Green Taxi From Oakland Part 3

****************

“Charles Arthur Anderson the third. Can I help you?”

“You fuck-tard. Did you Jackie Chan a green London cab onto my park with A’s logos on it?”

“Hey Hendu. I’ve no idea of what you speak.”

“You did, didn’t you? How in the fuck did you manage that?”

“Jackie Chan drops into rain forests to fight bad guys. London makes a rain forest look like the Mojave. I sent Aqua Man for this one.”

I could hear his loud, almost out-of-control laughter over the phone line.

It felt good.

“I was interrogated by a wanna-be British park ranger who thought he was Jack Fucking Webb. He actually wrote down the name I gave him.”

“Reggie?”

“Yup.”

Again the roaring laughter. I could feel him put the phone against his chest as he muffled the guffaws.

“You and Reginald are twins from the ankles down.”

“So why did you do this? Hell, how did you do this?”

“Still don’t get the big brain thing, do you? I got a buddy in London; he put a tail on you for a week. You and that ugly fucking hound. He, ah, ascertained that you might be vulnerable to certain activities. I thought about planting drugs in your flat and having the Bobbies employ their gun-less “Stop!…or I’ll yell ‘Stop!’ again,” as they burst in to find your bathroom vanity covered in talcum powder. Then I thought I’d get my photo shop guy to ‘capture’ you blowing Hugh Grant in a West End nightclub while a dead Jimmy Saville spanks it between high-fives with Hugh.”

“And those scenarios weren’t tawdry enough?”

“Not even close.”

“But a green cab? What the fuck? It’s over, right? I’m out of it now?”

There was silence.

“I am, right?!”

And more silence.

“Chuck?”

Then the laughter again.

“FUCK!” I slammed down the phone.

Waldo looked at me, looked at his empty dish, and back at me.

FUCK!

****************

When my buzzer rang the next morning, I was stunned awake. The only times it had been pressed before were by late night drunks leaving the Head thinking there were hookers upstairs.

It was a London policeman. With Nigel. And Colin.

I buzzed them in.

FUCK!

****************

Chuck still had his tenterhooks in this one and the more I thought about it, the more I saw his fingerprints all over it. And I finally was figuring out why. My last joke on him had been so compellingly effective, even devastating; he simply had to one-up it.

It was two years ago. I was still in Oakland. Chuck was a psychologist who ran a non-profit clinic that offered low-income people heavily discounted services, including counseling. It was not government subsidized but instead relied on private donations, some of which came anonymously. Chuck was the main fundraiser and could be very persuasive.

I spent three weeks thinking about and then acting on the idea I hatched to get him.

First, I had a paternity suit mailed to his office, but made it look inauspicious, just shy of being identified as junk mail, not at all affecting a personal look, to ensure that his secretary would open it. She was such a major gossip hound that she made Joan Rivers look like Marcel Marceau. By the end of the day the news was spreading like cholesterol through Pavarotti’s arteries…slowly but certainly. I’d chosen an obvious ethnic name of Guatemalan descent for the mother of his child.

I knew he would eventually put that fire out, so I had a second event already lined up for the following week. One of his patients, a guy I’ll call James, also happened to be a friend of mine. He had a wicked sense of humor and was well-versed on the life-long, ongoing practical joke competition between Chuck and myself.

I convinced him to have a particularly stress-filled session with Chuck, then show up back at the clinic a half hour afterwards very agitated and waving a gun, talking gibberish. The desired effect was accomplished on Chuck, who completely panicked, hitting his knees and begging for his life. However, Oakland police thought otherwise, after some alert staff member had typed 911 on their cell phone when James had come noisily back into the office, Glock 9m in hand. It took some fast talking by me and even Chuck, once he realized that he was not in danger, came to James defense, and eventually the cops let him out of his handcuffs.

I had moved to London two months later.

***********

When the three men got to my door, I had it open and was standing in the doorway. I was not looking pleased to see them.

As they approached from the door to the stairwell, I noticed the cop had a sidearm, which was rare in this country. Only a chosen few, I’d been told, were allowed to carry a firearm.

Colin still looked smug; Nigel looked like he’d had a bowl of Brussels sprouts for lunch that had been boiled a bit too long in brackish water.

This was not going to be fun.

“Nice little place of business ya got here mate.” Nigel was attempting to be convivial without being able to hide his insincerity.

“I live here. It’s not a place of business. I have no connection to the bar below other than as a tenant.”

“Mind if we come in, Mr. Jackson?” It was the Bobby, who’d moved to the front, his tone changing suddenly on my last name to one of disdain. Maybe my jig was up. Who knew there might be an A’s historian in Scotland Yard.

I stepped aside silently and the three men entered my flat.

I heard Colin sniff loudly, as if trying to ascertain if cannabis had been smoked in here recently. The Bobby walked all the way to the other end and then slowly turned and retraced his steps. His hands were folded behind his back. His helmet looked like he was born in it; the chin strap as if it had never been unsnapped. His sidearm held most of my attention.

Nigel walked over to my leather couch and sat.

“What can I do for you gentlemen? I’ve already told you everything I know about the damn green cab.”

The Bobby had returned to this end of the flat and now stood before me. “You’re all we’ve got, mate. You discovered the thing.”

“And that’s all I did. Hell, it could have been anybody.”

He cleared his throat, but his eyes never left mine. It was a cop look.
Apparently it was universal. He waited, as if prompting me to expand. I chose not to.

He turned on his heel and, hands still clasped behind his back, began to walk again to the other end of my flat. Colin had sat on a stool next to the small oak bar I’d bought in central London and had had delivered. He was eyeing my two beer taps, both hand-carved out of Ivory and quite expensive: Guinness and Watneys.

Other than the ‘place of business’ crack, Nigel thus far had not said anything.

The Bobby wandered over to the huge window that overlooked the Green of Winchmore Hill. He looked out for a moment, then turned and said, “That cab has not been stolen. In point of fact, it has no record at all in our auto database. It appears to have, shall we say, fallen from the sky.”

I shrugged.

“Do you have any idea, Reggie Jackson from Oakland, California, as to what sky that cab may have fallen from?”

Again, he loaded my name with such sarcasm that it was clear he knew it was not my name. I suddenly realized my smart-assed lying about my name was at the root of their suspicion.

“My name is Eric Stollard. I made up the name Reggie Jackson as a joke, because of the Oakland A’s baseball angle.”

The Bobby eye me speculatively, then slowly walked over to me. He came face-to-face, the short rounded brim of his helmet almost touching my forehead. He was invading my personal space, and he knew it.

“You did that for a jolly, did you mate?”

“I did. These two clowns were pretending importance. It sort of begged for a ‘fucking with’, if you will.”

The Bobby knew instinctively we were having several conversations at one time. The two Groveland troglodytes were suddenly on the outside looking in.

“Yes, I see.”

“Do you?” I was not above fucking with a cop.

His hand reflexively moved to his sidearm, but he caught himself and moved it back to a neutral position.

“Why did you lie about your name?”

“I just told you.”

“So, it was not to hide your true identity, Eric Andrew Stollard?”

So he knew my middle name. Scotland Yard was good. But how?

“I prefer Andy.”

“Apparently, you also seem to prefer incarceration. Lying to a peace officer is a crime, mate.”

“I never lied to you.”

He did not like being one-upped conversationally, and he was clearly not used to it happening.

“You lied to them. The same as lying to me.”

“Really, officer…they are your equal? Good luck with that. I see a career directing Trafalgar Square traffic in your immediate future.”

He stepped back, almost as if I’d struck him.

“You got a mouth on you, sod.”

“I’m feeling harassed. This stupid cab is your problem, not mine.”

“Unfortunately, you are part, the only part I’m afraid, of an official investigation. The direction of which I will decide, not you.”
I had nothing to say to that. Pissing off this guy was not going to be a good career move, I realized suddenly. If possible, Colin was looking even smugger.

“I’m afraid I’ve told you all that I know.”

He nodded, said “To be continued,” and strode toward the door. The two park hacks obediently followed. Colin grinned at me.

I bolted the heavy oak door after they’d left.

How did they get my middle name?

************************

There was no contact from the police or the park for almost a week. I’d practically forgotten about it. Chuck had not returned my email. I surmised the incident was over. Score one for Chuck.

The day after the incident, Waldo and I had returned to the park and there was no sight of the cab. I didn’t expect it to still be there, but I’d learned not to underestimate Chuck.

When on the 1st of February, my buzzer bleated and I let someone in, it was not Nigel that I was expecting to walk through the door on my floor, breathing heavy from the stair climb.

This time I remained blocking my open doorway as he approached.
He slowed when he realized I was not intending to invite him in.
He was clad exactly the same, his scripted name and title staring defiantly from his left breast.

“Now what?” I asked him.

“If you let me in, I’ll tell you.”

I sighed and stepped aside. “This better be good.”

“Or bad,” he said as he slid past me. He stopped, took off his jacket and hung it on the brass coat rack I had attached to the back of the door.

He stood with his hands in his pockets and watched me close the door.

“I could use a Watneys, if you would be so kind.”

I hesitated, then went to the small bar and poured him a Watneys and filled a pint glass with the beer of my people, Guinness, for me.

He sat on the couch once again and I dragged a bar stool over and sat a few feet from him, remaining above him, a conversational advantage I’d learned from a cop in New York.

He took a long sip, let his head loll back till it rested on the sofa, and said with his eyes closed, “Colin has been murdered.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t liked the smug prick, but I didn’t want him to die.

He brought his head back to level, opened his eyes and sighed, drinking another huge gulp of the delicious English ale.

“Guess you need some back story before you can figure out why I’m here telling you this. Colin went to a police auction about two weeks ago and bought the green cab you found in the park. Yesterday, he was found in the driver’s seat shot to death. One bullet, back of the skull. Execution-style.”

“Ok.” I hesitated. I didn’t want to be insensitive to someone’s death, but this was really irrelevant to me. I continued. “Not sure where I fit in. Sorry he’s dead, but I didn’t know him and won’t pretend his death means anything to me.”

“Well, as far as Scotland Yard is concerned, you don’t fit in…yet. My visit is unofficial and I’m looking for help. Colin was my friend as well as my employee.”

“I don’t see how I can help.”

“I guess now is when I put my beer down, get my coat and pretend to leave, but stop with the door half closed, poke my head back in and ask one final, revealing question, a la Peter Falk.”

I chuckled. “I loved Columbo.”

“It was very popular here in the U.K., as well, I’m afraid.”

His next question sent chills up and down my spine and shattered what I felt was a pretty good poker face that I’d donned since he’d arrived.

“Do you know a Charles A. Anderson?”

***************