When Johnny walked up, Marty Gold, the cabby, was leaning against his left front fender, performing a delicate operation on a molar with the frayed end of a toothpick. He was thin and weazened, and wore a shiny chauffeur’s hat so far back on his head that it gave little or no protection to his bald, freckled pate.
“Sorry, chief. I’m taken,” he told Liddell, nodding toward the clicking meter. “Waiting for my fare.”
“You’re Marty Gold, aren’t you?” Liddell asked. “I’m your fare. Name’s Liddell.”
The hackie nodded, leaned back, looked at the meter, smiled benignly. “Hello, partner.”
“Let’s take a ride,” Liddell suggested.
Marty Gold took a last look at the frayed toothpick, flipped it to the sidewalk. “It’s your money if you want to go crazy with it.” He wrestled with the battered door o
