17.
Nothing in the road to lead him anywhere but the lights and veins of asphalt. Looking for a flag. Someone blazing somewhere. Over nights suited him better. Days harbor pain. The best way to escape it’s gravity was to ditch them altogether. Tony, fogged over. His beloved, beyond forever. His only child, boxed in cell block walls.
Neon smeared the streets. Tail lights tweaked. Brass and boards riffed over a jazz station. A flag to work the road. A meter popping digits. The Belt Parkway to JFK. Free at departures. Tony paced the service road. Scope the line-up for a rebound. If there were too many boys, he’d relay back. Side streets through Brooklyn and Queens. Sprint fares spooling meter tape, padding book. Back in town.
The depression moved him out of the game. Ignoring phone calls. Leo pissed with the act, cut the kid loose. The old man hung it up, peeling west. Arizona.
New blood moved in with their own guys. Leo’s buddy ran a gone fishing sale. Topped gas tanks a selling point. He hired a Mexican kid to scrub the leaked oil and fluid blotches.
A guy in a trench coat, fedora, and brief case flagged him. An upper west peel. Tony hooked Tenth Avenue, and paced a flush of green lights. A twelve block straight until they hit red. That’s when the back seat started in. The guy knew Tony from the old days.
The guy worked with Leo, and bent how he missed the old man and his friendly harem. With all that hot tail, Tony could only think of those darn togas guarding the gate. They started talking turkey. Names, jobs, who’s around, dead, or stirring in the pen.
The guy was involved in a job, looking for a driver. Pissed off with the outfit that took over. Moscow linked, and stubborn. The drivers, a bunch of big mouth, know nothing hacks. Stubborn meant arrogant. A bigger house on a higher hill. Not a city view, but a ritzy, more secluded hood. Butter our Rooskie balls. We buy and sell you, native scum.
Instead of statues, they had watch dogs. A rabid pack of Dobermans, choking in spiked collars. Trench dug into the art. Leo had heavy pieces in other wings. Those Warhol types were part of a rec lounge.
These guys have nudes in various sex positions. Lining the walls in a Caligula romp. This shit was in one of the dining rooms.
"Only a pack of gavones, animals, would call that art,"
Trench said. He got down to business, "Who the hell ever heard of a driver using a GPS on a fuckin’ job? And the jack-off still gets lost. I’ve had it with those guys. Where have you gone, Tony Scram?"
They goofed, talked, going back in time. Tony dumped Trench on West Side Avenue. He slipped Scram a contact number scribbled on a blank business card. Tony pocketed the digits, collected his fare, and shook hands.
It was time to make a move. Back to work, walkin’ that dog.
Even if he passed on the riff, he needed the juice. Clocking days would help him think straight. Enough wool socked away to get back in the game.
The dreaded withdrawal. Tony took himself off the cab roster, and pounded the next three days fighting the over night pull. The emotions, and contact. A junkie shooting detox. Three days of jet lag, then the final bender. Tony stayed up thirty eight hours straight, then crashed. He clocked it deep, snapping to a Six a.m. buzzer.
Refreshed, reborn. Scram hit a trucker's lounge, carving a grand slam breakfast. The works. Eggs, jacks, coffee. Tony turned it into a full course meal, and sit down. He poured over three newspapers in between plates.
He wrapped up, and thought about the old guy in the trench coat. Tony remembered the cat. Spunky. Knew his notch on the pole. Straight up. A grinder. Conservative scores. Solid. Might be the best ticket to kick things off. Tony took a deep breath, and fingered the business card. He scoped digits, and reached for his cell phone.