Vampire Cabbie

by Fred Schepartz

  To compound matters, he wanted to pay with a check. “I am sorry, sir,” I was forced to say. “We do not accept checks.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t take checks?”

  “Just what I said, sir. We do not accept checks. If the check is returned for insufficient funds, I am held personally responsible.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my check.”

  “Perhaps, there is not, but I have no way of knowing that.”

  “Hey, I know your owner. We play golf together. If he were here, he’d tell you there’s nothing wrong with my check.”

  Dale’s words during orientation echoed through my skull. “We are a cooperative,” I replied, more sharply than I would have expected, surprised to be defending the serfs for once. “We are all owners. We are owned by no one but ourselves.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you think.” The man slapped the top of the front seat loudly. “You must be pretty new if you don’t know my friend. We go back a long way. Wake up and smell the coffee. My friend, he’s the one who really owns you guys. You might not know him now, but you’ll get to meet him someday—when you fuck up and he tells you to hit the bricks.”

  It seemed obvious that Kern would say this guy was using the oldest line in the book. Much to my surprise, I found myself getting angry that he was attacking our cooperative. My cooperative!

  After a moment’s consideration, I replied, “Right on the outside of the cab it says, ‘worker owned and operated.’ We are a cooperative, all owning an equal part, as per very specific guidelines from state law. Sir, it seems apparent that you are living in a fantasy world.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, what planet are you living on?”

  “Obviously, not the same as you are, sir.”

  The man said not another word, loudly tearing free a check, tossing it over the front seat and exiting the cab. I considered chasing him, but after studying the check, it seemed best to just leave it be. He had paid the whole fare, plus a two-dollar tip. The check was numbered in the 6000s, and this neighborhood was fairly affluent. If the check did in fact bounce, as the Americans say, I would hunt this man down and collect my pound of flesh.

  I left the man to his folly, drove back uptown and found a free cab stand where I languished with only Tacitus for company. Out of boredom, I closed the book and turned on the radio. The FM band offered only that infernal rock ’n’ roll or that pathetic country music. Desperate, I switched to the AM band, hoping to find some classical or maybe some jazz. Instead, my ears were the recipient of a nearly overwhelming aural assault:

  “Molly steps back in.” The high-pitched voice was a bit haggard, a bit tense, but chipper. “Two strikes. Two outs. Here’s the pitch. To left and deep! Heeeeey! Get up! GET UP! GET OUTTA HERE! GONE! A grand salami! Molly’s done it! He’s hit a grand salami! The Brewers win! THE BREWERS WIN!”

  Silence. Had the poor man suffered an aneurysm and suddenly found himself lying face down, his skull full of blood, death taking him very quickly?

  No, the voice returned, but motherless spawn of Satan, what in the name of the blistering winds of Hades was that? Curious, I continued to listen.

  It was a baseball game. All that commotion over a bunch of illiterate grown men chasing a little ball while thousands of beer-swilling members of what Mencken called “the booboisie” watched in rapture—all of these people, players and spectators alike, too daft to comprehend a real game, like cricket.

  Still, the passion was admirable. Apparently, the Brewers of Milwaukee, playing at their home arena, were trailing by three scores when a fellow named Paul Molitor attempted to hit. The announcer had called him Molly—once again, another example of Americans and their nicknames. Molly, with one fierce strike, allowed his team to overcome their deficit and replace defeat with victory.

  I found myself amazed by the seriousness with which these mortals placed upon these games. There might be murder, mayhem or high property taxes, but these people seemed more interested in discussing the latest exploits of their Brewers, Badgers or Packers. Extraordinary.

  Further proof of this American preoccupation with sporting events came at shift’s end when I found Kern and another night driver, Henry, discussing the baseball contest as they completed their paperwork. Supremely overweight, with a shaggy beard and wild, greasy hair restrained by a soiled baseball cap, Henry was about as jocular as a tall glass of vinegar, but apparently he truly loved his sports; this evening’s baseball match was the only topic of conversation where I had ever witnessed any joy or animation on Henry’s part.

  “Man, oh, man,” Henry squealed, “what a game! What a game!”

  “That was an exciting conclusion to that contest,” I interjected, settling down before an adding machine at the table next to theirs. They turned and stared. When in Rome , I suppose.

  “I didn’t know you were a baseball fan, Count,” Kern said.

  “Figured you more for soccer,” Henry added, then turned back to Kern. “Europeans dig soccer because they’re so used to long, protracted land wars. That’s why Americans can’t get into it.”

  “Actually,” I countered, “it was an accident that I managed to hear the conclusion of the contest. I was searching for something palatable to listen to when I heard the game-winning stroke.”

  “A great call,” Henry said. “I love it when Uecker calls a home run. ‘Get up! Get up! Get outta here! Goooooooooooooooone!’”

  “I love the tips I get when outta-towners hear Bob, and I tell ’em it’s Bob Uecker, and he belongs to us.” Kern laughed loudly. “They’re used to the buffoon on the Miller Lite commercials, but they don’t know he’s a Milwaukee boy, born and bred.”

  “I must say, I found him quite evocative,” I replied. “Baseball is not a game of which I have ever paid much consideration, but certainly the man’s passion for the event was quite compelling.”

  “Ever been to a baseball game?” Kern asked.

  “It has never been high on my list of priorities.”

  Kern slapped himself loudly on an ample thigh. “Well, it’s high time you shifted your priorities. A group of us are going to the Muskies game Monday. Wanna come with?”

  “Muskies?” What on Earth is a Muskie? Was that not a senator from the state of Maine ?

  Henry answered my apparent consternation. “That’s the Madison Muskies. The A’s single A club.”

  “I am afraid I still do not understand.” Motherless spawn of Satan. When will the Americans ever learn to speak English?

  Kern shoved the adding machine aside, tucked his waybill into the envelope and sealed it with the attached string. “The Brewers play in the major leagues. That’s the highest level of baseball in the country.”

  “Whole fucking world!” Henry interjected.

  “The Japanese might disagree,” Kern countered, “but anyway, there’s twenty-six major league teams. Each major league team has several minor league teams where they develop their younger players. The highest level in the minor leagues is triple A. All the major league franchises have one of those teams, plus two double A teams, two single A teams and then one instructional league team where the youngest players start out.”

  “Single A is a very low level?” I asked.

  “You got it, Count,” Henry replied.

  “These Muskies must not be a very good team.”

  “Well, it’s not major league quality,” Kern said, “but it’s right here in Madison , it’s really cheap and it’s lots of fun.”

  “And beer’s only a buck a can,” Henry said, licking his lips.

  “Yeah, so how ’bout coming with?” Kern asked. “We’re meeting at the Crystal Corner about six thirty. Game time’s seven thirty. It’ll be fun.”

  Count Farkus going to a baseball game! The notion seemed laughable, yet how else might I spend my night free from the shackles of indentured servitude? Tacitus was growing increasingly tedious. Also, I had been discovering a burgeoning erosion of my resistance to developing friendships
with my fellow drivers. Though they had seemed so young, uncultured and uncivilized, I discovered that many were of a decent sort. Hardworking, honest, sometimes even witty and sharp of intellect. Much to my surprise, not only had the cooperative’s appeal become apparent, but I had begun to find that I liked many of these people. Besides, letting them get to know me and see me as a normal person had to be a help in my efforts toward camouflage.

  The game would be played in at least partial sunlight. Yet, even though the mid-April sun would not quite be settled beyond the horizon by six-thirty or seven-thirty, the rays would be weak enough to cause a bare minimum of discomfort.

  “I will join you fellows at your baseball contest,” I said finally, still wondering what in the name of the hundred false promises of heaven was a Muskie.

  Kern smiled. Henry laughed heartily, holding his jiggling belly. “You sure got a funny way of putting things, Count,” Kern said.

  I merely nodded. “Who else will be attending this contest?”

  “Well,” Henry answered, “you, me, Kern—”

  “And Nicole,” Kern said, grinning broadly. “You know Nicole, right?”

  The smile dropped from my face. “Yes, I do.”

  Chapter 12

  Take Me Out To The Ballgame

  You certainly may scoff at this quite laughable notion of Count Farkus attending a baseball contest, but much to my surprise, I found it quite the intriguing experience. However, not to jump too far ahead, for the issue of Nicole’s presence presented quite the awkward scenario.

  Over the past month, we exchanged the rare glance, a few bits of conversational pleasantries, but our mutual discomfort was quite obvious. Doubtless, my presence at the baseball game would make her uneasy.

  Canceling this engagement might seem suspicious. I did want to attend the contest. And yes, you are correct, I did want to see Nicole, talk to her, and bathe in her scent.

  Providence . Shortly after the invitation, misgivings piling upon misgivings, I spotted Nicole at the petrol pump. My naturally surreptitious approach startled her. She turned toward me with a start.

  “Please,” I said, holding a hand up, “beg my pardon.”

  “Christ,” she said in a whisper, “it’s almost like you materialized out of the darkness.”

  Silence was my answer. “I hope your shift was profitable.”

  Nicole leaned against the hood of her cab. “Yeah. It was. What do you want?”

  I nodded at her directness. “Of course, after nary a word the past month, it would seem odd for me to approach you merely to make, as you Americans say, small-talk.”

  “Damn right.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. The pump clicked off loudly. Nicole reached for the nozzle to top off her gas tank.

  “It is nothing, really.” Both hands held up now, palms facing her, no steps taken closer. “Kern has invited me to attend that baseball contest next week—”

  Loud laughter interrupted my explanation. “Is that what this is about?” Her arms dropped to her sides as she continued to laugh. “Hell, I thought this was about something serious.”

  “Considering the events of a month ago, it seemed my presence might disturb you. If so, please let me know, and I will tell Kern I have to decline his kind invitation.”

  Nicole laughed again. “Somehow, I’m having a hard time picturing you at a baseball game.”

  “As do I.”

  Nicole laughed so hard she was nearly doubled over. “This isn’t happening.” She covered her face with her hands until her laughter subsided, then she stared at me with a look that almost stripped me naked. “This whole thing is unbelievable. You kill somebody right in front of me, then a month later you ask if it would bother me if you went to a baseball game with me, Kern and Henry.”

  “I never had any intention of exposing you to any of that.”

  “No you didn’t,” she replied, her voice forgiving. “No, it’s really very kind of you to ask, very considerate. Christ, that’s a lot more consideration than I got from my last five boyfriends. Combined! Al, you’re a real gentleman. A gentleman who happens to drink human blood and kill people every once in awhile.”

  “I only kill when all other options have been exhausted.” My voice was barely audible.

  Nicole nodded. “Can’t say I blame you much for whacking Frank. After what he did to that kid, I probably would’ve done the same. Just a few questions.”

  “You may proceed.”

  “What’d you do with Frank’s body?”

  “He is buried in a deep grave, ten miles outside of town. No one will ever find him.”

  “Of course. Why’d you leave the boy’s body where it could be found?”

  “Regardless of how horrible his fate, the boy’s family deserved to know their boy was dead. The futile hope held by these parents of missing children sickens me. If their child is dead, they deserve to know.”

  She nodded. “Fair enough. Of course, you realize that whoever killed that woman a week after they found the boy probably did it because he figured the cops would pin it on whoever killed the boy.”

  My shoulders shrugged as I turned away from the accusation. My voice sounded too dry when I replied, “Regrettable, but there is only so much hand-wringing I can do and still manage to survive in this world.”

  “Nice philosophy.” Her voice sounded accusing, then her tone shifted. “Those two women, you didn’t kill them, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t kill when you feed.”

  I laughed lightly. “That is Hollywood . No, I do not kill when I feed because it is not necessary. What amounts to little more than a trickle satisfies me. And my bite does not produce vampirism. That too is also Hollywood.”

  Our mutual silence hung awkwardly in the air. “Okay,” she said finally, clapping her hands together, hanging the nozzle and replacing the gas cap. “It’s not great baseball, but it’s right here in our town. Look forward to seeing you.”

  Astonishment. “I have only just heard my first baseball game tonight. I know nothing of this game’s nuances.”

  “That’s okay.” She smiled and slapped my shoulder. “I’ll be glad to tell you all about it.”

  ———

  Monday came, and with excitement, I braved the last rays of sun to meet Nicole and the others at the Crystal Corner Bar, on Madison’s so-called fashionable near-east side. Upon plunging into dark depths of the saloon, I was grateful to remove my sunglasses, fighting against the overstimulated aural assault of the jukebox blaring that infernal rock and roll, punctuated by the crack of pool balls, the click-clatter of pinball machines, the twack of darts striking their targets, the numerous conversations blending into one, the countless heartbeats—even though the bar was not crowded, the scent of sweat, skin, perfume and all those distilled and fermented beverages made my nose crinkle.

  Yet the gentle florescent light, warmed by the unnatural glow of ionized inert gases, proved a comfort, making all in the saloon appear the pallor of chalk—excellent camouflage.

  The tall, slender fellow with the cowboy hat smiled at me from behind the long, oval bar, his well-muscled arms crossed in front of his chest as he surveyed the room, seeming happy that all was orderly.

  Kern stood out from the back of the bar, his height and long, thinning hair making him quite distinctive. My trainer quickly spied me and waved vigorously. Nicole and Henry flanked him, both swathed in black leather skins. Underneath her jacket, Nicole wore a thick sweater, a long scarf hanging loosely around her neck.

  “A couple four-ways splits at the air, a couple five-bangers at the Badger Bus,” Kern said as I approached. Apparently, they were, as the Americans say, talking shop. Have they nothing else to discuss? “Christ, what a bounty,” he said. “Yeah, like I was saying, I remember one time getting a six-way out of the Badger.”

  “A six-way?” Nicole wondered. “Isn’t that illegal? The most we can take is five, or four, if the cab’s got front bucket seats, right?”
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  “Capitol Cab’ll load up seven or eight,” Henry said.

  “I didn’t mean to take that many.” Kern downed the rest of his bottle of beer, the bright red and blue label identifying the brand as Point. “They were swarming at me, like Night of the Living Dead. Anyway, I dropped off one, then another, then looked in the back, saw four people crammed back there and said, ‘Jesus, where did you come from?’”

  The trio laughed, then turned and saw me standing at their side. “Hey, Count,” Kern said. “Glad to see you could make it.”

  Nicole smiled warmly and said hello. Henry grunted as he took a long sip of his cocktail. I turned and saw the bartender with the cowboy hat staring at us, both hands pressed against the black plastic railing circling the entire inside edge of the bar. The stance made his biceps flex into hard, round clumps of muscle.

  “Hey, Todd,” Kern said, turning to the bartender, “this is the Count.”

  “A Bloody Mary for you tonight, Count?” Todd smiled graciously.

  “Thank you, no,” I replied, laughing lightly, “but Kern, I do believe I owe you a drink, do I not?”

  “That’s right, that four-way I set you up with.” Kern lifted the empty bottle to his lips and sucked at the remaining foam residue at the bottom. “Can’t say no to a free beer. Thanks Count. Another Point, Todd.”

  Todd reached into the cooler behind him, grabbed a bottle of Point by the neck, and in one fluid motion, flipped the bottle, caught it at the bottom, drew a bottle opener from his belt and popped the cap. He handed the beer to Kern and quickly replaced the opener as a movement caught his attention. In what seemed a continuation of the previous motion, the bartender pulled a cigarette lighter from the pocket of his black denim trousers, loudly flipped open the cover, struck the flint and lit the cigarette that Henry had just drawn from a pack that sat on the bar.

  “That’s one-fifty, Count,” Todd said.

  “Keep the change,” I said, handing him three dollars. Such panache, such savoir faire deserves ample reward.