The guy who rented the stretch limousine for this particular night lived in an apartment. There were no numbers on the doors in the building. Someone’s oversight, probably. Not every detail in life can be looked after. Carl had, from the limo, called the phone number on the run sheet and asked the client what the plan was for the evening. Donny McCracken, who was the guy, said that they, this girl and him, just wanted to drive around a bit, visit some friends maybe. He said he did this a couple times a month. Carl thought driving around in a limo, at sixty bucks an hour, was a stupid way to spend money. He didn’t say this to McCracken.

Standing in front of what he supposed was the door to McCracken’s apartment, Carl smelled marijuana. Unmistakable. Carl knew some things about drugs, and not just marijuana. That’s not this story, though. That would be more of an historical tale.

The dope was a clue, and a good one. Carl knocked on the door, twice, loudly, and announced the name of the limo company so there would be no misunderstanding about what kind of uniform was being worn out there in the hall. A tuxedo was all.
The apartment was darkened by small vertical strips of metal attached to a frame surrounding the windows. Not much light squeaked in, but there was enough.

The living room looked as if it had seen a lot of living. There were things that hadn’t been put away, more than a few. Plates without mates. A green plexiglass bong, standing three feet tall. Four empty wine bottles, arranged on a bookshelf that had never held books. The labels on the bottles spoke of no special pedigree.

There were girls sitting on the floor, and they appeared to be young and easily influenced. They sported expectant looks, as if they wanted to be influenced or, otherwise, as if they wanted someone call the police, or their mothers. Stuck to the top of the coffee table were plastic glasses containing the dried beards that marked the decline of beer foam. In places like this it seemed important that everybody had a lock on their bedroom door. In the kitchen, nothing much got cooked.

McCracken shook Carl’s hand. Before his pupils contracted to match the light, Carl kicked over a glass of something. He thought about how such a thing might affect his tip, but McCracken didn’t mind at all.

“Fuck it,” he said. “Happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.” He was in a celebratory mood. This girl was going riding in a limousine with him

“We usually like to get the business taken care of first thing,” Carl said. He slid his clipboard onto the top of the television. There was nothing on. “That way, you can just have fun. You don’t have to worry about keeping enough money to pay for the ride.” In this, limousine drivers are much like prostitutes.

“Sure,” McCracken said.

“Six hours at sixty per?” Carl said.

“Sounds good, bro'. For starters. We’ll see what happens,” McCracken said. He weaseled an envelope out of his vest, and counted the money over to Carl. Some of the bills were sharply creased, not yet relaxed from being folded into unusual shapes.
McCracken said, “There’s more where that came from,” as if he were the sole possessor of that information.

“We’ll take care of the tip at the end of the night, if that’s what you’d like to do,” Carl said. “The company suggests twenty percent if you’re happy with the service.” Twenty percent of three-hundred and sixty dollars is seventy-two dollars. Carl had learned the tips tend to be better if they’re collected after the clients have had their fun. The trick is to keep an eye on their money clips so they don’t spend it all before the night is through.