NON-FICTION
HAIR OF THE DOG
COLUMN 3, MID-80s
by
Caucus de Bourbon
GOTTA BE QUICK to make Last Call. Gotta know the roads and which alleys lead where. Traffic lights and one way streets make it tough. And late-night drug runs sometimes get fierce. They get hairy.
My favorite dive was on Market Street. On the way there I got flagged by two guys. I needed the cash so I took the fare. A short run. Round trip. Flat rate. Southeast.
"You a cop?"
"I'm a cabbie."
"You look like a writer."
His partner had a gold cuspid inscribed with something's initial jammed in his upper jaw. A "dog tooth," some called it, but he didn't take much to levity. "If you ain't no cop, home boy, let me hear ya say it."
"C'mon man, look at him, he ain't no cop."
"Say it!"
I didn't take to him. "I'm a writer."
The first was a hummer--even as he spoke he hummed. He jumped in the front seat with me, his partner the Tooth in back. They gave me the cross street. I jerked the meter flag around to nine o'clock. Hummer hummed and Tooth got quiet as we drove.
"Caucus, Miss Mary Maggie's waitin' for ya," said dispatch over the radio.
What you call a "personal," Miss Mary Maggie was old and survived on Social Security. She had a glass eye and wrecked her head with drink and some pathological fear of cab drivers, refusing to ride with anyone other than me or Skeeter after dark. Skeeter lived in his cab and suffered a pathological fear of Miss Mary Maggie. He liked the night action and drove till dawn, preferring to do so with his left wrist handcuffed to the steering wheel so's nobody could steal his cab without having to hack off his arm first.
"This is it," Tooth said.
"Slow down, driver," hummed Hummer. "Right here, right here."
"Man, turn the radio down, you're gonna wake up the neighborhood."
We stopped in the middle of a residential shit hole side street intersection cast in black and full of motion, a familiar spot requiring certain protocols. I cut the lamps and lowered the juice on the radio. My fares' windows came down and maybe a dozen-and-a-half faces swarmed in on us, pre-teen and older. A couple of them rode bicycles, lazily circumnavigating the cab, eyes darting, fretful, always coming to rest on the action inside.
Voices in the dark:
"Whatcha huntin', brother?"
"Taste?"
"Speed? You diggin' some speed?"
"Taste it man, taste it."
"Good stuff, man. Righteous vigor, brother."
"Whatcha want?"
"Smoke it, shoot it, blow it--I got it."
"See me some cash."
"Talk to me."
"Taste it!"
No discretion to these deals. All in the open. Flagrant, fast, happening. Only time to be alert. Be responsive. Ready to roll.
"Cabbie, got some smoke--some good smoke. Blow you away."
These were the type of runs that were suppose to move swiftly. Settle on a price, pass the cash, slap a wad and roll on out. My radio crackled softly.
"Maggie's getting impatient, Caucus."
Not that I ever liked this business. I didn't like the runs, never liked the people on 'em. And this one was lingering too long. Growing stale. Getting nasty. I worked the fingers of my right hand around the hilt of the Bowie kept comfortably between my thighs, casual-like. Bar Break was getting near. Activity on the radio busied. Last Call was out if we didn't get a move on shortly.
I kept an eye on Tooth's activity in the back through the side-view, scrutinizing goods. Then, a sudden jolt, a blur, rocking the cab.
"Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!" Tooth barked. He pounded a fist on the seat. "Hit it, cabbie! Go! Go! Go!"
Hummer got frantic. "Floor it, mutherfucker! Get us outta here!"
Outside, bedlam all around. Scrambling and screaming. Stinging bits of glass as a bicycle crashed down on the windshield. Gunshot crack. Rubber squealing. A hard left and we were out of it, back onto Market. Back into The World.
It seems Tooth had swiped him a handful of dope. He did so without the benefit of paying for it. Quite pleased with himself was he as maniacal humming filled my ears.
"Go back downtown, driver."
Instead, I made an immediate left and brought us 'round once again to the unlit intersection where rage ran amuck.
"What're you doing?"
I locked the brakes and unlocked the doors. Tooth became voiciferous.
"No driver," he cried. "Don't! Don't!"
He and his colleague were plucked promptly from my cab. Been paid in advance so that was okay. Ever the diplomat, I made my exit and left further negotiation to the professionals.
"Caucus..." came dispatch.
I thumbed the mic. "On my way."
Last Call done and Bar Break long over, I arrived at the filthy dump where Miss Mary Maggie was waiting, found her giddily batting her glass eyeball along the bartop like a marble. That was okay, too. Sometimes she drank too much and it fell out.
With this, my final run, I called it a night. Sunup was coming and I wanted to miss it.
But I never do.