Late one hot summer night in the mid-1980s, Ryan Weidman was cruising the seedy Meatpacking district when four transvestite prostitutes hailed his cab.
Trannie hookers were some of Ryan’s favorite clients. He admired the way they lived on society’s fringe and was drawn to their outcast status, the danger of their jobs and the illicitness of their lifestyles. He also found them visually interesting, with their sexy, feminine clothes, the heavy make-up, broad shoulders and large hands. He befriended some of them. A professional photographer, he sometimes took their pictures when they rode in his cab. Whenever he did this, he’d give them a copy of the photo.
The trannies wore come-on attire. They had snaked into low-cut shirts and short, tight skirts. Their bodies were large and manly and muscles rippled through their arms, making Ryan feel lean. They completed their look with high heels, wigs and faces caked with foundation, eye shadow and bright lipstick.
Ryan recognized one of them. He had previously taken her photograph and given her a copy. He liked having repeat customers in his cab—there was something special about it. A familiar face also gave him a sense of security.
“Hey ladies,” he said. “Be free, loosen up.”
It was always a better trip for him when people had fun.
“Where you headed?”
They wanted to go to Harlem, but refused to give Ryan an exact address. Other cabbies would have kicked them out immediately. No specific destination indicated that the passenger was seeking out a corner dark enough and abandoned enough to hold a knife to the driver’s throat and rob him. But Ryan ignored this thought. He drove towards northern Manhattan, listening to music on the radio.
“Hey, change the radio station,” one of the trannies said.
Her voice wasn’t friendly.
Ryan noted the pushiness and didn’t appreciate it. But he wanted a big tip so he changed the station. Also, he rationalized, there were four of them, and they were buff.
After driving more than 100 blocks, they reached Harlem.
“We changed our mind,” said one of the trannies. “We want to go to Brownsville.”
Once again, they refused to give him an address.
The change of plans pissed off Weideman, and a kernel of worry began forming in his mind. Maybe something was going on that he didn’t know about. The dollar figure on the meter was nearing $15, but if he kicked them out now they may not pay up. Brownsville, deep in the heart of Brooklyn, may as well have lain on the other side of the world. Granted, it had much in common with Harlem, namely gang violence, drug pushers and scared families. But Ryan liked the dirty underside of life, and he enjoyed taking risks.
He shot down the freeway towards Brownsville. By now it was around 6 or 6:30 a.m., and the sun was rising. After 30 minutes of driving, they arrived in Brownsville. Ryan knew the neighborhood—he had a hooker friend who frequently needed a lift there—but the trannies took him through a vast labyrinth of streets until he no longer recognized his surroundings.
“Take a right here,” they said. “Go to the corner. Take a left here.”
It went on and on.
He came to a stop sign. On the other side of the street sat a cop car. That was okay with him. Ryan usually derided cops, but this time he felt good having them there. His relief at seeing the cop forced him to realize how uncomfortable this ride made him.
As he pushed his foot against the gas pedal, he looked in the rearview mirror. Until now, the trannies had been talking in the backseat. But with the police across the street they sat stone still, their eyes downcast. He immediately sensed that something was wrong. It was like feeling the presence of someone’s eyes boring into the back of your head, or knowing who is on the other end of the line before picking up the phone. But he kept driving. The cop car disappeared as he turned a corner.
Ryan briefly thought about jumping out of his car and running after the cop and yelling, “I’m feeling something odd, something’s not right!”
But he didn’t. He didn’t really trust his instincts. Plus, he wasn’t the usual victim. People sensed his temper and sensed he got mean. Instead, he kept driving. His stomach rose towards his throat.
“Take a right here,” one of the trannies said.
After a few more turns, one of them told him to stop in front of an old walkup building. The trannies quickly opened the doors and slid out.
“Hey, that’s $35!” Ryan said.
None of them reached for money in their bras or skirts. Ryan knew they never planned on paying.
He got out of the car, unfolding himself to his full wiry height of over six feet.
“Hey, you owe me money!” he said threateningly.
The biggest trannie in the group walked up to Ryan. She towered over him with her high heels, and she was unquestionably thicker and more muscular than he was. She stared him down and without hesitating pulled off a stiletto.
Before he knew what happened, she whipped the shoe towards his head, stopping at the last second and holding the narrow heel threateningly to his temple. She brandished it like a weapon, like she knew what she was doing. She had done this before.
Ryan didn’t fight her. He could see that her shoe would do serious damage to his head. It would be a disaster if she got him in the eye. The trannie continued to maintain eye contact. She seemed to dare him to move while her friends ran inside the house. Then, with one last sneer, she lowered the shoe and ran into the building.
Ryan jumped back in his taxi, gunned it, and traced his turns backwards looking for the cop. He hoped the police car was still there.
It was. He parked his cab and ran up to the cops.
“I’ve just been robbed!” he yelled.
He told the cops the about the trannies, the stiletto and not getting paid.
“How much was on the meter?” one cop asked.
“$35,” he answered.
“Let’s go,” the cop said. “Lead the way.”
The cop followed Ryan back to the building. Ryan stayed in the cab; the cop went to the door. He banged on the door. No answer. He banged on the door again. No answer. Again. No answer. Out of patience, the cop threw his full bodyweight against the door and it crashed inwards. He ran inside the house. Ryan waited anxiously outside.
Five minutes later, the cop came out of the building. He walked up to Ryan’s cab and gave him a handful of money. Ryan counted $35.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” the cop said. He turned around, and went back to his patrol car.