NIGHT CABBIE

ELLIS AND TAYLOR. I've just dropped an old woman off and a young man comes
running up the street toward me. Where to? I ask when he gets in. "I don't
know, my car's been towed." I tell him he better have lots of cash because
Golden Gate Tow's moved to Bayshore. It'll cost him $150 including cab
fare. We get on the freeway and he starts talking. "I'm from San Jose," he
says. "I came to San Francisco for a good massage." Then he smiles. "In San
Jose, it's against the law to be touched, so they put a towel over you." I
ask what kind of massage he's talking about. "Well, I was getting the full
treatment when they towed my car." He mentions the name of the massage.
It's supposed to be pretty good. On the Bayshore exit he tells me, "I don't
have a girlfriend right now, so I come here once or twice a month to get
the full boat. Nothing wrong with that, right?" I tell him no, that's what
they're there for. But next time, pick a better spot to park.

POWELL AND BROADWAY. It's 2 a.m. and raining. All the bars are closing and
I'm roaring through the tunnel. Suddenly I see two or three couples
frantically waving for a cab. I pull up and signal to one couple to get in.
Three guys run up and cut in front of them. One of them says, with an
accent, "I know how America works. I'll give you $30 to take us to
Maxwell's hotel." I do a quick compute. It's a $4 fare. I tell the couple,
sorry, I'm taken. They start to call me names while the three men get in.
We're off and one of them says to me, "Your country's symbol is the dollar
bill. Didn't they know that?" I tell him they probably did, but they didn't
realize they were at an auction.

SFO. When nothing is happening in The City, the airport is a good place to
read a newspaper. I do it at least once a week. I drive out without a
passenger and sit. Tonight, after hanging in the holding lot for 40
minutes, I head for the United terminal. A man in a dark suit with two
small bags gets in, going to the Park Hyatt. I ask if he's here on
business. "I'm in town to do an interview," he says. For? "I work for CBS.
We're doing a story on the war on drugs, which is failing." I ask about
Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No' campaign. "That never worked," he says. I ask
who he's going to interview. "Just a few people under your mayor," he says.
So I tell him if he needs a good story on drugs and city officials, I have
one for him. I give him a phone number. He thanks me and gets out at the
hotel.

POWELL. I'm humming up from the wharf and a woman with brown hair and tight
black pants flags me. She looks like she works out. "Larkin and O'Farrell
please," she whispers as she gets in. I ask if she's going to work. "Yes,
and it should be a good night, too." I wait a few minutes, then ask her:
Are you one of the stars, or do you work with them? She says, "Suzy Suzuki
is the star tonight, and we work around her." I tell her I should come see
the show some night. She looks at me and doesn't say a word. We pull up to
the New Century Theatre and, sure enough, the big sign says, "Starring
Tonight, Wet and Wild Suzy Suzuki!" She pays me and gets out. I drive away
quickly, before I get distracted.

GOLD AND MONTGOMERY. This is a part of town that used to be reserved for
women of the evening. That was in 1849. Tonight I get flagged by a man,
about 60 in a suit and overcoat, a block from the old Belli building. He's
going to Third and Folsom. That's a great complex, I tell him. A close
friend lives there and I always drop her at the back door. He says he wants
the front door. No problem, I tell him. By the way, I ask him. Did you live
there when the big murder took place? "What murder?" he wants to know. It
was in the papers, I say, and it was pretty gruesome. "They didn't tell me
about any murder when I moved in," he says. "What happened?" I tell him I
don't know if I should say, being as how he lives there and all that. "I
really want to know." We're already there, and as he pays me I tell him:
When they opened the place a few years ago, they found some guy chopped up
and stuffed in trash bags all over the complex. He doesn't say anything
else, just looks at me, then walks up the steps and into the building.

FAIRMONT HOTEL. A young woman, about 30, taps on my window. Her hair's in a
bun and she has blue jeans on. She wants to go to Washington, between
Spruce and Maple. I look at her in the rearview and ask if she works in
advertising and marketing. "No," she says, "I'm a writer." I ask her name.
"Lisa Flood," she says. I ask if she's the great-granddaughter of James
Flood. "He was my great-great-great-grandfather," she says. I tell her I
know all about him and the Comstock Silver Lode and the history of James
Flood and his partners. The Bill Gates of 1900, I say. I ask what she's
written. "Cowboy High Style," she says. "And another book called "Rocky
Mountain Home.' " So, you're a real cowgirl, I say. "I like it out on the
range in the mountains," she tells me. I ask what she knows about all those
secret tunnels between James Flood's mansions in Pacific Heights. "There's
never been a full explanation for them," she says. I ask about his
illegitimate daughter, and she tells me the woman was paid and no one knows
what happened after that. I tell her I'm going to buy some of her books,
get an autograph and give one to my youngest daughter. She also spends time
with horses and prefers them to people. After I drop her off, I go get a
burger on Lombard. I didn't tell her that two of my daughters went to
school in one of the Flood mansions. Maybe next time.

The Night Cabbie appears every other Monday in The Examiner. You can leave
him a message at (415) 777-8738; write him c/o The Examiner, P.O. Box 7260,
San Francisco, CA 94120; or e-mail him at cabbie@examiner.com.

)1998 San Francisco Examiner