of his favorite sayings was the punchline to Lenny's joke: "I don't go south."
Fat Wally would pick up anybody and go anywhere but he was a special case. His front seat was pushed as far back as it would go and it was so bent out of shape that when you got in his back seat you found Wally sitting right there with you. There wasn't enough room to sit behind him. He'd stretch his huge arm along the back of the seat and it would be inches from the passenger's face. Wally had been driving for almost ten years and he'd never been robbed. But people were always ducking out without paying. There, Wally didn't stand a chance. It took him about five minutes just to work his way out of the cab.
"How come it's got to be a black guy?" Tony Golden wanted to know.
"Not a lot of white guys robbing cabs," Alex the Greek said from the second table.
"Shit," Roy Davidson disagreed. "They're the only ones ever get me. The last son-of-a-bitch was wearing a suit and tie."
"It's kind of hard to believe it was a white guy got the Polack into Cabrini," Willis said.
"You've got a point there," Tony Golden said.
I tried to tell them about my trip into Cabrini to Hobbie Street but they never let me finish.
"Eddie, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Willis interrupted.
"It was early," I tried to explain.
Tony Golden shook his head. "You ain't never gonna learn."
"Tony if you're so goddamn afraid, why don't you find another line of work?"
"Afraid? What do I have to be afraid of?" Tony shouted. "Nothing. 'Cause I stay right where I belong, and out of those shitbag neighborhoods."
"How many kids from Kansas can you stand?"
"What the fuck are you talking?" Willis wanted to know.
"Don't you get tired of tourists?"
"The trouble with you, Eddie," Ace started in, "you're still trying to work the old city. Forget it. The old city's gone."
"If it wasn't for tourists," Willis cut in, "we'd all be on welfare."
"The workable area of town is almost nothing," Ace went on. "It's a tiny little sliver. Figure it's from Irving Park down to the Loop, and from the lake maybe a mile inland. I'll bet the whole area ain't as big as Des Moines, Iowa. And that's how you've got to think of yourself. You're a Des Moines cab driver, and if you get a trip out west or south and you can't get out of it, it's like being in Des Moines and going out to the countryside. When you drop your fare, you lock your doors and head straight back to Des Moines. No fucking around in between. Somebody tries to flag you, you drive right by. Sorry, buddy, I'm a Des Moines cab. You better call one of them West Side cabs out here."
"Amen," Tony Golden said.
"I've been telling you for years, Eddie, you take too many chances."
"Yeah," I said, "The Polack used to tell me that."
"Eddie, you may think you're smarter than the Polack," Ace suddenly sounded pissed off, "but I'll tell you something, whoever got Lenny could have gotten any one of us. The Polack was one very street-smart hack."
Nobody said anything for a long moment.
"Hell, I remember one time " Fat Wally began.
But we never got to hear the story. "It's not so funny anymore, is it?" Paki Bob said.
"Don't start this up again," Willis said.
"It was all so funny when only foreign drivers got killed," Paki said.
"Come on, Bob," Ace said. "You know that's not true."
"My name is not Bob," Paki said.
"Yeah, well mine ain't Ace either but that's what everybody's been calling me for forty years."
"And I am not Pakistani," said Paki Bob, who was in truth a Berber from Algiers. When he'd first gotten in the business everybody had assumed he was Pakistani and someone had hung the nickname on him. By the time he'd had the nerve to correct them it was too late. This was the first time I'd heard him complain about the Bob part of his name.
"In my country," Paki said, "no one would ever kill someone for money. For politics maybe. For money, never."
Willis laughed. "In your country nobody's got any money."
"Oh, you lead such
Fat Wally would pick up anybody and go anywhere but he was a special case. His front seat was pushed as far back as it would go and it was so bent out of shape that when you got in his back seat you found Wally sitting right there with you. There wasn't enough room to sit behind him. He'd stretch his huge arm along the back of the seat and it would be inches from the passenger's face. Wally had been driving for almost ten years and he'd never been robbed. But people were always ducking out without paying. There, Wally didn't stand a chance. It took him about five minutes just to work his way out of the cab.
"How come it's got to be a black guy?" Tony Golden wanted to know.
"Not a lot of white guys robbing cabs," Alex the Greek said from the second table.
"Shit," Roy Davidson disagreed. "They're the only ones ever get me. The last son-of-a-bitch was wearing a suit and tie."
"It's kind of hard to believe it was a white guy got the Polack into Cabrini," Willis said.
"You've got a point there," Tony Golden said.
I tried to tell them about my trip into Cabrini to Hobbie Street but they never let me finish.
"Eddie, what the fuck's wrong with you?" Willis interrupted.
"It was early," I tried to explain.
Tony Golden shook his head. "You ain't never gonna learn."
"Tony if you're so goddamn afraid, why don't you find another line of work?"
"Afraid? What do I have to be afraid of?" Tony shouted. "Nothing. 'Cause I stay right where I belong, and out of those shitbag neighborhoods."
"How many kids from Kansas can you stand?"
"What the fuck are you talking?" Willis wanted to know.
"Don't you get tired of tourists?"
"The trouble with you, Eddie," Ace started in, "you're still trying to work the old city. Forget it. The old city's gone."
"If it wasn't for tourists," Willis cut in, "we'd all be on welfare."
"The workable area of town is almost nothing," Ace went on. "It's a tiny little sliver. Figure it's from Irving Park down to the Loop, and from the lake maybe a mile inland. I'll bet the whole area ain't as big as Des Moines, Iowa. And that's how you've got to think of yourself. You're a Des Moines cab driver, and if you get a trip out west or south and you can't get out of it, it's like being in Des Moines and going out to the countryside. When you drop your fare, you lock your doors and head straight back to Des Moines. No fucking around in between. Somebody tries to flag you, you drive right by. Sorry, buddy, I'm a Des Moines cab. You better call one of them West Side cabs out here."
"Amen," Tony Golden said.
"I've been telling you for years, Eddie, you take too many chances."
"Yeah," I said, "The Polack used to tell me that."
"Eddie, you may think you're smarter than the Polack," Ace suddenly sounded pissed off, "but I'll tell you something, whoever got Lenny could have gotten any one of us. The Polack was one very street-smart hack."
Nobody said anything for a long moment.
"Hell, I remember one time " Fat Wally began.
But we never got to hear the story. "It's not so funny anymore, is it?" Paki Bob said.
"Don't start this up again," Willis said.
"It was all so funny when only foreign drivers got killed," Paki said.
"Come on, Bob," Ace said. "You know that's not true."
"My name is not Bob," Paki said.
"Yeah, well mine ain't Ace either but that's what everybody's been calling me for forty years."
"And I am not Pakistani," said Paki Bob, who was in truth a Berber from Algiers. When he'd first gotten in the business everybody had assumed he was Pakistani and someone had hung the nickname on him. By the time he'd had the nerve to correct them it was too late. This was the first time I'd heard him complain about the Bob part of his name.
"In my country," Paki said, "no one would ever kill someone for money. For politics maybe. For money, never."
Willis laughed. "In your country nobody's got any money."
"Oh, you lead such
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