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estate in France! He approves!” He opened the bottle and handed it to me. “Does the Prince want a straw?”
    I had an idea—sort of a hunch. “Excuse me,” I said, “Do you know someone called the Chicken Man?”
    “Of course, Majesty,” the little fat guy said. “He is my friend. He comes here every night. We watch the lizards together.”
    I almost choked on my grape soda, “You watch the lizards?” I asked.
    “Isn’t that what I said?” the little fat guy shouted. “You’re maybe a music critic? You have something against lizards? You prefer rock and roll? Who asked you? That’ll be ten cents for the soda.”
    “No. I mean, I—I watch the lizards too. I’m just surprised—I mean, I’m a friend of the Chicken Man—I mean, I met him—I was sort of looking for him.” I dug out a dime and put it on the counter.
    “Ah, that’s different. Any friend of the Chicken Man is a friend of mine. Would you care to leave a message for him?”
    “Just tell him that Victor was looking for him.”
    “Exactly so. Victor. And my name is Shane Fergussen,” the little fat guy said.
    “Pleased to meet you,” I said.
    “Precisely. My good friend, Matthias Grunewald, also known as the Chicken Man, will be here late tonight. Here is the number, if you should care to call him.” Shane Fergussen handed me a card. It said:
    HUBERT VAN EYCK
    (The Chicken Man)
    Old and Rare Poultry Books
    Investment Counsellor
    Bail Bondsman
    Telephone   HO7-8937
    “You said his name was Matthias Grunewald,” I said.
    “Without question. His professional name, however, is—” Shane Fergussen took the card back and looked at it—“Hubert Van Eyck.” He handed me the card again. I put it in my notebook, and noticed the last note I had made, “Take special zoo bus.”
    “Do you know where I can catch the special zoo bus?” I asked Shane Fergussen.
    “Right on the corner. You can’t miss it. It’s got a big lizard on the side.”
    I said good-by to Shane Fergussen and went outside to wait for the bus.

Chapter 8
    I didn’t have long to wait—but not for the bus. A green taxi pulled up. The driver had an enormous cap, like the caps they always show golfers wearing—plaid with a little pom-pom on top and a bill. The cap was so large it completely covered his face.
    “Your transport has arrived, man,” the cab driver said.
    “I beg your pardon?” I asked.
    “Wheels! Locomotion! Speed! Make the scene in the green machine!” the cabbie said.
    “I’m waiting for the special zoo bus,” I said.
    “The zoo! Scooby Doo! How true! Enter the vehicle. The zoo! One dollar without the tip, man.” The cabbie was pounding on the dashboard with his fists.
    “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll wait for the bus. It only costs a quarter.”
    “Egad, a proletarian!” the cabbie said. “Let me advise you, Daddy. Don’t travel with
hoi polloi
, the many, the common crowd, you dig it? Not when you’re on the trail of pleasure and high adventure. Ensconce yourself in this limo and ride in style—fifty cents.” The taxicab had a very bad sounding engine. It made a lot of smoke. The whole car was painted green with little yellow squares—like scales.
    “All right! Twenty-five cents to the zoo, but I don’t play the radio,” the cab driver said. There was something familiar about the cab driver’s voice. All I could see of him was the gigantic golfer’s cap and his brown knuckles on the steering wheel. I got in. There was a card on the back of the driver’s seat.
    HOGBORO CITY TAXI LICENSE
    Charles Swan 04011
    On the card was a picture of Charles Swan, the cab driver. He was wearing the golf cap, which cast a shadow over his whole face. All I could see were two eyes peering out of the darkness.
    “Goin’ to the zoo-oo, sorry but I can’t take you; Goin’ to the zoo-oo, sorr-i-ee but I can’t take you—” Charles Swan was singing. As I said, I am not used to black people. I had an idea that Charles Swan was kidding me.