Spitting Off Tall Buildings Part 9

That's when we settled up.

A lot of cab drivers I knew carried weapons; guns or mace or pepper spray. I didn't. I carried a baseball bat under my front seat. A Louisville Slugger.

I walked up quickly. The other guy was looking down, still filling out his trip record. I attacked his window. Slam! Slam! Slam! putting a million spiderweb cracks in the windshield's safety gla.s.s. Then I did the back and the side gla.s.s.

There would have been no witnesses too because the p.r.i.c.k couldn't see me through the opaque gla.s.s, and he was too shocked and scared to do anything about it but, as I was getting back into my cab, looking around, I recognized one of the drivers from my garage waiting alone in his cab at the hack stand in front of the Pierre. He saw me too, then he looked away.

A couple of nights later I was checking out with Shorty Smith, leaving the dispatch window, counting my tips, when Al Bridhoff patted me on the back. 'Hey, "Batman,"' he said. 'Take it slow out there tonight.'

There were a dozen guys standing around the shape-up room. They all laughed. From then on I had a new name at the Rodney garage.

Chapter Eighteen.

THE GOOD PART was that hacking kept me constantly busy. I was making money. I'd acquired a new electric typewriter to work on my play, a color TV.

Then something happened that triggered something else that put me over the edge: Shorty Smith had graduated me to what in the taxi business they call a 'single' - one long twelve- to fourteen-hour shift. No night guy. Just me. I was allowed to choose my own time slot; 7 a.m. to 7 p.m., six days a week. Sundays off.

It was early June, 8:30 a.m., drizzling a smelly rain in stop-and-go traffic. I was maneuvering my cab back up Eighth Avenue in the Thirties after a drop at Penn Station, staying to the east side of the street, barely making the staggered lights, preparing to avoid the stampede of commuters who would be flagging me down as I approached the Port Authority Bus Terminal at Thirty-ninth Street.

The cab was sweltering. A morning summer rain had made the humidity worse. The Dodge's temperature gauge showed three-quarters to the bright orange/red 'HOT' area. Already the back of my shirt was wet with sweat, stuck to the seat.

My plan at that time of the morning was to make my way empty uptown into the Seventies on Central Park West, get my next fare, drop them in midtown or downtown, then repeat the process. Uptown downtown, uptown downtown, until the end of rush hour.

After I pa.s.sed Forty-first Street, traffic opened up. Rolling by the commuter hotels more frantic hands waved at me; a whistle blew from a red-faced doorman. I slowed but when I saw garment bags and suitcases stacked next to the guy on the curb, I punched the gas pedal again. No airport runs. Not at rush hour. It would mean a dead hit all the way back from Kennedy.

Crossing Forty-fifth and Eighth, a black guy stepped out from between parked cars, hailing me. I let up on the gas to check him out. A second guy, behind guy number one, was on the curb carrying an A & P shopping bag filled with groceries. The two looked like working men. Hotel employees. The night shift. I guessed their destination as Harlem or Washington Heights. It could be a parlay. Perfect. I'd drop them uptown then catch a long hit back down into midtown. So, flicking my 'OFF DUTY' light off, I pulled over.

But they'd been in the taxi for under a minute when I knew; the first guy did the talking, flat, inflectionless: 'One-eighteenth and Manhattan Avenue.'

I threw the meter flag and twisted my way back into traffic, but I knew. Cab drivers know. My groin and stomach suddenly felt like they'd been punctured by the dirty blade of a pocket knife. This was a hold-up. These guys were going to do me.

My brain clicked to the word 'f.u.c.k' and screamed it at me over and over.

Guy number one, the talking guy, was sitting directly in back of me. He leaned forward against the plastic part.i.tion to give more instructions. 'Into the park,' he said. 'Go in at Fifty-ninth Street. Come out uptown. Hundred and tenth street. Lenox Avenue...understand?'

I saw his eyes locked on me in the rear-view mirror. Dead eyes. Dead face. The gray lips moved but beyond that movement there was nothing alive. Guy number two stayed silent, staring at the back of the front seat. I knew it. I was f.u.c.ked.

The route that number one had told me to take was circuitous, the long way. It was the way I would choose if me and another robber sc.u.mbag had decided we were going to take off a cabbie. By going his way there would be no interference. The uptown Central Park roadway was abandoned in morning rush hour. The fear that had jabbed my guts now worked its way up into my chest and down my arms.

'That's the wrong way,' I mouthed. 'Eighth Avenue and up Central Park West is the best way. Faster.'

Again Dead Face leaned up against the open part.i.tion window; a pull-cord zombie doll. 'Yo,' he hissed, 'jus take the f.u.c.king park. Jus do what I say...take the park.'

Two blocks later we reached the turn-off entrance to the park at Fifty-ninth Street. I knew that if I entered the northbound drive there would be no chance for me at all. I chose not to turn, instead steering around the monument at Columbus Circle and heading north on Central Park West.

'Man,' came the voice from behind me, 'what's your f.u.c.king problem?'

'I told you,' I came back, 'the park is the wrong way.'

'Pull-the-f.u.c.k over, man. Do it...Stop here!'

We were between Sixtieth and Sixty-first streets on Central Park West. I rolled up beside a line of parked cars while my two pa.s.sengers exchanged whispers.

What they did after that seemed ch.o.r.eographed. They both got out at the same time. The one on my side, Dead Face, took up a position by my driver's window while the other dude moved to the front pa.s.senger door and began miming for me to roll the gla.s.s down further.

Dead Face talked across the roof of the cab to number two, sneering; 'Pay this motherf.u.c.ker, man. Let's get us another cab.' Their A & P groceries bag was still on my back seat.

Then I had the thought that I might be wrong, that guy number two at the pa.s.senger window was standing there intending to pay me, dealing straight. I saw his hand go into his pants pocket as if to get his money and an automatic reaction made me glance at my meter then call out the fare: 'Two fifty.'

Later on, as I went over and over the incident in my brain, I realized that that was the moment the f.u.c.kers had me. It was a move, a feint, all part of the score. I'd been distracted. The idea was for me to take my eyes away from Dead Face.

A second later his knife was at my throat, his body leaning in through the window blocking the view of pedestrians, people in other cars.

His sweet breath was on my cheek and forehead. 'My man,' he whispered, 'make one f.u.c.king sound and you die!...Anything stupid and you die.'

I didn't move. I didn't talk.

My paper money was kept in a cigar box on the seat, my coins in my steel change-maker attached to the car's dashboard.

Then I saw the second guy's weapon. A gun. Short. A small-caliber automatic.

The whole deal lasted a few seconds. The blade of the shank stayed pressed tightly against my neck while number two crawled across the seat, shifted the cab's transmission up into 'park', turned the engine off, removed the car keys, and threw them out the door. Then number two scooped out my cash from the cigar box on the seat and unfastened the change-maker.

Dead Face took my wrist.w.a.tch. A cheap watch. That done, he reached down and worked my wallet up and out from my rear pants pocket.

Then he traded weapons with the other guy and pressed the muzzle of the little pistol hard to the side of my head. 'Face down on the seat, motherf.u.c.ker. One word and you die.'

I hesitated for a second because I knew that if they had made plans to kill me it would happen while I was in that position. The feeling of the pressure of the gun's muzzle digging into my temple took a week to go away.

They exchanged whispers and then I felt something else, a pressure, like being poked, but no pain.

Then they were gone. Down a subway entrance or over the wall into Central Park.

That's when I saw the blood. Soaking my sleeve and the right side of my shirt. On the seat. Two separate fat red streams coursing around the sides of the empty cigar box then pooling where the front seat cushions come together.

I didn't feel hurt. I felt nothing, only electricity in my arms and the hammering of my heart in my chest.

In the rear-view mirror I located my cheek and neck, then reached back to the source of the injury; a two inch gash, high on my neck behind my right ear. Not a big cut. It didn't seem that deep either. But the blood flowed freely, quickly covering my palm and fingers.

I held the hand out to study it. The red stream looked as thick as motor oil. Fat drops fell on the vinyl seat below.

I was sitting on the curb near the open rear door of my cab, smoking, talking to the police, holding a thick wad of gauze up to my head to soak up the blood while I waited for the ambulance. One of the cops noticed the sack of A & P groceries still on the back seat. 'Theirs?' he asked.

I nodded.

The other cop pulled the bag out of the car. When he saw how light it was, he cackled. The three of us looked inside. On top, sticking out above the rim of the bag, were a milk carton, an egg box, a cornflakes box, and a cardboard orange-juice container. All empty, either taped closed or upside down. Beneath the upper layer of decoys was twelve inches of wadded up newspaper.

The one cop sneered. 'Pretty slick.'

'Yeah,' said the other cop, 'slicker than s.h.i.t.'

Chapter Nineteen.

IT TOOK TWELVE st.i.tches to sew my head up. After the Emergency Room I was prescribed Fiorinal with codeine for pain, Valium to calm me down. I asked for refills so they gave me one each.

The hold-up changed me. I trembled involuntarily several times a day but I knew I'd get over that. The big change was that I had completely stopped giving a s.h.i.t. I now drank without any moderation whatever.

The union rep from the Rodney garage came by my rooming house with medical forms. It was nine o'clock in the morning. I was blasted and stayed blasted. The next day someone else from the taxi company delivered a payroll check to my room. Two weeks of union-approved medical leave. $515.

Black sludge began seeping into every part of my brain. I stayed as drunk as possible and ate the Valium and Fiorinal.

The garage union guy came back with more forms. I knew he was there. Outside my door. Knocking. Calling my name. I didn't answer. He left more envelopes and papers with Bert, the rooming-house manager.

I was filling a deep hole. Every day a fifth by lunchtime, from the bottle, like medicine. My goal was 'numb.' The whiskey worked good.

A week went by. Then two.

My shaking was gone but I knew there was no way I would ever drive a cab again. I was done.

On Seventh Avenue in Times Square there was an Oriental Ma.s.sage that employed all Korean girls - thirty bucks for the hour. The secret to Korean ma.s.seuse hookers is the tip; the more you tip the girl the more she does. I always gave a twenty-dollar bill as soon as I got in.

I'd come in drunk but not too drunk. My girl called herself Sandy. A wonderful s.l.u.t. Sandy's American was lousy but she liked drinking with me, loved sweet wine. That and the twenty-dollar tip and she would do anything, lick me wherever I wanted. Anything. As much as I wanted.

Her shift began at one in the afternoon every day so that's the time I would show up. Being first was important to me. I always wanted to be her first.

Even that stopped working.

Chapter Twenty.

THE UNION GUY told me that my first Temporary Disability check would come any day. But I was in trouble, overpowered by depression. It wouldn't go away. Now it didn't matter how much alcohol I drank, I could no longer get drunk. All it did was dull me, make me slow-witted, but not drunk.

At night until four or five o'clock or until I could doze off, I'd watch TV; re-reruns of day-time talk shows, mindless bunk. Fat people who had f.u.c.ked other fat people's sisters or aunts or best friends coming on TV to confess and scream. The best part was the commercials, the home gadgets and infomercials. Exercise gadgets and diet machines invented by guys who'd written books and knew everything.

SEA-MATION is a service I'd see advertised all the time. The gimmick is cremation plus burial at sea. All in one: is a service I'd see advertised all the time. The gimmick is cremation plus burial at sea. All in one: SEA-MATION SEA-MATION. A fellow with a grey toupee gives the pitch while they continue flashing the 800 phone number of the company on the bottom of the screen.

SEA-MATION had a sale going, a 'pre-need special.' Ordering now saved you ninety-nine ninety-five. One week only. had a sale going, a 'pre-need special.' Ordering now saved you ninety-nine ninety-five. One week only.

I called the flashing 800 telephone number. 'h.e.l.lo,' the voice said. 'SEA-MATION, Mike speaking. May I have your area code first, then your telephone number...'

I was using the rooming house's hall pay phone but I gave him the number anyway.

'Your name, sir?'

'Bruno...Bruno Dante. D...A...N...T...E.'

'Thank you for calling SEA-MATION SEA-MATION, Mr. Dante. How may I a.s.sist you this morning?'

'I saw your commercial on the TV, Mike.'

'Our pre-need special, "Pa.s.sage to Serenity." Five hundred and ninety-nine dollars?'

'Yeah...the one on TV. The sale.'

'I'll need to get some preliminary information, Mr. Dante. Do you have a few minutes to do that with me?'

'That's why I called. I'm an interested caller, Mike.'

'Well, good, sir. Excellent...Now, would our services be for yourself or a family member?'

'The services would be for me, Mike. Myself. Bruno.'

'Thank you for considering SEA-MATION SEA-MATION to sustain you in your final resting arrangements, Mr. Dante. Pre-need planning, of course, is the sensible and economical option to the high cost of a sudden-need situation. Most importantly, pre-need planning eliminates confusion for your survivors at what can be a very anxious time, as I'm sure you would agree.' to sustain you in your final resting arrangements, Mr. Dante. Pre-need planning, of course, is the sensible and economical option to the high cost of a sudden-need situation. Most importantly, pre-need planning eliminates confusion for your survivors at what can be a very anxious time, as I'm sure you would agree.'

'I agree, Mike...Let's keep going.'

'Now, about the specifics of your requirements, Mr. Dante?...'

'Go ahead, Mike. Go ahead and ask.'

'Is there a time factor involved in scheduling your pre-need, Mr. Dante?'

'What time factor, Mike?'

'I'm sorry...I wasn't being clear...What I mean is, have you been advised as to how soon you'll be needing services?'

'When I'm going to die?'

'Yes, sir. That's correct.'

'Okay. I see...Tomorrow, Mike. Tomorrow morning.'