Nobody's Angel (23 page)

The guy opened the back door and leaned into the cab. "There's supposed to be a strip joint around here someplace," he said. He was wearing one of those HELLO MY NAME IS tags. "Bill Harrison," was written in red.

"You're about ten years too late," I let him know.

"No, listen," he said, "another cab just dropped me off. He said there was a place right around here."

I shook my head. "He must have meant that peep show," I said. "If you're looking for strippers -- girls, anyway -- the closest place is out in Cicero."

"Cicero," the guy said as if the name rang some bell. "Shit, I'm not going to Cicero."

"I don't blame you," I said. "There's another place up on the Northwest Side, probably about a twelve-dollar ride. The only problem is there's no booze."

"You're shitting me."

I shook my head.

"Man, I thought this was Chicago," the guy said, stretching the name out. "I never heard of a dry strip joint."

"Used to be go-go joints all over this street," I said.

"Girls in cages," he said wistfully.

"That's right," I remembered, "go-go boots and nothing else."

"There any street action around?" he asked softly.

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that," I lied.

"Unbelievable," he shook his head.

"Your best bet is to go back to your hotel and call one of those escort services. They'll come right to your room."

He gave me a suspicious look. "What gives you the idea I'm at a hotel?"

"That tag you're wearing."

He looked down. "Shit," he said. He unpinned the tag and dropped it to the street. "Like wearing a big sign says chump."

"You need a cab?"

"There ain't nowhere to go." He laughed and dropped a dollar bill over the front seat. "Thanks for the line," he said, and he closed the door, turned and headed back towards the peep show.

Up the street a group of people were climbing into the Yellow. I started around and the driver stuck his arm out the window and gave me the one-finger salute.

"Same to you, buddy," I said as I passed. "Same to you."

It was after eleven when a couple of guys stumbled out of a Lincoln Avenue bar. They were both young and white. One guy was husky, wearing a sweatshirt and no jacket. The second guy was on the skinny side. He was so drunk he could barely stand.

"Where to?" I asked.

"God, you're white and you speak English," the-not-so-drunk guy said. "That's fucking different."

"Unbelievable," the drunk agreed.

"Where you going?" I tried again.

"Evanston," Not-so-drunk said.

"Well, that narrows it down," I said.

"Alright," the drunk wanted to know, "what about you? What about you?"

Not-so-drunk didn't pay any attention to him. He leaned over the front seat and gave me an address on Asbury Street. "I had my rights read to me, big time," he said as I started away.

"A woman," I guessed.

"You're an inspiration," he said. "You're the first guy all night's been on the same page."

"That's scary," I said, "considering how much you guys have had to drink."

"No, believe me," he said. "I'm not fucked up. He's fucked up." He squinted at my license. "God, your name's Edwin. That's great."

"Eddie," I said.

"I mean, we've seen Hussain. We've seen Nassar. Mohammed."

"Hussain was the last one," the drunk chimed in. "He's from Libya."

"What's been your best fare tonight?" Not-so-drunk asked.

"Money wise, you mean?"

"No, the most interesting."

"Well, somebody threw up a while ago."

"Don't tell us that," he said, and then he dropped back to the seat.

"I think I got most of it," I said.

"What'd he say? What'd he say?" the drunk wanted to know.

Not-so-drunk was back over the seat a minute later. "You seem like a nice guy," he said. "What the hell you doing driving a cab?"

"What's wrong with driving a cab?" I asked.

"I've seen all these other guys," he said.

"Hey, it beats the shit out of pounding the pavement."

"How much you make doing this?" he asked.

"You with the IRS?"

"No, no," he said. "Just wondering."

"Do you own your own cab or do you lease?" The drunk was suddenly coherent.

A few blocks later they were both snoring.

I took Lake Shore until it ended, then Hollywood into Ridge. This was the same route I'd followed the other night, when I'd been playing detective. Now I was doing it the right way, with someone paying for my time.

We passed the 24-Hour Pantry. The parking lot was crowded. A Yellow Cab was just pulling in.

Evanston was one of those suburbs with streetlights left over from Edison's time. I cruised up Asbury for several blocks unable to find a number.

"Hey wake up, guys," I shouted. I turned the inside light on to help them along. "Are we close?"

Not-so-drunk opened his eyes. "Jesus, we're here already," he said. "Just pull over anywhere."

I stopped. "All right guys," I said. "It's twelve-fifty."

"That's it?" the drunk asked.

"Fourteen fifty," I decided.

"That's better," the drunk agreed.

"How about a tip," Not-so-drunk asked. "What do you want for a tip?"

"Sixteen fifty," I said. I didn't want to be too greedy.

Not-so-drunk took a look at the meter then handed me a ten, a five, and three singles.

The drunk suddenly bent over. "Hey, don't throw up in here," I shouted, although it would have served me right, after my nasty little joke. "Open the door."

"I dropped something," he muttered.

"There it is, right there," Not-so-drunk said. He reached down, picked up a ten dollar bill and handed it to the drunk.

"I'll tell you what," the drunk said, and he held the bill towards me.

"No. No," Not-so-drunk shouted.

"He already paid me," I tried to explain.

"I'll tell you what, too bad," the drunk said and he handed me the ten. "Thank you."

"What are you, a fucking idiot?" Not-so-drunk wanted to know.

"I'm a nice guy," the drunk said.

Not-so-drunk looked at me. I shrugged. "I'm a cabdriver," I said. "I take all the money people give me."

"Fucking idiot," Not-so-drunk said, and he pushed the drunk right out of the cab. "Best ride you had all night, I'll bet," he said as he crawled out behind him.

As I pulled away, they were rolling around on the grass, shouting and laughing, waking up the neighborhood.

When I got to the 24-Hour Pantry the Yellow Cab was gone. I pulled in. All I really wanted was coffee.

Rollie started in on me the minute I walked through the door. "Shit, here he come again," he said, and several customers looked my way. "Big fool cabdriver like to go talking to the po-lice."

I held up my hands and headed towards the back. "Hey, I thought we were pals," I said.

"I didn't even know your friend," Rollie said, as he followed along behind the deli case. He went on and on as I poured my coffee. "You the fool. You know that? You don't

know nothing 'bout nothing but there you go talking to the police. You best be careful, you start steppin' in my shit."

"Look," I tried again as I started for the front. "I thought we went through this last night."

"And you can buy your own goddamn coffee, man," he shouted as he followed me back towards the register. There were two people waiting for him, a six-pack and a couple of chicken pot pies lined up on the counter. Mohammed was in his regular spot, his eyes dead ahead.

I walked past the line and dropped a dollar bill on the counter. "Keep the change, Rollie," I said, and headed for the door.

"Man, fuck you and your chump change," he shouted behind me and I heard the register spring to life, and then something hit me in the back as I was going out the door.

The coins fell to the pavement and scattered around the parking lot. Where was the panhandler tonight, I wondered, with money just waiting there on the ground?

I hadn't driven a block before a familiar looking guy leaning against a parked Checker waved. I pulled to the side. He grabbed a beaded seat cushion off the Checker's hood.

"Giving it up, huh?" I said as he slid in.

"Yeah, man," he said, and I realized he was another of that rare breed, an American-born driver. "I don't like working too late."

"Don't blame you. Where to?"

"Mohawk and North," he said.

That was Old Town. "Get me back in the action," I said.

"Take Ridge to Ashland," he said, sounding just as obnoxious as a regular passenger. "Ashland to Clybourn. Clybourn to "

I joined in. "Clybourn to North. North to Mohawk and drop you right on the corner."

"You know your way around," he said.

"Yeah, well, I used to drive a cab back in the old days," I said.

He grinned, but I could tell he'd missed the point.

"Hey, what's your name, guy?" he asked as we waited for the light at Peterson.

"Eddie," I said.

"Nice to meet you, Eddie," he said. "I'm Billy."

"How you doing, Billy?"

"Can't complain," he said. "Goin' to see my lady."

"Sounds like fun," I said.

I followed Ridge to Clark and then went south on Ashland. The drunks were heading north, passing and weaving, running without lights or with their brights blazing away. I flashed my own brights a couple of times but nobody paid any attention.

"You been making any money out here?" Billy asked.

"It's been pretty good," I said. "I just had a couple of guys give me twenty-eight bucks for a fourteen dollar load."

"That's good, man."

"You gotta get lucky occasionally," I said. "How about you?"

"I do okay," he said. "Did you hear about that Polish guy?"

"Lenny," I said.

"I hear a lot of guys are getting guns."

"I've been thinking about it myself," I admitted.