Nobody's Angel (21 page)

Rollie shook his head. "Eddie, I'd love to play poker with you," he said. "Man, you'd go home without your pants. You are some terrible liar. Mohammed," he called, "this boy needs to take some lessons, learn to keep that stone face." He pointed a finger at me, a finger without a hint of friendship, then turned and walked into the back room.

Mohammed didn't say a word and his face didn't move. The new clerk watched me with little interest. He was an older black guy with wiry salt and pepper hair and thick glasses. He'd probably seen it all, working the midnight shift in an out-of-the-way convenience store on the edge of a deteriorating neighborhood.

Mohammed stood in his usual spot behind the clerk, a contemporary version of the cigar store Indian. I wondered if he ever went home.

There was a van parked next to my cab. It was rusty red with teardrop windows on the side. Tweety Bird was sitting behind the wheel.

I walked around back and there was a chrome ladder on the back. I took a few steps, to check for a bumper sticker, and a gruff voice, right at my side, whispered, "Hey, buddy, help me out." I barely managed to keep from jumping.

I took a couple of half steps instead and looked over and there was this wreck of a human. He was skinny and poor, wearing dark, tattered rags that blended into the night.

"Let me see what I got." I found some change and dropped it into his waiting hand, then headed back toward my cab.

"Man, you can do better than that," he said, following. Suddenly his voice was loud and clear.

"No, that's it," I said, and slid into the front seat, slamming the door behind me.

He mumbled something I didn't understand, turned and shuffled into the darkness.

A few minutes later, I decided I should have given him more. But by then I was already several blocks away, following the van south down Western Avenue.

The bumper sticker was in the exact right spot, three lines on a yellow background. CAUTION, it read. HORN OUT OF ORDER.  PLEASE WATCH FOR FINGER.

Tweety Bird wasn't in any hurry. He stayed in the right lane. I hung back a block or more, trying to keep some cars between us. The way the van moved I could almost see him up there, sipping coffee, one hand on the wheel.

Western Avenue was supposedly the longest city street in the world. That's what the Chicago boosters said. It ran from the city limits on the north to the city limits on the south, twenty-some miles, and finally ended somewhere in the south suburbs.

Once upon a time it had been the western border of town and North Avenue had been the northern. Now the city went on forever. Western Avenue was best known for its automobile dealerships and North Avenue for its whores.

We went up the overpass over Belmont Avenue. Just to the right was Area Six. Hagarty and Casper were probably still drinking their wake-up coffee. "Come on, guys," I whispered as I passed. "Take a little ride."

I could stop and make a quick call, or declare an emergency over my two-way radio, but I'd almost be embarrassed. I'd already sicced the cops on one innocent man, I didn't want to do it again.  And how could a guy who looked like Tweety Bird be a killer?

The van continued past North Avenue, which didn't surprise me. I knew I was just wasting my time.

Maybe I'd get lucky, I thought, and Tweety Bird would lead me straight out of town, to the farms and fields so far away.

But then at Lake Street the van turned east. The elevated tracks were above us. There was an industrial area on the left, and a few blocks later, housing projects on the right. It was hard to get more urban than this.

Not exactly an innocent neighborhood, I thought. Not for an older white guy. But maybe he worked in the area, I told myself. He certainly drove like a union man getting paid by the hour.

Meanwhile I wasn't making a dime following along.

He continued east in the same leisurely manner; a guy who happened to drive a van that looked like the one I'd seen. There were a million vans around town. A couple of them had to match.

He stopped for a light and there was nowhere to hide so I pulled up right behind him. A moment later the light changed and I dropped back a half-block or so, not very far in the darkness under the el. If the guy was paying attention, he knew I was there.

Past the projects there was industry on both sides of the street. The old produce market was one block south on Randolph, meat packing houses were a block north on Fulton. A train rumbled overhead, dropping sparks as it headed east.

Just beyond Morgan, the van's brake-lights flashed. And then there was a black girl waving from behind a rusty girder. But he passed her by. I was about to pass, too, but then I stopped instead.

The girl walked to the passenger window as the van continued away. She was tall and well built with very light skin. She was wearing shiny short-shorts and a halter top under an open jacket. "How you doin' dear?" She leaned into the open window. There was a slight twang in her voice, just a hint of the south.

I pulled a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and held it up. "Ever see that van before?"

"He don't never stop," she said, and backed away a bit.

"But he comes by?"

"He look. He don't play." She reached for the ten but I pulled it back.

"You see him a lot?"

"He go round and round some nights."

"You sure?" I asked. A few blocks ahead, the van turned north on Halsted.

"He so dog ugly," she said, "how I not be sure?"

I handed her the ten and she slipped it into her shorts. "Don't buy nothin' but a flash and a dash," she said and lifted her halter to give me a peek, then ran into the darkness laughing.

I jumped on the gas and went after the van. It was the guy, I was sure. He'd taken the long way around but now he was heading for North Avenue. As I turned on Halsted, I flicked the two-way on. As soon as I spotted him, I would use the radio to get the police.

I shot up Halsted but I never caught up with Tweety Bird.

I turned left on Clybourn and left again on North. There were plenty of girls out, strutting their stuff down the avenue, but the van was nowhere around. I'd let him know I was following and now he was gone.

I retraced my steps back to Lake Street, and then once again to North Avenue, where I pulled into a gas station and up to the pay phone.

"Hagarty," the detective came on the line.

"It's Eddie Miles," I said. "Look, I think I saw that van again."

"Where?"

I described my ride. "A girl on Lake Street told me he comes by almost every night but he doesn't stop."

"Eddie, the guy we're looking for stops."

"Maybe she isn't his type," I said.

"You get a plate number this time?" he asked, but he didn't sound very excited.

I gave him the number.

"I hope this isn't another one of those Rollie gags."

"What gag?" I said. "I didn't tell you to kick his door down."

"We'll check it out," he said. "You never know. Hey, tell me about that girl at the bus stop last night. What'd she look like?"

"She was just a kid," I remembered. "Real straight looking. Jeans. Light blue jacket. Her hair was in pigtails and she had these blue ribbons tied on the ends."

"If you're in the neighborhood later, stop by. Something I want to show you."

"Tonight?"

"No hurry," he said. "Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you get time."

Public chauffeurs who need to consult reference material to determine the location of or most direct route to a passenger's destination may do so for a reasonable time provided that the meter is not activated during such time. Any violation of this rule shall constitute a major offense. In addition to imposing a fine and/or suspension for violation of this section, a hearing officer may order the public chauffeur to pay monetary restitution in the amount of any undue fare collected.

City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division

There were several familiar cabs parked by the Golden Batter Pancake house. But I knew if I stopped I'd have to explain why I'd missed Lenny's funeral. I headed east and north instead.

I was drunk. Isn't that good enough?

And Lenny wouldn't be coming to mine.

On Broadway, a skinny guy in an imitation leather jacket waved. A blond girl waited on the sidewalk.

"I've only got a buck and a half," the guy said. "Can you take us up Clarendon just north of Irving for that?"

"It's only two blocks."

"My lady's got a bad leg," he shrugged and smiled.

"What the hell," I said. All I was losing was the fifty cents extra passenger charge and any tip I might get.

"Here you go, guy," he said after they crawled in, and he handed me a handful of clammy change. "Count it. There should be a buck fifty there."

"I'll take your word for it." I dumped the coins into an empty coffee cup, then wiped my hands on my pants.

"Let me ask you a question," he said. "You like pussy?"

I looked back in the mirror. They were both watching me, phony smiles planted on their faces. She was a very old twenty-five. They were both hard looking, cheap white trash.

"Can't you guys wait till you get home?"

"Hey, whatever you say," he shrugged.

Broadway curved to the west. I kept straight and went north on Clarendon, a residential through street which was the dividing line between seedy Uptown, and the narrow well-to-do lakefront neighborhood to the east. There were a couple of sets of taillights a few blocks ahead. Nobody was coming our way.

Just past Irving Park I checked the rearview and the girl was turned around looking out the back window. It must be something they all learned in prison, I thought. Or maybe this was what I was missing by not watching prime time TV. I grabbed the can of mace and set it on my lap.

"Turn left," the guy said.

The next street was narrow and only ran one block to Broadway. There was a nice bend right in the middle and no way was I going down there. Not with these two.

I put my left turn signal on, but instead of making the turn I whipped a fast U-turn, hit the brakes hard and stopped right in the mouth of the street. "End of the line, guys," I said.

"My lady's got a bad leg," the guy whined. "Can't you take us down the block?"

I pointed the mace at his face. "Get the fuck out of my cab," I shouted.

The guy held up his hands like he was under arrest. "Hey, don't be spraying no mace," he said, and opened the door.

The girl didn't want to go. She was sitting right behind me and I knew she still wanted to try. I pointed the mace her way.

The boyfriend was the brighter of the pair. "Come on," he said from out on the street. She went reluctantly. Sliding slowly across the seat, her hands down, hidden behind the back of my seat, holding some kind of weapon, I was sure.

I didn't wait for them to close the door. I stepped on the gas the minute her feet hit the pavement and the door shut on its own.