Meter Maids Eat Their Young Read online

  All names, characters, places, and incidents in this publication are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Meter Maids Eat Their Young

  © 2012 by EJ Knapp

  ISBN: 978-0-9869871-8-2

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  For information regarding permission, email [email protected], subject line: Permission.

  First published by Rebel ePublishers 2012

  Cover design by Mandie van der Merwe, Love & Sweat

  Interior design by Caryatid Design

  Chapter headings and title page graphics: © Can Stock Photo Inc. / Colecanstock

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I want to thank the Department of Parking and Traffic in San Francisco, California for towing my car the day after Thanksgiving. Despite the fact that 99.9% of the US population consider that day a holiday and, despite the fact there were less than a dozen vehicles in the entire financial district, you felt my little Fiat, tucked away on a remote back alley, constituted a threat to the smooth flow of traffic. The germinal idea for this story is your doing.

  To the real Tom Philo, whose web page Why Parking Meters Should Be Banned was instrumental in tying this story into the neat package I hope the readers will find it. Any errors or exaggerations I introduced into Tom’s data are my doing.

  To my Attack Cats: The Doubtful Guest, Mooch, Spook, Booth, The Beast, Feral-When-I-Wanna-Be and Puss Cat, and to Dinger, all in Kitty Heaven now. Miss you guys. I’ll be along one of these days, tasty treats in hand.

  Should anyone recognize my semi-fictional city, all I can say is rearrangement in space and time was necessary.

  To Denise Rehse Watson and to Albert. Also the old Harbor House gang. Have a Cuppa Joe on me.

  Thanks must be extended to Barbra Annino, Linda Ford, Debbie Hefka, Gail Henigman, A. S. King and MJ Librie for reading various drafts of this story and offering their feedback and to the folks at Backspace for their support.

  To Peggy Ford and Eric Ford for help with the Great Escape. To RJ, Susie, Michael and Jennifer, and Cory, Brad, Cameron and Austin, and to the whole Koleda Clan, just because.

  Thanks to my most excellent editor Jayne Southern. Your critical eye made MM better than it was and your witty remarks kept me from screaming too long and loud about the changes. I still think ‘silently left the building’ was the better line, though.

  And, as always, to Cindy Ford; friend, family, confidant.

  This one’s for Debbie Hefka. She knows why.

  There are many forms of extortion used by governments throughout the world. There are many ways to get money from the weak. There are many ways to fool the unintelligent. The tactics range from immoral tax collecting organizations, to police forces, to tiny machines that one might believe allow a person to occupy a certain space for a certain amount of time. Tyranny is not always a bloody affair. It is not always shocking, sometimes it is quite common place and accepted, but it is still tyranny. And so it is for the example of tyranny known as parking meters.

  Philosopher Stephan Pacheco

  Pacheco Humility Foundation

  www.LibertyCore.org

  News Never Sleeps

  Except for the half-dozen cats scattered about the king-sized bed, I was alone beneath the twisted sheets, deep in an uneasy dream. A gong struck and struck again, the reverberations echoing through the air like a cold wind that lifted me upward toward a starless sky and settled me down in a room aglow in predawn light. The beeper chirped on the bedside table. I reached over and turned it off without looking to see who it was. The page could only be from one person. I fumbled about for my cell phone, flipped it open and pushed the only speed-dial number set on it.

  “A little early for a Sunday wake-up call, don’t you think?” I said when the connection was made.

  “News never sleeps, Teller,” said Felice, her usual melodious voice muted and somber. My heart began to race.

  “Bad news, I suspect.”

  “For you especially, I’m afraid. Your friend Harrison de Whitt was found dead in the East River Monorail parking lot.”

  I bolted up, scattering cats. Harrison? I’d had dinner with him two nights previous.

  “When?” I said, swallowing hard. “How?”

  “As to the when, approximately ten minutes ago,” she said. “As to the how, I assume you are asking how was he found and not how he died? I can answer the former but have no information regarding the latter.”

  There was a long silence. I could hear a deep inward breath followed by a long exhalation.

  “I’m sorry, Teller. That was a harsh way to answer your question. He was my friend as well.”

  “I know, Felice, I know.”

  “His body was discovered soon after most of the parking meters in the lot went up like Roman candles. I’m afraid I know nothing more, which is why I suggest you get there as quickly as possible.”

  I rolled off the bed.

  “I’m on it,” I said. “I’ll call as soon as I have something.”

  I flipped the phone closed and went in search of clothes.

  I dressed in what I could find in the dim glow of pre-dawn. I wasn’t ready for lights. I wasn’t ready for Harrison being dead.

  In the kitchen, I poured food in the cat bowls, spilling most of it in my haste. There was a drip supply of fresh water but I checked it anyway, tripping and kicking it with my toe, splashing water across the floor. Cursing, I considered mopping it up but decided I didn’t have the time.

  As I stepped out the front door it struck me that the light in the stairwell leading to the upstairs flat was out. The darkness gave me pause. That light burns 24/7, one of those low-watt forever bulbs and its being out meant something. As an investigative reporter, I’ve learned that a healthy dose of paranoia is a good defense mechanism.

  Standing there, the dawning sun broke and shone through the balustrade, casting slanted shadows up the stairway, stirring up fragments of dream memory. For a moment I could smell a hint of L’Air du Temps in the air. But that wasn’t possible. I knew it wasn’t my boarder’s perfume. She wore a fruity blend of something I couldn’t quite distinguish.

  I closed the door behind me and hurried to my car, that hint of L’Air du Temps following like a phantom.

  Meter Maids Eat Their Young

  Twenty minutes later I was sliding the Altima into a parking space a few feet from the fluttering yellow caution tape the police had set up across River Avenue. I sat for a moment, listening to Lyle Lovett lamenting about having two wives and the sheriff on his tail. As I dug around in the center console for some change to feed the meter, a homeless guy rapped on my window. I grabbed a couple of extra quarters, got out the car, handed him a buck in change and used the rest to avoid a ticket.

  Parking enforcement was brutal in this town. Give no quarter – ask for none, was their motto. Had they been at the Alamo, Santa Anna and his bunch wouldn’t have made it close without a pocket full of pesos.

  As I slipped coins into the slot, I wondered if it was true that meter maids eat their young. Hundreds of what I thought of as lifeless automatons cruised the city streets in blue and white
Cushman carts seeking prey. Merciless, unafraid: Writing ticket after ticket with the cool efficiency of a Texas executioner. Once, I saw a meter maid write a ticket on another meter maid’s cart! Now that’s brutal.

  Chaos reigned as I crested the hill and looked down on the monorail parking lot. Set in a deep depression in the landscape, it looked like a wok covered in grass and asphalt, with the Grecian-style Monorail Station as its handle. Those homeless not fortunate enough to escape when the police arrived were sitting in a tight knot off to one side of the lot, guarded by several cops.

  There were a hundred parking meters in all in the lot, over half of them melted and still smouldering, reminding me of the candles we used to burn in empty Mateus bottles back in the sixties. The line of scorched meters ended where the greatest concentration of cops were milling about. My heart did a little two-step when I spotted the tarp in the middle of a cordoned-off space near the far end of the lot. It looked like a crumpled yellow daisy tossed onto a field of oil.

  The CSI van was on the scene, the guys in white coveralls surfing the immediate area for clues. As I made my way down the hill, I spotted the coroner’s van rolling into the lot. On the far side of the hill, the TV vans were setting up their antennae. Three cops were holding the reporters back a good distance away from the scene. If I headed down there, I knew I’d be stopped. Those CSI folks are very possessive of their crime scenes.

  I turned and glanced over at the Dazzler Donut shop. I wasn’t interested in buying anything, not that they’d be open this early anyway. I had my Peet’s coffee in a metal thermos clipped to my belt, so life was good. My interest was the donut shop doorway, which was the preferred nighttime refuge of a young, homeless woman I’d met on my first day back in town. If she wasn’t too tweaked, she may have seen something. I headed in that direction.

  No sign of her. The doorway smelled of donuts and stale sweat and was lined with a layer of cardboard boxes, grease-stained and picked at; ragged pieces littered about. I felt my heart fall through an old trapdoor when I spotted a pint bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in the corner. Need scratched at my insides. You’d think after two years that need would disappear, or at least diminish. Fat chance. Buster Booze, as I’ve named my little craving, is always somewhere about, hiding in the shadows, turning up at unexpected times to whisper in my ear or give me a swift kick in the ass.

  I started going through the other stuff Skeeter left behind. A stained, dog-eared paperback, its cover missing, lay next to the door alongside an empty book of matches. I picked it up, looked at the spine. Homeboy, by Seth Morgan. I felt a prick of envy. He’d had his book published. I’d been working on mine for the better part of ten years and all I’d managed was a stack of rejection letters thick as a New York phone book. Published, yeah. And then he’d gone off and splatted himself against a wall on his Harley. That would be my kind of luck.

  Beneath a corner of the cardboard I found a crumpled Marlboro pack with three twisted cigarettes and half a dozen butts inside. I considered this. She must have left in a hurry to leave the booze and cigarettes behind. And the book. Skeeter was a voracious reader and books cost money.

  Peering back over my shoulder at the flickering lights of the patrol cars down in the lot, I wondered if she had been busted. No. Had she been, her sleeping bag and that huge backpack she lived out of would still be here. Reluctantly, I picked up the whiskey and the cigarettes and slipped them into the pocket of my coat, along with the book. I had a good idea where she might be.

  As I stepped out the doorway, I spotted a figure walking along the edge of the grass, heading toward the scene in the parking lot. It was Jasmine, or Jaz as she preferred to be called. Seeing her made me vaguely uncomfortable. Jaz makes my heart do things I don’t want it to do.

  Like beat faster.

  Generally I’m attracted to a woman for about as long as it takes to play out our entire relationship in my head. About fifteen seconds from heady beginning to crash-and-burn end is the usual time it takes. I’ve known Jaz now since I returned to town four months ago and still my insides turn to jelly whenever she’s around. Her being my boarder complicates the matter. Her being a lesbian complicates it more, though it’s probably the key to why I’m still attracted to her. It’s safe being drawn to what you can’t have.

  When I called out to her, she jumped like a rabbit hearing the screech of an owl. As she turned, I noticed how pale she was, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes.

  “You okay, Jaz?” I said as she drew near.

  “Okay? Uh, yeah, I guess. Late night, you know. Early call this morning.” She turned and looked back over her shoulder. “I, uh, had no idea I’d be walking into a murder scene.”

  “You’ve heard, then?” I said. “Who they found?”

  “Yeah. The department called, told me about the meters, needed me to come and check out the damage. They didn’t say anything about this.”

  I flinched as I heard the reporter in me ask the next question. “How did you find out who was killed?”

  “Who? What do you mean? On the radio, I guess. On the way over here.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Do? My job, Teller. I’m going to do my job. Check out the damage. Report back. Get a crew down here to fix things. Why don’t you get out of my face and go do yours? Go gather up the usual suspects and find out what’s going on.”

  She turned and walked off. I watched her walk away, the sway of her hips, the way her hair swept across her back. Just like someone else I knew long ago; another woman, another look, another flash of temper. A shiver ran up my back. Too many ghosts in this town.

  And it was scary how much Jaz reminded me of Robyn, the number one ghost of all.

  Vamps On Bikes

  Despite the quarters I had fed the meter, despite the press card that lay on the dash, despite the presence of twenty uniformed police in an area that was – to anyone with a functioning brain – a crime scene, there was a parking ticket tucked beneath the wiper when I returned to the Altima. That there was a ticket fluttering beneath the wiper of the cop car parked in front of mine did not in any way diminish my anger.

  I considered ripping the ticket to tiny shreds and scattering it to the wind but the image of my car booted and towed stayed my hand. I crumpled it up instead and tossed it on the floor, knowing I’d pay the thing before the week was out no matter how much it pained me to do so. Moments later, Amy Lee wailing from the Bose speakers, I was cruising up Pine Street, past the oldest construction site in town.

  I pulled the Altima over to the curb and killed Amy mid breath. No more, indeed. I sat there a moment, thumbing through my notes, trying to decide the best way to approach Skeeter. A rumble of exhaust made me look up. An SUV, its right front fender crumpled, cruised slowly up the street, nearly stopping when it pulled alongside. The windows were darkened, reflecting a distorted image of me staring back at myself. I was about to roll down my window when it sped off with a squeal of tires.

  Stepping from my car, I watched the SUV turn the corner and disappear. Tourist, I thought and dismissed it. With a doubtful sigh, I noted the parking sign indicated that feeding the meter was not necessary on Sunday. I keyed the alarm on the car and walked across the street. It took me several minutes to find a loose board in the rickety fence that surrounded the site. Squeezing past it, I managed to slide down a steep slope of hard-packed earth and stone without killing myself. No mean feat at my age.

  Over the years the site had become a combination pissoir and dumping ground. Night Train, Thunderbird and Wild Irish Rose bottles littered the ground alongside empty Sterno cans. An old mattress floated in a pool of algae-coated water. Bald tires, several battered washing machines and the back end of an ancient pickup truck were scattered about. The place smelled like an overripe septic tank.

  Brushing the dirt from my pants and jacket, I made my way to the old construction shack. Weather-beaten, the unpainted wood the color of moths’ wings, the windows boarded over an
d shards of glass glittering on the ground beneath them. I began banging on the door.

  “C’mon, Skeeter,” I shouted. “I know you’re in there.”

  “Teller?” came a tiny voice.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Open up the door, will ya? We need to talk.” I heard her fumbling around, heard the sound of coins being scooped up and then the door swung inward. I stepped into the gloom.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Got a cigarette?”

  I pulled the book, whiskey, and crumpled Marlboro pack, from the pocket of my coat and handed it to her. Her eyes lit up as she grabbed them from my hand.

  “You’re sweet, Teller,” she said. She cocked her head and gave me a look that tried hard for schoolgirl coy. “You wanna mess around a little?”

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. “You’re, uh, a little too young for me. I just wanted to ask you about what happened out by the monorail this morning.”

  “What makes you think I was there?” she said, the coyness replaced with caution.

  Incredulous, I looked at her, first staring at the whiskey bottle, then the cigarette in her hand and finally at the bulges in her coat pockets. “Duh!” I said.

  “Oh.” She blushed. “Yeah. I guess I was there, huh?”

  “Either that or you robbed someone’s piggy bank,” I said.

  “I didn’t rob nuthin’,” she said, anger replacing the caution. This was one volatile little lady.

  “I didn’t say that, Skeeter,” I said, holding up my hand to fend off the tirade I saw leap into her eyes. “I don’t care about the money or how you got it. I just want to know if you saw anything.”

  Anger damped down into sullen, jittery drunk again. “Saw a car in the lot and then those meters went poof,” she said.

  “A car?”

  “Yeah, one of those big ones that families think are so safe.”

  “An SUV?”

  “Whatever. Circled the lot once, stopped and then took off again like a bat out of hell. I only noticed cuz no one ever drives in there at night. The train station is closed so why would you? And cuz one light was dimmer than the other and pointed down at the ground.”