“Smitty, I need a ride. Calling in a favor. Get here as soon as you can.”
Azog hung up the handset and checked the coin return.
A moment later, a black-and-yellow checkered Packard squealed to halt at the curb.
“Sweet mercy, I’ll never get used to that!” cried O’Reilly as he boarded the cab.
“Where to, Mack?” asked the driver. He seemed an ordinary enough human being: clean-shaven, curly dark hair, perhaps thirty years old, and wore a fashionable dark suit and white hat. He turned back and flashed Azog a Cheshire Cat grin.
“North, to Lovecraft’s kiosk. And we can’t run into the Law, or any of Boots’ gang on the way.”
“OK,” said the driver, turning forward and pulling the car away from the curb. “But in that case, you wanna stay away from Lovecraft. Word is that Trask has taken an interest in him. Either way, this ride counts as a favor.”
Azog nodded and handed over not cash but his “mark,” a scrap of paper with his signature, useful as currency in the cash-strapped Depression economy. He settled into his seat and tried not to feel ridiculous in his bare shirtsleeves and suspenders.