We stood there on the corner waiting for the taxi. There was a warm breeze blowing the salty smell of sea water through the air. The seagulls were having an intense conversation, perhaps even an argument. You could hear them over the roar of the traffic. Even over the incessant blowing of the cabbie's horn as he pulled up to the curb on the other side of the street. We crossed the busy road carefully and climbed into the back of the cab.
"Where to, Mac?" the greasy little driver said from under his cap.
"Newcomb Pier. And quickly, friend."