The guy strikes me as being familiar as he wanders out into my cab from the strip club. A slouching young man in a puffy jacket follows him and also gets in.

The first guy asks me to take them to a crack corner, and he has me put on the soul AM radio station, telling me he's an old man who likes old-man music. At least the dude's got taste.

We get there, and he and his assistant hop out. He has a lengthy discussion with some crackheads and another kid in a big jacket, and then gets back in and has me take him to a nearby house. He's angry.

He stands in front flexing his hands, which are now in black gloves. He's let in, back out a few minutes later. We pick up his aide, and another guy, and go off to buy beer next door to the strip joint where I got him. He talks about how he hasn't slept in four days, keeps taking that Ecstasy to stay awake.

We finally end up at an apartment; the meter's up around $42. He doesn't have money.

"I'm a gangster," he says, "but I'm honest." He seems sincere and has me give him my card and take his watch to have the super hold in lieu of fare.

The supe laughs when I give him the watch and the guy's information—it's the same cat I'd seen three weeks earlier at the garage, being escorted off by police.