DALLAS - In
that hard time - flat oil prices, inflation, recession - the first bite of the arctic had peeled down the sky
and turned the grass and the trees a dull shade of brown and gray.
Big
D lay dormant, waiting for spring, the moon and stars standing out
blazing white over midnight blue in a dome of continent-straddling
high pressure zones ebbing and flowing across the prairies like the
giant cartoon balloons and bubbles they really are.
In
the mornings, people found dead taxi drivers slumped over steering
wheels with their heads blown wide open, their brain tissue
splattered all over the dashboards and windshields of the clunky
sedans they drove to the brink of mad dash missions for unknown
people seeking whatever they thought might get them through the
night.
Men,
women, freaks and fools demanded instant service and the blind trust
of turning the back of one's skull to any stranger on a strange trip
in total disregard of safety as the hands of the clock spun through
the night cycles of quitting time, bar-hopping, theater and dinner
dates, night caps, closing times, angry errands to the impound lot to
retrieve cars towed at owners' expense, and the odd-john tomcat out looking for
a kitty.
Then
there were the deep nights, the times when people who never show
themselves in the light of day come out to creep because they are so
scarred and so bereft of the courage of their confidence. They have
consigned themselves to a peep-and-hide kind of scuttling-down life.
Sitting
still in a light doze in the middle of acres of asphalt under a
bright moon, the wheel man waited where he could see in all
directions, listening to the radio for his number to come up.
“Wun-aidee-see-ix?”
“G'head.”
“Godda
fare wants you to wait on him right there where you're at. You copy?”
“Five
by five.”
“Fo-ten.
Good luck, man.”
“Roger.”
Wheel
Man picked him up in the right hand mirror, angling along the asphalt
in a loping stride, the collar of a jean jacket turned up against the
chill, hands thrust deep into blue jean pockets.
Then
he shifted in an oblique and came up in the left-hand mirror, rushing
to the passenger's door on the driver's side.
Tapped
on the window. Tapped again.
The
Wheel Man gestured that he should go around to the right side. Waited
for him to lean over and peer in the window.
Grinning
face under horn-rimmed glasses. Close-cropped, brush-cut hair.
Shrugging, palms up, like, what's the problem.
Flicked
the automatic door locks and the dude crawled in the car.
“What'll
it be, boss?”
“I
godda g'over to the south side, Oak Cliff. Know the neighborhood?”
“Sure.
Born and raised.”
“Off
Illinois, corner of Alabama and Georgia.”
“For
sure, hoss. Let's ride.”
The
'Hood. Used to be white folks. Way back there. The 'Hood.
Bonhomie
bubbled and chuckled in the fare's voice - deep dish good old boy
inflections. Said, “Well, then, fire this motha-roo up, bubba. It's
cold in this car!”
Blew
in his clenched fists, rubbed his palms on his blue jeans and stuck
his mitts back in his pockets.
“I
wanna make a stop back at the crib. It's right up here at the next
light.”
As
they pulled up to the gate, “Right in here. Charge on in there.”
They eased along the parking lot. “Wait right here.”
Almost
as an afterthought, said, “Oh, yeah. This is for you to hold.” He
handed a crisp fifty across the back of the seat, his arm angled from
right to left, the bill proffered between thumb and forefinger.
“There's
another one just like it when we get back here safe. Okay?”
Wheel
Man snatched the bill, reached up and turned off the meter.
“You
got it.”
Dude
went inside through a patio door. Came back quickly and hopped back
inside.
“I
hope you're strapped, because I am.” Pulled a very long revolver
out of a shoulder rig under the jean jacket.
Wheel
Man, startled, jerked his nine out of the cigar box on the seat
beside him, said, “Yeah. Got to, man. Ain't no other way.”
Mildly, “Uh, could you please state the nature of your emergency?”
Dude
cracked up, guffawed, giggled, then belly laughed again. Thrust the
big gun back in the holster and rared back, grinning.
“Keep
it handy, buddy. You just might need it, where we're going.”
Laughed again, chuckled.
“Okay,
you got your shit; I got mine. We ready to ride. What's it all about?
I mean, just tell me what I need to know, but, hey, man, make it
sudden. Gotta know something about all this here...”
“OK,
I'm a lawyer.” There was a question mark in his inflection.
“Prosecuted these Jakes – know what I mean when I say Jakes,
folks from Jamaica, y'see – for a string of gang killings over in
Fair Park – gan'sta' types - and then I got out of that side
of it. I'm in the defense bar, now, cause it pays so much better.
Okay?”
“Keep
talkin'.”
“Pays
cash, you dig? Hey, need to know. You got anything against going to a
crack house? How 'bout it?”
Tom
Sawyer, the eternal frat boy, out on a lark, a scavenger hunt, some
kind of ridiculous down-by-the-riverside adventure only he and the
brethren admitted to the inner sanctum could fathom.
“Gotcha.
We rolling, Counselor.”
“Now,
you're talkin'.”
Across
the bridge, down the freeway in the moonlight gleaming on the glass
towers and gaudy outline of the jut jaw, lead-with-the-chin gambler's
town, and then, leaving John Wayne behind, rolling into the shabby world of little clapboard houses and
convenience stores, empty streets and intersections with slowly
cycling green, yellow and red lights, the occasional cat scampering
across the way and manholes spouting misty vapors.
The
lawyer sat and jabbered, jicking and jiving about whatever, raving
about houses with steel doors and little slots to peep out of,
houses located in the middle of city blocks you couldn't drive
straight to, but located in the middle of warrens of right-angled
turns on hilltops with elevated porches and anything else to slow down the
rivalry of cops and gun-toting raiders from other outfits, hell-bent
and murderously intent on grabbing that money.
He
laughed – nervously – his rant coming like choruses of jazz horn
glissandos and arpeggios punctuated with percussive piano and drum
licks. The wheel man glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse
of the dude idly adjusting his glasses, looking out the windows fore
and aft, side to side, apprehensive, hyperalert, hypervigilant,
rabbit ready and nervous as hell.
Turn
here, turn there, passed the two dudes on opposite corners with cell
phones in their hands, slow down - let me look here for a minute.
Okay, pull in to the curb.
Dashed
out of the passenger side and across the street from the little
pocket park, up the steep steps of the old prairie house with the
wrap-around porch, to the solid steel door where he squatted down
beside the narrow slot and got busy taking stacks of bills and
counting them, stuffing them in the pockets of the jean jacket.
Wheel
Man watched, sweating, tuned taut as a drum and uptight for any sudden move or sharp sound, the
motor idling. Waited. Wanted to haul ass, but knew better.
Dude
came jogging back across the street, chuckling, and said, “Step on
it, hoss. Let's gedda-fug-ouda-here.”
The
Wheel Man drove, zigged, zagged out of the strange little
neighborhood and back to the cross street leading to the freeway,
only slowing for stop signs, coasting through signal lights.
Dude
leaned back in the seat, snapped his fingers as if suddenly
remembering something, and leaned forward with another 50 in his
fingers.
“Good
job. Just get me back, back to the place.” He chuckled again.
“You
wouldn't believe it, but did you know everybody in that house is
nekkid? Buck naked? Huh?
“Know
why?”
How
come.
“Cause
they can't carry anything away when they finish their shift in there.
No money, no rock, no nothin'. Crack house!” They both
roared.
Very well written. So is this fiction or based on something that actually happened?
ReplyDeleteThe events described herein occurred so far in the past that the point is moot, Halcion. - The Legendary
ReplyDelete