“What’s
your name?” The cabbie’s voice was a soft growl in the back of his throat.
“Eduardo
Mancini.”
“Spanish?”
“Excuse
me?”
The
cabbie frowned. “You’re Spanish?”
What? “No.”
“Yet
you have a Spanish name.”
Eduardo
tried bluster. “I hardly see why it’s any business of yours what my name is.”
“I
will need it for the police,” the cabbie said, quite coolly.
Eduardo
gaped. “You’re calling the police?”
“You
owe me my fare. I cannot allow passengers to cheat me.”
“I’m
not cheating you! I mean, I know I’m a little short of funds right at this
exact moment, but I assure you I can find you fair recompense if you give me a
little time.” Eduardo wondered why, when he needed to blush to order for a
particular role, he always found it so bloody difficult. Right now, he felt as
hot as if he’d stepped into the Sahara. Lawrence of Arabia, anyone? He
must salt this ghastly experience away for future reference on the stage.