by Sean Huxter
Loose Change
The Case Files of a Homeless Investigator
by Sean Huxter
Copyright 2012
Loose Change Press 1101 Village Road E Norwood, MA 02062
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are products of the author's imagination. Not so the places. The places are real, though some may be somewhat altered or embellished to aid the stories. Some places have been renamed but the spirit remains faithful. Any resemblance to actual events except perhaps sports scores are entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2012 by Sean Huxter
All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form or media.
First Loose Change Press Edition, 2012.
Loose Change Press name and design are trademarks of Loose Change Press.
For information about this work, e-mail [email protected]
Or visit loosechange.huxter.org
Text set in Times New Roman and STHeiti on a MacIntosh using Open Office Writer.
ISBN-13: 978-1467969314 ISBN-10: 1467969311
Special thanks go to my good friend John Brooks, a trained EMT who made sure I didn't make an ass of myself describing the behavior and terminology surrounding the Emergency Medical Technicians in this book. Also to my good friend Michelle Clay who edited early drafts of several of these case files. Thanks, Michelle!
file: Loose Change-9x6-2012-12-30
Cover photo by Charlotte Huxter
For Charlotte.
Your love of humanity and your global acceptance of all kinds of people should be an inspiration to all as it is to me.
For Carol. For everything.
Contents
1 • The Panhandler on Newbury Street
35 • The Adopted Daughter
65 • The Stalkers
93 • The Case Worker
111 • The Donors
139 • The Findling
163 • The Second Man
197 • The Ringleader
223 • Epilogue
227 • Afterword
2864 days sober
Chapter 1 It was getting dark on a warm July evening and I was headed down Public Alley 437 off Arlington, across from the Public Garden, to settle in for the night. Summers don't require much shelter apart from the rain that often comes at night this time of year. Just a plastic tarp which I had already stashed under one of the wheeled dumpsters. All a man needs. Sheer paradise. Four stars. Right behind the Ritz... Oh, sorry... the Taj. Fucking developers.
“Excuse me... sir.” Boston is usually a fairly noisy place on a Saturday, but as the dusk settles in that noise usually shifts to the one or two bars we're known for having. So this rather hesitant voice got my attention and I turned, a bit wary. I've been on these streets long enough to know that that's often a good opening line for a mugging. As in, “Sir, do you have the time?” - POW! Right over the head. Except I don't have anything to steal, and I knew my way down the darkening alley better than most punks so I figured I could safely reply.
“Yes,” I said, equally tentatively.
“I'm looking for a boy.” Jesus. This isn't that unusual for me either, but I'm long past those days. Hell, I'm even growing a little gray around the temples. But you see a lot of this on the street.
“Pervert.” I said, and continued towards the entrance to 437. “No, I'm sorry, perhaps I worded that badly. I'm in search of a particular boy, a runaway. His father has sent me to find him and talk to
him.” I know a lot of the younger kids around here and most of them don't really want to hear from their daddy. Most of them are here because of their daddy.
“Ain't seen 'im.” I said. The man was a rather neat dresser. Wouldn't surprise me one bit if he didn't buy that suit in the shop around the corner. It was quite expensive.
“Please. This boy's mother has recently passed away and his father is desperate to find him.”
Inheritance, I thought. Oh that may be a different story.
“Who's the kid?” I asked. “Is he in for some money?”
“Ah. Well, yes, if we can find him. His father just really wants to talk to him. Just talk. His intention is not to bring him home against his will or anything. He just wants to talk.”
“What's the kid's name?”
“Ah.” The man relaxed a bit, and produced a small color photograph. An old school picture. Kid must have been around 14. “Jeremy Brothers. His father is in construction. Runs a very old building and paving business in Norwood.”
Norwood is known for its contractors. If you see a man walking down a Norwood street, he can likely do your roof for you. Or your drains. Just ask him.
“Money, eh?”
“Look, sir, if it's a question of money, I can certainly...” he reached for his wallet.
“I'm not after your money. Put it away,” I said, and seconds later wondered just what the hell I was doing. But you see, I recognized the kid in the photo. I'd seen him around. Not selling Loose Change. He was usually thrashing on his deck on the Common with his stoner buddies. I didn't mention that.
“Sir,” he continued. “I really need to find Jeremy. Can you tell me if you've seen him?”
“I'll ask around,” I said.
He handed me a business card. “Please call me if you find out anything.”
“Sure, I'll just call you from my office,” I said.
“Ah. Yes. Where can we meet again? His father and I are very concerned about Jeremy and whatever you can do to help would be... well appreciated.” Hints of money again.
“Ok, you can meet me on the corner of Dartmouth and Boylston. That's my corner. Next to the ticket kiosk. I sell
Loose Change during the day.”
He took a long glance at me, as if to commit my appearance to memory – it's not like I would be recognized easily in a lineup of people like me.
“Ok, I'll come by at 3:00 tomorrow. That sound ok?”
“3:00,” I said. Damn. 3:00 in Boston on a hot summer day is the worst. But I can hang on the benches in front of Trinity Church. Trees shade the benches, so I can bear that.
The man walked down to the corner of the Public Garden and hailed a cab on Boylston, got in and drove away. I looked at the card.
Jonathan Fennelly
Attorney At Law
An address in Dedham and a 781 number.
Not like I could phone it. Phone booths are like 8-track players around here. If you see one, you tend to stare at it kind of archaeologically, wondering what it once was, and it probably doesn't work.
Chapter 2 Turns out I missed some excitement three days ago. While I was on the Common selling copies of Loose Change a body was found down Public Alley 422. That was just up towards Beacon.
I asked around. Old Fernie told me he was there when the ambulances showed up, and all the men in blue rubber gloves lest they actually touch one of us took away a man. A young man. Cops didn't say much at the scene. They asked Fernie and a few more guys some questions. The cops didn't know the kid either.
But from the description Fernie gave me, the kid was very likely Jeremy Brothers. I'd have to do some more asking.
It was early morning on Sunday before the shops opened, and I went to get my bundle of
Loose Change . I read through it as I usually do. Not much else to do sitting on a low concrete wall on the Common waiting for people to wander by.
There he was. The kid's photo was posted. Contact information for anyone who knew the whereabouts of one Jeremy Brothers of Norwood matched the card I got from the lawyer.
I showed that photo around and the story
I got was that yeah, that looked like the kid. His skateboard was found next to him, and he was huddled between two dumpsters with drug paraphernalia nearby.
I wandered the Common asking some of my friends if they'd seen this kid and showed them the photo. Mostly I got that they'd seen him around, but not for a few days.
I don't wonder why people act like either we don't exist or they're scared to death of us. As I walked the steep Freedom Trail from the State House down to Tremont, parallel to Park, some street people were gathered against the wrought-iron wall. They were taking in some shade from the few tall trees there. I heard some angry shouting. And some laughing.
“Leave me alone, motherfucker! Leave me alone! I did two tours in Iraq, you sumbitch! Broke my back and now I'm here and you don't get to tell me the fuck where to go! I'll stay right god-damn here. Fuck you!”
New guy. Fairly new anyway. He wasn't here last year. Led me to believe he may be telling the truth about Iraq. Great country we're living in isn't it? We lie to the kids before they get out of high school and tell them we'll pay for their education and take good care of them as long as they join up and stay in the military five years after they graduate. We sell them with ads making war look like a video game – but guess what? You don't get five lives. And after these kids are used up, this is how we treat them. They go to war and come back to a real hero's welcome. And this is what a hero's welcome often looks like. Tossed to the street, no job, no healthcare except what the VA can provide, and usually addicted to drugs, even if they weren't addicted before they went in.
Eighteen months in Iraq or Afghanistan can get you hooked pretty solid. Not much else to do between volleys of AK-47 bullets and IEDs.
Shit, even I steered around New Guy. Never know if someone that unstable is carrying a blade. “And fuck you too!” he shouted directly at me as I passed.
It was Sunday so this crowd was probably hanging around the Episcopal Church, which frequently holds group lunches, handing out plastic-wrapped sandwiches, which are not bad at all. But the one thing they do that's even more useful to folks like me – they hand out clean socks. Stuck in these boots all day, socks get old pretty fast. And anyone who's come back from a war will tell you, you have to keep the feet healthy or you're screwed.
Life is particularly harsh in winter, but this was summertime, and you'd think the living would be easy. Sure, we have shade to protect us from the searing heat especially in July and August, but it's not so easy to get water, and without that, dehydration is a common cause of cold bodies found in the alleys.
So I turned right on Tremont and found a cop car parked and leaned my head in.
“Officer Turley,” I said. “Nice to see you.”
“Whaddya want? You need something?”
Turley's pretty good. He's done me right a few times. Taken care of my friends who fell to the heat, calling the ambulances for people I knew who needed a night's stay in a soft climate, and Turley calling the ambulance means my friend gets to stay overnight in a clean bed. Sometimes Turley would have a few spare cold bottles of water. He also has cigarettes but I don't smoke that shit.
“Hey, maybe. What you know about a kid found on Wednesday in Alley 422?”
“Sad case. Kid couldn't have been more than nineteen. OD'd. He was shooting heroin. But tests came back the shit was bad. Cut with something. Hey... you let your friends know to stay away from the heroin that's going around, will ya?”
“Thanks, Officer. I will. You know who sold the shit?”
“Nope. But you may see some more of our boys around than usual. A bit of help would be appreciated. We got no ID on the kid, but we're looking.”
Ok... so Lawyer Fennelly probably didn't know yet. Daddy Brothers in Norwood was probably still looking. I'd have some news for Fennelly when he showed at three. Not good news. But it could earn me some of that money he hinted at.
But before then I had a bit of time. Maybe I could get some info on the kid's last few days. I headed over to the Frog Pond to see if any of the kid's buds were thrashing.
Chapter 3 “Miko,” I yelled. One of the older kids cut short, picked up his savage skateboard with a heel kick and came my way. I'm not exactly in with Miko, but I knew him around.
“Sup?”
“You know Jeremy? Brothers?”
“Spinner? Yeah, what about 'im?”
“Seen him today?”
“Fuck no, ain't seen 'im all weekend.”
“Know who he deals with?”
“Fuck you want to know for? I ain't seen you at that shit.” “I just want to know who dealt to him.” I showed him the pic in
my copy of Loose Change. The kid scoffed. They don't sell the paper. They see it as a step down. Too much like working. To me it's a godsend. I get to sell it to people walking by and they give me money. I get to keep the money. That's how it works. It's a good paper, and it gives us a way to get money without panhandling as such. I know, it's just a semantic difference, but really, it does lend us a bit of dignity you know? We're actually selling a service people can use. The paper has good stories sometimes.
Some people think it's selling out. Panhandling not good enough for us, all that shit. I usually laugh when they say that. I've panhandled longer than they been out of diapers, some of 'em. Selling the paper is better, we can tell ourselves.
I've seen the Brothers kid panhandling along Newbury Street before.
Most of these young twerps think that this time on the street is just a temporary delay in their path to ultimate fortune. They still have dreams of Ferraris and hot model chicks. All they gotta do is get famous, like Tony Hawk, so they thrash away, coming up with new tricks and hoping they can take that to fame and fortune.
So far I ain't seen it happen once.
In fact most of them end up on blow or heroin and then they start selling. Soon they're either in jail or dead. This is not the easiest path to the American Dream.
No matter how comforting, a delusion is still just a delusion. I know.
“Fuck off, man.” Miko grabbed his board and walked away.
“There might be some money in it, Miko.” That stopped him. “'Choo talkin' about?”
“Rich man's kid. I bet he didn't tell you that.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, if you help me find him, there may be a finder's fee for you.” “Look, I ain't seen him all weekend.”
“So you said. Who deals to him?”
“I ain't tellin' you shit about who deals. And damn sure he ain't in no mood to talk to his son-of-a-bitch dad. And if you rat the kid out, I'll make sure he knows who did it. Got me?”
I let Miko go. He was a very busy kid, what with his sophisticated experiments in some new Ollie with a triple flip or some shit that he hopes everyone will soon know as 'the Miko'. I watched him make one try and he ended up on his ass and was slow to get up. I think he hit his head.
Clearly Miko knew who was dealing to Spinner because whoever it was was was probably dealing to the whole pack. And he was scared.
Sometimes either by handing out papers or by panhandling we can make some fair coin. There was a Sherlock Holmes story called “The Man with the Twisted Lip” about a London banker who went missing. Turns out he would tell his wife he was going to work at the bank, but instead he went begging in the street, and he ended up making more than he did as a banker. This isn't as likely these days, but it's not unheard of. But once you're hooked by some dealer that's that. All the money you make that doesn't go to food and cigarettes goes to that shit. Not me. I had enough of that long, long ago.
So many people I know are out here because of mental problems. They try to fit into society, but eventually some relative can't handle it anymore, or the funding runs out and with nowhere to turn, and hospitals costing a fortune, they end up out here. Hooking them is easy. I had no idea whether or not Spinner had mental problems. Didn't seem like it to me. I never really talked to the kid, but he seemed ok. But they still hooked him.
That's not how I got out here. I'm here because I'm a god-damned coward.
And I know better than to get hooked on that shit. Not again.
Chapter 4 I was sitting in the shade of the trees next to the water feature at Copley Square between the Public Library and Trinity Church. Trinity Church was wearing its own Shroud of Turin while they were doing cleanup work on the ancient brick facade.
There's nowhere to park anywhere near here, so I watched my corner next to the ticket kiosk.
Sure enough, just about 3:00, Fennelly showed up, still in a suit despite 80-plus degree weather. He stood looking around as if to try to remember my face in case I was standing right next to him. I wasn't. I got up and walked over. He knew me.
“Did you manage to get word to Jeremy that his father wants to talk?”
“No.”
He paced around in frustration. “Really? I put an ad in that street paper too, and so far nothing. Are you sure? Did you even look?”
“Mr. Fennelly, I believe I have some bad news for you. I can't verify this of course, because, well, we don't always use real names and I wasn't there. I could only rely on what some of my friends told me. But...”
“What have you found?”
“Wednesday evening a kid was found dead in Alley 422. The coroner took his body. Cops don't know who the kid was and it's not really the kind of thing that makes the evening news. One of us ends up in a dumpster, it somehow escapes the sharp noses of the fine journalists of this city.”
Fennelly stopped breathing for a minute. I counted. He yammered a bit finally, and paced some more. He looked towards the Library. From the steps a man in a green Polo shirt crossed the busy street and stood before us. “What is it, Jon?”
“Jake, it may be nothing. But... it may be something.” He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “We only have this man's word, but someone matching Jeremy's description was... taken away by ambulance on Wednesday night.”
“Just who is this?” he demanded, indicating me.