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them up with a prostitute. Every driver knew where they were to, them and the bootleggers. If those same fishermen wanted a bottle of rum after eleven o’clock, you would bring them up to Shea Heights. If they wanted a woman and a bottle of rum, you’d take them up to Shea Heights and then back to Bulger’s Lane. Then he’s got his bottle of rum and his woman.
    For me, how I remember it, Water Street in the summertime was like Hollywood Boulevard. People would be lined up on the sidewalks waiting to get into the clubs. I’d have the windows down, the music going, waiting for a lady to stick out her leg, some beautiful blonde with a frame on her like a model. That’s the one you watched out for. You’re looking out the window, doing probably seven miles-an-hour because the traffic is bumper to bumper, and then out she steps with the red dress and the high heels and all done up to the nines.
    That’s when I had long hair and a full mouth of teeth. I would pick young women up down around The Stetson, some woman who has had a fight with her husband or her boyfriend. They would stand around and have a cigarette and look for meat and watch you cruise by. You’d probably go past her three times and she would still be on the sidewalk, watching. As soon as they got in the cab, first thing, they would ask how old I was. They would ask if I was mar- ried, or if I had a girlfriend. Then they would want to know if I was interested in coming in for a drink. Picking up a woman was something I had never experienced.
    As a matter of fact, I picked up a crew at the airport, an Air Canada crew. There were three women. They were talking back and forth in French, and one of them said, “Listen cabbie, I’m sure you must know where to get some special stuff.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, special stuff?” I asked.
    â€œYou know what I mean. The good stuff.”
    â€œYes, I know where to get it.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what,” she said. “You drop these ladies off at the hotel and we’re going to go party. Don’t worry about the fare. I got that covered.”
    â€œGo on,” I said. “Fine and dandy.”
    The first place I hit was the Corner Tavern on Hayward Avenue. Dry. I went to Gower Street. Dry. I went to Froude Avenue. Dry.
    â€œI don’t know what to tell you, missus. This doesn’t happen very often. I usually know where to get a few draws.”
    I got hold of Baker on the stand. We used to talk in this lingo where nobody could pick up on what we were saying. “Baker, where can I get a bit of ice cream, or cotton candy?”
    â€œGo up to Empire Avenue and wait on the corner.”
    I went up and parked with her for five or ten minutes and three guys walked out from behind a house. I blew the horn to call them over, and she bought $100 worth of gear from them, which was a good bit of dope for that kind of money.
    â€œWe got to sample this,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere.”
    â€œAre you serious?”
    â€œWe got to sample this before I go back to the hotel.”
    We went up to Signal Hill, and I took a right by Deadman’s Pond. We went in where there’s a view of the harbour. “Down around the rocks” is what we used to call it. I put two cigarette papers together, rolled them up as thick as my thumb. “Do you really want to smoke this?”
    â€œC’mon,” she said.
    We were having a puff and handing it back and forth, and then she wanted me to meet the other two: “Come in and meet my friends. One is from Nova Scotia and the other is from Montreal.” That’s why they were speaking French. I went in and sat down. They had wine in there, all kinds of drinks, and then she hauled out the bag of dope.
    The music was going, they were laughing, carrying on, and they were starting to get pretty damn frisky, and I got right paranoid. “I got to go back to work,” I said.