Attack of the Cab Monsters: A Tale of the Financial Crisis

By Nick Cascino

In the Spring of 2009 at the height of the fallout from the Financial Crisis, New York media baron Alan Medussa is engaged in many conflicts as he attempts to hold together his crumbling empire. There's the rap star Li’l Sheanna who's going down the drain but won't accept his offer to end their contract. There's his long-time associate and college buddy Boris Rochshire of Wall Street fame, now charged with engineering a multi-billion dollar Ponzi scheme and looking to take Alan down with him. There's the Department of Transportation Commissioner Laurence Welsh, now looking to return to the private sector, attempting to take advantage of Alan's declining health to acquire his businesses on the cheap. And then there's the baseball star Roberto Granada, whom Alan hotly pursued to aid his hapless New York Comets. His star player now defies him by becoming romantically involved with his niece Anne. All this as the rise of new media technologies fragments his audiences and breaks his businesses apart.
After a hair-raising cab ride in which Alan encounters a driver desperately down on his luck and in trouble with criminal gangs, he concocts an innovative way to use the services of taxis and their drivers to resolve his conflicts.
What transpires is a blistering summer of reckless crimes, a baseball pennant race and internet-fueled tabloid journalism that grips the city in a pervasive fear. Alan uses all means of motivation; financial rewards, ego-enrichment and coercion to execute his devious plans while the health of his mind and body continues to decay. Can he defeat his enemies and succeed in his plans or will he degenerate into a modern day media Frankenstein?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nick Cascino
• Release date: Jan 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466016019

Nick Cascino

Mr. Cascino is a media theorist attempting to make the connections between Einstein's theory of relativity, Mcluhan's media evolution tetrad and the appeal of inane celebrities. He gets closer by the day.

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Attack of the Cab Monsters

By

Nick Cascino

Copyright 2012 by: Nick Cascino

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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CHAPTER I

While the borough of Queens in the City of New York may be the most ethnically diverse place on the planet, one cannot accuse it of ostentation. Pockets of wealth exist within hidden neighborhoods scattered about the borough, but the borough’s primary purpose in modern times is to serve as the arena of the immigrant struggle. Such is the case as dawn breaks on this small apartment in Corona as the rattling of the seven train echoes through the first floor windows. Gerardo Derosa, recently arrived from an island country in the Southern Hemisphere of the Americas, is awakening from the bed in this one-room sparsely furnished dwelling. He shakes his head and instinctively reaches out for his violin. This has become his morning ritual. To greet the pressures of another inevitably difficult day, a few strings of Rossini will soothe his soul.

Outside, a taxi pulls up into the small driveway in front of the building. Alberto Cesaro emerges, exhausted after several hours of navigating the city streets. As he walks towards the apartment, the noise of the passing train dissipates, yielding to a noise far worse in his view; Gerardo’s violin. He enters and the music stops. Up and out, he yells at Gerardo. What lousy, screeching noise. The breaks on my cab sound better than that. Come on, move off the bed. Gerardo gets up and Alberto crashes towards the bed.

Hey, watch my violin! He grabs it away just before Alberto’s massive body hits the mattress.

Get that thing out of here. I don’t want to ever see it again.

Gerardo shakes his head. This is bullshit. I’m not going to put up with this anymore.

Oh yes you will. You will make good on your deal. Remember, I own the cab. You are here as my guest to drive the cab when I sleep. Now drive that thing back to Manhattan. And I want to see at least one thousand by the end of the day. If you don’t get it in the cab, rob someone on the way back. Keeping you in this arrangement does not come cheap.

Gerardo grabs his violin. Yes, I agreed to this, but I also have some basic rights.

Don’t forget where you wife is, Alberto shoots back.

Outside, Gerardo enters the cab and places his violin gently on the front seat. He turns the key and the cab starts up, resuming the flow of exhaust into the cool morning air. He inserts a CD into the dashboard. It is the same symphony music he had attempted to play in his apartment. He listens intently, identifying the sequence of notes he just can’t seem to pull off. He glides the cab slowly under the elevated subway tracks of Roosevelt Avenue, then pulls up to the front of a candy store, double-parked among several other taxis. He walks into the store, a wild Latin beat now contrasting against the symphony still fresh in his ears. He pours a large cup of coffee. Behind him on a long line are several cabdrivers awaiting their opportunity to purchase the Power Ball. He walks in front of the line and places two dollars on the counter, then walks towards the exit. Another cabdriver exits with him, a half dozen lottery tickets in his hand. No ticket, Gerardo? shouts out a cabdriver. It’s up to two hundred million.

What good is that to me? Even my simple dreams are shattered. He enters the cab and switches his ears back to the symphony.

Gerardo speeds the cab smoothly along the Long Island Expressway until he is forced to abruptly apply the breaks as traffic piles up in morning glow of the approaching Manhattan skyline. He veers off the Expressway onto Van Dam Street and then onto the upper roadway of the 59th Street Bridge. Suddenly a cab comes to a full stop a few vehicles in front of him. Horns start blaring as the cab stands still, blocking half the traffic and causng chaos in the other lanes as well. The driver of the cab gets out, shouting to the traffic behind him. Give me a break. I ran out of gas. It is the same cabdriver Gerardo encountered at the candy store, playing the Power Ball.

Are you kidding? responds Gerardo as he drives by him. How could you be so stupid?

I’m out of cash. Can you help me out?

Sorry. I’m tapped too. Gerardo waves his hand in disgust. Keep playing the lottery.

* * * * *

Across the bridge, a meeting of a far different sort is occurring in a dining room of an elegantly furnished Fifth Avenue townhouse just across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is the home of Alan Medussa, the Chief Executive Officer of Medussa News Corporation, who now presides at the head of his large dining room table. To his right is the female Rap Star Li’l Sheanna. To his left is her agent, a former rap star named Dushane Mclain. From the looks on the faces, it is apparent that no one is enjoying the coffee and croissants. In the background we hear the piercing beat of a very caustic species of rap music. Alan motions for his assistant to turn down the volume. Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. Now I realize this stuff isn’t supposed to cater to intellectuals, but you could at least attempt to rhyme your lyrics. And a little inflection of the vocal chords might do your lungs some good.

Sheanna snaps back. Hey, this isn’t for your pleasure. I don’t watch your TV shows or read your newspaper and you don’t have to listen to my music.

Music? I wish I was Vincent Van Gogh with my ear cut off.

Dushane interjects. Let’s get to the meat of this meeting.

Yes, let’s do that, responds Alan. I called you to my home because this may get difficult and I didn’t want another big brawl at my headquarters building again. Not that I’m against injecting some excitement into the drab world of corporate negotiations, but you nearly killed one of my security guards. You owe me big time for persuading my journalists to avoid publishing that story. I will expect however that you pay for the damage you did to my fine cherry wood paneling.

Those Trapper Twins started it, says Sheanna. I’ve been called a bitch before, but not a copyright thief. And despite what they’re saying , I never shaved my pubes in the shape of an inverted cross.

Look, the bottom line, if that’s the right expression, is that we’ve all had a very serious falling out, says Alan as he scratches the inner workings of his left ear. Regardless of the current tonal state among the American public, your sales are down double digits from where we were just eighteen months ago.

That has nothing to do with the music, retorts Dushane. Show me the marketing you put into the Trappers versus Li’l Sheanna. You deliberately promoted them over us.

You are more than welcome to audit our marketing budgets. You will see that we spent far more money trying to resurrect your sinking ship than sending theirs into orbit. But let’s not make this a bitter divorce if we don’t have to. Alan gestures over to a lawyer behind him who passes out legal documents. I am offering a very lucrative package here to sever our contract. Before you engage in any further ranting and raving, I suggest you both give it a thorough review. Take your time. I need to step out for a minute to check some calls.

I’m not too optimistic, says Dushane. If you believed this was a good deal for us, then why did you have us check our firearms at the door?

I guess because the furniture in my home is far superior to the furniture in my office. I can’t afford another rumble. Alan exits the dining room and takes a seat in the living area. He picks up his phone but as he is punching commands, his confidential assistant, Sandra, approaches from across the room.

Alan, something urgent has come up. Are you still serious about acquiring Roberto Granada?

Of course. Has his agent responded to the offer?

Here’s his response. She hands him an email she printed out on the computer. Granada has a higher offer to go to Boston, but he can reconsider your offer if you can add $2 million a year.

Alan is exuberant. Fine. That’s still less than I’m willing to spend.

There is one problem. The Boston contract is being presented to him this morning at the Rector Street Athletic Club and he will need to sign it unless you can get our contract to him by nine o’clock.

That’s only a half hour from now. Get him on the phone. Alan walks towards the other room and gestures to his lawyer who approaches him. Get on the computer and up the Granada offer by $2 million a year. Get me two copies right now. Sandra hands Alan the phone. Alan steps onto the balcony, overlooking the Metropolitan Museum across the street. Ted, what’s going on here? Are you trying to pull another fast one?

Absolutely not. I received an excellent offer from the Red Sox three days ago and I arranged for them to come by this morning to finalize it.

So you want me to counter-offer at the last minute? For just another $2 million?

This isn’t about a counter-offer. You’d never meet them anyway. Sometimes a more human element enters into these negotiations. This morning, Granada calls me and starts whining about how he really wants to play in Queens and return to his home town, so he is willing to accept your offer at a mere $2 million extra and a few commitments to charity, some small stipulations, nothing out of the ordinary.

But what’s this about getting down there by 9 o’clock?

The Red Sox agents are showing up in the next hour. If the Comets can present a signed contract now, I can say we made a last minute deal for the sake of Granada. But I’m in too deep to turn them away without something in writing. I can’t ruin my reputation. You can’t get someone down here in a half hour?

Reputation? You’ve got to be joking. The only one I trust to consummate a deal with you is myself. I’m on my way. He folds the phone and looks down at his watch. Damn. He rushes towards the kitchen and approaches Sandra. How far is my car from here? I need to go downtown right now.

Your car’s at the midtown garage under your office. When do you ever drive it during the week? Should I call a limo?

Oh, forget it. There isn’t enough time. I’ll get a cab.

What about Li’l Sheanna and Dushane?

They are the past and this is the future. Just try to keep them occupied for an hour or two. This is more important. Alan rushes out of his building and across Fifth Avenue to the front of the Metropolitan Museum.

* * * * *

Gerardo Derosa’s first fare was just off the 59th Street Bridge, a middle-aged woman escorting her teenage daughter to a school on Park Avenue in the mid nineties. Once there, he picked up a Rastafarian woman needing a ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art where she was to give a lecture. Gerardo likes to keep his trips within the confines of the Upper East and West Sides within striking distance of Central Park. He learns a great deal from the wealthy and educated classes here, the park is a picturesque respite from the oppressive city, and rarely does anyone ask him to turn off his classical music. Now his cab is pulling up to the front of the museum, but before he reaches the curb a man is briskly converging on his right rear door, forcing him to stop a few feet from the curb. Before the Rastafarian scholar has been able to tender her fare, he has swung the door open. She is barely out before he has crashed into the back seat. Rector Athletic Club. I’m in a big hurry. Without even looking back, Gerardo can conjure an accurate image of Alan through his voice. It bellows throughout the cab commanding immediate action, a major contrast from the symphony playing in the front seat. It communicates an image of arrogance and privilege, the voice of a man of advanced in age, somewhere in the seventh decade of life, well-worn and set in getting his own way.

Where’s that?

Downtown. Rector Street. You should know that. They make you take a test, don’t they? We need to get there very fast. Cross the park at 65th Street and we’ll go down Ninth Avenue to avoid midtown.

What a turn for the worst, thinks Gerardo. He’s rude, insulting and he’s taking him way out of his comfort zone, all the way to the southern tip of the island, but he cannot refuse the fare via the cabdriver’s code of conduct. There’s construction on Ninth Avenue and the West Side Highway is a mess. We’re better off going down Broadway.

Broadway’s got that absurd traffic diversion. Just do what I say. I’m a man who believes in incentives, so I’ll pay well above the meter if you can get me there in twenty minutes.

That’s impossible this time of day, snaps back Gerardo.

Nothing’s impossible if you cut some corners. Gerardo turns the cab into Central Park. Come on, pick up the pace, blurts Alan.

Gerardo’s patience is already being tested. "Sir, I’m responsible for giving you a safe, comfortable ride. I’m not responsible to make