by Jack Clark
"Lenny!" I tried to warn him. But he didn't seem to hear. He kept smiling and waving his arms around.
A balloon appeared in the back window and now I saw that it wasn't a guy at all. It was Relita. She was holding the balloon with one hand and playing a game of peek-a-boo with the other. She lowered her hand and flashed me a sparkling smile. I looked back at Lenny. He had a gun in his hand. He waved, pointed the gun at his own head and pulled the trigger.
The next afternoon, as I cruised through the busiest intersection in shabby Uptown, two black kids began to wave. They were about sixteen and everything about them was wrong. They were both skinny, dressed in dark, ill-fitting ghetto rags, and obviously dirt poor.
Lenny's murder had been all over the newspapers and TV and everybody was talking about all the cabdrivers getting robbed. And these two punks were so excited with their plan that they couldn't keep still. The guy on the far side of the street was jumping up and down so much that he kept scaring the neighborhood pigeons into brief, low-altitude flights.
When I waved them off, they didn't try to argue or show me their money. One turned to Broadway, the other to Sheridan Road and they started up again, waving away. It didn't make any difference which way the cabs were going. Hell, they weren't planning to pay.
But they were having a hard time finding a taker. Drivers were dropping their NOT FOR HIRE signs, turning their toplights off and locking their doors. It was hard to imagine that anyone would ever stop. But I knew, if the kids could just tough it out, sooner or later someone would.
As likely as not, it would be a foreign driver. Somebody who came from a country where no one would ever kill just for money.
Lenny wouldn't have stopped for them in a million years, I knew, but he'd stopped for someone.
The kids weren't the only ones having trouble getting a cab. Just south of Irving Park, a husky black guy in jeans and a nylon windbreaker was hurrying south alongside the parked cars. He stuck out his arm but barely slowed down. One look was all I needed. This was a man who worked for a living. And he was going where he was going whether I took him there or not.
"I'm just going down to Belmont," he said. "Man, I didn't think anybody was ever gonna stop."
It was a familiar story. Every time a driver got killed certain people found it nearly impossible to get a cab.
"Two-twenty," I said when we got there.
He handed me a five. "That's yours," he said.
On Clark Street, a well-dressed black woman waved, then approached the cab. "Are you for hire?" she asked.
"Come on," I said, and reached back and opened the door.
"What is wrong with you cabdrivers?"
"Huh?"
"Six cabs just passed me by."
"Lady," I started.
"Do I look like a criminal?"
"Lady," I tried again.
"Now you answer my question. Do I look like a criminal?"
"Lady, if you looked like a criminal I wouldn't have picked you up. Now would you mind telling me where you're going?"
"I'm going to the I.C. Station," she said. "I live in the suburbs. I am not a criminal. I have never been a criminal. I do not associate with criminals. I have a good job. I pay my taxes. I go to church. But you cabdrivers, all you can see is the color of my skin."
"Lady, why you giving me a hard time?" I asked. "I'm the guy who stopped."
"Six cabs," she went on and on. "And I have each and every number and tomorrow morning I am reporting each and every cab to the Department of Consumer Services. What I don't understand, what I cannot fathom at all, is that two of the drivers were black themselves. Now would you please tell me why a driver would pass up someone of his own race?"
"Lady, black drivers get killed just as often as white drivers."
"But they can't seriously think I would harm them?"
"No," I agreed. "They probably figured you were going to some crummy neighborhood where they didn't want to be."
"And why did you stop?"
"I stop for just about everybody," I told her the truth.
"Well, thank you so very much," she said, and that put an end to that conversation.
Four-sixty on the meter. I got five.
The door never closed. A businesswoman slid into the back seat. "North and Sedgwick," she said.
I continued west on Randolph, through the Loop, then turned north on Franklin. "Hey, didn't I have you last night?" the woman asked.
I glanced back but she didn't look familiar. "I don't think so," I said.
"Sure, I did," she said, and she leaned over the front seat to look at my chauffeur's license, which was in a plastic holder for all the whole world to see. "I remember your name. Edwin Miles. I remember thinking that was a really appropriate name for a cabdriver."
"Eddie," I said.
"You were telling us how Hudson Street was going to get better, remember? That's where I'm really going, Hudson south of North Avenue."
I turned around. "You're the girl without the bed."
"That's me." She smiled but she didn't look anything like the night before. She was wearing thick-rimmed glasses. Her blond hair was pulled tight and tied in back. She looked like a librarian in a very serious library.
"You're all dressed up," I said.
"A girl's got to make a living," she said.
"Yeah, but "
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Come on." She smiled. "What were you going to say?"
The smile was hard to resist. "It's just that you're hiding all the good stuff."
"You really think so?"
"No doubt about it."
"How about now?" she asked a moment later. I turned around and her hair was undone and the glasses gone. Just like a bad movie, she was a knockout again.
"Now why would you want to hide that?"
"One of my rules," she said. "Never let the people at work know who you really are."
"Where's your friend?"
"Oh, him," she said. "He's probably sleeping, the bum. He keeps me up all night and then I've got to go to work and pretend to be awake. And he just lies around and sleeps the day away."
"Sounds nice," I said.
She leaned over the front seat. "You really think my neighborhood will get better?"
"Absolutely," I said.
We made a little jog at Division Street, keeping Cabrini to the west, and headed up Sedgwick, past Oscar Mayer's original plant, a huge red-brick place that had recently closed for good.
"This must be a neat job," she said.
"It has its moments."
"Me, I see the same boring people, day after day."
"Lots of boring people get in this cab," I let her know.
"Do you ever get lucky?"
"Huh?" I glanced over, and she had this teasing little smile on her face.
"You know, with women," she said.
"Not in the cab." I shook my head.
"That's funny," she said, and she dropped back in the seat. "I would think that women would you know, I mean, you're pretty attractive "
I glanced in the mirror and caught that same smile. "Thanks." I fell into the trap.
" for a cabdriver," she added the punch line.
"Hey, thanks a lot, lady."
"Just kidding," she said. "Now tell me the truth, when was the last time a woman came on to you?"
"You thinking of inviting me in?"
"Can't," she said. "The bum's there."
"Just like to tease a guy to death?"
"You look like you can take it."
"I guess so," I said as I pulled up in front of her house. "Well, maybe I'll run into you some other time."
"Sure, just keep driving around," she said. "I'm always looking for a cab." She dropped some money over the front seat and flashed another smile.
Next door an older black couple was sitting on the porch of a tiny, ramshackle house. If they owned the place, they'd make a nice profit when they sold.
The girl walked up the steps and o
pened the door, then waved. I flashed my toplight and pulled away.
Public Chauffeurs shall be courteous to passengers, prospective passengers and other drivers at all times. Chauffeurs shall not assault, threaten, abuse, insult, provoke, interfere with, use profane language or offensive gestures around, impede or obstruct any person in connection with the operation of their vehicles.
City of Chicago, Department of Consumer Services, Public Vehicle Operations Division
The funeral home was on Milwaukee Avenue, in the heart of the Polish section.
Lenny was laid out in a gleaming, silver-colored coffin that looked like it might do double duty as a one-man space capsule. The inside was all white silk, and there was Lenny in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and a blue tie sprinkled with tiny stars. His hands looked even bigger than in life. They lay one on top of the other, wrapped with grey rosary beads. His head was cocked to the side and I found myself wondering what the hidden side looked like.
I knelt down and made the sign of the cross. "Lenny," I couldn't help thinking, "how could you let them get you?"
He looked like he had never been alive. His face was covered with heavy makeup and was ghost white. His hair, which I'd always thought of as red, was now brownish-grey and it appeared to be glued to his scalp.
Above the casket there was a large photograph of an island in some lake, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It was lit from behind, all trees and water and blue skies. You could almost see the angels fishing.
I made another sign of the cross, stood up, and headed for the door.
"Eddie." Ace caught me from behind. He was decked out in his funeral best, a suit a good ten years out of fashion.
"You look like an insurance salesman," I told him.
"And you look like a cabdriver," he said. I hadn't bothered with a suit. "Come on over and say hello to Nettie." He tried to turn me around. Nettie was the widow.
"Oh Jesus, Ace," I said. "I'm not any good at that kind of thing."
"Nobody is," he said. "All you've got to do is tell her how sorry you are."
"I'm gonna pass."
"Eddie, she wants to talk to you." Ace grabbed my arm and I could tell by his voice that he wasn't planning to let go. "You were the last person to see Lenny alive. Now come on over and tell her how happy he was, just like you told me."
"Fuck," I said, but I let him lead me a few feet. Then I jerked to a stop. Betty, my next door neighbor, was walking towards us. Now what the hell was she doing here? And where did she get that dress?
"Hi, Eddie," she said, and she leaned in and I gave her a little hug.
"Hey," I said, and then I ran out of words.
"I'm Betty," she said to Ace.
"Sorry," I said. "Ace this is Betty. Betty, Ace. Betty's my next door neighbor."
"Call me Carl," Ace said. "Hey, didn't we meet a while back?"
"You remember, that's nice," Betty said. "Eddie brought me to the pancake house one night."
"That's right."
"I met Lenny the same night. I thought I should "
"Sure," Ace said. "Come on, we're gonna pay our respects to the widow."
He took Betty by the hand and led her forward. I followed as they pushed through the crowd around a woman dressed all in black. "Nettie, this is Betty," Ace said, "and this is her friend Eddie Miles."
I'd been hearing her name for years and I think I had a picture in my mind of some old babushka lady. This wasn't her. The real Nettie couldn't have been more than thirty-five, which made her twenty years younger than Lenny. She was a tall, well-built blond--one of those healthy looking Poles--with clear blue eyes that shone right through her widow's veil. She spoke slowly, with a slight accent.
"Thank you for coming." She hugged Betty then extended a gloved hand towards me.
I took the hand and held it, and mumbled how sorry I was. She pulled me to her side.
"Oh, Eddie Miles," she said sadly. "Many times I have heard your name."
"He was a good guy," I said, and I started to mumble on but she stopped me.
"Now tell me when you talked, the last night."
"We didn't really talk," I started to explain.
"No. Carl has told me," she smiled. "That special way of cabdrivers."
So I tried my best to describe the night on Lake Shore Drive. I probably exaggerated a little. Lenny's smile, his playful mood. Her face glowed and a few tears rolled down her cheeks.
"I don't understand this no hands," she said, and she held out her hands and imitated me as I'd imitated Lenny taking his hands off the steering wheel.
I tried to explain how as kids riding bicycles we would take our hands off the handlebars and call to each other, "Look Ma, no hands."
"You wouldn't really say it to your mother," I said. "That was the joke, I guess. You'd never ride that way around her or she'd probably have a heart attack right on the spot."
"I understand," she said. But she looked confused. "And if he was coming home how did he that place "
"I don't know," I shrugged.
"My husband hated that place," she said. "He would tell me how he had to hurry past, and the people and the filth. When I hear that name now I begin to shake."
"It's a hellhole," I agreed.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
I shrugged. Who could answer a question like that?
"This Cabrini, what kind of name is that?"
"Mother Cabrini," I said. "She was a nun years and years ago." There was a small hospital out in the old Italian neighborhood, and a tiny side street, both named for the same woman.
"And why did they put this terrible place in her name?"
"She helped the poor, I think."
"And this was her reward?"
I shrugged again. What could I say?
"What a city, Eddie Miles." She began to weep. "What a horrible city."
"I'm so sorry," I said, and I stood there not knowing what to do. Betty hurried over and put her arm around Nettie. I tiptoed away.
Ace came up behind me. "Hey, I almost forgot, the cops want to see you." He dug through his wallet and pulled out a business card. I had one just like it. "Detective Hagarty," Ace said. "He's over at Belmont and Western. He said call or stop by after midnight."
The lobby was crowded with people talking and smoking. I heard Escrow Jake's voice, "When you're talking about cabdrivers, you got white guys, you got black guys and you got foreign guys." I looked over. The rookie was hanging on every word. "Now a black guy from Africa or Jamaica or somewhere, he's not black he's foreign. And a guy like Polack Lenny, he's been here so long, he's not foreign, he's white. Got it?"
The rook had a puzzled look on his face. He didn't get anything.
"They might have used the baby trick," someone else said.
"What's that?" another driver asked the question for me.
"You're driving along and a lady with a baby waves," the first guy said. "Nice guy that you are, you stop and she gets in and tells you where she's going. You go a block or two, not very far, and suddenly she gets very excited, 'Driver, stop the cab! Stop the cab!' You think there's something wrong with the baby, so you stop. She opens the door and gets out and leaves the baby on the back seat. 'Hey, Tyrone,' she calls to some guy who's been waiting for you to show up, 'you need a ride?' Well, you can't drive away with the baby in the cab. So the next thing you know you've got Tyrone sitting behind you. That's the baby trick."
I wandered on.
"I go whichever way the customer wants to go," an old grey-haired guy explained to another circle of drivers. "It's their money. I'm just trying to earn it. I always ask, 'Do you have a preferred route?' Man, I've had people take me on some of the most godfangled trips. Some of them have no idea at all how the streets work."
Alex the Greek stuck his head out of the circle, winked, then turned back to the old guy. "You're telling me that if someone wanted you to go up North Michigan Avenue the last Saturday before Christmas, when it's absolute gridlock, you'd do it?
"
The old guy nodded his head. "I go whichever way the customer wants to." He sounded as if he'd said the same thing a thousand times. "It's their money. I'm just trying to earn it."
"Fuck that," I said, and I followed Alex out the front door.
"Guy doesn't have a clue," he said.
Ken Willis walked up, puffing on a cigar. "Come on, I'll buy." He pointed to an adjacent tavern where a sign read, Zimne Piwo.
"I can't," I said. "I've got a friend inside."
"Come on, Eddie," he said. "A Polish wake is the same as an Irish wake or a hillbilly wake. Why do you think there's a saloon next door?"
"I'm not much of a drinker," I said.
"What are you gonna do with all that money?"
"What money?" I asked, and they both laughed.
"Just have one," Alex said.
"What the hell," I said, and we all walked next door.
"To Lenny." Willis held up a shot of whiskey.
Alex and I raised our beers, "To Lenny."
"So who's the tomato?" Willis asked after he'd downed his shot.
"Oh, just my next door neighbor."
"Doin' the neighbor, huh?"
"Good work," Alex said.
"You guys ever hear about the baby trick?" I asked, and then explained it.
"Sometimes I think it's all part of some enormous plan," Alex said when I was done. "Remember a couple of weeks ago, that Friday night it snowed? About one in the morning I pick up this girl on Halsted. She's drunk. She's got no coat, no hat, no boots, and no money, and she wants me to take her way the fuck out to Irving and Austin."
"Fat chance," Willis said.
"That's what I told her," Alex said. "But she kept begging me. It's an emergency, she says, can't I please help. I don't know why but for some reason I really believed her, so I said okay."
"Chump," Willis said.
"What happened," I explained, "is she spent all her money on booze and now she wants a free ride home."
"Exactly," Willis agreed.
"All the way out I'm kicking myself," Alex went on with the story. "I mean, there's business all over the lakefront and here I am heading out to the fucking Northwest Side in the middle of a blizzard and I'm not even getting paid.
"On the way, I turn the radio on, and believe it or not, they're calling an order out that way so I take it.
