The Natural Order of Things by Kevin P. Keating

not
free
.”
    De Vere opens the door and moves over so the woman can slide in beside him.
    The driver hisses. “Sir, I will not be a party to this kind of thing.”
    De Vere clicks his tongue. By now his response has become automatic, a maddeningly predictable exchange between master and servant. He passes the customary amount of money through the partition and watches the driver count the bills one at a time. It always surprises him how readily these men of conscience transform themselves into purveyors of pleasure, how willing they are to implicate themselves in his crimes and to share in his guilt.
    “Very well then,” says the driver. “But one day, sir, one day soon, when she can no longer serve her purpose, this woman will be discovered in an alley with her throat slashed. No questions will be asked. No investigation will be conducted. Among these people, life is a brief visitor. It’s just as well. More time on this earth would bring little in the way of happiness to such a creature.”
    As the cab rolls away from the curb, de Vere becomes aware of the driver watching him in the rearview mirror. He has gotten used to this, too. They always watch,these drivers; they are depraved, the whole damned world is depraved, and so he decides to give the man a show, the standard pornography. He unzips his pants, bunches the woman’s black hair in his fists and forces her into a syncopated rhythm. She stinks to high heaven, reeks of chemicals, lighter fluid, formaldehyde, an odor he can’t quite place. She probably hasn’t bathed in days. This in itself doesn’t bother him. In fact, there is something erotic about her filthiness. It makes his knees tremble. Besides, he always comes prepared to deal with unpleasant details. From his coat pocket he produces a bottle of eau de toilette and spritzes the back of her neck.
    She lifts her head. “The fuck you doin’?”
    “Shut up and keep going.”
    “Why you gotta talk that way?”
    “Finish the goddamn job.”
    The woman resumes bobbing up and down in de Vere’s lap, her movements so wild, so relentless, so crazed, that he is afraid she might tear into him with her chipped teeth. He groans, rocks his hips back and forth. Then he feels the taxi shudder violently and almost stall.
    He opens his eyes, knocks on the partition. “What the hell is it now? Why are you slowing down?”
    “I think they’re following us,” the driver tells him. “Yes, there is no doubt about it. They are definitely following us.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You see, this is what they do. Like hunters they lurk in the shadows and then trounce on their prey. Ruthless.”
    “Who?”
    “The police.”
    De Vere turns his head, sees a cruiser riding the back bumper. “Dammit, your taillight is out.”
    “Nonsense.”
    “I noticed it when I climbed inside this fucking tin can.”
    The driver scowls. “They obviously spotted you luring that slut into my cab. I cannot afford to go to jail again. Please, ask her to stop.”
    But de Vere can’t do that, not now, not even as the cruiser pursues them through the absurd serpentine streets, not even when the siren starts its terrible piercing wail, and the blue and white lights blind him. He digs his nails into the seat and lets out a rapturous cry: “Oh, God! Maybe this is my road to Damascus!”
    The driver hits the breaks and puts the cab in park. “Drunken fool, keep your mouth shut. Or I promise … things will not go well for you.”
    An officer approaches the cab, hitches his belt, but instead of interrogating the driver, he opens the back door, grabs the woman by the wrist and drags her over to the sidewalk. She wipes her chin with the back of her hand and pulls the hem of her skirt down so her panties don’t show.
    “Still turning tricks, eh, Tamar? Funny. Thought we told you we didn’t want to see you around here anymore. Didn’t we tell you that? You gonna answer me? I know you ain’t deaf, Tamar. Stupid yes, deaf