Speedy (Holman)/Chapter 8
"It's foolish you are to be goin' into the taxicab business," Ma Ryan lugubriously assured Speedy while he waited Danny's draining of his breakfast coffee cup in the Ryan kitchen the next morning.
"Why, Mrs. Ryan?" Speedy asked. He had arrived there before any of the Ryans were out of bed.
"It's risking your life to be drivin' around the way traffic is these days. Especially with half the drivers hoodlums and half-wits. And the turrible places you have to hang around to get your business—speakeasies and night clubs and such. Not to speak of the master brute of them all, this Jerry Moore that my Danny works for. We was girls and boys together down in Charleton Street and he was always a bullyin' one. He treats his help awful. With your careless ways, Speedy, you won't last half a day with him even if he gives you a job, which I doubt he will."
"Oh, lay off, ma," Danny yawned as he wiped his egg-stained mouth with a napkin and reached for his coat from the back of his chair. "Taxi drivin' ain't a bad life and Moore is all right if you're on the job. I don't believe you and him was such bad friends when you were young. At least he gave me a job right away when I told him I was Ellen Cassidy's boy."
"I didn't say we was enemies," amended Mrs. Ryan, a bit softened in mood by Danny's chaffing. He patted her cheek and kissed her. "Go long with you, now," she said. "And good luck to you, Speedy, though it's bad luck if you land the job with Jerry, I'm tellin' you."
"Got to hurry up," urged Danny when they reached the sidewalk. "I'm late. And Moore is a bear for having his men on time."
They walked briskly the three blocks to the garage of the Only One Taxi Co. The huge folding doors were open and the air was full of the smoke and noise of starting motors. They had to stand aside at the entrance to allow three or four yellow cabs to roar out. Once in, Speedy witnessed a strange ceremony. Each car, as it started on its daily round, was required first to speed up a sharply angled wooden runway on one side of the garage and come to a dead stop when halfway up the hill. Then it leaped forward again, proceeded at high speed over the top of the incline and down the other side. Halfway down, it once more came to an abrupt full stop and then was allowed to glide out into the street and on its way.
"Testin' the brakes," Danny explained to Speedy. "Taxi brakes always have to be workin' perfect. You'll smash up sure if they aren't. Moore insists on this test every morning before we go out and won't release a car if the brakes aren't O.K. All the big taxi companies work the same way."
They located Jerry Moore in his dinky little office. He proved to be a squatty red-faced man, with an unlighted cigar stuck at a belligerent angle in one side of his mouth. His striped shirt received full rein for the display of its brilliant hues because Mr. Moore wore no coat and his vest was unbuttoned. As if to compensate for this state of undress, a slightly soiled derby hat covered his head, concealing his baldness.
"Good morning, Mr. Moore," opened Danny.
"Hello, Ryan," said Mr. Moore in a husky voice that would have indicated approaching pneumonia in anybody else. "You're late."
"I was out digging up a man for you to take the place of either Daly or Angelo. This is my friend, Harold Swift. He's a good, experienced driver and he's anxious to work for you."
"He must be a pip if he's a friend of yours," was Moore's unflattering reply. He did not apparently notice Speedy's outstretched hand. "Ever drive taxi before?" This was shot at Speedy.
"No, sir, but I've driven all kinds of cars," said Speedy recklessly. "Driving automobiles comes natural to me."
"H'mm," grunted the taxi boss. "I've heard of those natural-born drivers before. Generally they land in the morgue. Say, are you the Swift that used to live with Pop Dillon? The one they call Speedy?"
Harold admitted it.
"How's Pop?" Moore asked with a softening of his usual harsh manner. "I heard he got beat up yesterday."
"He's all right. He's back on the car today."
"A great old guy—Pop," conceded Mr. Moore. "I wish I could have got a crack at the bozo that hit him." He manipulated the black cigar in his mouth silently for a few minutes. "Well, Swift," he finally opined, "probably you're a rotten driver and I'm a fool, but come on out and see what you can do. I'm willing to give any friend of Pop's a chance."
He led the way out into the garage. By this time only two or three taxis were left. Moore pointed to one of them.
"Get in," he told Harold. "Drive this 'bus over the incline and brake her coming up and down. Give her the gas too—like you was in a hurry in traffic."
Speedy climbed into the seat and grasped the wheel. The car was one of Moore's more ancient models. Speedy pressed the starter. The car burst into action with a terrific roaring of its motor and clouds of dark smoke.
"Advance your spark, you bum!" yelled Moore. "And don't give her so much gas."
Speedy obeyed. He manipulated the 'bus around to the front of the runway without any casualties. Then he shot the gas into her and fairly leaped up the incline. Halfway up, as ordered, he jammed on the brakes. But he did not throw them on heavily enough. The car started to slide back. Before he could stop it, it was off the runway and on the garage floor again. Without waiting for instructions, he tore up the incline again. This time he braked the car properly and went on over the top and attempted to stop her dead again. It wouldn't work. The flighty car kept on rolling and only within an inch or two of the side of the garage did Harold succeed in bringing her to a halt.
"Rotten," observed Moore. "You'll never make a decent driver."
"Aw, the brakes on that old 'bus are terrible," excused Danny.
"They ain't!" denied Moore sharply. "They were just taken up this morning."
Speedy saw his chances of becoming a driver for Moore going glimmering and looked very sad indeed.
"Give me another chance, Mr. Moore?" he asked. "I'll show you."
"Heaven forgive me but I will," said Moore. "Drive me around the block."
Moore climbed into the tonneau of the car. Speedy swung out of the garage at a snail's pace, resolved not to take any chances, and glided very slowly up the street far on the right side.
"What are you doing, falling asleep up there?" Moore yelled as they moved around the corner at about five miles an hour.
Speedy abruptly stepped on the gas, nearly flinging Moore onto the floor. The car picked up quickly, Within a few feet he was hitting up a terrific pace swinging in and out past trucks and other autos, tearing around the next two corners on two wheels and bringing the 'bus to a stop in front of the garage with a jerk that nearly tore her innards out.
"If I let you take that car out, you'll smash it and yourself too," said Moore grimly, alighting as if he was glad to be still alive.
"My father used to say I was the best driver he ever rode with!" offered Speedy, bringing every possible recommendation to his rescue.
"Who was your old man that he should know so much about driving cars," Moore asked scornfully.
"He was Speedy Swift, the Yankee shortstop."
"That so? As an auto driver, he was a swell ball player. I remember him. All right, in memory of the home run I saw your old man hit that won the pennant in 1905, I'll take a chance on you. But if anything happens to this car, it won't make any difference who your old man was. Your name is Mud and you're out!"
"O.K.," said Speedy joyfully.
"Take him down to the police and get him registered and mugged," Moore told Danny.
The two young men entered their cars and drove down to the Municipal Building without incident. In the traffic section of Police Headquarters, located in the basement of the building, a burly sergeant of police was interviewing applicants for taxi-driver permits. Speedy and Dan had to wait nearly a half hour for their turn. Finally Speedy was next.
"Speak right out and tell it to him," Danny advised. "The answer to most of the questions is, 'Report it to an officer.'"
The sergeant looked up grimly as Speedy stepped up in front of his desk. In a gruff voice he asked the boy his name, address and other details and inspected his license.
"What would you do if you were coming down a steep hill and both your foot brake and your emergency brake failed to work?" asked the cop suddenly.
Harold grinned. "I'd get out and jack up the car," he answered.
The cop half rose out of his chair. "What!" he roared.
"Oh, I was just kidding," Speedy hastened to add. "What I'd really do is throw her into reverse."
"Well, you don't want to attempt to kid me, young man. This is a serious business."
After a few more questions the cop reluctantly agreed that Speedy might at a stretch be entrusted with a taxicab. He was ordered to the next room to have his photograph taken. In another half hour Harold was again in his cab, the tonneau of which was adorned by a permit reading that Harold Swift was entitled to drive a taxicab and containing a bad picture of Harold and proclaiming to the world that this was a portrait of the driver and if anybody else was caught driving the cab a policeman should be summoned at once.
"Now you're all set, hey?" said Danny Ryan cheerfully, standing beside the proud Speedy as he reclined behind the wheel of his chariot. "Just follow me up to the Hotel Envoy. You're to take Tom Daly's old stand and work around that neighborhood there. It's a good hangout too. Plenty of juicy tips."
"Don't Babe Ruth and the rest of the Yankees stop at the Envoy when they're in town?" asked Speedy with sudden interest.
"Sure," said Danny. "But you won't tote any of them around. Most of those fellows drive their own cars."
"That's so," said Harold, disappointed.
Dan went back to his car and the two youths started slowly to proceed uptown together, keeping sharp eyes toward the sidewalks for possible fares. Dan was hailed by a corpulent gentleman almost immediately and swung in toward the curb. He waved his hand to Speedy and shouted "Good luck." And thus Speedy was embarked upon his new career, alone at last and feeling much like an aviator who had taken off in his first solo flight. Through the mirror attached to his windshield Speedy could see Danny swinging an are on Lafayette Street and heading back downtown.
For several blocks Speedy trundled on. He began to suspect that the vehicle assigned to him was not one of Moore's first string. It rattled and wheezed a lot and the motor gave forth choky sighs when he put it into gear after being stopped by traffic. Near Washington Square, Speedy detected a pair of middle-aged women beckoning him, and slid to a stop beside them. He had noticed them from far down the street and wondered idly why they had allowed three or four empty taxis ahead to glide by before hailing him. He held the door open for them and they sank heavily into the smelly leathern depths of his machine.
"Paramount Theatre," said one of his fares.
He knew from experience that the huge playhouse was not open at that time in the morning, but Danny had cautioned him not to argue with his passengers or offer unsolicited advice. He swung the flag on his taximeter and started.
A few blocks farther along, one of the women touched his shoulder and asked sharply, "Young man, are you the correct driver of this taxi?"
"Sure," grinned Speedy, risking the lives of all of them by turning around and facing her in the midst of a traffic jam. "I get you—the photo doesn't look much like me. I look different with the cap on. Us handsome fellows don't take a good picture."
He chuckled and resumed his driving, amused that his two passengers probably thought he was a gunman or an auto thief. With no further incident he brought them up smartly to the 43rd Street side of the Paramount Theatre. The two women got out and peered around in some confusion. At least they registered confusion, though to Speedy's mind, trained by the New York streets to be wary, it looked like acting.
"Are you sure this is the Paramount Apartments?" the harder faced one of the two women asked.
"No, ma'am, Paramount Theatre—where you asked to go," said Speedy promptly. Caution told him to get down on the sidewalk beside them, and he did.
"I certainly did not," the woman said sternly. "I said Paramount Apartments. I thought you knew where they were—Park Avenue near 49th Street."
"Jump in and I'll take you there," Speedy offered.
"No," said the woman. "We've wasted enough time with you. You've brought us clear out of our way now. With all this traffic it'll take another half hour to get over there. We'll walk. Moreover, since you've driven us wrong, we won't pay our fare."
"Oh, yes, you will," Speedy replied gently but firmly. "You said Paramount Theatre and I've brought you here."
"We won't pay. Come on, Maude."
Speedy laid a detaining hand on her arm. "Listen," he said. "You guessed right—I'm green at this taxi business. But I've been around New York a long time and I've got a friend who's driven taxis for five years. He says, 'When the customer won't pay, call a cop.' And there's one standing right there on the corner of Broadway. Shall I call him?"
The woman glared at him. She hesitated, then opened the handbag she was carrying on her arm. She examined its contents.
"Well, what do you know about that!" she ejaculated in simulated surprise. "I've come away without my money. I couldn't pay you even if you'd earned it. I haven't a cent."
"How about your girl friend?" asked Speedy, indicating the other woman.
"Oh, Maude hasn't any money. It was my treat."
"Then, I'm sorry but you'll have to bust the dollar you've got sticking in your glove," mildly suggested Speedy.
The woman shot a glance at him that was intended to freeze him to the spot. But she produced the dollar, the edge of which Speedy had detected protruding from her glove. He nonchalantly counted out her change. She thrust it into her purse and, head high, the two "ladies" hurried on their way.
"Thanks—and good-bye," Speedy sung after them. He swung up behind his wheel again. "Well, well, all kinds of dames to make a world," he chortled to himself as he turned his car around and headed across Broadway toward the Envoy.
The Envoy was one of the better class hotels located east of Broadway. Its thriving trade made it a profitable taxi rendezvous. "Stand for 4 Taxis" read the sign near its entrance. It already held its, full quota when Speedy arrived and the heavy traffic in the street made it impractical for him to edge in. Nevertheless he tried, blocking the entire street as he swung his cab broadside and tugged in toward the curb inch by inch. He was not allowed peace long.
"Hey, taxi!" yelled a policeman. "There ain't no room there. Get out! Drive around the block. Jump in the river. Do something."
Speedy complied by backing out and driving slowly around the block. He was rewarded by discovering when he returned that one of the four occupants of the space had found a fare. He eased in at the end of the line behind the other three. At the end of twenty minutes the last had become first. Then came the welcome whistle of the uniformed starter and Speedy jerked up to a stop in front of the carpet leading across the sidewalk from the Envoy door.
A young man and lady whose clothes and suitcases fairly cried aloud their newness invaded his chariot. The man helped his consort in very solicitously and refused Speedy's offer to take the suitcases in the front seat beside him.
"We want to go to the station," said the young man in embarrassed tones.
"What station?" asked Speedy patiently.
"Why, er—Grand Central. Sure—Grand Central."
"Don't mean Pennsylvania, do you?" Speedy asked, thinking Atlantic City from the looks of them and from the few tell-tale grains of rice that still lingered in the folds of the girl's hat. She was a pretty girl too. With a little break of luck this might some day be Jane and he, Speedy thought suddenly.
"Why, you get the Atlantic City train from Grand Central, don't you?" said the young man quite positively.
"Certainly—we always take it from there," offered the girl bravely.
"Don't worry, folks. Leave it to me," said Speedy cheerfully and drove them over to Sixth Avenue and safely to the Pennsylvania. He got a fifty cent tip for his pains. He helped them hand their bags to the porter and watched them following their Mercury. They walked a little pinchedly, due to their new shoes, evidently bought for the occasion. But the honeymooners were laughing and chatting and seemed supremely happy. Speedy sighed as he jammed his car into first speed and followed the stream of vehicles out from the tunnel into crowded Sixth Avenue.
At 38th Street a dark, thin young man, standing on the curb with a suitcase beside him, hailed him. Speedy drew up alongside.
"Give us a hand with this, will you," said the would-be fare in a low voice. Speedy wondered why a seemingly healthy person should be needing help with a single suitcase but he obediently took hold of the handle.
"Not there. Put your hand underneath. I'll give you a buck tip to take this up to 96th Street and Wellington."
Speedy lifted. The bag was abnormally heavy. Its contents gurgled. Speedy set it down with regret. The buck tip went glimmering.
"Sorry, mister, but I can't afford to carry that stuff," said Speedy. "I'm a green driver and a cop may hold me up any minute. Besides, general principles. Understand?"
"You're a sap," bit off the dark one disgustedly.
"I would be if I took that bag," agreed Speedy and was off with a wave of his hand.
The morning passed quickly. Speedy was kept busy. He transported old ladies to department stores and alert, nervous business men, who muttered unmentionable words at the roundabout routes the police forced Speedy's taxi to take, to business appointments. Some tipped him generously, some not at all. He had not yet learned to assume the characteristic cold, penetrating taxi man's stare when he was being paid that shamed patrons into handing out twenty-five cent largesses. He took them as they came, and thanked them. He enjoyed his jobs. Jolting around the New York streets in the open air, with the whole busy panorama of the city before him, was fun. People began announcing restaurants as their destination and, after dropping two chattering debutantes at Pierre's, Speedy discovered that he was hungry. He sought out a beanery on Sixth Avenue and parked his car outside. He bought a paper on the corner and walked in to the busy, aromatic depths of the hash house.
Several other taxi drivers were already occupying the chairs against the wall, chairs with one swollen arm on which steaming beans and coffee rested. Speedy ordered ham and eggs and coffee, bore his spoils to an unoccupied chair and looked around to see if he could find Dan Ryan. Dan had recommended this restaurant to him and said he would have lunch with him if he happened to be in the neighborhood. Evidently business had taken him elsewhere.
Speedy spread out his paper and started to read, dipping a fork into his repast as he did so. He was half-conscious of the hoarse-voiced talk around him.
"—so I said, 'Listen, if I drive you to Stamford I've got to be paid in advance. But if you ask me, I'll say I better take you to the Commodore and dump you there for the night.' And he says, 'Well, driver, use your own judgment.' So I takes him to the Commodore and gets him a room and he says,
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Speedy drives his idol, Babe Ruth, to the Yankee Stadium.
'You're a smart driver. Here's a ten dollar bill and keep the change.' And sure enough it was—"
"—wrapped it right around an 'L' pillar and left it there. Can you beat it? Wonder what the taxi business is comin' to, hey, with a bunch of gunmen and gyps drivin' the 'buses—"
"—sure, Knockout Grady, the heavyweight, the guy that was goin' to fight Dempsey. Sure, he's drivin' a Yellow now. Looks like a featherweight when he's crouched down back of the wheel. Guy got in an argument with him yesterday about the fare and offered to knock his block off. Grady uncoils himself from the wheel and gets out of the cab. 'You're welcome to try, mister,' says Grady, 'but in the interest of your family I think I should warn you that I'm Knockout Grady and there ain't the bozo that lives that can put me down for the count.' With that the guy does a fadeout at sixty knots per hour—"
But Speedy heard little of this gossip of his trade. Having finished the last of his soggy lemon meringue pie and bitter coffee, he was deeply engrossed in the sporting page and the chances of the Yankees in the first of the World's Series games to be played at the Yankee Stadium that bright, sunshiny afternoon. When he finally finished the detailed account of the dope, he looked up at the big clock on the opposite wall and discovered it was quarter after two. He sprang up, paid his reckoning to the henna blonde behind the cashier's counter and mounted his faithful 'bus.
The car seemed to have developed more aches and pains during the noon hour. Speedy decided he would have to put in a little overtime tightening her up that night. He turned the corner into 47th Street. A fussy, white-haired old man with a cane was making motions at him from the curb. He stopped, backed up and opened the door.
"Why don't you stop when you see me attracting your attention?" complained his fare, red-faced and irascible.
"Stopped as soon as I saw you," chortled Speedy, with a mental note that here was an old boy that had to be handled carefully.
"Union League Club," snapped the fretty one.
Speedy started for Broadway.
"Here, here, where are you going? It's the other way," directed the old man, tapping on the window with the handle of his cane.
"I know it. This is a one way street," explained Speedy.
He finally reached 42nd and swung East. He was not particularly sorry when he unavoidably bumped into two or three bad holes en route. The old gentleman shouted some ungentlemanly exclamations but Speedy paid no attention. What he did pay attention to was the fact that these jolts had done his already wounded car no good. Its squeaks and rattles grew louder. Speedy wondered if the 'bus was going to last the day out. So, evidently, did his fare. There was more tapping at the window. Speedy looked around.
"Young man, is this car safe?" asked his passenger. "Sounds as if it was going to fall apart."
"If it does, we're both in the same boat," said Speedy.
He finally maneuvered up to the curb at the Union Leauge Club, having made a full turn in the middle of Fifth Avenue under the nose of a cop at the risk of his fenders and his license.
The old gentleman, still swearing, alighted. He drew out a well-worn purse. Suddenly he stopped, seized Speedy and cried, "I'm going to have you arrested. Just as I thought—you've no business to be driving this car. You've picked me up under false pretenses. I'll have you arrested."
Then Speedy saw that he was pointing excitedly to a sign hanging near the taximeter. "This Cab Out of Order," read the card. Speedy took in the situation in a flash. The "Out of Order" sign had been jolted down when he hit the bumps on 42nd Street. But he would never be able to explain this satisfactorily to his fare. And a broad-shouldered policeman, attracted by the old man's shrill cries, was approaching from the corner. Without waiting for his money, Speedy leaped back into his car, threw it into gear and shot into the stream of traffic.
"You can't get away," the old man cackled after him. "I got your number from the license in the tonneau. I'll report you, never fear. And I'm a member of the Streets and Highways Commission, don't forget that."
The green lights, Speedy saw gratefully, were set in his favor. He did not venture to look back until he was five blocks away. Then he started to worry. He did not doubt but what his crabby passenger would do as he threatened. He was just the type. Moore, already only half sold on him, would certainly count this as a mark against him. Would it lose him his job? Well, for one thing he would prevent himself from being stopped by the first cop that spotted him. He reached out and snapped up the "Out of Order" sign into place. The 'bus wasn't out of order. A little the worse for wear maybe, but able to navigate. He would finish out the day with her and, if he was still in the employ of Moore when he quit that night, he would either repair her or demand a new car.
He turned into a side street and drew up beside the Hotel Envoy, with two taxis already ahead of him.