Shaffer - Hope Rides Again

What a bunch of malarkey.

That had been my response when Id seen Murder on the Amtrak Express on the paperback rack at the airport. Some two-bit hack had written a potboiler starring yours truly, Joe Biden. Not only that, but the money-grubbing publisher had the gall to slap my mug on the cover. There I was, grimacing behind the wheel of a silver Pontiac Firebird Trans Ama car Id never driven in my life. Now, six chapters in, my initial assessment of its literary merit was unchanged. Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover.

I might as well have flushed my fifteen bucks down the crapper.

My cab screeched to a halt, sending the book tumbling from my hands. The cabbiea dead ringer for Bears legend Mike Ditkalaid on the horn. A half dozen pedestrians dashed in front of us, tying up four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic on Lake Shore Drive.

Traffic had been stop-and-go since Midway. What should have been a twenty-minute drive into Chicago had already taken double that.

Is there another route?

Ditka shook his head. St. Paddys Day weekend. Holidays tomorrow, but the parades today. Your friend Obama picked da wrong morning for his ecumenical forum, if you ask me.

Economics, I said. Its a global economics forum.

Ditka glared at me in the rearview mirror. I could tell he wanted to say something smart, but he was having a rough time getting the old hamster to spin the wheel. A woman in a tight pair of green hot pants raced to catch up to her friends, feather boa in tow. My driver redirected his attention accordingly.

I should have expected the zaniness. St. Patricks Day was the second biggest day on the Irish American calendar, right after November twentieth (birthday of the forty-seventh vice president of the United States). Outside of Boston, there wasnt another American city that took more pride in its Irish heritage than Chicago. By noon, the sidewalks would be stained with Guinness.

We started moving again. I groped around under the front seat for the book. My fingers brushed it, but the cab braked hard and it slipped away. Thank God I hadnt eaten anything this morning. If I had, it would have been all over the backseat. There was a reason most cab seats were vinyl.

Lose something back there? Ditka asked, craning his head around as we inched forward. The hedgehog on his upper lip was dotted with spittle.

Nothing important, I said. The book belonged under the seat. Id read cereal boxes with better character development. In the parlance of Tony the Tiger, the book was not grrreat.

Wave after wave of pedestrians were now jaywalking around us, weaving between cars. Horns honked, with little effect. Traffic had come to a complete standstill.

I couldnt see the Tribune Tower, but I knew it was situated along the river. A mile away, give or take a city block. If I were still in office, I could have arranged a helicopter extraction. Good ol Marine Two wouldve gotten me there faster than you could say Scott Pruitt. Those heady days, however, were long goneand besides, Id never taken advantage of my position as a public servant like that.

I glanced at my watch. Quarter till nine. The prayer breakfast would be wrapping up shortly. If I hoofed it from here, I still had a chance to catch the keynote address. I might miss Baracks introduction, but I wasnt in town to see him. Not this time.

I cleared my throat. Just let me out here.

Ditka shrugged. No sweat off his stones. I paid my fare in cash, stepped out onto the curb. A cool breeze rolled off Lake Michigan. All I had to do was head west until I hit the Magnificent Mile, then turn north. In the midst of a city-wide bar crawl.

Be careful out there, Ditka shouted through the open door. Its snake weather.

The Mazda in front of him moved forward three inches, causing a line of cars to honk like mad when the cab didnt follow suit. I threw them a gentle wave, which instigated another chorus of honking. Tough crowd.

Snake weather, huh? I said, lingering at the open door.

Supposed to warm up into da fifties today, Ditka said. First nice weekend of spring is always the most dangerous. The city thaws, the snakes come out. Pickpockets, swindlers. Gangbangers with itchy trigger fingers. Criminals of every stripe.

A solitary green feather floated past my face. I batted it away. He might have been yanking my chain, but I didnt think so. There was something in the air. The Midwest had been under a blanket of snow and ice since early December. Three-plus long months of tension simmering below the surface, unleashed by Mother Nature.

I snorted. Dont worry about me, I told him. This isnt my first rodeo.

It wasnt until I shut the door that I remembered Id never been to a rodeo.