I get called to the Hi-Nabor Buffet at 2801 Wyoming Street, said the second cabbie, mustached, fifty, which sounds like a restaurant but is mostly a bar. It’s just after ten A.M. and they‘re drinking bourbon.
They have some metal luggage, a footlocker and a suitcase. I go out and put them in the trunk but they are so heavy I can hardly lift them. Steve asks me to take him to buy a used car. But the woman, who is drunker than he is, says, ‘No, take us to the bus station downtown.’
I take them to the Greyhound Bus Depot at Broadway and Delmar. Help them unload the luggage. The fare is a buck twenty-five. He pays with two one-dollar bills and lets me keep half a dollar. This is around 10:35 A.M.
I picked them up outside the bus station at 10:45, a round-faced young colored cabbie said, no more than twenty-five, and they were arguing but I can’t tell you about what. I had to load a couple of heavy pieces of luggage in my trunk, a footlocker and a metal suitcase.
The guy had me drop them at Columbo’s Bar at 3132 South Kingshighway. They paused and seemed about to cross the street where there are a couple of used car lots. Then they made like a bee to honey into that bar, guy dragging the footlocker and the blonde lugging the suitcase. They could hardly manage it, heavy as that stuff was and drunk as skunks as they was.
Maybe two o’clock in the afternoon, the middle-aged heavyset cabbie said, I was in the Old Shillelagh Bar at 3157 Morganford Road, catching a few innings of the World Series — sixth and deciding game! Yankees beat the Dodgers four to three.
Guy sat down next to me... Huh? No, he didn’t have a woman with him. Watched a while, had a drink or two; said his name was Steve Strand, like that was a big deal. Musta noticed my cap, because he said, ‘You on duty? I can use a ride to Hampton Village.’ You know, the shopping center? He was looking for an appliance store, but neglected to say so. They don’t got one at Hampton Village, and Jesus, there’s one right across from where we was before at the Shillelagh!
I take him to Petruso Electrical Appliance and he buys a radio for twenty-eight bucks. Says he likes to keep track of the news. I say, yeah, I like to be up on things, too. He wanted a box for it but the clerk only had a box that was too big. That only made the guy happy. He said, ‘It swims in this one!’ A nut, this guy. And drunk, though not falling-down drunk. Just loosey goosey.
I drop him and his big box with the little radio on Arsenal Street, and good riddance.
No, I’m not with Ace Cabs — I’m with the Laclede Company, the driver said, Negro and older than the others, hair and mustache salt-and-pepper. But Mr. Costello here called my supervisor and I’m glad to help out.
I picked this Steve Strand fare up at the Squeeze Box tavern at 3225 Morganford Road. He was drunk. I would say very drunk. And he was free with his money in a way that could get him in trouble... How so? He got in, handed me a twenty-dollar bill, and said, ‘Just drive. Just drive around.’ Then, as I did that, he dozed off.
He woke up after five, perhaps ten, minutes. Said, ‘I’d like to have a girl. I don’t want to go to a whorehouse, understand! I want a nice girl.’
I told him I didn’t provide that kind of service. He handed me up a second twenty-dollar bill and... well, that’s a lot of money. I told him I could drive him downtown to a driver I knew who might help him. That pleased him.
On the way, he asked to stop at Arsenal Street. He said he had an apartment there. He had some sample cases he wanted to pick up — he was, he said, a salesman of some kind. Then he spotted a tavern, Brownie’s just east of Gravois Avenue on Arsenal, and told me to pull over. He wanted a quick drink. I waited for him. Then he went inside his apartment house and I again waited outside. He returned twice, first with a metal suitcase, then with a footlocker. Struggling with them.
We loaded up my trunk with them, or I should say I loaded them up — he was bent over catching his breath. How much did they weigh? The suitcase, thirty to thirty-five pounds. The foot-locker, forty to fifty pounds. He seemed very concerned about them, making sure they were locked.
We set out again, and I took him to the Jefferson Hotel, where I thought I might find Johnny Hagan. I knew that Johnny had several girls he, uh, worked with. He was happy to take Steve off my hands, and helped me load that heavy luggage in his own trunk.
Next in was a broad-shouldered, black-haired lady-killer about five ten, his handsome, five o’clock-shadowed features compromised only by a scar through his upper lip. He wore the cap of his trade with triangular ACE CAB patch, a black leather zippered jacket, a yellow shirt with a red tie, pleated wide leg pants, and black-and-white wingtips.
Costello said, “This is Johnny Hagan, Nate.”
Hagan came over, took his cap off with his left hand and offered his right. Without getting up, I shook it and nodded. He pulled up another wooden chair and angled it toward me. While Hagan spoke, Costello made a muffled phone call, keeping his voice down, but I caught it: “Yeah, he’s here... Filling him in... Yeah... Yeah.”
There’s a few girls I work with, Hagan said, but the best of ’em is Sandy O’Day. Smart and good-looking and honest for, you know, a doxy. Perfect for a big spender like this Steve character.
I pick her up at her apartment over on North Ninth Street, and she gets in back with Steve and they hit it off fine. I take ’em to McNamee’s Bar at 2500 St. Louis Avenue for a couple of drinks, beer for Steve and me, highball for Sandy. The only thing that gives me, you know, pause was he had a bulge in his right-hand coat pocket. Might be a gun, so suddenly I think maybe my fare’s a vice cop.
I follow him to the can and at the urinals, I say, ‘Steve, I’m only fixing you up with Sandy as a favor. You wouldn’t return a favor by busting me, would you? I mean, you aren’t a cop, are you?’
‘Johnny boy,’ he says, ‘if you knew the truth, you’d know just how wrong you are.’
Back at the bar, he pays for the drinks with a twenty and pushes the change across the table to me, and says, ‘Here, it’s all yours.’ Which is when I realize I better not let this angel fly away.
I decide to take Steve and Sandy to the Coral Court Motel, where a lot of us hackies got an arrangement. We make a couple of stops — a drugstore for Steve to buy some shaving gear, then a liquor store for some bourbon and cigarettes. After that Steve gives me five twenties, saying, ‘Here’s some money on account.’
I get them checked in at the Coral Court around five. Registered as Mr. and Mrs. Robert White of Chicago. I help them haul that damn footlocker and suitcase up to room 49-A on the second floor. I hang around a while. We have some drinks, some laughs. Steve talks about how he likes to go on benders for three or four days at a crack. How it’s nothing to him to spend two or three G’s on a good time.
That footlocker and suitcase are just sitting on the floor by the wall. Steve goes over and cracks open the suitcase and pulls out a fistful of bills. Sandy and me can see in for a second and it looks like the damn suitcase is jammed with money. Steve goes over to the bed and starts counting what he grabbed, but is too drunk to make a go of it. He has me do it and it’s $2,480. He takes a twenty from his pocket and makes it an even $2,500, and says, ‘Johnny, hold onto this for me.’