CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR


I slept for most of the day and it was peaking six in the afternoon when I
grew bored and changed into street clothes. My sleep schedule was off, but I
didn't care. It'd be back on schedule when this was all done and over with.
Until then, I checked my phone and saw no lingering voicemessage from Jace.


He was still gone and the apartment felt of too many ghosts.


Not really thinking, I headed out, and found myself a block away from the
Poet's House when I saw flashing red lights in the distance.


Curious, I remembered the last time I met a few paramedics and recalled that
one was named Patrick.


I'd found Herbert and I wondered, briefly, if his grandchildren had actually
been his grandchildren or someone else's wallet that he had lifted off another
homeless soul.


A paramedic turned around to a private side of the ambulance and clutched at
his stomach.


He looked like he needed to vomit, but the juice wasn't inside of him.
Chalk-faced and with cold perspiration to his forehead, I saw that it was
Patrick. It was the same Paramedic that had attended to Herbert, hoping against
hope that it wasn't his father.


Judging from his reaction, I bet odds that he found his father.


And I was the immaculate witness to behold the travesty for which he hunted
and waited.


"Hey." I said softly and approached tentatively.


Patrick jerked upwards, blinked as he needed time to focus on me, and then
laughed in surreal reality, "What are you? An angel of death or something?"


I noted the irony and asked, "What is it?"


He gestured, abruptly, around the ambulance door and said, "It's him. My
father."


I stopped to stand just beside him.


"He…everytime, I think I'm going to find him and it's never him. Everytime. I
work this section of the city for a reason. I know that he hangs around here and
I keep—I don't know, hoping, not hoping, dreading—but it's never him. It was him
today."


We were strangers and yet on a cold anonymous street, sometimes a person
could unburden their soul and return home for another day led in their lives. I
didn't blink or question the flood of confession because I'd seen it too many
times. It was easier to confide in a stranger than to a loved one.


There was no pressure and no expectations.


"Now you know." I murmured softly and took a deep breath as I leaned beside
him against the ambulance.


"Yeah. We have to—" Patrick's partner came around the corner, stopped short
when she saw me, but said after a slight hesitation, "We're loading him up, if
you want to…"


"Yeah." Patrick coughed and said again, stronger, "Yeah. I'll ride down."


Her nametag proclaimed her name as Bridgette and I saw a flash of jealousy in
her hazel depths before she nodded and disappeared behind the ambulance.


Patrick groaned, ran a hand through his hair, and murmured, "I have to call
mom and my sisters…not to mention my brother. Man, my brother…" He frowned and
asked, "So, what? Do you live around here? I haven't seen you since that other
stiff."


I doubted that Patrick realized who he'd included in that category, but I
replied, "No. I have a friend who works around here and I was…I was bored."


"He? She?"


"He, but he's out of town right now. I don't know when he'll be back."


Patrick nodded, stood, and couldn't hide the grimace as he rounded the
corner. His father had been loaded on a stretcher. Bridgette was just laying
down a blue blanket over top when she hesitated, arms in the air, just before
the head was about to be covered.


"What's your dad's name?"


"Sammy." Patrick muttered and heaved another resigning breath. He nodded and
Bridgette laid the sheet over his father's body.


"I can take him down. Really." Bridgette said again. "You don't have to do
that."


Patrick shook his head, "I'll finish the job."


"I think you already did." I added. "You've been looking for him, right? That
was your job. You found him and your partner's right. You have more to do
now."


Patrick wavered, torn between meaningless duty and meaningful duty. Finally,
he nodded and said softly, "Thanks, Bridge."


She nodded a professional salute and shut the door. After a two tap pound,
she offered a tight smile and commented, "Drinks on me tonight, Pat."


"Sure thing." But his heart wasn't in on it.


The ambulance left a moment later and Patrick found himself standing in the
spot where his father died, with a stranger, and a cold chill to his back.


"How'd he die?" I asked.


"Who knows. His head was bashed in, but I don't know if that's what killed
him or helped kill him, you know. He was frozen…a frozen stiff…" Patrick sighed
and nodded across the alley. "Those guys know, but they don't ever talk to
us."


Two guys were huddled around a barrel fire with cagy eyes and a lingering
streak that told me they hadn't left their fire to urinate.


"No. Not those guys." I murmured and turned around. They were there. You just
had to know how to find them, where to look, and my eyes caught a small foot
disappear inside a doorway, two barrels down. "There." I patted Pat's arm and
moved down.


Patrick followed and we rounded the last barrel to see a runaway with
piercing blue eyes, blonde hair of mud, and three blankets wrapped around her.
Her feet wore sandals so she dipped them underneath the blanket.


"Hey." I knelt before her.


She never met my eyes.


I motioned Patrick to back up a few feet. He did and I asked, "Who owns these
corners?"


She started to look up at that, but jerked her eyes back down.


"Does Broozer?"


She shifted to the right and I caught an automatic check of her surroundings.
Her eyes scanned and held.


I followed their direction and saw two men, watching intently without ever
looking towards us. One had just dipped his hand into his back pocket and a girl
wearing a miniskirt swaggered off, not feeling the cold anymore.


"I'll give you money to get him off your back." I offered and her eyes
finally pierced through mine. I slid a twenty across the ground to her and
repeated, "Who runs these blocks?"


"Melbi." She whispered.


"He work for Broozer?"


"She does." She corrected me.


"Okay." I nodded. "You know what happened to Sammy?"


"The stiff?" She licked her lips and glanced towards the pimp again.


I slid another twenty across and knelt forward to hide the exchange.


She took it, grateful for the extra consideration, and answered, "He wanted a
bottle from Benji. Benji wasn't feeling it and they fought over it."


"Who hit him with the bottle?"


"Market." She suddenly realized, "You ain't a cop, are you?"


"No." I grinned faintly. "I'm not a cop." I glanced over, met her pimp's
gaze, and asked, "Who does he go by?"


"That's Payton. He works for Melbi."


"Not many female bosses that I know of." I noted and hunched on the back of
my heels to get more comfortable. "Is Market protected?"


"Nah, but Benji is and Benji protects Market."


I nodded, stood, and replied, "I'll buy you a cup of coffee inside if you
want to wait till they leave."


"Sure." She hesitated despite her words, but after another moment's
consideration she weighed the warmth and decided to chance it.


I knew her dilemma. She'd be seen talking to outsiders without payment and
whoever worked her corner would be on her, demanding to know what we wanted to
know and how much she must've gotten paid for it. It wouldn't matter how long
she waited inside, they'd find her eventually unless she moved far enough away,
but I doubted it. She could get a brief shelter in the meantime.


It was hard to leave the street with too little cash to pay for your safety
and too many bullies knowing your debt to vulnerability. She didn't work the
streets like their other girls, but she took up a perch on their corner so that
made her theirs.


Their only problem was that I knew her plight and I knew how I'd gotten out
of my own.


I stared at the pimp, it didn't matter what his name was or even who he
worked for. It was the same everywhere. If you took up residence on a corner,
you were expected to pay some rent for it, no matter what little hustling you
might've done. If you were a wanderer, and some were, then you could stay awhile
but you needed to move the next day.


Just like every culture, every world, and every socioeconomic level; the
streets had their own rules, myths, and society.


There were multiple roles and she played a runaway's that refused to turn
prostitute.


She wasn't as smart as myself so her future was bleak, but I stood there, in
that moment, I stood for her.


Patrick hesitated when he saw where we were headed..


"What's wrong?" I asked.


"He must've drank in there." Patrick murmured, his eyes on the bar's door. It
was a wooden, green painted, door with a single shamrock that stood emblazoned
upon it.


"So he'd know some people in there. You found his body. Why don't you find
out more about him? As much as you can?"


I turned and followed behind as the girl was already inside. The manager had
already been called and was just turning the counter's corner when I sat across
from her in the booth. He stopped short at the sight of me and then Patrick slid
in beside me and that manager turned to leave.


The waitress got the go-ahead and approached for our orders.


I ordered three coffees and she left.


Patrick spoke, "What's your name?"


He asked the girl, but she didn't respond.


"This is Sammy's boy." I told her.


She looked, but she didn't say a word. She merely stared out the window. Then
she said, "They aren't going to leave."


Patrick leaned forward, "Did you know my dad?"


She jerked her gaze away from the window. The coffee arrived and I took
mine.


"I'd…he left us, or well, mom kicked him out when I was thirteen. I saw him
on and off, but we hadn't heard a word from him in the past six years." Patrick
murmured, his hands cupped around the coffee mug.


She sipped hers, glanced up, and looked back out the window. She was
skittish, but she wasn't going anywhere.


Neither was I, not until the time was right.


"They're really not going anywhere." She said again and heaved a sigh.


Patrick frowned, looked out to the invisible street, and murmured, "Please.
Can you tell me about my father?"


She wasn't inside to despond pity onto a street's family member. She was
inside for some warmth, some free coffee, and to gain a small foothold on her
own independence.


I understood that. Patrick didn't. He was just another face that inevitably
showed up, asking all sorts of questions that they never really wanted to hear
the answers for. They just wanted to hear the goodness of their lost family
member and believe, that somehow, that family member had pulled it together.
They hadn't died alone and for nothing to show, but the truth was always the
same.


They had died alone, either peacefully in their sleep or violently. And it
was usually for nothing. If they'd gotten better, pulled it together, they
would've made the journey home by then.


They never did and someone's child or wife or husband always came around,
asking the same questions.


Patrick knew some of this, but he was still an outsider. He didn't know it
all.


The waitress had returned and heard his last words. She asked, "Are you
Patrick? Sammy's boy?"


Surprised, Patrick turned towards her, an earnest son in his eyes as he
answered, "Yeah. Did you know him?"


She set the pot of coffee on our table and found her hips as she ho-hummed,
"Yep. Sammy or Sonny, what Ledge always called him, was a regular. He was in
here nearly every night."


"Was he in here last night?"


"Last night? No. He didn't come around here last night."


"He died outside your door." I said flatly. I caught the slight flinch,
though Patrick didn't. She knew exactly where he was on his last night. They
probably kicked him out, threw him a bottle, and knew it'd cause a battle on the
streets.


They hadn't cared.


"Your dad was real nice. And funny. He always had some story to tell." She
caught my gaze and lied, "And he had a few to tell about you." She told
Patrick.


"Really?"


It appeased him, slightly.


The waitress asked me, watching the streetgirl, "Is she with you?"


"I'm buying her coffee." I remarked, chilled.


She nodded and replied, "Her friends are going to be outside until she goes
out there. They don't help with our business the longer they stay out
there."


"So you want her gone? Let her take a beating so that your bar can get good
business?" I taunted.


Patrick frowned.


"This ain't your fight, not anymore." The waitress knew my type. She knew I'd
been around the block. "Why are you getting in the middle of it?"


"Because he lost a father today. Because she has a family somewhere. And
because I chose to be in the middle of this fight."


"We all got family—" The waitress started.


I cut her off, "Not when you're out there. You're out there and you're on the
bottom of the pile. You got nothing when you're out there so let her enjoy a cup
of coffee before she has to go back out there to being nothing."


"Look," She pulled out her pad and glanced over her shoulder. "at least order
some toast. I got a boss too and I'm just doing my job."


Patrick had watched the exchange and lifted a finger, "I'll order a beer. I'd
like to drink to my dad."


Her eyes softened and she nodded. "Sure thing. You want his usual?"


"Yeah. That'd be…" The waitress was already gone, relieved to be away from my
daring full frontal.


"Appropriate." The girl from the streets murmured, self-consciously. She
didn't look up, but watched her hands in her lap now.


"Yeah…" Patrick leaned back and sighed, "Why am I here? I should be…I should
be going home to tell my mom. I should be doing a million other things than
sitting here."


"Sammy would like it that you came in here and had a drink for him." The
streetgirl murmured again. "He'd like it, all bellyful and rumbly. That's how
much he'd like it."


It was the right thing to say. Some closure entered Patrick at those words.
It was a piece of knowledge from the time when his father was absent to the son
who'd been searching for him, never surrendering a child's rightful pursuit to
know their parent, drunk or not.


"Yeah," Patrick smiled in rememberance. "He used to laugh the loudest laugh.
It'd embarrass my mom." The son laughed now and blinked back tears.


His beer was delivered and Patrick lifted it in a salute. "Here's to my dad."
He took a drink and then asked, hoarsely, almost regretfully, "Do I have a right
to do this? He disappeared, he gave up on us…He doesn't deserve this."


"This isn't about him." I told him. "This is about you. At least, looking
back, you can say that you went and had his drink at his bar, in his name. You
wouldn't come back if you left now, all angry-like."


"It's there." Patrick admitted. "It was there for a long long time and then
it was just…I needed to find him. But now that I know…it's there again. I'm
angry and yet I'm…"


"Done."


"Yeah."


We stayed and Patrick had another drink. In fact, he had a few more, but the
streetgirl never talked again. She watched outside and three hours later, after
Payton had finally disappeared from view, she left with no goodbye or hesitation
for the coffee and words of defense.


Patrick grunted at her back and remarked, "Kind person."


I understood and merely said, "You're mourning your father, but she's still
worried about keeping her life. She don't have room to be considerate, at least,
not now, but maybe one day she will."


Patrick harrumphed and finished his last beer. He declared, "I think I'm
drunk." He shifted his head to glance at my side-profile, "Why'd you do this?
For me and her?"


I shrugged. "Because I was bored, because I understood both sides of this
shallow coin."


"Shallow coin? That makes no sense."


"Makes perfect sense to me. Life's round, everything's connected, and yet the
world's not run on depth. Everyone has depth, but too many only run on the
surface. They walk in the shallows and yet, we're all worth something"


"Like a coin." Patrick nodded. "It still doesn't really make sense to
me."


"Don't worry. It's not really supposed to because that's another facet of
life. Does it ever really make sense?" I grinned.


"I should go." Patrick sighed. He gave up trying to figure out a riddle that
wasn't meant to be figured out.


"Yeah."


Neither of us moved for the door.


"I thought about asking you out last time I saw you." Patrick confided,
slurred and drunken. "But you seemed upset. I didn't think it was the right
time."


"It's not now either." I told him. "This was a nice escape from my troubles,
but I should be getting back."


"Yeah…and I shoud be finding my way to the subway."


"Come on." I patted his arm. "You can ride with me. I need to go there
too."


"Okay." He bobbed his head and as we made our way out the door, I knew the
walk would be long and a little tiresome. Patrick patted my arm as we moved
through the doorway, "It was good, I think, to take time and organize my
thoughts about my dad. I mean, we're kinda bonded now. With that other guy…I
don't remember his name…and now my dad. We're bonded in death."


"That's an optimist's destiny." I said dryly with sober and steady eyes as I
scanned the alley and street.


The streetgirl might've made her escape, but I wasn't stupid. Payton might
come looking our way for the cash that the streetgirl unrightfully owed him. I
was almost waiting for a common mugging, but I wasn't sure.


Patrick laughed and continued, "I mean, I've told you more about my dad in
these few hours than I've ever told my roommate, and we've been roommates for
two years. Can you believe that? It's strange. It's almost…"


We just needed to go a bit farther, there was a gated alley, and with two
more steps we'd be there. I remembered the gate from my other walks towards the
Poet House and always figured it'd be a good shortcut to the backdoor.


We'd got there and I cursed inwardly at the sight of a lock.


If Payton was out there, he was going to make his move at either opening of
the alley. I wasn't willing to risk it and maneuvered Patrick to look like he
was taking a piss.


Patrick was clueless. He rambled on and it wasn't the first time that I'd
heard a drunken lament begin and end towards a lost loved one. Every slurred
syllable was his own poetic lamentation.


I knelt. Patrick still rambled.


And I pulled out my blade to make quick work on the lock.


"…Huh?" Patrick stopped abruptly.


I heard a footstep crunch on the alley's rock and knew Payton had grown
impatient. I stood and coughed loudly as I opened the lock with a click.


I turned and Payton had come up with two more thugs.


They wore the typical bullying color, professional and yet excited.


I toed the gate open, just a decimeter, and then stood in front of
Patrick.


Payton wasted no words as he declared, "Give us your money and we'll let you
walk out of here untouched."


Patrick sobered quickly at those words. He still seemed bewildered, but later
I'd realize it was at my lack of expression. I was expecting the jump so it
wasn't really a jump. It just happened and Patrick was the only one
surprised.


Payton frowned at the lack of reaction too, but I stepped closer and said,
"And why should I be scared otherwise?"


He frowned, confused at my response, and that's when I brushed against him,
just briefly as I reared up and shoved Patrick backwards through the gate. I was
right behind him and heard the lock click back into place as the gate crashed
back in place.


They rattled the gate, but Payton shouted, "We're just going to be on the
other side, lady."


"Lady?" I drawled as I pushed Patrick ahead. "At least you credited me with
some class."


I laughed and shoved Patrick into a sprint.


It was petty and it just showed that I still had a pick-pocketer's sinful
nature, but as we left, I had an extra pound of cash and Payton was a pound less
of cash.


I pocketed the cash and darted after Patrick, who was now perplexed, but
blistering in rage.


"Holy shit, I've been on the job for years and my first mugging is—"


"We weren't mugged." I informed him and stopped him as we ran just pass the
Poet's House backdoor.


I felt around, found a barrel, and slid the bottom from underneath.


As my fingers felt a badge inside, I smiled in appreciation for my
absent-minded friend who was predictable to those who knew him best.


Munsinger was forever forgetting his keys. He left a key to his house
underneath his car's hood and he left a key for his job in a hidden bottom of a
garbage barrel. 'If the stink shit enough…' That was Munsinger's phrase when he
laughed another time when he'd been locked out of the house during a particular
blow-out with Cherry. That's when I caught him hiding a key to our house in a
similar garbage bin. Who'd search the garbage? And who'd ever think about moving
the garbage?


I let us into the Poet's House and Patrick noted in awe, "How'd you know
about that?"


"I didn't and you don't either." I said firmly. I got my phone and passed it
over, "Call an ambulance."


"What?"


"Call some of your buddies. Tell them to flash those sirens loud and all
shiny-like for our escape limo."


"Oh." But Patrick wavered. "What was that back there?"


I shrugged, "Just some fun to remember who I am."


"Oh."


A moment later I heard Patrick phone it in and we went to the front to wait
it out.


As we settled in two lounge chairs near the front window, Patrick cleared his
throat and said, "Hey, uh…thanks, for tonight. It was…the weirdest night of my
life."


I smiled faintly and remarked, "That's right. You're one of 'them.' I'd
almost forgotten."


Patrick grimaced, but chuckled. "That sounds slightly ominous."


"You're one of 'them'. If you live on the streets, you get used to strangers'
faces flitting in and out of your life. You don't question it because we're all
just moving ahead. When you're one of 'them', that's when you grow roots and you
only talk to the familiar. You only trust the familiar." I remarked, watching
the street.


"What about those guys? You trust them back there?"


"No, but I trust that I knew what they were going to do." I replied.


"And me?"


"You were predictable." I said softly.


Patrick barked a laugh in disbelief, "Jeez. Shallow and predictable,
right?"


I met his gaze, saw the miff of a registered insult, and rescinded it,
"There's nothing shallow about finding your father today or wanting a slight
reprieve before you go back to your world. You got a little vacation in my
company today, but you'll go back tomorrow or tonight and you'll tell your
family that your father's dead, because that's what you wanted a break from
today. You didn't want to tell them just yet."


Patrick was silenced to thoughtful consideration. We sat in silence until a
swirling light from an ambulance announced our escape route.


I tucked the badge in my back pocket and left the door to lock behind me as
we climbed into the back of the ambulance. Patrick took the front seat and his
buddies reached back to pat his knee comfortingly.


They cared for their friend and I sat far away.


I sat in the back and watched as Payton separated from behind a car, his eyes
locked with mine, as I rode away and scotfree with his daily's earnings tucked
in my front pocket.


I hadn't sought out what happened, but I wasn't sad that it had happened. I
went for a walk, searching for something to occupy my time while Jace was
remembering his past, and I ended up finding my own.


And I felt like I knew who I was, once again.


Someone who cared and someone who didn't have to care.


I was a con with a conscience for a higher purpose.