Free Meter Maids Eat Their Young by E. J. Knapp

allegations?”
    â€œWell, so far, that’s all they are. They may well be growing out of the anger the people are feeling over the high cost of parking, but they are being made. More and more people are questioning the tickets they received, taking the time to make a court appearance. Not that it gets them much more than time lost at work, what with Gallagher on the bench.”
    â€œWhat’s their complaint?”
    â€œSimple. They claim they never received a ticket, only the notice in the mail that the ticket was overdue which, of course, adds a ten-dollar fine onto the forty. Once a ticket is overdue, it’s all but impossible to fight it.”
    Philo continued to talk but, deep in thought, I lost track of his words. Was it possible the allegations were true? Could that be what Harrison was on to?
    â€œTom,” I said, interrupting him. “I’m afraid I’m suffering a bit of information overload here.”
    â€œUnderstandable,” he said. “It’s taken me nearly a year of research to compile this information. I would hardly expect someone to absorb it all in a single sitting.”
    â€œI appreciate that. Look, I’d like to discuss this further with you, at your convenience, of course.”
    â€œAbsolutely. I’m more than happy to help where I can. I would suggest, however that you, uh, call first before coming over. I tend to keep, uh, odd hours here at the shop.”
    â€œNot a problem.”
    We did the handshake thing and he let me out the back door. As I pulled out the parking lot, I noticed the kid, Willy T’s kid, was still sitting on the sidewalk, his ties laid out in a pile beside him, a dozen or more already wrapped about his neck.
    All the lost and lonely children, I mused, and pointed the car toward home.

Department Of Parking Extortion
    The following morning I was on my way to the Coney Island place for breakfast, having forgotten once again to buy groceries. It was a warm, late spring day; the sun bright, the sky cloudless.
    As I passed it, I looked up at the town clock, a twenty-foot high, gaudy mix of Art Deco and Dali-wannabe sculpture.  Twisted iron, copper filigree, chrome angels in agony, entombed in glass balls which dangled from the claws of grotesque fire-breathing dragons with barbed wire wrapped about their rust-colored legs.  The clock face at the peak, wedged in iron spikes, had hands resembling, well, hands, arms and all, one extended, arthritic finger stretched toward winged gargoyles where the numbers usually went.  For all its arty intricateness, it couldn’t keep time worth a damn. 
    The sound of laughter drew my attention from the clock.  The laughter was coming from a group of people standing outside the Coney Island place, pointing at something back my way.
    And it wasn’t the clock they were laughing at.
    Or me.
    Turning, I followed their gaze. A parking enforcement cart had stopped in the road, the meter maid dutifully filling out a ticket. It took me a moment to realize what the people were laughing about and when I saw it I laughed too.
    On the back of the cart, where it normally read “Department of Parking Enforcement”, someone had plastered a decal over the last word so it now read “Department of Parking Extortion”.
    The Meter Mangler had struck again and was escalating the attacks. Thus far, since they began three months ago, they had been coming at five- or six-day intervals. Sometimes as much as two weeks would pass with no hint of the Mangler’s presence. Why the sudden increase? Could it have something to do with Harrison’s death?
    At that moment, another cart sped by and I noticed that it, too, had been defaced. I walked over to a meter, curious, and, sure enough, the department’s logo had been replaced with the same decal as on the carts. I tried peeling it off but the Mangler had used a permanent glue to apply them. The cleaning crew would have fun