The yellow cars were public conveyences called Tack-Sees or Cabs or Hax. The tribes which drove them, the Mortcypedia told him, were two: Spix and Mockies. To make one stop, you held your hand up like a pupil in a classroom.
Roland did this, and after several Tack-Sees which were obviously empty save for their drivers had gone by him, he saw that these had signs which read Off-Duty. Since these were Great Letters, the gunslinger didn’t need Mort’s help. He waited, then put his hand up again. This time the Tack-See pulled over. The gunslinger got into the back seat. He smelled old smoke, old sweat, old perfume. It smelled like a coach in his own world.
“Where to, my friend?” the driver asked—Roland had no idea if he was of the Spix or Mockies tribe, and had no intention of asking. It might be impolite in this world.
“I’m not sure,” Roland said.
“This ain’t no encounter group, my friend. Time is money.”
Tell him to put his flag down, the Mortcypedia told him.
“Put your flag down,” Roland said.
“That ain’t rolling nothing but time,” the driver replied.
Tell him you’ll tip him five bux, the Mortcypedia advised.
“I’ll tip you five bucks,” Roland said.
“Let’s see it,” the cabbie replied. “Money talks, bullshit walks.”
Ask him if he wants his money or if he wants to go fuck himself, the Mortcypedia advised instantly.
“Do you want the money, or do you want to go fuck yourself?” Roland asked in a cold, dead voice.
The cabbie’s eyes glanced apprehensively into the rearview mirror for just a moment, and he said no more.
Roland consulted Jack Mort’s accumulated store of knowledge more fully this time. The cabbie glanced up again, quickly, during the fifteen seconds his fare spent simply sitting there with his head slightly lowered and his left hand spread across his brow, as if he had an Excedrin Headache. The cabbie had decided to tell the guy to get out or he’d yell for a cop when the fare looked up and said mildly, “I’d like you to take me to Seventh Avenue and Forty-Ninth street. For this trip I will pay you ten dollars over the fare on your taxi meter, no matter what your tribe.”
A weirdo, the driver （a WASP from Vermont trying to break into showbiz） thought, but maybe a rich weirdo. He dropped the cab into gear. “We’re there, buddy,” he said, and pulling into traffic he added mentally, And the sooner the better.
4
Improvise. That was the word.
The gunslinger saw the blue-and-white parked down the block when he got out, and read Police as Posse without checking Mort’s store of knowledge. Two gunslingers inside, drinking something—coffee, maybe—from white paper glasses. Gunslingers, yes—but they looked fat and lax.
He reached into Jack Mort’s wallet （except it was much too small to be a real wallet; a real wallet was almost as big as a purse and could carry all of a man’s things, if he wasn’t travelling too heavy） and gave the driver a bill with the number 20 on it. The cabbie drove away fast. It was easily the biggest tip he’d make that day, but the guy was so freaky he felt he had earned every cent of it.
The gunslinger looked at the sign over the shop.
CLEMENTS GUNS AND SPORTING GOODS, it said. AMMO, FISHING TACKLE, OFFICIAL FACSIMILES.
He didn’t understand all of the words, but one look in the window was all it took for him to see Mort had brought him to the right place. There were wristbands on display, badges of rank . . . and guns. Rifles, mostly, but pistols as well. They were chained, but that didn’t matter.
He would know what he needed when—if—he saw it.
Roland consulted Jack Mort’s mind—a mind exactly sly enough to suit his purposes—for more than a minute.