Nobody's Angel

by Jack Clark

  Tony Golden had once argued that cabdrivers got a lopsided view of the poor. If you were poor and you were honest, you couldn't afford to take taxis. So many of the people who ended up in cabs in poor neighborhoods were thieves, drug dealers and other small-time hustlers. Meanwhile, the working stiffs and the welfare moms with varicose veins, three kids, and seven bags of groceries, were pushing shopping carts or struggling on the CTA.

  I wondered what my passenger's hustle was. Food stamps and marijuana both seemed to be sidelines.

  The meter was at seven-eighty when the girl finally returned. A big guy tagged along behind. He was twenty-five or so, wearing a T-shirt under a well-worn leather jacket. I could tell, by his slow, reluctant walk, that this wasn't his idea.

  She tried the back door but found it locked. "Open up," she shouted.

  I cracked the window just a bit and checked the meter. "It's seven-eighty."

  "Me and my brother want to go to the North Side."

  I almost laughed, it was such an old line.

  "I got the money," she said, and held up two ragged twenties.

  I shook my head again.

  "Oh, man," she moaned. The brother stood back a ways. He was the kind of guy I would pick up any day of the week. A big easygoing guy who didn't want to fuck with anybody. He wanted to be back watching TV. Whatever plan they had, it was all hers.

  "Seven-eighty," I said again.

  She handed a twenty through the crack in the window and I slipped her the change and the food stamps.

  "You're all fucked up, man, you know that?" She turned and stalked away.

  After she passed, her brother gave me a little shrug. It was okay with him, the shrug seemed to say. No hard feelings.

  I shrugged back. I knew it wasn't his fault. Someday we might sit around and talk about the devious ways of women. But if I'd been foolish enough to let them in the cab, he would probably have been the one holding the knife or the gun, or with his arms wrapped around my neck.

  I pulled away, then made a U-turn and headed northeast. The light at Western Avenue turned yellow as I approached. I jumped on the gas, tapped the horn, and blew right through.

  Once upon a time, this stretch of Ogden Avenue had been part of the legendary Route 66, from Chicago to Los Angeles and all those points in between. It had also been the main link between the West Side and Lincoln Park. But years ago the city had begun to cut the Lincoln Park section out.

  It was as if some visionary traffic engineer had seen the course the city would take; that Lincoln Park would be for the rich, and the West Side for the poor, and what was the point of a street that connected the two? Now, even in the height of rush hour, there was little traffic.

  I passed St. Lucy's and Madison Street. The next block was Warren Boulevard. To my left was the hotel I'd been thinking about. There was nothing at Washington and Ogden but a union hall and a park. So maybe the girl really had said Washtenaw. Maybe I was getting a little too paranoid.

  The hell with that, I decided a moment later. I'd sure clocked her on that North Side routine.

  I continued up Ogden, through the old Italian neighborhood around Grand Avenue--an old syndicate neighborhood undergoing gentrification--and then drove up the long, crumbling, bridge that crossed over industrial Goose Island. I passed over the river, then pulled to the side above the canal and killed the lights.

  I walked to the railing and looked out. The rain was gone and most of the clouds had disappeared. For the first time in days you could actually see the city.

  The western edge of Cabrini was just out of reach. It was close enough that I could see the flickering lights of scattered TV's, curtains fluttering in open windows, and vague shadows beyond. For years I'd been hearing stories about snipers firing at traffic on this bridge, and I knew they had to be true. But I'd never even heard a shot from up here and I always felt safe, a sightseer several stories up, uninvolved with whatever went on below.

  To my left the Edison substation whispered softly, and I had a sudden flash of Lenny, his ass on the seat and one dead eye staring at the camera. Could Rollie have actually done that? I wondered. It was hard to imagine. But someone had. Right down there, on a street crisscrossed with shadows cast by the moon.

  To my right, the old towers of the Loop were bathed in soft light, the new ones topped with antennas and flashing strobes. Down below, a line of cars rumbled over the Halsted Street Bridge, heading north. The industry on Goose Island, long in decline, was silent for the night, the water in the canal dark and murky.

  I stood there for a while with the city laid out before me, the lake a dark and soothing backdrop. The Gold Coast and Lincoln Park glittered in the night, a pair of dazzling stars glowing brighter each year. It was easy to overlook Cabrini. The place was about as dim as a forty watt bulb. Behind me, the West Side was even darker.

  Lord, how the city had changed, I thought, and I remembered a trip over this bridge with a girl I'd dated in high school. I wondered where she was tonight.

  I thought about my daughter, too. Just to hear her voice, to hear the excitement when she'd said, Daddy, where have you been? was almost worth losing the phone number. How would I find the new one? I didn't have an address, only the name of the town. What if they moved? I wondered if she was thinking of me right now.

  I wondered about the girl last night too. Had she really gotten into that van? Did she ever get out? Christ, how could I have been so stupid?

  A couple of cars went over the bridge while I stood there but that was it. There wasn't any traffic. The city had spent years making the span virtually useless and now they were on the brink of success. It was a long bridge to nowhere in desperate need of repair. But the repairs were never going to come. The city had recently announced their intentions to tear the whole thing down. Who the hell wanted to go to the West Side anyway?

  I pissed between rusty iron rails, rippling the water down in the canal, then got in the cab and drove down the bridge, and then another block to Clybourn where Ogden now ended.

  A few blocks ahead any hint of the old street had disappeared. The path leading through Old Town to Lincoln Park had been filled with fancy new townhouses and million-dollar single-family homes. A highrise condominium stood just west of where Ogden had once spilled into Clark Street, a little southwest of the Lincoln Park Zoo.

  But you couldn't get there from the West Side. There was a barricade dead ahead. Cabrini was to my right. I turned left and headed northwest up Clybourn. I didn't feel much like working. I hadn't felt like working all night. I could have a cup of coffee with Rollie, I thought, and I remembered that he'd offered to buy.

  I wondered if the police had talked to him and I felt a twinge of guilt. He had seemed like a good kid. A street smart one, granted, but that didn't make him a murderer. But if he was, he was a great con man too. He was wasting his talents robbing cabs.

  A "NOT FOR HIRE" sign shall be displayed when:

  1. the chauffeur is responding to radio or telephone orders;

  2. the vehicle is in disrepair or out of service or the meter is out of service;

  3. the chauffeur is returning to the garage;

  4. the chauffeur is en route for meals or personal necessity.

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

  Rollie and Mohammed were right where I'd left them, one behind the other like some third-world comedy team.

  "Look who's here," Rollie sang the moment I stepped inside.

  "I thought I'd take you up on that offer."

  "How's that?"

  "You said you'd buy the coffee," I reminded him.

  "Hey, I was hopin' you'd forget." He smiled that big, gold-tooth smile and waved me towards the coffee. "You got to pour it yourself, now."

  "No problem," I said.

  I walked to the back and filled a small go-cup and carried it up front. Rollie took a bill out of his wallet and held it up for Mohammed to see. "I be buying the coffee for my
friend here," he explained.

  I held the cup up in a toast. "Thanks," I said.

  Rollie held the change out for Mohammed to see before slipping it into his pocket. "Course now real friends don't be giving their partners up to no po-lice," he said softly.

  "How's that?" I said.

  "Oh shit, man," he said, "I be cool but I ain't no fool. I know you put 'em on me. But hey, I been there before. Hard to be a black man in this city without the man coming

  down on you now and then. But you know what bothers me?" he asked as another clerk walked out from the back room.

  "To be perfectly honest," I lied, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

  "Yeah, well that's cool," he said. "I'd be perfectly honest too, I be wearing your boots. Look, do me a favor, Eddie, I got to check out. But hang around a minute. I got to ask you one little thing."

  "What's that?"

  "This only take a minute," he said as he pushed some buttons on the register and pulled out the cash drawer. "Why don't you get yourself a refill there, Eddie, my man. We always give free refills to our special friends. Ain't that right, Mohammed?"

  Mohammed didn't say a thing. He kept his eyes glued to the register.

  I walked to the back and splashed coffee in my cup, then strolled up and down the aisles wishing I'd never come.

  It took him about five minutes to check out, then Rollie waved me back by the coffee and poured himself a cup. "Decaf," he explained. "I gotta get me some sleep tonight. See, last night I was sound asleep and here come the po-lice pounding on the door, waking up the whole damn house. Waking my mamma, my poor ol' mamma. You think they'd do that to some white family, Eddie, start banging on the door in the middle of the night?"

  I shrugged innocently. How had I suddenly become an expert on police procedure?

  "And then they all apologetic," Rollie went on. "Yeah, said they thought we was up 'cause they saw the TV was on. Now they know damn well you turn that TV off where I live, won't be long before it be walking off down the alley. And now my mamma, she all upset and crying and carrying on. Homicide, they tell her, they want to talk to me about

  some homicide. I tell you, man, that woke me right up. Homicide, yeah, that opened my eyes like a shot, sit me up straight in bed. Homicide.

  "But my poor mamma. I tell you, after a while I think they take more time trying to calm her down than they did talking to me. And then they say not to worry, it was just some cabdriver give 'em my name. Some clown cabdriver, man, and I knew it had to be you."

  "What was this question you wanted to ask?" I said, trying to evade the issue.

  "You ain't really be thinkin' I killed your friend?" Rollie looked me straight in the eyes. "That's what I want to know?"

  "Hey," I held my hands out wide, "I never told anybody that."

  "Shit," Rollie said. "See, it really gets me, man, you or anybody else be thinking I'm some killer. Some stone killer."

  "I just came in to get some coffee," I said.

  "You think I look like a killer, man?"

  "No," I had to admit.

  "You want to take a ride down to the old hood," he offered, "I'll show you some killers. I don't think you know what a killer really look like."

  "Look, if I caused you any problems, I apologize. I guess I wasn't thinking."

  "That's right," Rollie said. "You just be out there runnin' your mouth like a fool, messing with people's lives."

  "Sorry," I said.

  He looked at me and shook his head, and then, after a while, he seemed to relax, and he showed me the gold tooth again, bright and shiny. "It's cool, Eddie," he said. "I know how it be, you lose a friend. Everything's cool."

  "Thanks," I said. Rollie offered his hand and we shook, then we stood there sipping coffee, bullshitting about this and that.

  Rollie was twenty-two, he told me, and he wasn't planning to spend his entire life as a convenience store clerk. He was working nights while going to school days. He was hoping to become either an insurance underwriter or an embalmer.

  "An embalmer?" I asked.

  "Yeah, see, I got an uncle do that. And he say I got the aptitude. But I don't know, man," he shook his head, "I went down there one time but I don't think it's the life for me."

  "Jesus, that sounds worse than driving a cab."

  Rollie put a hand on my shoulder and guided me away from the coffee counter. "Gotta make room for the paying customers," he said.

  "Thanks, fellows," a voice behind me said.

  Rollie pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. "It's Tweety Bird."

  I glanced at the guy behind us. "Who?" I whispered.

  "Tweety Bird." Rollie giggled.

  The new customer was a little guy in an oversized striped shirt. He had big eyes, a tiny nose, and a stomach that looked about eight months gone. He was bald except for a few strands of stray hair that floated around his head. His shoes must have been size fourteen.

  I watched him pour sugar and hot chocolate mix into an extra-large commuter cup and then add coffee. I decided he could probably make a decent circus clown. All he'd need was a big light-up nose and a little paint. Maybe I'd put a little paint on myself and join him, driving a miniature taxicab.

  "Who's Tweety Bird?" I asked.

  "I tawt I taw a puddy tat," Rollie said, as if that explained something.

  "Huh?"

  "Tweety Bird and Sylvester the cat?" Rollie looked at me expectantly.

  I shook my head.

  "Man, weren't you ever a kid?"

  We stood there a while longer, then I dropped my empty cup in the trash, and held out my hand. "Sorry again if I caused you any trouble."

  "We cool, Eddie," he said, and took my hand. "We cool."

  "I'll see you around." I started for the door.

  "Hey, Eddie," he called after me, "can you wait a minute and give me a ride home?"

  I froze. I couldn't move forward. I couldn't turn around.

  A tight little laugh came from behind. "Eddie, it kind of pisses me off you ain't sure."

  "Come on, Rollie." I finally managed to turn and face him. "You know better than that."

  "Okay, let me just grab my things," he said. But he didn't move. He stood there watching me.

  "Look, I gotta be somewhere." I shrugged in apology. "Maybe some other time."

  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 dark
ness.

  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.