New York by Serhii Bezverhov

It was an ordinary evening.

Friday. Around eight in the evening. The city was bursting with noise, people anticipating the weekend: loud music, the sounds of bars, clubs. The streets were filled with the smell of tobacco and waste. Everything in New York is so doubtful. At least, that was Gareth's motto.

Gareth had never been a bright and ambitious person. An ordinary middle-aged man, with the lack of taste in clothes inherent in most men of his age, lack of grooming, and light stubble. He had always liked working as a taxi driver in New York. His favourite hobby was giving rides to silent or mysterious customers, wondering what kind of life they had, what they were hiding, and who they really were. Most people do not understand him, so Gareth does not enjoy popularity among women. However, it was not very important to him. He had enough of his ego to be happy because all the money and the fruits of his labour were concentrated only on him.

Returning to the events of Friday, Gareth arrived at the bank for the call:

- Where to? - said Gareth eagerly.

- Drive.

-  Well...As you wish. Long night?

- ...Yeah. - said the young man.

- Are you okay back there?

- I’m...I'm fine.

- You don't sound convincingly. You’re gripping that bag like your life depends on it. Spill the tea. The ride is going to take a while.

- Stop! Please. Just drive. - the man seemed to be on the edge of his nerves.

- Alright then. No need to get tense.

There was silence for a few minutes. Gareth looked at the young man again, waiting for the green light. The guy had a good appearance: thick, dark, slightly curly hair. The skin was pale, like marble. Facial features were quite antique, it would be better to say. A black leather jacket, a black shirt made of quite high-quality, perhaps expensive material. The pants were quite wide and black. On his arm was a small tattoo in the form of the Sun. Gareth decided to break the silence: 

- Do you ever think about how strange it is? Two strangers, in a car, in the middle of the night?

- Not really.

- Well, I do. You never really know who’s sitting behind you. Could be anyone. A banker. A thief. A killer. Or maybe… someone running from something.

The man looked in the mirror curiously from the back seat: Why would you say that?

- Because the bank you just robbed is all over the radio.

- You knew? Then why are you still driving?

- Because, pal, I don’t work along with the cops. And I was planning to rob that bank myself.