by Jack Clark
Billy-boy coughed. "Then he starts spraying mace," he said. "Fucking dude is crazy."
"You just sit still," the other cop said, "we'll get you an ambulance."
"This guy " I tried one last time.
The first cop opened the door of the squad car and shoved my head down. Clair came running up, still dressed in street clothes. "Eddie, are you okay?" she called as they pushed me into the back seat.
"Call Detective Hagarty over at Belmont and Western," I managed to shout. "Tell him it's the guy. It's the guy." I tried to point my head towards Billy.
He'd gotten a towel from someone. He was wiping the blood from his face but I swear he winked as the cops slammed the door and locked me inside the cage.
"It's the guy," I shouted as loud as I could.
Upon being given a destination by a passenger, the public chauffeur shall proceed immediately to such destination by the most direct route, unless directed by the passenger to take another route.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
"Look, you got the wrong guy," I said as we pulled away from the pancake house, leaving the flashing lights of the ambulance behind.
"Shut it," the cop behind the wheel said.
"Or we'll shut it for you," his partner said. He banged my cage with his nightstick.
I had no better luck with the cops at the station house. They weren't calling any detectives for me. This was the same station I'd visited the other night.
Before long, I found myself sitting on the floor in the back of a crowded lockup. I was between a Mexican kid, in for drunk driving, and an older black guy, on his way home to the penitentiary.
"I was just out for a little vacation," the black guy explained without sorrow. "I like to come out every couple years, make sure the world's still round. But six month's about all I can stand. These streets will kill you, you hang around too long."
My only hope was that Clair had understood my frantic shouting. But would Hagarty and Foster understand what she meant? Would they get my message before Billy-boy up and disappeared?
I closed my eyes and listened as the Mexican told his story. He'd been tooling along Kedzie Avenue earlier in the evening when he'd dropped a lit cigarette. He'd reached down to pick it up and the next thing he knew he was sitting right in the middle of a 7-Eleven, the wheels on his car still spinning, plastic eggs loaded with pantyhose bouncing all over the hood.
"I'm trying to get the thing in reverse and this chick reaches in and jerks the key right out. You believe that shit?" the kid asked. "Bitch didn't even work there. Then she runs out the store and hides till the cops show up. Fuckin' people ought to mind their own fuckin' business, man."
"Just another reason not to smoke," the black guy let him know.
"The fucking idiot cops," I said. "They see me beating the shit out of the guy and that's it. I'm the bad guy. Not a brain between the two of 'em. Christ, they wouldn't listen to a word I said."
"That's right," the Mexican chimed in, "they don't hear a thing. I told 'em I just stopped in to get a six-pack but "
"My man, you are exactly right," the black guy agreed. "Exactly. The cop asks me what I'm doing in that apartment. 'I'm looking for my dog,' I say. 'What's this dog's name?' cop wants to know. 'Josephine,' I tell him.
" 'Josephine,' he starts calling. 'Here, Josephine. Here, Josephine.' He turns to me, 'No Josephine here.'
" 'Hell, I know that,' I say. 'What would she be doing here? She's waiting for me back at Vandalia.' " He chuckled softly.
Normally I might have laughed, too. But I wasn't in a laughing mood. How many cabdrivers had Billy-boy killed, and how many more would he have a shot at now that they'd let him go?
I heard someone shouting out in the hallway. "Miles," the voice called. "Edwin Miles."
I stood up.
"That you?" the black guy said.
"It's me," I said warily, and I worked my way towards the front of the cell.
"Miles," the voice shouted again. "Edwin Miles."
The turnkey was standing there with a sheet of paper in his hand. Hagarty and Foster were right behind him.
"I'm Eddie Miles," I said.
"This your guy?" the turnkey asked.
"That's our hero," Hagarty said.
The turnkey unlocked the cell. "Alright Mr. Miles," he said, "time to go."
"Come on, jailbird," Hagarty said, and he grinned from ear to ear.
I just stood there. "What's so goddamn funny?" I asked.
"A can of mace against an automatic," Foster said, "you don't think that's funny?"
Somebody pushed me from behind. "Come on, man," a voice said. "You're out. Get the fuck out."
"You're already a legend," Hagarty said as I stumbled into the hallway.
"But they let him go," I said.
"Relax," Hagarty said, "he's sitting upstairs."
"You got him?"
Hagarty nodded.
"They wouldn't listen to me," I said.
"What you get for interrupting policemen when they're eating," Foster told me. "Why didn't you just bring him straight here and skip that whole pancake house routine?"
I followed them out to the parking lot.
"I'll bet money he's the guy killed Lenny," I said.
"No need, he already confessed," Hagarty let me know. "Plus that guy on Goethe." He pronounced it go-thee. "And another guy from about a year and a half ago, and two guys in Vegas."
"Vegas?" I said.
"That's where he started," Hagarty said. "He busted out at the crap tables one night and the only way he could think to get back in the game was to take out a cab."
"Had the guy drive him out to the desert and popped him," Foster said.
"Only problem was, an hour later he's broke again," Hagarty went on. "But the next cab was the charm. He put a little streak together and made it home a winner. From then on, every time things got a little tight, he'd go find himself a taxicab."
Hagarty unlocked an unmarked car and held the rear door for me. "Where we going?" I asked.
"Thought we'd give you a ride back to your cab," Hagarty said. "Maybe buy you a cup of coffee, ask a couple of questions. It's crowded as hell upstairs."
"The weekend rush," Foster said as Hagarty pulled away.
Nobody said anything for a while. I looked in all the store windows we passed, something I seldom had a chance to do.
"I'll tell you," I said after a while, "when I saw him get in that ambulance, I thought he was gone for good."
"Guy's so dumb," Foster said. "He was sitting in the emergency room waiting his turn with all the other losers."
"He's got this little bump on his nose," Hagarty laughed, "but Billy's convinced it's broken and he's not going anywhere till he sees a doctor."
"That's really his name?" I asked.
"William Lincoln Calloway," Foster said.
"Why would he give me his real name?"
"You weren't gonna be around to tell anybody," Foster said.
Somebody had straightened out my cab. It was still blocking the crosswalk but it was off the sidewalk. Hagarty made a U-turn and pulled up behind it. Foster opened the door so I could get out. I walked up and pulled a parking ticket off the windshield.
"We'll take care of that," Hagarty said. He pulled it out of my hand and handed it to Foster, who dropped it into a file folder.
I tried the door but it was locked.
"I got 'em," Foster said. He searched through the folder for a moment then handed me the keys.
"Evidence guys had to tear the seat up a little," Hagarty said, but the interior of the cab wasn't too bad. There was some blood on a back window. The bullets had gone into the front seat over on the passenger side. The holes had been enlarged and some of the stuffing pulled out. It was nothing that a little duct tape wouldn't cure. But I could already hear Irv whining.
Billy's beaded seat cushion was sitting on the dashboard, still rolled and tied with a string
. "This is his," I said as I pulled it out.
"Keep it as a souvenir," Hagarty shrugged.
I shook my head. "I'd always be wondering where he got it."
Foster took it, locked it in the trunk of their car, then we all walked inside. It was a quarter to three and the place was starting to fill with the early bar rush.
Clair gave me a big hug. "You okay, Eddie?"
"I'm great," I said. "Thanks for getting these guys."
Ken Willis, Ace, Fat Wally and the rookie were at the roundtable. I waved and motioned that I would be over in a while. Fat Wally started to applaud. After a moment Ace and Willis stood up and joined in. The rookie beamed. I took a little bow before settling into a side table. The drunks didn't know what the hell was going on.
"My fans," I said as I sat down.
"Hey, you deserve it," Hagarty said. "Took balls."
"I kept seeing that picture of Lenny," I remembered.
"Now if Billy was a better shot," Foster said, "we'd be down at the morgue right now going through your pockets, talking about what a fool you'd been."
"What's going to happen to him?" I asked.
"Firing squad, we're hoping," Foster said. "Maybe a hanging."
"Something barbaric," Hagarty said. "You can't go killing stagecoach drivers out West. He'd probably get life here, and even if the judge did decide to zap him, it'd take years. But we figure Nevada's gonna pull his chain. They got two guys on the way right now, including a Lieutenant." Suddenly he sounded like John Wayne. "They don't take too kindly to folks messing with their citizens out thataway."
Clair poured coffee all around. Foster ordered a piece of cherry pie. Hagarty lit a cigarette.
"It's kind of funny it was a white guy," I said after the pie arrived.
Hagarty shrugged. "Your friend's just as dead."
"I know," I said. "But here you've got every cabdriver in town passing up black passengers and staying out of certain neighborhoods. It's just kind of funny."
Hagarty shrugged again. "I wouldn't get too careless, I was you."
Foster was working his way through the pie. He mumbled in agreement.
"You ever find that van?" I asked.
Hagarty shook his head and smiled. "The shit you put us through," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"The guy goes dumpster diving at Fulton Market," he said. "That's why he kept driving by that whore."
"Dumpster diving?" I asked.
"Spoiled meat. Meat scraps," Hagarty said. "Whatever the packing houses dump. He's got a little route. We were afraid to ask where he sells the stuff."
"You should have seen the back of that van," Foster said.
"Evidence guys are never gonna forgive us."
"And while we were wading through that shit," Foster said, "the real guy was down in Peoria doing another whore."
"Peoria?"
"He's finally snapped," Foster said. "It's just a matter of time now."
"Three girls in a week," Hagarty shook his head.
"Way out of his cycle," Foster said.
"Three?" I asked.
Hagarty nodded. "Where's that picture?"
Foster started digging around in his file folder. "Here," he said after a moment, and he slid an eight-by-ten across the tabletop.
"Ever see her before?" Hagarty asked.
"Oh, Jesus," I said. It was a picture of a young black girl. There was no expression on her face, but the pigtails and a lonely blue ribbon let me know who she was. There was nothing at all behind those eyes.
"Yes?" Hagarty asked. Foster had his notebook open, pen in hand.
"The other night," I whispered, and I pushed the picture away.
"You're sure it's her?" Hagarty asked.
I nodded my head. "When did you When did you You know."
They knew. "A couple hours after you called," Hagarty said. "Factory out on Goose Island. Truck driver found her in a loading dock."
"Did he " I started but then I couldn't finish. I dropped my head into my hands.
After a while I lifted my head and everything was still the same. There were the cops and the cabdrivers, and the drunks heading home from their Saturday night.
Across the street there was an old stone church with a big cross set on a high steeple. It must have really been something when they'd set that cross in place. I wondered how many men it had taken. There must have been a big crowd down below. I wondered if they'd all truly believed, if they'd all really been saved.
Clair came by and topped the coffees. "Just for the record," Foster said and he held the photo up, "you're telling us this is the girl you saw getting into a van early Friday morning?"
"I didn't see her get in," I said. "She was just leaning in the window."
"But this is the girl you saw?"
I nodded my head.
"Good," they both agreed. Foster slipped the photograph back into the folder.
Hagarty waved Clair over and asked for a check.
"On the house," she said.
"Christ, it's like being back in patrol." Foster smiled.
"What was her name?" I asked after Clair had gone.
"Who?" Hagarty asked.
I pointed to the file folder.
"Oh, Christ, it's another one of those goofball names," he said, and he spelled it out. "Y-o-l-a-n-i-c-a, last name Robinson."
"Did you hear about the lady who wanted to name her baby Latrine?" Foster asked.
"Come on," Hagarty said.
"Swear to god," Foster said. "Nurse I know told me about it. They had a hell of a time talking her out of it."
"Hello," Hagarty said. "I want you to meet my daughter Latrine and these are my sons Privy and John."
"You know how Chinese people name their kids?" Foster asked.
"I may have heard this," Hagarty said.
"As soon as the baby's born," Foster explained, "the father runs into the kitchen and dumps the silverware drawer on the floor. Whatever it sounds like, that's the kid's name."
"Anybody ever tell you guys, you're a couple of assholes?" I asked.
"All the time." Foster said. "All the fucking time."
Hagarty leaned across the table and let me smell his coffee- and cigarette-scented breath. "She was nothing but a whore," he said in a harsh whisper, and heads turned at the table behind him. "And she wasn't going to be around very long, no matter what you did. Streetwalkers have a very limited life expectancy."
"You keep getting in cars with strange men," Foster added, "bad things are bound to happen."
"Just forget you ever saw her," Hagarty suggested as he pushed his chair back.
They both stood up and then each dropped a buck on the table.
"Take care of yourself, Eddie," Hagarty said.
"See you around," Foster said.
The roundtable had filled up. They were all jabbering away. Clair sat down next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "You must be tired."
"I don't know," I said.
"You're so tense, Eddie," she said. "I can feel it right here." She rubbed my shoulder with one hand for a while then brought her other hand up too.
"Don't stop," I said. "Whatever you do, don't stop." I had my head down, my eyes closed. If she would just keep going maybe it would all go away. Maybe I could forget that I'd let a teenage girl die.
"Eddie?" Clair asked after a while.
"Yeah?"
"Do you have a lady friend somewhere?"
"Sort of," I admitted.
"I figured you would," she said with some amusement, and she rubbed a little harder.
"Oh, like that," I said. "Just like that."
"Because that's what you need," she said. "I can do this all night but what you really need is a woman and a warm bed."
"You ever tried getting laid at four in the morning?"
"I usually wait till nine," she said. That was the time she got home, I knew. She was married with kids.
"I'll be back," she said a minute later. "Your pals want coffe
e."
"Hey, hero," Alex shouted from the roundtable, "you gonna sit there all by yourself?"
"You too good for us now?" Fat Wally wanted to know.
So I went over and sat down and told the story as best I could. My heart wasn't in it but nobody seemed to notice. They cheered and laughed and swore at the two dumb cops, and then they got into some stories of their own.
After a while Ace moved over next to me. "You look about dead," he said as the stories went on.
I held out my hands. I could barely keep them from shaking. "I'm wired is all," I explained.
"You should take a little vacation," he said. "Go lie on a beach somewhere, listen to the waves."
"Maybe I will," I said. "Maybe I will."
"Get the fuck out of the business," he whispered. "That's what you should really do. Go find yourself a decent job."
I shrugged. "A job's a job."
"No," he said and he shook his head. "You know what I keep thinking? Years ago when they tried to pull my license, I should have let 'em."
"They tried to pull your license?" I was surprised. This was one story I'd never heard.
"Oh, sure," he said. "I was a real bandit when I was a kid. Christ, I was a heartless bastard. I used to work the train stations and the bus depots. The shit-kickers would get in the cab with shopping bags for suitcases and hand me a piece of paper with some address on it. I'd look at it. If it was on the South Side I'd say 'Oh, that's in South Chicago, right?' and nine times out of ten they'd fall for it. 'Yeah, that's right,' they'd say because their relatives told 'em they lived on the South Side of Chicago and the shit-kickers didn't
know any better. So I'd get the rate book out and I'd turn to the suburban pages and show 'em the rate for South Chicago and usually I got the suburban rate. That's one of the reasons this is such a great bandit town. You got a South Chicago, a North Chicago, an East Chicago and a West Chicago.
"But I got in my share of trouble too. And then this one time they were really going after me. So I got a lawyer that somebody knew, a fixer, and he paid off the commissioner or someone. Cost me three hundred dollars, a small fortune back then. But I got to keep my license.
"Now, hardly a day goes by when I don't wonder what would have happened if I'd just let 'em take the fucking thing. Maybe I would have done something with my life."