The Driver

He knew he was going to regret this.

“On one condition: no drugs.”

“Sure thing. No drugs.”

“You’re not carrying anything?”

“No, man. Nothing, I swear.”

“No cocaine. No pills. No weed.”

“I swear it, on my daughter’s life, I haven’t got a thing. I’m already on probation. I got to pee in a cup twice a week, man. If I get caught with anything in my system, they take her away from me just like that. People say a lot of things about me, John, but one thing they don’t say is that I’m stupid. It’s not worth the risk.”

He watched her answer very carefully. She was emphatic and convincing and he was as satisfied as he could be that she was telling the truth.

“This is against my better judgment,” he said, “but, alright.”

“Thanks, John. You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”

He was about to answer when her cellphone buzzed. She fumbled for it in her bag and put it to her ear. Her tone became deferential and compliant. He didn’t catch any names but it was obviously about where they were headed next. The conversation was short. She put the phone back into her bag.

“You know Belvedere?”

“Don’t get up there very often.”

“Full of rich folks.”

“I know that. That’s where we’re headed?”

“Please.”

“You got an address?”

She gave it to him and he entered it into the sat nav slotted into a holder that was suction-cupped to the windshield. The little unit calculated and displayed the best route.

“The 101 up to the bridge,” he said, reading off the screen. “It’s going to take forty minutes. That alright?”

“Perfect.”

“You going to tell me what’s out there?”

“Like I say, rich folks throwing a mad party. That’s where it’s at.”

2

Madison was talkative as they drove north through Sunset, Richmond and Presidio, hanging a left at Crissy Field and joining the 101 as it became the Golden Gate Bridge. She explained how the business worked as they drove north. She met her driver at a prearranged spot every night. She said he was called Aaron and that he was twitchy but, generally, a stand-up kind of guy. He had let her down badly tonight. They were supposed to have met at eight at Nob Hill but he hadn’t showed and, when she finally got through to him on his cell he said that he was unwell and that he wouldn’t be able to come out. There was a number for a taxi firm on the back of the bench she had been sitting on. She called it. It was one of the firms that sent jobs Milton’s way. The dispatcher had called him with her details and he had taken the job.

She wasn’t shy about her work. She explained how she got jobs through an agency with the rest coming from online ads she posted on Craigslist. The agency gigs were the easiest: they made the booking and all she had to do was just show up, do whatever it was that needed to be done, collect the cash and then go. The money was split three ways: the driver got twenty percent and the rest was split equally between the agency and the girl. Milton asked how much she made and she was a little evasive, saying that she did okay but skimping on the detail. There was a moment’s silence as he thought of the flippant way that she had given him the hundred. He concluded that she was probably earning rather a lot and then he chastised himself for his credulity. The story about the struggle to find the rent suddenly seemed a little less likely. He wondered whether there even was a little girl. Probably not. He chuckled a little as he realised that he had been well and truly suckered.

The Bridge was lit up rusty gold as they passed across it, the tops of the tall struts lost in the darkness and the sterling-grey fog.

He heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened. He looked into the mirror and saw her taking a black dress from the garment bag.

“I need to get changed,” she said. “No peeking, John, alright?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t be a pervert.”

He concentrated on the gentle curve as the bridge stretched out across the Bay but he couldn’t resist a quick glance up at the mirror. She had removed her jumper and now she was struggling to slip out of her jeans. She looked up into the mirror and Milton immediately cast his eyes back down onto the road ahead; she said nothing but when he flicked his eyes back up again there was a playful smile on her lips.

They crossed over into Sausalito and then Marin City.

“Done,” she said. “You can look now.”

He did. Milton knew very little about women’s clothes but the simple black cocktail dress she was wearing had obviously been purchased in an expensive boutique. It was sleeveless, with a plain design and a deep collar that exposed her décolletage.

“You look very pretty,” he said, a little uncomfortably.

“Thank you, John.”

It was coming up to ten when Milton took the ramp off the interstate at Strawberry and negotiated the traffic circle around the tall brick spire that marked the turning onto Tiburon Boulevard. It was a long, narrow stretch of road that cut north to south right along the coast. White picket fences marked the boundaries of vast paddocks where million-dollar horses grazed. The lights from big houses that commanded impressive estates glowed from the crowns of the darkened headland to the left. They reached Belvedere proper and turned up into the hills. The fog was dense here and as they drove on the vegetation closed in on both sides, the beams of the headlights playing off the trunks and briefly lighting the deep darkness within. Milton could only see fifty feet ahead of them. The flora grew a little wilder and less tended. To the left and right were thickets of bayberry and heather, a thick jumble of branches that tumbled right up to the margins of the road. There was poison ivy, as tall as two men and thick as the branches of a tree. There was shining sumac and Virginia creeper and salt hay and bramble. Light reflected sharp and quick in the eyes of deer and rabbits. The road was separate from the houses that sat at the end of their driveways and, that night, the darkness and the fog enveloping the car like a bubble, Milton knew that they were alone.

“You know where we’re going?” he asked.

“Turn onto West Shore Road. There’s a private road at the end.”

He looked into the mirror. Madison had switched on the courtesy light and was applying fresh lipstick with the aid of a small mirror. She certainly was pretty, with nice skin and delicate bones and eyes that glittered when she smiled, which was often. She was young: Milton would have guessed that she was in her early twenties. She was small, too, couldn’t have been more than five-three and a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked vulnerable.

The whole thing didn’t sit right with him.

“So,” he said. “You’ve been here before?”

“A few times.”

“What’s it like?”

“Alright.”

“What kind of people?”

“I told you — rich ones.”

“Anyone else you know going to be there?”

“Couple of the guys,” she said. Was she a little wistful when she said it?

“Who are they?”

She looked into the mirror, into his eyes. “No-one you’d know,” she said, and then he knew that she was lying.

He thought she looked a little anxious. They drove on in silence for another half a mile. He had been in the area a couple of times before. It was a beautiful location, remote and untroubled by too many visitors, full of wildlife and invigorating air. He had hiked all the way down from Paradise Beach to Tiburon Uplands and then turned and walked back again. Five miles, all told, a fresh autumnal afternoon spent tracking fresh prints into the long grass and then following them back again in the opposite direction. He hadn’t seen another soul.

He looked in the mirror again.

“You mind me asking — how long have you been doing this?”