...Joe tells his story...
Joe stood dumbly for a minute then returned to the doorway where his duffle lay. He bent over, easing onto it like a large pillow.
“We were four crazy kids out of St. Joe, Missouri. After school, we decided on a whim to go to San Francisco. We drove straight through, taking turns at the wheel. It was a fun ride, taking in the sights, forgetting about the day-to-day back home.
“When we got here we were knocked over. The Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate, all the different people. Nothing like that in St. Joe.
“But Larry hated the city right off. He likes the simpler things. So, three days later, he took Amtrak home.
“Jason, Eric and me, we all liked it. Hooking up, girls, toking in the Park. It was an endless party.
“But they wanted to see L.A. before going home. I wanted to stay. So, after two weeks they were gone.
“I had my sleeping bag, some money and met some people I thought were friends, but---”
He stopped talking, blinked and looked bewildered. Riley, too, was amazed at the transformation from silent man to storyteller. And he was closer to his age than he had assumed.
“They weren’t. Someone stole my stuff, then my money. No one helped. That’s when I met Robbie. He’d been in the streets awhile and knew about people.
“We looked out for each other. Simple stuff like sleeping back-to-back or taking turns so no one could sneak up. I trusted him with my life.
“But we got hard up for money. There was this guy who recruited homeless to do things.”
Riley leaned forward.
“More like, he forced you and paid you a little. He waits outside the shelter. One day he goes up to Robbie and tells him he has something for him. Rob really doesn’t want anything to do with him, but he’s a big dude and angry. And we needed the money.”
He paused, as if searching his memory.
“It’s a funny thing. People, I mean. Robbie didn’t want the job, but had it forced on him. Flea wanted it bad, but the big dude never paid attention to him.”
“Flea?”
“An annoying guy. Always trying to be part of something, but no one trusted him. Always ready to snatch something. He was one of those we had to guard against.”
Joe began to cry and wiped his hand over his bearded face. “That day, Robbie made the pickup. I went along. Then we walked together until Brooks Hall where I’d wait with our stuff.
“There was a big crowd in the Plaza. He crossed the street. I was looking at the crowd when I saw something moving, fast. Flea was running at him, but Rob didn’t see. I yelled, but the crowd was too loud. He stabbed him. I saw it. I couldn’t do anything.”
He sobbed and hung his head. Riley waited for more, but he seemed to withdraw into himself.
“Did Flea take the stuff from the backpack?”
“Huh?”
“Is that why Flea stabbed Robbie, for the backpack?”
“He took his life. That’s what he took!”
His words struck Riley like a slap, resurrecting the image of Martin’s head in a pool of blood.
“I’m sorry. I found the backpack empty. The cops thought I stole it.”
Joe’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not a cop, not a killer. Just a dude who found an empty backpack and took it home.”
The two men sat silently in the doorway. The whoosh of cars racing up the one-way street followed by calm until the traffic light changed and another squad of cars tripped by. Riley sensed Joe’s distrust. The story ended, as far as he was concerned, with Robbie's death. Riley’s experience was separate and distinct from the living Robbie. He was like everyone else, waiting to snatch something.
“What about Flea?”
“He’s getting his.”
“That guy?”
Joe nodded.
“You?”
He stood up and reached for his duffle. “Something ended here.”
“Are you going home?”
He looked at Riley, wizened eyes above a scraggly beard. “I don’t think home is home anymore. But yeah, I need to check it out.”
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted June 13.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Chapter 9: Call
...the various players in situ...
Susan scanned the list of potentials as she took a swig of coffee from her travel mug. Her eyes watered for lack of sleep.
She woke at four-thirty to be in the office by six, and transmitted her last on-the-scene broadcast about eleven-fifteen at night. The commute over the Golden Gate to her Mill Valley home took thirty minutes. So she could count on less than five hours sleep.
She lived for the weekends when she could sleep in, lie in the sun and maybe go for a long bike ride. Maybe one day she’d claim a spot on the anchor desk. That’d mean more face time on TV, banquets and awards and a larger house. Best of all, decent hours. Until then…
The large office was quiet and mostly dark, except for the glow from a few computer screens and from overhead lighting, at half strength until eight. Hearing footsteps brush the carpet, she looked up to see Mara. Drops of moisture from a heavy fog clung to her woolen cap and jacket. When she opened her mouth to speak, she yawned.
“Sorry. Good morning. What’s up today?”
Susan scrolled back up the list and left her chair so Mara could read the screen.
She read silently. Hotel workers striking for health care; teachers protesting layoffs; assault on a bus; the Governor visiting to launch an initiative.
She frowned.
“Problem?”
“You know.”
“People take interest in the new.”
“I know, ‘That’s why they call it news’.” They laughed at the oft-repeated pun.
“Haven’t we heard anything?”
Susan shook her head.
“Can’t we check? I mean in particular? Let me call Henderson.”
Mara knew her interest was personal and that things in the world didn’t progress with the speed of an Internet search engine. But maybe she could help move it along. Though Riley had been released, she worried the police might want to talk to him again. And part of her just wanted to know what happened.
“Call the Mayor’s aide. Let him check. We’ll get a better answer that way.”
***
Chief Kelly settled into his high-backed leather chair, framed from behind by the city and state flags. His desk was clear, but he’d spend the rest of the day fighting to keep it that way. Routine stuff: reports, authorizations and recommendations. He signed off or batted them back to subordinates if they needed more work. He was the end point of a process but he wouldn’t be its patsy.
The intangibles, the surprises that sprung from the things people did, might require an appearance to show the department was in control. They got him away from the office bureaucrats and closer to the guys in the field. True, crime wasn’t pretty and accidents could be grisly. But he’d been at it for thirty years.
A young lieutenant with narrow shoulders and close-cropped hair walked in holding a sheet of paper.
“Inquiry from the Mayor’s office.”
Chief Kelly took the Record of Inquiry and pondered over it. The Mayor hadn’t phoned --those calls were put through-- but one of his aides did.
“What was his level of interest?”
“Not excited.”
“Henderson?”
“Nothing new.”
He considered the case. A homeless man murdered. Possible drug-related. No known relatives. No solid leads. No neighborhood merchants demanding police protection. Nowhere to go on this one.
“Get back to him.”
“That we have nothing to report?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
As the lieutenant left, Chief Kelly, his political antennae alert, made a mental note that someone had asked.
***
The scent of tomato sauce and flour filled the small room. Marco felt intense heat from the ovens radiating through the wall. They were at it later than usual. Customers patronizing the pizza shop would begin to arrive as people left work. But he didn’t worry about anyone seeing. It was take out only. No restrooms for the public.
Two bundlers worked putting together stacks of bills: singles, fives, tens and twenties. When a stack reached the appropriate value for the denomination, they wrapped a rubber band around it, snapping the band to signal completion.
A packer then set each completed stack in a box the length of long-stem roses but wider. A counter, standing behind him with a notepad, ensured each box contained no more, no less than $10,000.
When a box was full, he slipped it into a pizza delivery bag, but these were going to the laundry for cleaning. The Boss oversaw the whole process like a stalking tiger, instilling urgency in the labor.
Marco maintained his position inside the back door, gazing down a small alley. Earlier, mules passed discretely through the door leaving backpacks full of money.
The Boss stopped one to frisk. Though paper bags inside the packs were sealed and they couldn’t steal without him knowing, the mules shouldn’t know. He taught them not to look.
He made sure the others were watching. He slapped the unfortunate’s pockets, front and rear. He slapped loud, causing the man to quake with fear. He found a five and made a big deal about it.
“What business you have with a five dollar bill?”
His hard eyes burned into the man’s consciousness. “Maybe I don’t need to pay you, you got so much money!”
He was smart not to answer. Boss ranted. He raved. He let it be known if he ever stole, it’d be the last money he’d see.
“I don’t ask much. You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”
The mule mumbled. “I understand.”
“Louder!”
“I understand.”
“All of you!”
They made a ragged chorus.
Satisfied with his command over these disorderly men, he chased them out. But he wasn’t happy. That matter was still outstanding, and he waited for the call. It wasn’t the money anymore. He wanted vengeance and the lesson it would teach.
Marco waited, too. He had his feelers out. It was like fishing, waiting for a line to grow taut.
Snap.
***
They shuffled through the city streets, the big man with the shaggy beard and the slender one with the small hat and shaved head.
Joe led and Riley followed. When they passed Market, other pedestrians dashed around or between them, like a rushing stream through stationary rocks. Most looked beyond, some consciously averted eyes, but few people looked directly at them.
Riley was far from the world he knew, where he eagerly sought approval from friends, professors and his parents. Here, approval was out of the question. He was shunned.
The sun rose higher and bleached the west side of the street. Riley donned his sunglasses. Joe squinted. He took off his jacket, but Joe retained his. He must be burning inside, Riley thought. When Joe crossed to the cool shadow side, he put on his jacket again.
They trudged past Mission, Howard and Folsom streets, gazing into the shadowy interiors of car repair garages busy with business. They’d be a good place to rest, but no one welcomed them. They continued down the uneven sidewalks. Pedestrians were fewer but the pavement narrower. They gave them wide berth.
Stopping in the doorway of a restaurant closed during the day, they rested in the shadows. Joe leaned and Riley sat against the wall. It looked like no one would bother them.
But a white sedan pulled up as soon as they were settled. A wiry young man approached. His head was shaved at sides with a black pad of hair on top. Joe grabbed his bag to get out the way.
“I want to see you. You knew Robbie Martin?”
Joe grunted.
“Let’s talk.”
He grabbed Joe by the jacket, nearly lifting him, and pulled him a few feet away. He whispered intently, his smooth face close to the bearded one.
Riley feared for his friend. Who was this guy? Could he be undercover?
In a few minutes he was gone. Joe stood where the man had left him, like a game piece waiting for the next move. Riley searched his face for a clue, but Joe betrayed no emotion.
“What did he want?”
“Robbie’s killer.”
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted May 30.
Susan scanned the list of potentials as she took a swig of coffee from her travel mug. Her eyes watered for lack of sleep.
She woke at four-thirty to be in the office by six, and transmitted her last on-the-scene broadcast about eleven-fifteen at night. The commute over the Golden Gate to her Mill Valley home took thirty minutes. So she could count on less than five hours sleep.
She lived for the weekends when she could sleep in, lie in the sun and maybe go for a long bike ride. Maybe one day she’d claim a spot on the anchor desk. That’d mean more face time on TV, banquets and awards and a larger house. Best of all, decent hours. Until then…
The large office was quiet and mostly dark, except for the glow from a few computer screens and from overhead lighting, at half strength until eight. Hearing footsteps brush the carpet, she looked up to see Mara. Drops of moisture from a heavy fog clung to her woolen cap and jacket. When she opened her mouth to speak, she yawned.
“Sorry. Good morning. What’s up today?”
Susan scrolled back up the list and left her chair so Mara could read the screen.
She read silently. Hotel workers striking for health care; teachers protesting layoffs; assault on a bus; the Governor visiting to launch an initiative.
She frowned.
“Problem?”
“You know.”
“People take interest in the new.”
“I know, ‘That’s why they call it news’.” They laughed at the oft-repeated pun.
“Haven’t we heard anything?”
Susan shook her head.
“Can’t we check? I mean in particular? Let me call Henderson.”
Mara knew her interest was personal and that things in the world didn’t progress with the speed of an Internet search engine. But maybe she could help move it along. Though Riley had been released, she worried the police might want to talk to him again. And part of her just wanted to know what happened.
“Call the Mayor’s aide. Let him check. We’ll get a better answer that way.”
***
Chief Kelly settled into his high-backed leather chair, framed from behind by the city and state flags. His desk was clear, but he’d spend the rest of the day fighting to keep it that way. Routine stuff: reports, authorizations and recommendations. He signed off or batted them back to subordinates if they needed more work. He was the end point of a process but he wouldn’t be its patsy.
The intangibles, the surprises that sprung from the things people did, might require an appearance to show the department was in control. They got him away from the office bureaucrats and closer to the guys in the field. True, crime wasn’t pretty and accidents could be grisly. But he’d been at it for thirty years.
A young lieutenant with narrow shoulders and close-cropped hair walked in holding a sheet of paper.
“Inquiry from the Mayor’s office.”
Chief Kelly took the Record of Inquiry and pondered over it. The Mayor hadn’t phoned --those calls were put through-- but one of his aides did.
“What was his level of interest?”
“Not excited.”
“Henderson?”
“Nothing new.”
He considered the case. A homeless man murdered. Possible drug-related. No known relatives. No solid leads. No neighborhood merchants demanding police protection. Nowhere to go on this one.
“Get back to him.”
“That we have nothing to report?”
“The investigation is ongoing.”
As the lieutenant left, Chief Kelly, his political antennae alert, made a mental note that someone had asked.
***
The scent of tomato sauce and flour filled the small room. Marco felt intense heat from the ovens radiating through the wall. They were at it later than usual. Customers patronizing the pizza shop would begin to arrive as people left work. But he didn’t worry about anyone seeing. It was take out only. No restrooms for the public.
Two bundlers worked putting together stacks of bills: singles, fives, tens and twenties. When a stack reached the appropriate value for the denomination, they wrapped a rubber band around it, snapping the band to signal completion.
A packer then set each completed stack in a box the length of long-stem roses but wider. A counter, standing behind him with a notepad, ensured each box contained no more, no less than $10,000.
When a box was full, he slipped it into a pizza delivery bag, but these were going to the laundry for cleaning. The Boss oversaw the whole process like a stalking tiger, instilling urgency in the labor.
Marco maintained his position inside the back door, gazing down a small alley. Earlier, mules passed discretely through the door leaving backpacks full of money.
The Boss stopped one to frisk. Though paper bags inside the packs were sealed and they couldn’t steal without him knowing, the mules shouldn’t know. He taught them not to look.
He made sure the others were watching. He slapped the unfortunate’s pockets, front and rear. He slapped loud, causing the man to quake with fear. He found a five and made a big deal about it.
“What business you have with a five dollar bill?”
His hard eyes burned into the man’s consciousness. “Maybe I don’t need to pay you, you got so much money!”
He was smart not to answer. Boss ranted. He raved. He let it be known if he ever stole, it’d be the last money he’d see.
“I don’t ask much. You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”
The mule mumbled. “I understand.”
“Louder!”
“I understand.”
“All of you!”
They made a ragged chorus.
Satisfied with his command over these disorderly men, he chased them out. But he wasn’t happy. That matter was still outstanding, and he waited for the call. It wasn’t the money anymore. He wanted vengeance and the lesson it would teach.
Marco waited, too. He had his feelers out. It was like fishing, waiting for a line to grow taut.
Snap.
***
They shuffled through the city streets, the big man with the shaggy beard and the slender one with the small hat and shaved head.
Joe led and Riley followed. When they passed Market, other pedestrians dashed around or between them, like a rushing stream through stationary rocks. Most looked beyond, some consciously averted eyes, but few people looked directly at them.
Riley was far from the world he knew, where he eagerly sought approval from friends, professors and his parents. Here, approval was out of the question. He was shunned.
The sun rose higher and bleached the west side of the street. Riley donned his sunglasses. Joe squinted. He took off his jacket, but Joe retained his. He must be burning inside, Riley thought. When Joe crossed to the cool shadow side, he put on his jacket again.
They trudged past Mission, Howard and Folsom streets, gazing into the shadowy interiors of car repair garages busy with business. They’d be a good place to rest, but no one welcomed them. They continued down the uneven sidewalks. Pedestrians were fewer but the pavement narrower. They gave them wide berth.
Stopping in the doorway of a restaurant closed during the day, they rested in the shadows. Joe leaned and Riley sat against the wall. It looked like no one would bother them.
But a white sedan pulled up as soon as they were settled. A wiry young man approached. His head was shaved at sides with a black pad of hair on top. Joe grabbed his bag to get out the way.
“I want to see you. You knew Robbie Martin?”
Joe grunted.
“Let’s talk.”
He grabbed Joe by the jacket, nearly lifting him, and pulled him a few feet away. He whispered intently, his smooth face close to the bearded one.
Riley feared for his friend. Who was this guy? Could he be undercover?
In a few minutes he was gone. Joe stood where the man had left him, like a game piece waiting for the next move. Riley searched his face for a clue, but Joe betrayed no emotion.
“What did he want?”
“Robbie’s killer.”
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted May 30.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Chapter 8: Flush
…Someone celebrates his fortune, while Riley returns to Civic Center…
The barkeep looked across at the guy in the tracksuit sliding onto the stool. He smiled. She didn’t, waiting for his order.
Bud.
She moved a few steps to the right, bent to retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator and uncapped it. She pushed it to him. She took the two bills from the counter and turned to the antiquated machine. She pressed hard on the keys, then slammed her fist on the return to register the purchase. Two tabs, like tombstones, popped up indicating the amount. The till sprung open.
She dropped his change on the counter and moved down the bar, thinking, “All that for a dollar and a quarter”.
It was mid-afternoon in the Tenderloin bar a few steps from Market. From outside, she heard the bustle of activity, but inside the mood was dark and drowsy. Two men, regulars on their third round, sat in stony silence near the entrance. Another regular sat at a table with a newspaper, nursing a gin and tonic. The jukebox was silent.
“God, my head hurts.” Grabbing a pack of cigarettes and sunglasses, she made her way outside. As she did, she looked at his shoes.
She liked to say she could tell about a man by the condition of his shoes. Good laces and even heels meant a job. Unpolished with scuff marks meant he didn’t care. Falling apart meant desperation. Nikes. Like his black tracksuit, just out of the box.
After finishing her smoke she came back in. Another customer had entered. He sat two stools away from Tracksuit. She served him.
Tracksuit wanted a beer and a shot. She brought it as he bent his head to look inside his jacket, like people do when carrying small dogs. He had a brown paper bag.
He fished out a twenty, old and worn. She pinched the bill between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it on the way to the register. In the meantime, Tracksuit tried to start a conversation with the new guy, but he didn’t want to talk.
She returned to the end of the bar to watch. Tracksuit bubbled over about something he wanted to share. He raised his voice, talking nonsense about the weather. No one responded. He was starting to take it personal.
He was flush, she decided, but not for long. You didn’t broadcast good fortune without the wrong sort taking note. She concluded she’d have to “86” him if he didn’t settle down. It wasn’t her business what happened to him, as long as it didn’t happen in the bar.
She thought about the double shift she had to work that night.
“My god-damm head!”
***
Riley felt an electric jolt, stepping onto Civic Center Plaza for the first time since the protest. He looked across two columns of trees, rectangular strips of grass and the children’s playground, towards stodgy Brooks Auditorium. Beyond that, Market Street was busy with buses and pedestrians going downtown.
He headed to the spot where Susan attempted the interview and Martin plowed into him. It had been a raucous scene. Now it was serene. He looked down at the pavement, perplexed. He couldn’t tell where he had fallen and where the blood had pooled around his head.
The concrete rock surface conveyed blank uniformity, one portion similar to the next despite irregularity of the rocks. It bothered him there wasn’t any sign that Robert Martin ended his life there, no bleaching suggesting difficulty erasing the red stain, no indentation telling a man had fallen hard at that very place.
Over his shoulder, granite faced City Hall bore witness, but revealed nothing. Somewhere, perhaps in records stored within, there was mention of his passing. But where was it recorded that he, Riley Turner, had been detained, accused, ignored, and then, as if an afterthought, released? He pointed to his head. There was remembrance.
He wanted his thoughts to impact the external world. He looked around, then went to the base of a nearby tree. He searched for something to score the pavement, a rock, anything. Unable to find anything hard, he scooped a handful of dirt. Returning to the spot, he poured it from cupped hands, forming an outline of Martin’s head. Riley bowed to the modest tribute.
“It isn’t fair.”
Startled, Riley looked up
“It just isn’t fair. The thing he did to Robbie isn’t right.”
Ten feet away a man stood, looking at the outline on the pavement. He had a wild, bushy brown beard and red, overexposed skin. He wore jeans and a stained green field jacket. An overstuffed duffle lay beside him.
“What isn’t fair?” Riley asked.
Underneath shaggy hair, the man’s face took on a sterner aspect and an angry, aggressive voice. “You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”
Riley backed away.
Resuming a normal tone, he said, “He told you that he did.”
He edged from the man’s line of sight, circling around. He wanted to talk to him, but worried he was psychotic.
“What did you say?”
He blinked and looked at Riley as if for the first time, then returned his gaze to the dirt outline.
Convinced the man knew something, he sat cross-legged on the pavement determined to wait until he heard something more. After awhile, the man sat, resting his back against the duffle.
***
The cop walked towards them from the edge of the plaza, where his partner stood beside the black and white car.
“You have to move along.”
Even before he finished speaking the bearded man stood, took his bag and walked away. Riley remained seated, looking at the cop.
“You, too. No loitering.”
“I’m sitting.”
Hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he said, “You giving me trouble?”
“I’m just sitting.”
“I’ll tell you one more time.”
In the distance, the other officer moved in their direction.
Riley scowled and rose to follow the man. Years ago, he knew, a homeless encampment congealed in the plaza. The mayor, reluctant to use force, did nothing. In time, everyone else avoided the place. Finally, the city got the nerve to disperse them but was squeamish ever since about the homeless lingering too long.
With a few quick steps, Riley caught up to the man whose figure tilted left, counterbalancing the weight in his right hand. His shuffle suggested motion but argued against arriving anyplace soon.
“What’s your name, friend?”
His voice was gruff. “Joe.”
“Where you going, Joe?”
He kept walking.
“Did you know Robert Martin?”
Riley adjusted his pace, taking half steps but still walked too fast. Drooping his shoulders, he regulated the motion of his thighs. His body telegraphed his mind they weren’t going anyplace in particular and settled into a pattern, on hold for the rest of the day.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted May 16.
The barkeep looked across at the guy in the tracksuit sliding onto the stool. He smiled. She didn’t, waiting for his order.
Bud.
She moved a few steps to the right, bent to retrieve a bottle from the refrigerator and uncapped it. She pushed it to him. She took the two bills from the counter and turned to the antiquated machine. She pressed hard on the keys, then slammed her fist on the return to register the purchase. Two tabs, like tombstones, popped up indicating the amount. The till sprung open.
She dropped his change on the counter and moved down the bar, thinking, “All that for a dollar and a quarter”.
It was mid-afternoon in the Tenderloin bar a few steps from Market. From outside, she heard the bustle of activity, but inside the mood was dark and drowsy. Two men, regulars on their third round, sat in stony silence near the entrance. Another regular sat at a table with a newspaper, nursing a gin and tonic. The jukebox was silent.
“God, my head hurts.” Grabbing a pack of cigarettes and sunglasses, she made her way outside. As she did, she looked at his shoes.
She liked to say she could tell about a man by the condition of his shoes. Good laces and even heels meant a job. Unpolished with scuff marks meant he didn’t care. Falling apart meant desperation. Nikes. Like his black tracksuit, just out of the box.
After finishing her smoke she came back in. Another customer had entered. He sat two stools away from Tracksuit. She served him.
Tracksuit wanted a beer and a shot. She brought it as he bent his head to look inside his jacket, like people do when carrying small dogs. He had a brown paper bag.
He fished out a twenty, old and worn. She pinched the bill between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it on the way to the register. In the meantime, Tracksuit tried to start a conversation with the new guy, but he didn’t want to talk.
She returned to the end of the bar to watch. Tracksuit bubbled over about something he wanted to share. He raised his voice, talking nonsense about the weather. No one responded. He was starting to take it personal.
He was flush, she decided, but not for long. You didn’t broadcast good fortune without the wrong sort taking note. She concluded she’d have to “86” him if he didn’t settle down. It wasn’t her business what happened to him, as long as it didn’t happen in the bar.
She thought about the double shift she had to work that night.
“My god-damm head!”
***
Riley felt an electric jolt, stepping onto Civic Center Plaza for the first time since the protest. He looked across two columns of trees, rectangular strips of grass and the children’s playground, towards stodgy Brooks Auditorium. Beyond that, Market Street was busy with buses and pedestrians going downtown.
He headed to the spot where Susan attempted the interview and Martin plowed into him. It had been a raucous scene. Now it was serene. He looked down at the pavement, perplexed. He couldn’t tell where he had fallen and where the blood had pooled around his head.
The concrete rock surface conveyed blank uniformity, one portion similar to the next despite irregularity of the rocks. It bothered him there wasn’t any sign that Robert Martin ended his life there, no bleaching suggesting difficulty erasing the red stain, no indentation telling a man had fallen hard at that very place.
Over his shoulder, granite faced City Hall bore witness, but revealed nothing. Somewhere, perhaps in records stored within, there was mention of his passing. But where was it recorded that he, Riley Turner, had been detained, accused, ignored, and then, as if an afterthought, released? He pointed to his head. There was remembrance.
He wanted his thoughts to impact the external world. He looked around, then went to the base of a nearby tree. He searched for something to score the pavement, a rock, anything. Unable to find anything hard, he scooped a handful of dirt. Returning to the spot, he poured it from cupped hands, forming an outline of Martin’s head. Riley bowed to the modest tribute.
“It isn’t fair.”
Startled, Riley looked up
“It just isn’t fair. The thing he did to Robbie isn’t right.”
Ten feet away a man stood, looking at the outline on the pavement. He had a wild, bushy brown beard and red, overexposed skin. He wore jeans and a stained green field jacket. An overstuffed duffle lay beside him.
“What isn’t fair?” Riley asked.
Underneath shaggy hair, the man’s face took on a sterner aspect and an angry, aggressive voice. “You get it there and then you bring it here. Understand? Tell me you understand!”
Riley backed away.
Resuming a normal tone, he said, “He told you that he did.”
He edged from the man’s line of sight, circling around. He wanted to talk to him, but worried he was psychotic.
“What did you say?”
He blinked and looked at Riley as if for the first time, then returned his gaze to the dirt outline.
Convinced the man knew something, he sat cross-legged on the pavement determined to wait until he heard something more. After awhile, the man sat, resting his back against the duffle.
***
The cop walked towards them from the edge of the plaza, where his partner stood beside the black and white car.
“You have to move along.”
Even before he finished speaking the bearded man stood, took his bag and walked away. Riley remained seated, looking at the cop.
“You, too. No loitering.”
“I’m sitting.”
Hands on his hips, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he said, “You giving me trouble?”
“I’m just sitting.”
“I’ll tell you one more time.”
In the distance, the other officer moved in their direction.
Riley scowled and rose to follow the man. Years ago, he knew, a homeless encampment congealed in the plaza. The mayor, reluctant to use force, did nothing. In time, everyone else avoided the place. Finally, the city got the nerve to disperse them but was squeamish ever since about the homeless lingering too long.
With a few quick steps, Riley caught up to the man whose figure tilted left, counterbalancing the weight in his right hand. His shuffle suggested motion but argued against arriving anyplace soon.
“What’s your name, friend?”
His voice was gruff. “Joe.”
“Where you going, Joe?”
He kept walking.
“Did you know Robert Martin?”
Riley adjusted his pace, taking half steps but still walked too fast. Drooping his shoulders, he regulated the motion of his thighs. His body telegraphed his mind they weren’t going anyplace in particular and settled into a pattern, on hold for the rest of the day.
The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
The next chapter will be posted May 16.
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