Nobody's Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    "Where you coming from?" I asked, once we were on the highway heading south.
    "Mississippi," she said.
    "Good trip?"
    "A funeral."
    "Oh. Sorry."
    "Long time coming," she said.
    The address was in the heart of Englewood. But most of the neighborhood--like so many other neighborhoods on the South and West Sides--was pretty much gone. Half the buildings had disappeared. There were drug dealers and gangbangers on the corners. But the old woman lived in the middle of the block, in a well-kept six flat, with a sturdy looking gate out front.
    Ten dollars on the meter. She gave me thirteen.
    "Thanks very much," I said, and started to open my door. "Let me help with your bag."
    "No. No. You stay right there." She got out, then reached back for the bag. "Don't pick anybody up out here," she whispered. "Lock your doors. Go straight back to the highway."
    I locked the doors, waited until she was through the gate, then I followed the rest of her advice.
    I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way back to the Loop, then wandered around for a while, trying to stay away from the worst of the traffic.
    I made a short hop from LaSalle Street to Union Station. The black guy was nowhere around.
    An older guy in a suit and tie flagged me on Wacker Drive. As we headed for Lincoln Park, he opened a newspaper. "They ought to give you guys shields," he said.
    "This job isn't bad enough," I said. "Now you want us to drive around locked up in little cages all day."
    "Whatever you say," he decided. $6.20 on the meter, I got $7.00.
    On Lincoln Avenue, a familiar-looking guy was standing at a bus stop holding a small gym bag. As I stopped for the light, he stepped off the curb and looked up the street
    for a bus, then decided the-hell-with-the-CTA and pointed a finger my way. I waved him over.
    "The Three-Six," he said, sliding in.
    "You going to work?" I asked.
    "Goin' to pick up the fucking cab," he said and he didn't sound very happy about it.
    "Maybe I'll get something to eat," I said.
    The Three-Six was a restaurant and cabdriver hangout just north of the Loop. There was a big parking lot that was often busier than the restaurant itself. If the dayman lived south and the nightman north, it was the perfect spot to drop the cab.
    "You always do nights?" the guy asked.
    "Yeah. How about you?"
    "It's all fucked up, man. You know that?"
    "Sure," I said. If you listened to some drivers everything was fucked up. They never made any money. If it was sunny they complained that people walked. If it rained they bitched that everybody stayed home.
    "I just can't do these nights anymore," the guy said.
    "I can't do the days." I knew how to bitch too. "I've tried but I can't deal with the traffic."
    "You'd rather get shot in the fucking head?"
    "I'm not sure," I joked.
    "I got kids, man," the guy said. "Ain't nothin' funny 'bout this shit. You got kids?"
    "Yeah."
    "Then you know what I'm talking about."
    "Sure," I lied. The truth was I didn't have a clue. I hadn't seen the afternoon edition of the morning paper yet.
    The meter was pushing five dollars when I pulled into the parking lot of the Three-Six and found an empty space between two Yellows. "Just give me a couple," I said.
    "Thanks, man," the guy said. He handed me three.
    Inside, I nodded my head at a few familiar faces then slid into a vacant booth. The waitress brought coffee. I ordered bacon and eggs.
    "It's all about body language," a loud voice behind me said. "The assholes always give themselves away."
    "But how?" a familiar voice asked. It was the rookie. He'd been on the streets for months but he was still a rookie.
    "Usually it's something about the way they wave," the loudmouth said. "Or the minute they open their mouth."
    "But they're already in the cab," the rook whined.
    "Don't pick up kids. That's the biggest thing. You see ghetto kids trying to flag a cab, you know something's wrong. You know they can't afford no ride. Let 'em take the CTA."
    "I hope you didn't order the special," a new