cab ride

        Budding lantana and datura sheltered the coquina drive that took the big blue sedan to the wrought iron gate. Unlatched as a custom. Daddy Dock walked up the narrow footpath flanked by low hedges of podocarpus. He pressed the buzzer. It was the southside of midnight, yet he wore mirrorshades.
        Pirate Jenny emerged and took hold of his arm. He nodded and said, "Bon soir, mon cher."
        He ushered her into the taxi. Eerily courteous. She did not mind.
        She instructed, "Hospital, please."
        The island facility was a little more than an out-patient clinic. It had an ER and one surgery bay.


                                                                                      *


        The taxi departed with a throaty rumble.
        Kat watched it go, then returned to the den and said, "She left with that Zombie Master."
        Speedboat squinted through kif smoke. "Daddy Doc never sleeps."
        "You think it's true about his magical powers?" Kit asked the women.
       

                                                                                       *

        Another passenger shared the backseat. "I hope you don't mind," he said, tipping the brim of a straw planter's hat.
        "Excuse me," she blushed. "I'm actually hopping your taxi."
        "Henri Bertrand, pleasure to meet you."
        "Jenny Rhys-Jones."
        The broad hat was worn with a rakish slant. It covered oily black hair that curled over nape and collar. An untied cravat and an unbuttoned shirt exposed a chest flat as a plank and carpeted with more curls, these flecked with gray. Other than his bedroom eyes the most astonishing  thing about the man's face was his goatee. A thick bush had been braided into a black rope eight inches long and lashed with a silver fob shaped like a human skull.