saloon bore a fond familiarity, it being the kind of place common in the forgotten areas of bigger cities, often near the docks, where one can take sustenance with utmost prudence.
An old man staggered forward. He was sinewy, his face weather-beaten, like he had slept 40 years in a sand storm. "Yeah, I'm comin'," he growled.
"See ya, Evan," the bartender said, showing teeth that, much to my surprise, were intact andnot rotted. "You take good care of Evan, ya hear?" I nodded, then held the door for my passenger.
"Where may I take you?" I asked once inside the cab.
"Paddy's Pub. At theEast Side Shop."
"Do you have a favorite route?"
"Well, back up a few feet ontoNorth Street , then turn left at the light."
"I am afraid I cannot do that legally, sir." Or at all. A line of cars sat at the intersection, just around the corner from the bar, making that prescribed maneuver impossible.
"Thenjust go around the goddamned block.I don't give a fuck." Quickly agitated, he spoke not with flow, but with single, clipped sentences, the beginning of each one punctuated by a sound not unlike a freshly spun top, with several grains of sand imbedded within the works.
"Right away, sir."
"Overhere to your right." We had traveled a mere quarter-mile east of Union Corners. "Rightin here.Right over there."
The fare was $1.75. He handed me a pair of sweaty, crumpled dollar bills.
"Keepthe fucking change.You probably need it more than I do."
"Thank you, sir." Yes, indeed. Thank you very much. Time to call my broker and order ten-thousand shares of my favorite blue-chip stock.
With a Neaderthal-like grunt, he was out of the cab and very quickly inside Paddy's Pub. I updated the radio and made the proper notations on my waybill, then consulted the list of official cab stands and was in for a pleasant surprise; the East Side Shop was an official stand. I hit my stand button, plucked Seutonius from the dashboard and resumed my reread ofThe Twelve Caesars while waiting for my next call. After all, Kern did say the cab stands were there to keep drivers from wasting too much petrol by driving aimlessly all over the city in search of fares.
According to my book, upon hearing that the Roman Senate had declared him a public enemy and that soldiers were near, Nero had decided to take his own life. He pressed a dagger to his throat, but could not complete the task that he knew would preserve the little that remained of his honor. A slave was about to help Nero come to an honorable end when the dispatcher interrupted.
Thirty minutes and 40 pages had passed. "Fifty, where are you?" The sweet-as-vinegar voice of the previous dispatcher had been replaced by the excited, high-pitched yodel belonging to none other than Dexter. I had met him during my training. As I was told, he was the full time graveyard dispatcher and had served in that capacity for quite a number of years. Or as he had said, "When the company moved into this building, I came with the place."
Dexter was a tall mass of protruding bones. His face was ruddy to the point of being lurid, and his most prominent Adam's apple would rapidly bob up and down when excited. I'd been told Dexter's knowledge of the city was downright arcane.
"East Side Shop," I replied.
"Well, you been sitting there awhile, fifty. The business is uptown. Do you wanna come up for a call or sit and wait for your inheritance?"
"All calls are good calls, are they not?"
Dexter laughed. "Fifty, come up to the Willy Bear."
"Where is that?"
"It's the old 'Jack of Diamonds.' At Few and Willy. Twelve-ten Willy."
"Ten-four." There was noWilly Street in the directory, but I presumed - correctly - that "Willy" was slang for Williamson, which runs northeast from East Wilson and South Blair to theYaharaRiver , making it another one of the four thoroughfares that cover the length of the Isthmus. And if I did have a problem finding the Willy Bear, at least this new voice over the radio would provide instructions without editorial comment; while the previous dispatcher croaked like an angry toad, Dexter chirped like a happy cricket.
After consulting the map, the Willy Bear proved quite easy to find. And the passenger was waiting outside the bar! And she moved quickly to the cab! And, when the fare ran $2.50, she handed me a five-dollar bill and told me to keep the change!