"Tough, hey?" the cabbie said. His glowing nameplate read David Peters Wells. He turned around, showing a face that had little in common with the official license photo, under his name. He was swarthy and short, with large yellowing teeth and tiny eyes. "Where to, Mac?" he said.
Charley licked his lips. "I really don't know," he said.
The cabbie blinked. "What?"
"I'm going to need some help," Charley said. "I want to find a Dr. Schinsake, but I don't know where he is. If you can drive me to a drugstore, where we can look him up in a phone book—"
"Dr. Schinsake?" the driver said. "That's the guy who grows things? I mean, arms and legs? Like that?"
"That's right," Charley said.
"O.K., buddy," the driver said. "Just hang on." The cab started with a cough and a roar, and shot out of the terminal like a bazooka shell. Over the noise of travel, the cabbie said: "Going to get yourself fixed up? No offense, Mac."
"No offense," Charley said. "I'm just going to talk to him."
"Oh," the cabbie said. "Sure." There was silence for a second. Then the cabbie turned around. The machine shot ahead, down a wide avenue filled with cars. Charley took a deep breath and forgot to let it go. "You know," the cabbie said, "I seen something funny the other day."
"Really?" Charley said, through clenched teeth.