Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [3]
I know they are too drunk and too cocky to eyeball the final tally. Good thing, too, because they leave behind a five-dollar tip and some change. When one of them asks for directions to Washington Avenue to hail a cab to Center City, I send him south instead of north, deeper into darker territory not so friendly to their kind. But hey, they said they were looking for an authentic Philly experience. I am just making sure they get what they asked for.
So, I’m standing at the curb, weighing my options, when a car pulls up, splashing filthy rain water over my sneakers.
Now, I know better than to jump into a car with a near stranger, but it’s raining hard, in the way only a summer night in Philadelphia can deliver—appearing out of nowhere, flooding the sidewalks, sending Styrofoam cups and discarded cheesesteak wrappers from Pat’s careening in a river of water down the curb. Lightning cracks the sky like the end of the world is right around the corner. And I see from his crag-nosed profile that I do sort of know this guy—he’s the uncle of a kid I used to sleep with. Uncle Tony (one of many Uncle Tonys in this part of town). And a former regular at Ray’s before Lou, Ray’s son and the owner, banned him from setting foot in the place ever again.
He sits in his big maroon Chevy Cadillac, a fat man with a salt-and-pepper crew cut wearing a too-big, shiny Eagles T-shirt. The passenger window rolls down. “Hey, doll,” he says. “Get it the car. You’re soaked.” I hesitate. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t be stupid. It’s not like I’m some douche bag from Trenton you never met before.”
I check the street again. The back of my T-shirt smells like a cigarette butt after eight hours of serving cheap beer and shots. It sticks wetly to my back. What the hell. I get in the car. He has the heater running full blast, which I appreciate. The interior is a deep plush maroon and stinks of stale cigars and cheap cologne. “You South?” he asks.
“Yeah, just drop me at 8th and Morris, and I’ll hop out.” A rosary hangs from the rearview mirror with a sad-looking Jesus dangling forlornly on the end.
“Hey, let me ask you something.” The car idles. “You hear what happened to my nephew Johnny?”
I shake my head. I haven’t seen or thought of Johnny in a couple of weeks, not since I kicked him out of my bed.
“Smashed by the 147. No helmet, not that it woulda mattered. Run him over while he was on his bike. F-ing SEPTA buses.” He drums his pudgy fingers on the steering wheel. “No chance even for any last words.”
“Jesus, sorry, Tony.” Too vain to wear a bike helmet. I am starting to remember more about Johnny now. His long curly hair was one of his best features. Though I could be remembering one of the others. They blur together after a while.
“Yeah, well, what can you do?” Uncle Tony doesn’t seem that busted up about it. “He left his journals behind though. You ever read them?”
“No.” I am starting to think it’s time for me to take a pass on the ride and be on my way.
“He ever talk to you about a key? He leave one at your place? I’m wondering, because in his journals he hints a lot about where this key might be. It’s the one that opens that garage across the street. Where he stores his bikes, right?” The car begins to feel a little too warm. I see that I’ve made a mistake accepting this ride. Maybe a big one.
I grab the door handle. The automatic lock clicks shut. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you lunatic. Let me out of here.” I remember now why Lou banned him for life from the bar. He’d started a brawl one night about the lack of paper towels in the men’s room.