“Just wait. I shouldn’t be long.” “With the meter? You’d be better off with an all-day rate.” A higher fare. “All right,” Leon said, not wanting to argue, someone with money in his pockets. He looked down the street. No cars idling. Unless the taxi itself were the tail, now tracking his every movement. But it had been a random pickup, hadn’t it? What it felt like, always looking over your shoulder. There were health quarantine signs posted, but no barriers. The Victorei, listing slightly, was eerily quiet, as if everyone on board really was sick or some ghost ship had drifted into the Golden Horn. There were patches of rust on the hull and makeshift clotheslines strung up across the top deck, laundry flapping like ragged sails. “It’s not permitted.” A harbor policeman, coming from behind. “Passengers are not permitted—” “I’m not a passenger,” Leon said, flashing the front of Tommy’s passport. “Captain’s expecting me.” The magic of an American passport.
