"It's custom made," says the cab driver, nodding at the black phone holder. "My husband had it specially ordered."
The three phones are talking at once, rattling off orders from people waiting in the rain. She keeps an eye on the first phone, where our path to Tianzifang is outlined in green.
"This is the only 'mobile' phone," she laughs. "The other two never leave this cab. My shift ends around 2 or 3, then my husband drives."
She turns the steering wheel with a gloved hand. "It's so we can snatch up taxi orders," she explains. "There's no other way, right? The competition is too fierce."
We wind through the Former French Concession. The streets are lined with London planetrees, their leaves heavy with rain. The cab driver takes us on a small detour, crisscrossing the highway and zigzagging through one-way streets. Rounding the corner, we approach the red target on the first phone. DESTINATION AHEAD, it says. She pulls over, and we step into the rain.