Who Rules the Dreary Coast

a short story by

jeff zachowski

“

o,” rasped the driver, his voice a resonant rumble refined on cigar smoke. “Which one of these fine luxury homes is Casa Durante?” The street had emptied into a dark cul-de-sac, the sort of out-of-the-way privatecommunity that doesn’t come with street lamps and doesn’t bother with mailboxes andhasn’t heard of landscaping. Kip Durante strained to find the house in spite of the gloom.His parents had moved on from the house he had grown up in, and it had been years sincehe had been to visit them. He was not a good son, he knew, but something hadcompelled him to come nonetheless. The driver yanked the gearshift into park and waited for Kip to get his bearings.He was a patient man – one had to be in his line of work. He removed the cigar stub fromhis cracked lips and examined the glowing tip. His nose vented thin tendrils of cherry-red vapor like a double-barreled smokestack turned on its head. “It would help if you turned on the headlights,” said Kip. The driver smiled wryly. “You think this heap comes with headlights?” Kip looked around at the interior of the rundown vehicle, a checkered taxicab,canary-yellow. It was the sort of cab that had once been so numerous in New York City that they had seemed to outnumber the rats. Before tonight, Kip hadn’t seen a cab of itskind since the late 1970s and he doubted seriously whether there was another like it enduring on the roads. The upholstery may have once been called leather, but now it was foul with greaseand shredded like some grisly ritual sacrifice. The cabby’s medallion number was so wornit was illegible and resembled some form of hieroglyphics more closely than it remindedKip of any modern alphabet. The cabby’s name was likewise well-worn and Kip couldonly make out the first three letters: C-H-A. Charlie, most likely. The driver looked like a Charlie. He was certainly a sordid sort. At last, it came to Kip, a lamp to light his way. At the end of the cul-de-sac theupstairs bedroom of one particular house had suddenly gone bright. The glow revealed a solitary figure and Kip recognized the familiar silhouette of his mother. He smiled at thesight of her kind and withered face, and marveled at the normalcy of it all. After all, his mother had been dead for three years. A moment later, she was joined at the window by his father. They blinked at thetaxi with curiosity in their pale, sallow faces. The cabby put the car into drive once more. “I’m guessing that’s the place,” he coughed. “What do I say to them?” was all Kip replied. The driver turned in his seat now and peered at Kip in the dim light. His beard,unkempt and unclean, hung like tattered drapes from his hairy chin. His eyes seemed tosmolder like two seething furnaces.