The 7 Secrets of Mr. Magpie Ch. 03

Part Three - A Girl

Remember how I was telling you that I had gotten out from underneath the oppressive thumb of Uber and their shitty business practices? Remember how proud I was that I gotten away from the dumpster fire they kept foisting onto those of us desperate enough to drive for them?

"You looking for Sheila?" a gorgeous blonde in a tiny black dress asked me, her date holding the door open for her.

"I am if you're looking for Raf," I told her. "Hop on in."

Yeah, well, sometimes desperation gets the better of us. The water heater at the house had crapped out and I found myself suddenly very desperately needing a few grand to cover the check I'd just written for its replacement. Oh, I had the money, sure, but it was going to tap into most of my fallback money, and I still needed to pay for minor quibbles like, y'know, food. So I decided to do a weekend ferrying drunks around, hoping like hell I'd catch a few majorly long drives to make up for the insane amount of money Uber was taking from the fare, not to mention the stupid price of gas.

It was the fall of 2015, and the presidential primaries were looming close. At this point, I figured I still had another month or so before the third thing from Mrs. Choi popped up in my life, but this was the one that made me realize how the system was built.

Between the first and second secrets had been seven months, but between the second and third, there was only a six month gap. After the events I'm going to relay to you, I'd figured out that the fourth secret would come five months later, the fifth secret four months after that, the sixth secret three months after that and the seventh and final secret around two months from then. That meant I was going to be through Mrs. Choi's presents within 27 months total, or two and a quarter years.

But, of course, I didn't know that when I went out driving that night for Uber. I assumed there was still a month before shit would get crazy. Maybe that's why it all caught me so off-guard.

Sheila, the blonde who slipped into the back of my car, was heartbreakingly gorgeous. 5'11" (and that wasn't including the four inch heels she was wearing), just a little bit tan, with Midwestern blonde hair, dressed in a daring little black dress that had one of the most daring cleavage dip lines I'd ever seen, plunging down almost to her navel, offering more than generous eyefuls of firm, youthful tits straining against the black fabric that was clinging to her flesh. She also had ridiculously long legs, almost on display up to her hips, the center of the black dress hanging low, but the sides having slits in them that nearly reached her waistline, offering a virtual smorgasbord of exposed tanned and muscular flesh. Her lips were painted a lustrous hue of red more brilliant than the stop lights I'd spent most of the night staring at. Her winter blue eyes were ringed with smoky makeup that gave her almost a femme fatale feel, although the smile she was offering me was definitely pure black widow vibes all the way, and you know what? I wouldn't have minded just one bit being her prey, if that was what it took to get her to show me just a little bit of affection. She had to be an actress or a model or just someone who traded on those looks for a living, because I was certain I was far from the first man whose heart had been trampled on simply by seeing this magnificent creature.

The guy who got in next to her I immediately wanted to beat the shit out of.

"C'mon, buddy, let's get this show on the road," he said, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Seatbelts," I told him, tapping two fingers to my collarbone, as if to reaffirm that I wasn't driving anywhere until he had a seat belt on, as the blonde dutifully pulled hers on, clicking it in place.

"Man, fuck that," he growled in a drunken slur at me. "I ain't putting on no fucking seat belt."

"Put it on, Roger," Sheila said to him, her voice full of unspoken threats that carried the weight of a thousand fists, and just like that, he was doing his best to pull the seat belt to click it in place. "Two stops okay?"

"It's your nickel, lady," I told her. "As long as the meter's running, she goes where you tell her to, long as it's not down to Los Angeles or anything."

"Nothing that far," she said with a smile, as Roger shifted and sort of slumped back into the corner of space between my seat and my rear passenger door. "Up to Fairfield then down to San Ramon."

We were in downtown Oakland currently, so while it was a bit of a drive, longer drives were generally better and considering this was during surge pricing, I was happy as hell to make that kind of a haul of this lady's wallet. "Sure, I can do that. It's probably faster, though, if I do San Ramon first then Fairfield."

"It's fine. I prefer sticking to the order I've chosen, if you don't mind," she said with a soft smile, placing one of her hands on my shoulder. At that point, she could've told me to drive the car off the Bay Bridge and I probably would've done it. Her touch was so kind and gentle. I was starting to wonder if the lady herself was made of the kind of magic Mrs. Choi had been throwing around. "How's your night been so far, Raf?"

"A bit of here, there and everywhere," I told her, "but a handful of fun stories. I started the evening by taking five guys over to the City for a bachelor party, but man, had they picked the diciest strip club in SF to go to, so on the way over, I was able to talk them into changing to a better place, so they'll have a nicer evening, even if it costs them a little more."

"That was kind of you," she said to me, that warm charm lingering on her face. "Where did you end up sending them?"

"Centerfolds," I told her. "The rates are a little bit higher but the girls have always seemed friendlier, nowhere near as pushy, and they know how to handle first timers better than most of the other strip clubs around there."

"Wise man," she said. Sheila glanced over and scowled at Roger. "If you throw up in this car, I will make your life a living hell. If you think you need him to, ask the driver to pull over."

Roger nodded, his eyes clearly out of focus. "I'm good. Imma be good," he mumbled, telling me that he wasn't going to be good at all. I made it a point to stay over in the slower lane, so in case I needed to haul ass to pull into the emergency blowout area.

"What else have you had walk through your doorway tonight, Raf?" she asked, as I was happy to have the attention turned back on me and away from Drunky McDrunkerson.

"Couple of college girls going out on their weekly bender. Some kids who needed a lift home from Homecoming. And a stoned guy who just needed a lift to and from the 7-11, but ended up buying like half the damn shop. He ended up giving me an entire bag full of 3 Musketeers. You want one? I'm not kidding, I've got like twenty-something of them."

She laughed, and it was the greatest melody I'd ever heard. "No thank you, but at least he brought you some to share, I guess? He get you a drink as well?"

I nodded. "Bought me four Orange Vanilla Cokes, but I only drank one. The other three are in the trunk right now. I'll have'em later."

"Pull over," Roger said suddenly, and I immediately slowed and brought the vehicle off the road and onto the edge of the concrete. The vehicle hadn't even reached a full stop when he pushed the door open, turned his head and started puking out the side of the car. I'd need to stop and check the door itself and door frame, but it looked like he got almost all of it out of the vehicle, so that was something. While he was doing this, Sheila hopped out of the backseat, walked around the car and moved to get in the front passenger's seat, making sure I got a damn good look at as much of that exposed cleavage as she could give me when she did. After four or five heaves, Roger wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his expensive silk shirt and then pulled the door shut again. "Thanks. Go."

I brought the vehicle slowly back up to speed, having to watch carefully that no vehicles were in the slow lane to accidentally slam into the back of us. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing most people were on the lookout for on a Friday night after the bars closed, so I had to be on my toes and make sure nothing went sideways. "This what you do full time?" she asked me.

"Nah," I told her. "I'm a 3D modeler and animator for videogames, when there's work to be had, but the last several years, the market's been going through something of a rough patch if you're not already established at a studio. I do this as a side gig to pick up a little money here and there, although it's mostly just short-term gain at a long-term loss."

"If that's true, then why do it?" she said, turning a little bit, folding one of her legs up so I could see pale flesh almost all the way up to her crotch, the flap of dress covering just the smallest amount of her thighs, leaving most of the beautiful canvas of skin exposed to my casually glancing eyes.

"I'm not exactly at a place where I can shrug off sudden unexpected misfortunes in my life, and when my boiler broke down, I had to find some way to cover the fucking thing. That means picking up a handful of weekends doing this and trying not to pay too much attention to how much the mileage is racing up on the car."

"I think we have all gone through phases like that in our lives, Raf," she said with a smile, one of her fingers reaching out to draw along my forearm resting on the center console. "Things where we feel like we don't have control over anything or anyone. But you'll get through it, like we all do. And you will be stronger for it. I felt that way until I got out from under my father's thumb."

"So what do you do for a living, Sheila, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Why would I mind?" she replied, licking her lips just a little bit. "I'm... an event planner, of sorts, as well as a kind of talent scout. I organize... very specialized parties... for very wealthy clients who are willing to pay quite a sizable amount for, shall we say, unique experiences."

"Normally I'd complain about how vague you're being, but that much money, I imagine people are also paying for their discretion," I answered with a laugh, which she joined in with.

"That they are, Raf. That they are." Up close, I could see she had a small mole of skin between her eyebrows, but somehow the minor blemish just made her more beautiful, as if it was an establishing piece to assure the viewer that this was, in fact, a real woman, and not someone who'd just walked out of their dreams. "But I have a reputation of being able to deliver an incredibly specific service, given enough time and patience. And that's made me wealthy enough that I don't need to be concerned with money too much." Behind us, a cop lit up his flashers and pulled in behind me. "Are we doing something illegal?"

"No, but I'm taking it a bit slow because of your friend in the back. I'm sure it'll just be a minute," I said, bringing the car back onto the shoulder as the police car pulled in behind us. I had my Uber tags displayed, but I'd been told by a cop not too long ago that apparently drunks were trying to slap on Lyft or Uber stickers onto their windshield while they were drunk, thinking it would provide some level of protection.

The spotlight was shining into my side mirror, keeping me engulfed in the light as a pair of officers got out of the car, one moving on the passenger's side, the other moving along the driver's side towards me, as I rolled the window down.

"How's it going tonight?" the cop said to me, shining a flashlight into the car, checking out Roger's semi-unconscious form before turning the light onto Sheila then me.

"Not too bad, officer," I said to him, trying to be as warm and friendly as possible. "Was keeping the speed a little low in case I had to pull over again for the guy in the back to puke some more. That why you pulled me over?"

"That and you've got a taillight out," he said to me. "License, registration, proof of insurance?"

I sighed and nodded. "Reg and insurance is in the glove box. Can I open it?"

"Slowly," the cop responded. I'd been through all of this with one of my white friends once, and he'd just immediately gone for his registration, but the first time I tried that, I heard the cop's hand resting on his sidearm, like I was going to draw down on him or some stupid shit like that. The joys of being anything other than white in this country. I took the registration and proof of insurance out of the glove box, and then fished out my driver's license, as the cop took all three from me, his partner still keeping a light on Roger in the back seat. "Stay here. I'll be right back." He headed back to his car, leaving me and Sheila sitting basically alone, with the cop's partner on overwatch.

"Why'd you ask if you can open the glove box?" she said to me.

"Because while being brown isn't as bad as being black in this country, it's still not as easy as being white," I told her with a sigh. "Did you see the taillight out when you walked up on the car?"

"No, but I wasn't paying much attention to it."

"Shit. Okay, yeah. Sorry about the hold up."

"No no," she said, reaching over to squeeze one of my hands. "For all the shit the night's given you thusfar, you're being remarkably calm about it."

"No sense in losing my damn head over it," I told her as I saw the cop starting to walk back.

"Alright son," he said, despite the fact that I was probably slightly older than he was, as he handed me my paperwork along with a ticket, all of which I put into the glove box. "I've written you up a fix-it ticket, so as long as you get it repaired and show it to an officer in the next 30 days, there's no fine associated with it. Thanks for your service in getting drunks home. We truly appreciate it. Have a good night."

"Fuck you PIG!" Roger drunkenly shouted from the back seat, as I reflexively winced.

"I'm gonna let that slide, sir, but if you repeat that kind of behavior, I'm going to take you downtown for drunk and disorderly," the officer said to Roger, who just stuck his tongue out in response. "I dunno how you do it, brother, but you have the patience of a saint." The cop patted me on the shoulder then gestured for his partner to head back to the car.

I slowly brought the car back onto the highway and brought it back up to speed, because I could hear Roger fidgeting in the back seat again. The fact that he'd just verbally assaulted a cop didn't bode well for the rest of my night, I figured. It was closer to three than two in the morning now, and I still had plenty of driving to do.

Most of the rest of the drive up to Fairfield was pretty quiet, with Sheila preferring to keep quiet and just look out the window, although she did her best to make sure her thighs were always front and center for my eyeline if I ever looked over in her direction.

The address she'd given me was one of a stripe of fifty or so nearly identical McMansions, each of which ran probably a couple mil, but with no real soul or personality to them. There was a bright red Jaguar out in front of this one with custom vanity plates that read "RGRSRYD" which made me hate this prick even more.

"Okay Roger, you're home now," Sheila said. "Time for you to get out of the car and head into your home." She reached behind her seat to grab his leg and shake him from his slumber, forcing him to wake up suddenly. "You're home, Roger. Up and at'em."

He sat upright suddenly, and took several seconds to figure out how to unlatch the seat belt, the dumb ass. Once he got that done, he was able to get himself out of the car easily, although closing the door behind him took notably longer. I was looking forward to pulling the car back when I realized he was trying to open the front passenger's door. "C'mon Sheila, gethafuck outta tha car," he shouted.

"I don't think so, Roger," she said to him through the glass of the window. "Now go into your house and go to bed."

With a speed that made even me a little nervous, there was suddenly a switchblade in his hand, snapped out and at the ready, as he tapped the point of it against the glass. "Opena fuckin' car, you fuckin' whore," he snarled. "After how much I fuckin' paid for dinner tonight, you fuckin' owe me... now get outta fuckin' car or Imma cut you."

I could hear Sheila's breathing get quick and shallow, and by this point, I'd fucking had it. This guy had been making my night a living hell for nearly an hour now, and while I'd like to think of myself as a patient man, even my patience has limits. I put the car into park, killed the engine, reached into the door's little well pocket and grabbed my ballistic baton.

"You don't have-"

"I got this," I said to Sheila, as I opened my door, stepped out of the car and snapped my ballistic baton into the extended position. "Shit, at this point it'll be therapeutic..."

For those of unfamiliar with a ballistic baton, it's a collapsible metal billy club used by security guards and bouncers all over the place. I think you're supposed to have a license for them in California, but fuck if I was gonna let that stop me. It makes a very satisfying SHUNK sound when you extend it, and usually that's enough to give somebody second thoughts about getting in my way. Not Roger, though, who seemed confident that even in his inebriated state he'd be able to do more damage to me than to himself with that switchblade.

"C'mon you fuckin' towelhead," he spat at me. "Come get your medi-"

Funny thing about drunks - they tend to talk a lot of trash, and never ever expect someone to hit them while they're doing it, which is why I cracked him across the face with the end of the baton, watching him whip around, clinging onto his switchblade, but nearly falling onto the ground. He didn't seem to want to go down lightly, though, and regained his wits, the smack across the head probably having sobered him up a bit, adrenaline coursing through his veins now.

"Takin' cheap shots, huh? Yeah, about what I expec-"

I mean, fool him once, shame on me, fool him twice, shame on him. If the moron wanted to keep monologuing me, I was going to beat the shit out of him for free while he was doing it. This time I followed up the blow to the head with a smack into his forearm, hitting him strong enough to make him drop the switchblade.

At that point, I could do whatever I wanted to, so I gave him a couple more strikes across the ribs, making the guy double over in pain, as he started to vomit onto his own sidewalk. I moved over to where he'd dropped the switchblade and kicked it as far away as I could before moving back over to Roger, who was groaning and whimpering.

"Next time you decide you want to get drunk and be an asshole, Roger," I said, looming over him. "Do everybody a favor and stay the fuck at home." I crouched down so I could collapse the baton back into its smaller form by hitting the narrow tip of it directly down onto the concrete. Then I stood up again, got back into the driver's seat of my car, started the engine up and pulled the vehicle containing myself and Sheila away.

"You... you truly didn't have to do that, Raf," she said to me after a couple of minutes of us driving, like the shock of it all had been too much for her to say anything up front. "He could've seriously hurt you."

"Drunk like that's more likely to hurt himself with a knife than he is hurt anybody else, but he still might've put his hand through the window, and then we've got ourselves a much bigger problem," I told her. "Besides, you called for the car, and he's too drunk to remember the plate on the car, so the minute he got out of the vehicle, he officially became somebody else's problem."