Death Cab Confessions

The first thing Cliff Farren notices about the Director’s office is that everything is pure and blinding white.

Looking at Margana, the Director of R.R. (Reprobate Renewal), Cliff’s thoughts turn less than pure. A striking beauty with platinum blond hair, Margana’s wide brown eyes cast a doubtful look at him.

“When I was told I’d be seeing the Director, I was expecting some scrawny librarian with a hunchback, not somebody as stunning as Marilyn Monroe.”

“Insincere sexist compliments won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Farren.”

“I really mean it. So, why am I here?”

“You were told at the front desk. You’re here for your interview,” Margana says.

“But I’ve got a job.”

“Yes, as a security guard. You were cursing about it just the other day.” Donning a stylish pair of winged glasses, Margana reads a nearby file, smirking. “Let’s see. When you were young, you and your friends sold stolen phone cards. When you were a concert promoter, you skimmed money off the profits for yourself, and am I reading this right? You were part of a puppy scam?”

“It costs money to get licenses and shots,” Cliff murmurs.

Margana gives Cliff a disabling look of contempt. “But no one got a dog because they didn’t exist. Then you moved on to being a security guard. Some security guard. One night you left the loading dock door open so one of your friends could steal a shipment of laptops.”

“I never took a cut.”

“Only because your partner double-crossed you and took all the money for himself,” Margana replies. “I believe he dared you to go to the police.”

“Why are you bothering to interview me for a job if you know all this? Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m a con artist. What possible job could you have for a lowlife like me?”

“We want you to be a cab driver.”

Cliff chuckles. “Well, there’s one!”

“Not just any cab driver. A cab driver for V.I.P.s. You’ll be driving sports figures, musicians, politicians, and others to where they’re supposed to go.”

“I might be able to handle that.”

“They’ll want to talk to you, confide in you. What they tell you stays between you, them, and the interior of the cab, understand?” Margana asks.

“My lips are sealed.”

“These people are at a crisis point in their existence. Many are doing penance for their evil deeds or wasted lives. Some are trying to decide if they want to continue to be who they are, or if they want to change. If they ask for your opinion, give it. But be tactful.”

“They won’t want advice from a scam artist.”

Margana studies Cliff’s husky shape, wide, peaceful blue eyes, and pleasant smile.

“You have a trustworthy look, Mr. Farren, and everybody confides in cab drivers. You have a gift for gab, and you can fake sincerity. You may surprise yourself and actually help someone. Eventually, if you can maintain a spotless driving record, and that means no accidents and no complaints, you might be able to move on to another job, or even get a second start at life. Any questions?”

“Just one. Am I dead?”

Margana smiles sympathetically. “Very.”

“What… What happened?”

“You’ve heard of the saying, ‘Don’t text and drive?’ The same rule applies to walking. You stepped off a curb into a Greyhound bus bound for Albany.”

A bullish, wheezy man with a big chin, a fat nose resembling a tomato, and hooded eyes struggles to get into the cab.

He curses creatively as he closes the door on his expensive trench coat. Recognizing him from newspaper clippings from the 60s and 70s, Cliff fights to keep his hands from trembling.

“Where… Where can I take you, Mr. Verdugo?”

Victor Verdugo’s piggish features arrange themselves into a smile.

“No pretendin’ you don’t know who I am, or what I done. Good. I hate pretenders. Listen good, cabbie. I’m workin’ off a curse. Those mugs in the rival gangs tried to nail Verdugo ‘The Executioner’ for twenty years. I was never stupid enough to think they wouldn’t eventually get me. But I buried most of them before they… before they…”

Verdugo grabs at his left sleeve where his arm used to be. Cliff notices a tear in the corner of Verdugo’s eye.

“…Before they ripped me apart like some rag doll,” Verdugo concludes. “Oh, sure, you could say I had it comin’. I put plenty of mooks bodies in barrels and cut them up like they was porterhouse steaks. But you would think they would show the Executioner, the number one hitman in the game, some respect.”

“I always wondered what happened to you,” Cliff replies. “You were such an expert at your craft. I thought you’d changed names and run off with a pile of cash to Rome.”

“Nah, too obvious, and my Italian sucks. But thanks, buddy. Say, what’s yer name?”

“Cliff Farren.”

“I knew a Farren in the old days in Brooklyn. Specialized in sales off the backs of trucks, if ya know what I mean.”

“That was my grandad.”

“Yer kiddin’ me! He was a good Joe. If you come from Frankie Farren’s egg, I can trust you. I’m on a mission to put myself back together again…”

Verdugo holds up his empty sleeve. “…When I say I wanna put myself back together again, I mean it literal like. When Creepy Conlin and his boys caught up with me, they was in a merciless mood. I’m a tri-state resident now. They sent an arm and my guts to New Jersey. They buried my head and my other arm in upstate New York. My torso and my legs ended up in Connecticut. I drive from state to state, putting my parts together. Guess where we’re goin’?”

“The Garden State it is,” Cliff replies. “Where in Jersey?”

“Newark.”

“They really were cheesed off at you to send part of you there,” Cliff replies, starting the cab. “Most everyone thought you were buried in the end zone at Giant Stadium.”

“Nah. Besides I was a Jets fan. That’s just one of the many myths about me.”

“You know, where you’re buried is one of the most popular questions Americans want answered. It’s right up there with who killed Kennedy, did Sonny Liston take a dive against Muhammed Ali, and when the next Star Trek franchise is going to start.”

Verdugo looks up in the rear-view mirror, his blank eyes turning ravenous.

Cliff swallows hard, fearing he’s touched a nerve.

“Really?” Verdugo asks, his features brightening. “I’m as popular as Kennedy and Captain Kirk! Just one thing, Cliff. The other cabbies I’ve used… They get a little unhinged when a headless, armless man gets in their cab and hands them a note tellin’ them to go to upstate New York. They told Margana they don’t want my fare…”

“I’m glad, no, honored to help you, Mr. Verdugo.”

“Good. Then it’s gonna be you and me, buddy, on an eternal mission to put the Executioner back together. You know, literal like. I don’t know if it’ll help, but I can put in a good word for ya with Margana. Maybe they’ll send ya back sooner if they know you’re willin’ to do a tough job as well as try and rehabilitate a master criminal. And, between you and me, I don’t wanna be rehabilitated. Does this whole situation you’re in make you feel like gettin’ out of the game?”

“I dunno, sometimes. I may have to promise to be good in order to get back amongst the living.”

“Not me. I don’t care if I have to make a thousand of these trips. I’m the Executioner, or I was. I was so bad I wore a gun to church. I was somebody. I killed Ziggy Campisi, the Godfather, the capo di tutti I capi. I dispatched the Mastracchios, two crazy, gun-happy twins who were gonna take over the numbers game in Manhattan. They even sent me out to Vegas to eliminate Mo Gray, a guy everybody thought couldn’t be touched. And I was the one who hatched the plan to take out New York State’s Special Prosecutor, Boyd Huey.”

“That was you?”

“Yeah, I got a baby carriage, put a doll in it, and pretended I was takin’ my boy for a walk past Huey’s house. I did it every day for a week until I knew his schedule cold. Then one mornin’ I substituted a machine gun for the doll. You could say that Huey was my greatest hit. But Creepy Conlin had Huey in his pocket, so that’s how I wound up doin’ this tri-state reassembly road trip.”

“You’ve probably been making this trip for so long that you don’t realize you’ve been doing it longer than you were alive. Why not give Margana what she wants? Say you’re sorry, that you’ll live a clean life next time around. You can be a painter, a singer…”

Verdugo’s narrow eyes mist over. “A ball player. I always wanted to be like Ted Williams. But no. I’m the Executioner.”

“Right now, you’re a guy who’s going to stuff his guts back in his belly and reattach his arm like the Scarecrow did in The Wizard of Oz. What if you could be with your family again?”

“You know these places you’ll be takin’ me to are fake, right? They’re recreations of places in my life created by Margana to get us sinners to say we’ll change.”

“But your family… They’re real,” Cliff says.

Verdugo’s thin stare glazes over again. “I got a wife, Graciana. She’s been my savin’ grace more times than I can count. And I got a little girl, Grace. She’s everythin’ I ain’t. I’d give my right arm to be with her. Okay, buddy. I’ll think about it. You won’t tell anybody I’m considerin’ goin’ straight, right?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Take me to the poor people!”

“Good afternoon, your majesty. Is that a cake you’re carrying?”

The elegantly dressed monarch pats her pagoda sized-white wig. “Call me Marie. And yes, it’s a cake. You know, I never actually said ‘Let them eat cake.’ I sure catch a lot of flak for it though.”

“So why do you have one?”

“I thought it would be a nice touch for the poor people I meet on the street corners. All they ever get for dessert – when they get it – is Jell-O,” Marie replies. “There are just so many flavors of Jell-O, you know.”

“I think it’s nice that you’re helping to feed the poor.”

“The people called me Madam Déficit and blamed the country’s financial problems on me. They said I spent too much on myself.”

Cliff glances at the string of pearls pinned to Marie’s three-foot-high pouf and the diamond broach pinned to her gown.

“Alright, I went a little bit overboard from time to time,” Marie admits. “But a lot of what people said about me were lies in order to get me off the throne. They wanted my head. Do you want my head, Mr. Cab Driver?”

Twisting her head off her shoulders, Marie thrusts it toward Cliff.

The wheels screech and the cab swerves as Cliff glances at Marie’s smiling body-bereft head.

“I get it, Marie. I’m on your side. You can put that back.”

Marie puts her head back in place. “People talked about Lafayette and I having an affair. We couldn’t stand the sight of one another! They said I appointed people sympathetic to Austria to the government. Of course, I did, I’m Austrian! Nobody talks about me helping the American colonies win their war against Britain, or that I collected five thousand books, or that I sponsored the arts and the flight of the first hot air balloon. I understand, though. All the poor and the hungry can see is the fancy-dressed queen and their empty plates. That’s why I have sold many of my possessions to make amends and help raise funds to feed the poor. I was thinking of sponsoring my own brand of discount wigs.”

Cliff’s friendly smile contorts as he glances at Marie’s three-tier hairdo.

“Is that a bit much?” she asks.

“Your hairstyle is a bit, well, out of style, unless Margana can send you back in time to the 1980s.”

“All right, I’ll stick to feeding the poor instead of dressing them.”

“I’ve got an idea. Handing out food on street corners is nice, but there’s a better way to be more effective. Why not open your own shelter to help the poor and the homeless?”

“C’est bon! Very good!”

“Maybe then Margana will take all your good deeds into account and let you be reincarnated.”

“C’est magnifique! I’ll go back to the 1980s and become a disco queen! Just one thing, Mr. Cab Driver. Margana must think it’s my idea to open a shelter.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Former middleweight champion Enrique Corazon gets into the cab accompanied by a bountiful blonde.

“Champ! Welcome aboard!”

“Take me to the Windsor Hotel,” Corazon says.

“Are you sure you want to go there, Champ? You know what’s going to happen there.”

The rangy fighter’s coal-black eyes narrow. “I know. I cannot stop it. I welcome it.”

Cliff glances at the woman as she leans against the sinewy boxer’s shoulder.

“Yes, this is Miranda Perez, the famous Argentine actress, and my third wife. She is the woman I threw off the roof,” Corazon says.

Miranda flashes a strained smile.

“I served eight years, just for being a man!”

“Excuse me, Champ, but it was more like being an animal,” Cliff counters. “You murdered Miranda.”

“I was just being the boss, like I was in the ring. Life in Argentina is a constant reminder that you must be a man.”

“You didn’t need to prove how macho you were by killing your wife. Didn’t you realize that while you were in jail?”

Corazon snorts. “I was betrayed. My manager told the police what had happened so he could avoid being punished. Then my brother, the little boy I used to protect from getting beaten up by the other children, he tells the police that I mistreated my other wives.”

“It seems like you took your anger out on everyone who dared to love you.”

“Death was my only friend, and he was never far from me. I grew up dirt poor. If we were lucky, we caught a few rats for dinner. I was beaten by my father until I hit him back. I discovered people didn’t listen when I talked, but they sure paid attention to me when I hit them in the mouth. When I became champ, I was always looking over my shoulder, expecting to have to fight to the death to keep my house, my money, my cars, my women. Even though I was at the top of the world, everything was still a fight. Two thugs stabbed me in a bar. My first wife shot me when I said I wanted a divorce. So, to answer your question, when I was in jail I realized, more than ever, that I should only look after myself.”

“So, you’d rather be stubborn and repeat the last years of your life than repent and change?” Cliff asks.

“I was undefeated. I was campeona, champ. They can take my freedom, my wealth, but not the way being champion made me feel. And if I were you, I would try to remember how I died.”

“They let you out of jail, you were involved in an accident on your way home...”

Corazon smiles slyly. “I was in a taxicab. My enemies, Miranda’s brothers, cut the brake lines.”

Cliff cements both hands to the wheel.

Miranda whispers in Corazon’s ear.

Corazon reluctantly swallows his macho pride. “All right, driver. Miranda says I should consider changing my life, become more patient, more understanding. It is not like I enjoyed jail, and I do not relish repeating this ride or Miranda’s murder every day. To be honest, I thought I finally got things right with Miranda. Who knows? Maybe I can stop myself from throwing her off the roof today.”

“That’s a start.”

“Just one thing…”

“I know, you still want people to respect you, fear you,” Cliff says. “I won’t tell anyone about your change of heart. My lips are sealed.”

Margana removes her glasses, nodding approvingly at the information in Cliff’s folder. “Hmmm… No complaints and plenty of recommendations. And you convinced Victor Verdugo, Queen Marie, and Enrique Corazon to change their lives and treat people better. As a result, Mr. Farren, you’re going to be one of the few drivers to receive a first-class reincarnation. Not only are you going to be reincarnated as the man you were, you’ll also retain all your memories.”

Marlon McKee, Cliff’s manager, throws a brotherly arm around his client. “They can barely keep your book “Confessions of the Dead” on the shelves. It’s been number one for five weeks! It’s brilliant fiction!”

“It’s not fiction, Marlon.”

“Aw c’mon, you can drop the act, it’s Marlon you’re talking to. You expect me to believe you talked with the ghosts of sports stars, monarchs, and hitmen?”

Cliff shrugs. “Maybe it was all a dream.”

“Whatever it was, get to work on volume two!” Marlon says, fumbling for his phone as it rings. Waving goodbye to Cliff, he walks off in the opposite direction.

Cliff’s phone pings. He reads the text message as he absent-mindedly crosses the street:

From Margana, Director of Reprobate Renewal…You broke the no-disclosure rule. Your pardon is rescinded!

Cliff steps off the curb, oblivious to the approaching Albany-bound Greyhound bus.

A long-haired, rank-smelling monk gets in Cliff’s cab. His penetrating eyes emit a phosphorescent glow as he glares into the rear-view mirror. His fetid breath makes Cliff’s breakfast churn in his gut.

“The Tsar and Tsarina’s royal palace. Hurry, I have to instigate a revolution!”