The sun was still trying to shine, but the contrast between eighty-degree steam heat and forty-degree fresh air was too marked for comfort. I stood under the red-striped canopy, buttoning up my top coat, while Joe looked towards Park Avenue in search of a cruising taxi. Waiting, we exchanged some traditional dialogue. ‘Saw you on TV last night, Mr Steele.’ ‘Did you? I hope you enjoyed the show.’ ‘That’s one we always watch. But my wife keeps asking, what’s he really like.’ As usual, I resisted the temptation to say, ‘Bastards don’t come any bigger,’ and answered: ‘Oh, he’s quite a character, once you get to know him.’ ‘That’s what we thought. I liked the bit when he mixed up the commercial.’ A taxi, answering Joe’s raised hand, drew up alongside. As I got in, Joe put on his cap, gave a windmill salute, and said: ‘Take it easy, now.’ The master-and-servant charade was over; the one that followed it, loosely labelled ‘All New York Cab Drivers are Characters,’ now took its place.
