Authors: Jack Clark
Floyd glanced my way, a worried look on his face. I shook my head. This hadn't been my idea.
"You had that big old Oldsmobile, didn't you?" the boss asked.
"That's right." Floyd smiled then peered at the boss. "Do I know you?"
"Oh, that was some beautiful car," the boss said and then he spoke to the bar at large, "Two-tone, white and lavender. Name's Mitchell," he said extending his hand. "This is my place."
"You didn't own it back then," Floyd said as they shook hands.
"Oh, hell no." Mitchell laughed. "I was just some kid worked in the car wash. But the day I saw that FOR SALE sign under my own name, I knew this place was meant for me."
"Goddamn," Floyd suddenly remembered. "You worked at the gas station."
"That's right," Mitchell said, and he smiled back. "This was some beautiful neighborhood, way back when."
"The best," Floyd said. "Do you remember "
And that was it. They were off to the races. One story followed another and the drinks began to flow.
After a while one of the bus drivers carried his drink over and set it down next to me. "How long you been pushing a hack?" he asked.
"Long enough to know better."
"I drove for Yellow for eight years, until I got wise and switched over." He pointed to his bus driver's badge. "Name's Ron."
"Eddie," I said.
Ron lowered his voice. "How much you get, bring this boy out here?"
"Thirty so far and the meter's still running."
He showed me all his teeth, gleaming white, in a big smile. "That's nice," he said. "I took an old boy down to Peoria one day, waited for him to drop an envelope and came right back. Four hundred dollars."
"I never get those." I shook my head.
"Another time I took a whole load of people up to Wisconsin in the middle of a blizzard, couldn't see the goddamn road half the time. Nobody out but some trucks and me. I came back with over six hundred but it took me damn near two days."
"Nice," I said.
"I sort of question your judgment, walking in here."
"I question it myself," I agreed.
"I figure that's a piece in your pocket."
I shrugged. It was the mace. But if it looked like a gun, so much the better.
"I keep a .22 in the transfer pouch. Someday one of these punks is gonna make me use it and I'll be back driving the cab."
The bartender turned down the lights and slipped on a jacket. "See you tomorrow, Mitch," he said as he headed for the front door.
"Is it that late already?" Mitchell asked, and he turned to look at a clock which read 2:15. It was 2 a.m., real time. He took a look down the bar. All the customers were still in place. He lifted his arm and started to say something to the fleeing bartender, then changed his mind. "Oh, what the hell," he said. "Who's ready?"
Everybody was. I switched to bourbon. "On the house," Mitchell said. He took the same bottle down to the far end of the bar and poured into the glass sitting in front of the small man. "You're gonna drink yourself to death, Red," he said. "Then where am I gonna be?"
The man didn't say anything. He lifted the drink to his lips but his eyes stayed down.
"I used to come out this way too," Ron said a drink or so later. "Madison Street. Roosevelt Road. Pulaski. Cicero. Chicago Avenue. Hell, I used to cruise 16th Street sometimes."
"You're braver than me."
"But then I moved up north with everybody else. Lincoln Park. The Gold Coast. All those beautiful people. All them cabs, like rats in a maze. Yeah the money was better. Safer. But then I found myself passing up my own people, telling 'em I don't go south, I don't go west. My own people, man. Yeah, thought I was white there for a while but then I got wise to myself and I came back out here. And then I'd pick up anybody. I mean anybody. But it got to be too much. Got so I couldn't stand the blood."
"Blood?"
"What do you do if someone sticks a gun in your head?"
I shrugged. It had only happened once. But I'd given them the money. What else could you do?
"You gotta remember, a car's a weapon," Ron had the answer. "Work them pedals. Brake as hard as you can and when they come flying, boom. Then hit the gas and do it again. Bam. Get yourself a little old club. That's what I had. Wop. This one kid, every time he comes flying I smacked him. Bam. He keeps saying something but I can't figure out what. Wap. Finally, he's down on the floor. I'm over the seat bopping him on the head. Little bitty gun comes flying up. 'Toy.' I finally hear what he's been saying. 'It's a toy.' Little toy gun. 'I was only fooling.' "
"No way for you to know it was a toy."
"Big kid, but I'll bet he wasn't fifteen. Yeah, he was just fooling. Uh huh. I beat him right out of the cab, Fifth Avenue and Kostner. 'I can't see. I can't see,' he's crying. He's covered with blood, begging me to take him to the hospital. I left him there on his knees, middle of the night. Freezing fuckin' cold out." He took a sip of his beer. "Spent a couple hours cleaning up the cab and that was my last night. Stupid fucking kid."
"Hey, you did what "
Ron held up his hand, then gestured down the bar.
"She was just a little slip of a thing," Floyd was telling Mitchell. "Red hair and tiny little freckles. She had this walk, I swear to god, I'd know it was her a mile away."
"Wish I could help you out," Mitchell said. "But I don't remember any Brenda. Hell, I was only in this place twice before I owned it. Day I saw the For Sale sign, and the day me and old man Mitchell signed the papers. I never missed a payment."
"Knew it had to be a woman," Ron whispered.
At 4 a.m. Mitchell shut the party down. "Sorry, boys, I hate to do it, but I've got to open in a couple of hours."
Everybody else staggered out, then Mitchell walked us to the door. "You ever back in town," he told Floyd, "stop by."
"I'll bring the family." Floyd went along with the gag.
"That'd be something," Mitchell said, and he followed us outside. "I used to talk about having a reunion for all the old timers." He gestured at the wasteland around us. "I guess it's just as well."
"If you ever hear from Brenda," Floyd said.
Mitchell shook his head and smiled. "I gotta give you credit for trying." He waved and walked back inside.
A moment later there was a loud clatter as a metal door began to descend. Within seconds, the entire storefront disappeared behind it.
We staggered out to the cab.
"You want me to drive?" Floyd offered.
"I'm fine," I said. Finer than Floyd by a mile.
The meter was at $47.60. "I'll be a son of a bitch," Floyd whispered. "You left the meter running."
"Wasn't my idea to go inside," I explained as I cranked the starter.
"Eddie, my boy," he mumbled, "I do believe I've been taken for a ride." And he fell fast asleep.
I drove through the ruins for a few blocks, then took the highway back towards the Loop. This was the best way to see the West Side, out in the left lane at 65 mph.
You could see St. Lucy's coming a long way before you actually got there. The place was spread over several city blocks, a group of tall, jazzy buildings surrounding the original hospital, a small red brick structure.
Even in the middle of the night there were plenty of lights burning. As I got closer, I tried to guess Relita's window. Was that Intensive Care up there, that block of lights on the top corner of one of the new buildings? Or was that Relita's room over there, that single lit window, surrounded by the darkness of the old building? Had they moved her there to die?
I searched for some sign but nothing came. Floyd snored softly.
A horn blared and a Tribune truck shot past. I looked down. Christ, I was doing 35 in the fast lane. I stepped on the gas and drifted right.
Floyd slept all the way to the hotel and woke up muttering about being taken for a ride. The meter was a few bucks shy of $60.00 and I got three crisp twenty dollar bills.
"Worth every penny, Eddie. You're a hell of a man," he said as he worked his way out of the cab. "Hell of a man."
No Chauffeur shall operate his Public Passenger Vehicle under the influence of alcohol or illegal substances or drugs, nor shall he consume any of these while operating his Public Passenger Vehicle.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
I found myself on North Avenue cruising the strip Relita had worked. The big hooker from last night was nowhere around. I drove past her spot and then over the river. As a consolation prize, a woman standing in front of the deserted Procter & Gamble plant lifted her short skirt and gave me a free show. Behind her a sign read, AVAILABLE 15 ACRES, WILL DIVIDE. In the parking lot, weeds had started to grow through cracks in the pavement.
I don't know what I was looking for but I turned around in the mouth of Noble Street, made another pass and found more of the same.
As I slowed for the light at Clybourn Avenue, almost two blocks past the end of the strip, a young girl got off a bench. She was dressed in jeans and a powder blue jacket. Her hair was in pigtails with tiny blue ribbons dangling from the ends. She looked past me up the street, waiting for the bus, I thought, a straight kid on her way to work, with her hands pushed deep in her jacket pockets to guard against the cold. And just being normal she was ten times better looking than any of the trash I'd just seen.
The girl did a little step and spun all the way around, and if she didn't have my attention before she had it now. She shrugged slightly, with her hands still in her pockets and her jacket opened just a touch.
Her breasts were small and rounded. They seemed lighter than the surrounding skin, almost yellow, I thought, but maybe that was the glow of the street lights. Her
nipples were hidden just beyond the edge of the jacket and I was almost ready to pay to see them. It was that nice a tease.
She closed the jacket and I looked up, and she smiled and blew me a kiss.
She was just another whore out on the street at five in the morning, waiting to fuck or suck whoever came along with a few dollars for her time. But she was still subtle enough, or fresh enough, that she was also just a kid in jeans and sneakers. And if she had nothing under her jacket, that only made me want her a little more; like I might want any good looking woman after catching a glimmer of forbidden skin.
It was just a passing fancy, a pleasant little red-light dream. I doubt I would have ever followed through.
A horn sounded and I looked up to find the light green. I took my foot off the brake, waved goodbye and drove away smiling.
I pulled into the left-turn lane at Halsted and looked back in the mirror. A van had pulled to the curb and the girl was leaning in the passenger window, casting a lean profile in my mirror.
I waited for a car to clear, then made the turn and headed north.
Maybe if I hadn't been drinking it wouldn't have taken so long to register. As it was, I was almost a mile away before it hit me. I made a U-turn and sped back, but the van and the girl were both gone.
At home, I poured bourbon on ice and carried the phone to the window.