nearly a complete stop, the officer behind the wheel scrutinizing me closely. I tucked the newspaper under my arm and moved with my own high degree of alacrity.
Hunger comes.
I drove my car into theFrances Street parking ramp, ducked down and waited for nearly an hour until distant footsteps drew my attention. At the far end of my row, a rather mercantile looking fellow in a gray pinstripe suit unlocked a large, black sedan. Quickly, I dematerialized, then rematerialized in the front passenger seat just as he opened the car door. Astonishment flashed across his face for a moment before my gaze met his.
In less than five minutes, I was in my car, leaving the ramp, having satisfied my hunger, but felt dismay over the clumsiness of the action.
For obvious reasons, I followed the stories closely, but found it increasingly difficult to find an available newspaper in the usual newspaper boxes. Thus, it became a ritual to buy the first morning paper from a dispenser immediately following shift's end instead of waiting until the next day when there would be none available. Sometimes, I would lie in wait, watching for the distribution person to refill the box. Then, I would take my newspaper and read in the moonlight.
The killings became an obsession for all ofMadison and quickly provided a bonanza for all ofMadison 's cab drivers. And, as if the heightened demand was not sufficient, cab business increased further when theUniversityofWisconsin started providing free cab rides for students after dark.
Publicly, the university was able to use the "U-Ride" program as a means to provide positive publicity for itself due to its quick response to a dire situation.
However, we cabbies knew better. Negotiations had commenced weeks before the first absurdly alliterated headline appeared in the newspaper. Having cut funding to a volunteer-based night-ride program for women, the university realized it had to provide a replacement, and this gave them the incentive to bring that notion to fruition.
Despite this monetary boon, I was ready for flight at first provocation. As it turned out, supreme good fortune was mine. Frank's disappearance interested no one; not a single constable visited Co-op Cab with questions as to his whereabouts. The only observed comment was placed anonymously on the sign bearing Frank's name under the heading "No charges, no advances." Next to his name, someone wrote, "abducted by aliens."
But what of the boy?
A few days after the news of the boy hit the papers, there was a call at the Silver Dollar, yet another of the many saloons off theCapitol Square . Dexter had said it was for a driver. Actually, it was three drivers. Shortly after pulling alongside the bar's picture window, Paul Davis, Jane Peronowski and Ken Singleton emerged.
I knew the trio somewhat. They all drove Friday nights and were members of the infamous "Saturday Morning Beer Drinking Committee," an aggregation of late-night drivers who, after shift's end, would drink beer in the driver's room and discuss cooperative politics, posting their unusually creative proclamations on "Democracy Wall" before departing. They often urged me to join their committee, but of course, I do not drink beer, and their meetings would usually last until well after dawn.
"Oh, no!" Ken shouted when he climbed into the front seat. "It's the Count! It's Count Farkus!"
"Run for your lives!" Jane shrieked. Paul screamed loudly. The other two joined him, their throaty shouts filling my cab with their beer-and-whiskey-tainted breath.
Finally, they stopped screaming, their shrieks replaced by near-hysterical laughter.
"Where may I take you?" I asked, simply acting indifferent to their rude behavior.
Jane was the first to regain some semblance of composure, reporting that they were going to the Club DeWash.
"Careful," Ken said. "It's the Count. Who knows where he'll take us or what he'll do to us."
"Yeah," Paul added, "he got that kid. Count, man, you shouldn't be leaving your leftovers lying around."
Hide in plain sight?
"Shut up, you assholes," Jane rebuked. "C'mon. Let's leave Al alone so we can get moving. We've already missed the opening bands. I don't want to miss any of Killdozer."
"No big deal," Paul said, "missing Art Paul Schlosser."
"But if we miss just one note of one Killdozer song," Jane said, "I'm gonna cut your brake lines."
"Won't matter after the Count's done with us," Ken said.
Without a word, I turned the cab around and proceeded toward the Club DeWash. By then, Paul and Jane were finally quiet. Ken began singing in a deep, gravely voice.
"Was that Killdozer?" I asked.
"Yeah," Paul said. "A song called, 'The Puppy,' about