thirty traffic by Fat Al’s Pizza.

All those times his phone rings, and he doesn’t pull it out and check his messages. There’s something about the cold air peeling in off the cab’s windows and the raw pain pulsing through his head that makes him think, Fuck you all, fucking leave me alone, because, really, who could be calling? Someone he gave his card to, someone wanting a ride when he hasn’t had any dead time all afternoon. Could be Sally wanting to talk, but that thing they had is over because who needs a girlfriend who’s got a husband she forgot to mention on the first few dates? Could be his step-mother wanting something—she always wants something—or Grisby saying let’s meet at the Klondike for a drink, when all Fisher wants is to go home and sit in front of the TV with his dog. Maybe it’s his daughter: but no, Bree’s off to Anchorage with her mom for a couple of days, or should be unless she’s fucked things up again. She has a way of doing that.

It’s close to six before the idea of all those missed calls needles him and he pulls over outside the Gas-N-Go. Over the radio comes Reggie’s scratchy voice telling him he’s got a fare wants a no-smoking cab over at the movie theater. Fisher tells Reggie he needs to look at a clock because his shift’s about over, but Reggie barks back that he’s not far away, is he? And hell, doesn’t he want the money?

Reggie’s always seething, like it’s the only way he knows how to be. Two new cab companies have started up and all he could think to do was paint that ridiculous smiling bear logo on all the Bear Cab vehicles. Who wants a beaten-up taxi with a smiling bear on the door when they can take a sleek white City Cab? Reggie calls them Shitty Cabs, but hell, even their drivers look sleek, not fat-butted men wearied by life, or hard-bitten women with hard-set mouths, or ex-cons who can’t do much except drive, and who’ve been known to take a fare to the airport then come back and rob their house. At least, that’s how it was before the cops wised up and now the cabbie’s the first person they suspect.

The movie theater’s only a few minutes away, and this far up Airport Road the fog’s cleared a little. Still, the streetlights have a grimy halo around them, and the blacktop a sleek crystalline look. The cab lurches over the lip of snow into the movie-theater parking lot with its dying-ship groan and Fisher pulls up close to the row of glass doors. Someone hurries out. A man in a green parka and a fur hat, with squarish glasses too big for his thin face, and a peering, mousy look about him. Grisby, like a freaking vision summoned up by the gnawing ache in Fisher’s head.

He stoops to look through the window and Fisher lowers the glass a little. He calls out, “It’s OK, it’s me. Get in.”

Grisby gets in beside Fisher and taps him on the knee. “Hey man, I called you, I dunno, a hundred times. Why didn’t you pick up?”

“Been busy,” he says. “Fuck, busy like you wouldn’t believe.”

“What’s the point in having a freaking phone if you don’t use it? I mean, that’s the whole idea, right? You have it with you so if someone needs you, they can call and there you’ll be. Like the freaking cavalry. Had to call Bear Cabs and ask for a no-smoking and hope it’d be you. Fuck it.”

“What happened to your car? You lose it again?”

Grisby pushes back his hat a little. The bulk of the fur makes his face look small and pale beneath it, as though he’s hiding. And maybe he is. He says, “No, I didn’t lose it. Shit, it won’t start.”

“You turned it off when it’s fifty-seven below and went to watch a movie?”

“Christ no—something wrong with the starter. Either that, or the spark plugs. Fuck, I dunno.” He sniffs and wipes away the moisture the cold’s left beaded on the stubble beneath his nose. His glasses have misted up from the sudden heat and he pulls them off and rubs the lenses with the fingers of his glove. “Just get me out of here.”

Fisher swings the cab round and the headlights slip over the exhaust blooming from parked cars. Just before the access road he slows. “Where to?”

“How about that place does the Hawaiian burgers?”

“That’s right here.” Fisher nods out the window at the bright lights of the restaurant just ahead on the corner. It’s always like this. There’s something not right with the way Grisby’s wired, like he’s permanently lost and always will be.

Grisby pushes his glasses back on and stares about him. He rubs his chin and his glove grates over his stubble. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and that means trouble. “Well shit,” he says, “someplace else then. Wherever.”

“C’mon, Grisby.”

“I’ve just spent the whole freaking afternoon watching dumb-ass movies. Give me a break.”

“Tessa mad at you again, is that it? You worried she’s going to come find you? Shit, who needs a girlfriend he’s scared of?”

“Shut it, Fisher. I just need a place to hole up for a day or two, that’s all.”

At first Fisher doesn’t say a word. Grisby’s going to leave the shower running and the water tank’ll run dry, or so well-and-fucking-truly lose the TV remote that they’ll never find it, or spill his beer on the sofa and not say a word until Fisher’s sat down in it, or forget to let the dog out while Fisher’s working and poor Pax’ll piss all over the carpet. That’s what he did over Thanksgiving when Tessa threw him out of her place, then came looking for him and tried to kick in the door. But what can you do? Grisby showed up with all the fixings for dinner—for the Thanksgiving dinner he was supposed to be sharing with Tessa—plus Vicodin in one pocket and Percocet in the other, and a bottle of bourbon to wash it all down. Man, oh man.

Fisher lets his breath out between his teeth then steers the cab onto the access road. “OK, but I don’t want Tessa coming round looking for you again. She’s a piece of work. And you still haven’t fixed the dent in my door.”

“Don’t be like that, man. Your trailer’s a piece of crap and you’re worrying about a dent in your door? Besides, who the hell helped you get the foundation in for your house? Who you going to call to help you unload lumber this summer? Hey?”

Fisher slows for a stop sign then glances over his shoulder as he changes lane. A gas station across the way, a small Mexican restaurant, a hair salon, and it might just as well be two in the morning for the whole strip looks deserted. He pulls up at the lights with the turn signal clicking away and his hands off the wheel. He picks up the radio and tells Reggie, “Nine. Fare to Safeway on Airport and Dawson. Then I’m coming in.”

Reggie’s voice crackles back at him, “Switch to channel two, Fisher.”

Fisher jabs the button, says, “What the hell?”

“Better not be one of your flaky friends you’re giving a ride to who’s gonna light up in the cab, Fisher, or puke on the seats, or sell painkillers to a real-life goddamn paying fare. You got that?”

On the palm of Fisher’s glove the handset looks small, a shrunken head with hard slits across its surface. He says, “What is it with you, Reggie? You wanted me to take this fare.” Then he jams the thing back into its holder.

Beside him Grisby’s tapping his glove against his knee and his knee’s jerking to a crazy beat that’s got nothing to do with the Eagles’ number coming through the radio. Then he bursts out with, “You’re like Captain freaking Kirk in this thing, cruising along nice and warm. But just look out the window—it’s some blasted alien planet, and you’re the hero, man, carrying me away.”

“Why’s she mad at you this time?” He glances at Grisby, and Grisby drops his smile.

“Nah,” he says, “we’re cool. I’ve got some guy says I owe him for the Vicodin he bought off me. Says it was Tylenol and now he wants his money back. Three hundred bucks.”

“That’s a lot for Tylenol.”

“Wasn’t Tylenol, man. I know the difference. He even has the freaking nerve to show me the bottle and tip out these freaking Tylenols like it’s proof or something, and he tells me he wants his three hundred bucks back. Can you believe it? He’s switched them out then he shows up at my place and ­threatens me with a crowbar. How the hell did he find out where I live?”

Fisher doesn’t even look at him. Christ, Grisby can do a deal with a guy and not recognize him ten minutes later. You’d think he wouldn’t be surprised by the bad luck that brings down on him, but he is. Fisher lets his eyes close for a moment, lets the gentle darkness behind his lids wash around him, but behind it all his head’s throbbing. He says, “My sinuses are acting up—what you got?”

Grisby’s head swivels toward him. “For real?” He sighs, then pulls off one glove and digs in his parka pocket. He holds up a small plastic bottle. “Give you these for what I paid for them—what d’you say? Thirty bucks a pop.”

“Vicodin?”

“Only the best, man.”

Fisher nods. “OK, OK.” Up ahead, the supermarket stands out bright against the night and he pulls into the parking lot, holds out his hand for the bottle. “You wait here until I’ve dropped off the cab, OK? Reggie sees you, he’s gonna freak.”

Grisby stares out the window. The moon’s half-full and hanging low in the sky, a world away from this frozen town. “No way, man.” He turns back to Fisher, the plastic bottle tight in his hand. “No way, I mean, what you want me to do? Go stare at fresh produce for an hour? Check out the low-fat low-sugar wheat-freaking-free organic breakfast cereals? And what if it slips your mind to come get me?”

Fisher leans on the wheel. “D’you get banned from there too?” He sighs, though Grisby doesn’t answer. “Fuck it.” He steps on the gas and steers the cab back toward the main road. “When we get down there, go warm up my car. Don’t come in, understand?”

“Whatever lights your wick, Captain, sure thing,” and he does a mock salute.