Nobody's Angel

by Jack Clark

  "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.

  "Ain't got one yet, huh?"

  I held up the can of mace. "Just this," I said. "How about you?"

  "I got a rod," he said softly.

  "Really?"

  "I ain't taking no chances," he said. Then he leaned over the back of my seat and showed me a small, blue-steel automatic. "What do you think?"

  "Yeah," I said. "That's what I need. Something not too big. What's that, a .22?"

  ".32, man. Take some asshole's head right off, you have to."

  "Ain't it a bitch," I said. "You gotta go to work with a gun to make a living in this fuckin' town."

  "I been telling people how hard cabdrivers work," he said as he sat back. "Most people they work their five days. But you know, being a cabdriver, you work every day, right?"

  "That's about it," I agreed. "What kind of shift you pulling?"

  "I do nights."

  "Yeah, I figured that much," I said. "What hours?"

  "Four to midnight," he said. "See, I just quit. Got off a little early tonight."

  "An eight hour shift? That's nice." It was almost unheard of, in fact. "What kind of nut you paying?"

  "Huh?"

  "How much you pay for the cab?"

  "Seventy-seven," he said.

  "Seventy-seven dollars for eight hours?" That's what some companies charged for a 24-hour cab. It was much more than I paid for twelve.

  "I make out okay," he said.

  "Really?" I said. He was either a liar or someone was playing him for a sucker. And then, just like that, it came to me who he really was. Suddenly, I knew why he looked so familiar. And I realized how easily Lenny and I had been conned, how easily everybody had been conned.

  I could suddenly see Billy up along Ridge the other night standing alongside a parked cab. He'd drawn a circle in the air as I'd passed and I thought he was trying to tell me it was a nothing night. Now, I realized what he'd really wanted was a ride. He was asking me to circle back after I dropped my passenger.

  But Lenny, a minute or two behind me, had shown up instead.

  "What we need is more rain," Billy said.

  "I hate driving in the rain," I said mechanically.

  "Yeah, but the money's good," he said, driving another nail into my coffin.

  It was the day drivers who prayed for rain, sleet, and snow. Night drivers generally preferred good weather. At night, bad weather usually kept everybody close to home.

  I slowed down a bit. What was the hurry?

  If I ever got the chance, I would have to apologize to Rollie. It would be my turn to buy the coffee. Fuck, I'd buy the whole goddamn store.

  "Something wrong, Eddie?" Billy asked after a while.

  "Just tired," I said.

  "What you need is some rest. You probably been working too hard."

  "Probably," I agreed.

  This far north, Ashland was a wide, residential street. There was plenty of traffic but there wasn't a cop in sight.

  I slipped the mace out of the ashtray and set it on my lap. Maybe I could turn around like the old black driver in the detective's story and just spray away. Yeah, sure. My new friend Billy probably had the gun in his hand. I didn't stand a chance.

  I was scaring myself silly, I decided a few blocks later. He probably was just another in a long line of dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks cabdrivers who didn't know a damn thing about their own business. Being on Ridge the other night didn't necessarily make

  him a murderer. I decided to give him another chance. "Your owner live up by Devon?" I asked.

  "My what?"

  "Your owner," I said again. "You drive for a private owner, right?"

  "I drive for Yellow," he said.

  "Oh," I said. He'd been leaning against a Checker, most of which were privately owned. But maybe he'd parked the Yellow across the street or around the corner somewhere. "You must have a foreign dayman," I tried again.

  "Why you keep asking all these questions, man?"

  "Just making conversation," I said.

  "See, I've only been doing this for a couple of months," he said. "So I don't really know all the lingo."

  "Just do it when you need money, huh?"

  He thought that was funny. "That's right," he said, and chuckled for a while. "That's exactly right. You're too smart to be driving a cab, Eddie. You know that?"

  "Yeah," I said. "That's me, all right." I'd been telling myself the same thing for years and now here was somebody who finally agreed.

  We were coming up to the six-corner intersection of Lincoln, Belmont and Ashland. Once upon a time this had been the biggest shopping district on the North Side. Now all the department stores were gone. Many of the buildings were completely deserted. Huge FOR SALE and FOR RENT signs were everywhere.

  One thing remained from the old days. The intersection was NO LEFT TURN 24hours a day. And usually there was a squad car hiding somewhere, trying to make the monthly quota off some stray motorist.

  I timed it so Billy wouldn't have a chance to stop me. I slowed to let a couple of cars clear then I jumped on the gas and turned left just in front of a CTA bus moseying north in the right lane.

  "Where you going, man?" Billy shot up and leaned over the front seat.

  "This is a little shorter," I said, which was true. "Lincoln to Larrabee to North, save you some money." No blue lights appeared in my mirror which didn't really surprise me. They were never around when you wanted them.

  "No. No. No," Billy said. "Take the next right."

  I was doing about forty-five, a nice even twenty over the limit, and I didn't slow down.

  "Where the fuck you going?" he shouted as we passed through the intersection. Something cold and hard touched the nape of my neck, and a hand grabbed my hair and snapped my head back.

  "Slow down, motherfucker," he said as the steel dug into my skin.

  I slowed down. "You ain't no cabdriver," I said evenly.

  "Now you're gonna make the next right or I'm gonna blow your fucking head off. Understand?"

  "Yeah," I managed to say.

  I put the right turn signal on. The Golden Batter Pancake House was a half a block ahead on the left. There wasn't a cab in sight. But a squad car was parked in the bus stop.

  "Keep your cool, Eddie. You'll be okay," Billy whispered. He released my hair. "Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen, Eddie. You gotta trust me now. Just keep your cool. Keep your cool."

  An
d I could hear him saying those same words to Lenny. "Ain't nothing bad gonna happen, Lenny." And I saw that picture of Lenny again, one dead eye surrounded by slaughter.

  I started into the turn and then ducked and laid on the brakes as hard as I could. He came halfway over the front seat and I threw an arm at him and jumped on the gas and cut the wheel hard left. He went flying backwards but I didn't give him a chance to rest. I braked hard again, and this time when he came hurtling forward I got him square in the head with my forearm. The gun went off twice--close and loud--and before I could get my foot back on the gas we bounced over a safety island and the gun sailed out of his hand, slid along the front seat and fell to the floor. I grabbed the mace with one hand, the steering wheel with the other, laid on the brakes and sprayed away.

  We came to a stop with the front of the cab on the sidewalk. Billy-boy had his

  hands to his face. I gave him a few more squirts, just to be sure, but then I began to feel

  the mace myself. I reached down and grabbed the gun and jumped out of the cab. Billy boy was coughing away back there, trying to open the door. I ran around the car and opened it for him and he crawled out coughing, his hands to his face.

  I slapped him with the gun a few times. I was yelling something about Lenny, I don't remember what. The shots were still ringing in my ears. Billy boy dropped his hands and his face was covered with blood.

  I gave him one final slap and then decided he'd had enough. I grabbed him by the neck and pushed him towards the restaurant.

  A pair of uniformed cops met us at the door. "This is the guy " I said, and that was as far as I got.

  One cop grabbed me and slammed me against the wall of the restaurant, pulling the gun out of my hand and pinning my arms behind my back. The other cop slipped handcuffs on my wrists and started to push me towards the squad car.

  "Hey, he's the guy you want," I shouted. "He's the guy "

  "Save your energy, pal," the cop said, squeezing the handcuffs tight. "You're gonna need it where you're heading."

  "He went crazy on me." Billy-boy figured out which way the wind was blowing. "I don't know what happened." He coughed. "Next thing I know, he pulled a gun."

  "This guy " I tried again but the cop threw me against the squad and began to frisk me.