“You’re not a cabbie,” Hickson said, “not an authentic-one-hundred- percent-genuine-made-in-the-USA-guaranteed-washable-Yellow Peril cabbie until . . . You listening, gook face? . . . until you’ve killed your man.”
His voice cut through static like a shark fin through water. As Ngo Quang careened up H Street toward New York Avenue, his hand left the steering wheel just long enough to turn the knob a delicate notch to the right. Hickson, though, was one thought ahead of him, and he only talked louder to make up the difference.
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