The upshot was that Marjorie was pretty much left alone.
“So how is the ‘story for Tan’ going?”
“Actually, I wasn’t making that up,” Branigan said, flipping her honey blond hair behind her ears. “He wants a ten-year anniversary piece on the Alberta Resnick murder. It’s the only unsolved murder in the city.”
“Ah, good story. Anything new on it?”
“Not exactly. But I had an idea I mentioned to him. He bit.”
“And it was...?”
“You remember Liam Delaney who used to work here?”
“Sure.”
“He’s pastor of a homeless mission. Homeless guys. Transients.” Branigan waited for the light to dawn in Marjorie’s eyes.
“Oh, my gosh, yes. Why didn’t we think of that before?”
Branigan washed her hands and didn’t answer. She didn’t want to go into the reason the homeless were never far from her mind.
CHAPTER TWO
She was jolted awake by a mouse scurrying over her foot, its sharp-clawed feet piercing her thin sock, its naked tail flicking at a bare spot below her pant leg.
In another time, another life, she would have screamed. Now she merely grunted, flipped her foot feebly. What was a furry rodent compared to last night? Three men, two of them paying enough for four rocks of crack, one paying with a punch to the head. She raised her head gingerly and felt the left side with dirty fingers. Yeah, there was a bump. She hadn’t dreamed it. Damon. No, Damien. No, Demetrius, that was it. Demetrius.
“Wha’s a white boy doin’ wi’ a name like De-ME-trius?” she’d slurred, sliding her malt liquor bottle under her backpack, away from his greedy hands. Come to think of it, the question was what had brought on the fist.
He’d talked non-stop during the act. She wasn’t expecting love — that hope was long dead — but it didn’t even feel like sex, really. More like meanness. He’d talked about leaving the hos-pi-tality of South Carolina for Hot ’Lanta. But the fool didn’t make it to Atlanta. Got off the Greyhound about five towns too early.
Too bad for her.
She sat up, head aching, and peered at the empty bottle of King Cobra. For a moment, she couldn’t figure out where she was. Then the light piercing the leaves of a river birch sank into her alcohol-sodden brain. The coolness of the packed red mud registered beneath her aching body. She glanced around at the familiar tents. Those snores belonged to Slim, Malachi and Pete.
She risked a protest from her head by looking up at the girders rising steeply to a slim ledge under the bridge. That’s where her paying customers were sleeping off their crack. She had slept where she fell, on the hardened clay beside the railroad track, a new low even for her. She sobbed once, but it was hoarse and dry. She had no tears left.
No tears, no dignity, no life.
If only she could end it without pain.
If only she could tell what she knew. Maybe someone would pay for that information.
And then as some want, some need, some primal longing stirred deep inside her brain — the rep-til-ian part of her brain, an addiction counselor once told her — her thoughts shifted. If only, if only ... if only, she could find one more rock. One more glorious high, then she would quit.
Once she quit, she would tell everything.
CHAPTER THREE
Malachi Ezekiel Martin finished the grits, scrambled eggs, toast and sausage at St James African Methodist Episcopal Church, a stately brick building on the block behind the Rambler offices. He threw his paper plate and empty coffee cup into a fifty-gallon rubber can. Then, without being asked, he tied up the full trash bag and carried it to the parking lot dumpster.
He returned to the church dining hall, grabbed a broom and began sweeping as other homeless men shrugged into their backpacks and walked out. They were engrossed in their own problems, but it was a point of pride for Malachi to “pay” for his meal by cleaning up afterward.
This morning’s breakfast manager, a solemn-faced black man with a limp, nodded his thanks. When all the chairs were turned upside down on the tables and the linoleum floor swept and mopped, Malachi shouldered his knapsack and walked into the early June sunshine.
Within moments, he was in front of The Grambling Rambler’s three-story brick and glass building facing South Main Street. He rounded the building and walked through a side alley to the loading dock. A barrel held newspapers discarded because of a bad print — too faint, bleeding colors, shadowy pictures. He could almost always find the day’s edition, and sure enough, there it was: Monday, June 1.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching. The papers were discarded, but still... A man unloading a truck glanced at Malachi, then continued his work, uninterested in what was going on at the recycling barrel.
Malachi wanted to see if the paper had anything further on the hit-and-run of his friend, Vesuvius, five nights before. He’d heard talk in the encampment under the bridge, plenty of talk. Vesuvius was drunk. Vesuvius had angered some teenagers who tried to roll him. And his personal favorite: Some artists in Atlanta were afraid Vesuvius was encroaching on their territory.
Malachi shook his head. You had to be careful what you believed out here. More than once he’d heard that one of Grambling’s street dudes was dead, only to see him walk into St James for breakfast a week later. Malachi seriously doubted a resurrection had occurred.
For all the drug-fueled silliness that went on out here, there was an undercurrent of violence too. Casual violence, Pastor Liam at Jericho Road called it. Casual death, Malachi silently added.
The newspaper had run three inches the day after Vesuvius’s death. Three measly paragraphs. Malachi had seen nothing since. Nothing about an arrest. Nothing about an investigation.
A story that would’ve made the front page if an upstanding citizen had been the victim was banished to the inside when the victim was a homeless man. Even if, as Malachi suspected, it was something more than Vesuvius being drunk, Vesuvius angering teenagers.
He folded the paper carefully under his arm and walked back up the alley, looking forward to an hour on a shaded bench, keeping to himself, keeping informed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Branigan punched the familiar number into her desk phone, smiling as he answered.
“Is this Liam Delaney, the pope of Jaw-ja?” she asked.
“Brani G! Haven’t seen you in awhile.”
“I need two things. One, a lunch to catch up. And two, a time to talk to you about a story I’m working on.”
“The hit-and-run?”
“What hit-and-run?”
“One of our homeless men was killed at the corner of Oakley and Anders five nights ago,” Liam said. “That’s not what you wanted?”
“Sorry, but this is the first I’m hearing about it. I’m working on a tenth anniversary piece on the Alberta Resnick murder.”
“Come on over and we’ll negotiate. I can make time this afternoon.”
“Ah, you remember deadlines. I’ll be there at two if that’s all right.”
“See you then.”
Branigan left the office at 1:30, giving herself time to run by Bea’s Bakery to grab bagels and coffee. She figured Liam wouldn’t have taken time to eat. The Main Street bakery smelled deliciously of yeasty, sugary treats and Bea’s to-die-for biscuits, but she virtuously selected two wholegrain bagels, no cream cheese. She didn’t let Bea slice them, convinced that slicing kick-started a slide into staleness.
She pulled into Liam’s parking lot with five minutes to spare. She saw his eight-year-old SUV, apparently a requirement for dads of soccer players. Liam was carpool dad times two, with his children Charlie and Chan finishing their senior year at Grambling High East.
Branigan smiled at the names, as she did every time she thought of Liam’s striking offspring. Liam and his wife Liz had no intention of naming their children after the fictional Chinese detective. They named the girl Charlotte after Liam’s great-grandmother, the boy Chandler after a family n
ame they discovered in Liz’s ancestral tree. Leave it to seventh-graders to get Charlie and Chan out of that. So that’s who they’d been since middle school. Charlie and Chan, the Delaney twins. That’s what most people thought anyway.
But a few family friends knew they weren’t twins at all, but first cousins. Liz was twenty-four and pregnant with Charlie when Liam’s teenage sister, well on her way to becoming a heroin addict, turned up pregnant. Shauna Delaney refused to name the father, and threatened to have an abortion. Liam’s parents begged her to reconsider, promising they would care for their grandchild. But it was Liz who finally persuaded the fragile young girl. She and Liam offered to raise the baby as a sibling to their own. Shauna, who worshiped her older brother, consented. Hours after the birth, she relinquished the baby and disappeared from the hospital. Liam’s family hadn’t seen her since.
Since Chan was just six months younger than Charlie, they were in the same grade at school, and most people assumed they were twins. Liam and Liz certainly treated them the same, and so did Liam’s grateful parents. It was not until Chan turned a gangly twelve and began to develop the long muscular legs that would serve him so well running a soccer defense that Branigan had the first inkling of who his father might be. For she had known his father when he was twelve.
The homeless shelter showed signs of Liam’s five years on the job. It was a Big Box, a sprawling, high-ceilinged, one-level former grocery store. The city had been delighted to get the food store twenty years earlier. But after seven years and profits much lower than its suburban stores, the chain abruptly pulled out, leaving an empty shell and city council members appalled that their predecessors hadn’t ensured an exit penalty.
For six years, the building sat empty, an eyesore and graffiti magnet. Well, empty if you didn’t count its homeless residents who broke in and built fires and left trash piles heavy on whiskey bottles and malt liquor cans. All told, it was a mess that defied the mayor’s efforts to attract developers to its promising location six blocks west of Main Street.
A suburban church interested in inner-city ministry ultimately sought it out as a satellite campus. Such a use wasn’t the city’s first choice, but council members figured it was better than an empty storefront. Unfortunately, the newcomers understood little about the lives of the homeless and mentally ill and addicted who lived in proximity to the satellite campus. They went through three pastors in quick succession.
Liam was the fourth, a former Rambler reporter and seminary grad, his only experience a single stint as youth minister. He took the struggling mission church as a last-ditch effort by the mother church; the missions committee made it clear they were leaning toward closing it within eighteen months.
As Liam told the story, he didn’t know enough to understand what would and wouldn’t work. He began by looking at the property as a homeowner, wanting to create a more visually welcoming space by breaking up its monotonous asphalt and concrete. He recruited students from his and Branigan’s alma mater, Grambling High East, to perform student service hours; they dug up dead grass and planted trees and flower beds. Liam wheedled them to use Student Council funds to buy river birches and roses, tulip bulbs and verbena, geraniums and day lilies. Soon the students and the mission church had an easy partnership that served both well.
Inside, the teenagers painted an entire interior wall with a colorful mural, peopled with Bible characters. From what Branigan could tell, Adam and Eve were sharing an apple with Daniel as he fought off lions, one of which was saddled and ridden by Joshua entering the land of Canaan, which was populated by multiple Goliaths fighting off sling-wielding Davids. Liam smiled wryly the first time he showed Branigan the mural. “Exhibit No. 1 on why we need Bible study,” he said.
Within a few months, the homeless people who ate breakfast and dinner in the church’s soup kitchen and attended its sparse worship services began showing up to garden and clean. Liam was surprised, but instinctively realized their participation was a positive step.
Other churches took note and began sending teams over to learn about homeless ministry. When Liam’s eighteen-month trial period was up, the mission church had its partner high school, eleven partner churches, and had opened the back of the grocery store as an eighteen-bed homeless shelter for men. Liam contemplated housing women as well, but a trip to a women’s shelter in North Carolina convinced him that both genders couldn’t be housed in the same building. For now, the shelter remained for men only, though women were welcome for its hot meals.
Branigan shook her head admiringly as she walked past the results the students and homeless men had wrought — the beginnings of dappled shade, ruby roses and pink geraniums, deep yellow day lilies and golden marigolds. Raised vegetable beds flourished in the field beside the building.
She knew that Liam wasn’t everyone’s idea of a proper minister. He drank beer at the city’s outdoor festivals. He dealt with the homeless with brusque expectations rather than sympathy. He welcomed gays with an outspokenness that didn’t always play well in conservative Grambling. But the Delaneys’ roots in Grambling ran deep, and city leaders couldn’t argue with Liam’s success. He had his admirers as well.
Branigan reached the former grocer’s electric doors, which slid open silently. She passed under the sign proclaiming “Jericho Road”. To the side was a folk art painting of multiracial diners sharing a meal. In calligraphy across the bottom were the words “Where the elite eat — with Jesus”.
A man she vaguely recognized greeted her from a desk behind an open receptionist’s window, a huge smile splitting his face.
“Miz Branigan? You hasn’t visit us in awhile.”
She searched her mind frantically for a name. Dan? Don? Darren? Liam had taught her the importance of using names.
“Dontegan!” she said triumphantly, a moment before her hesitation would have been obvious. She could see the pleased look on his face and was glad she’d made the effort. “I’m here to see Liam.”
“Pastuh told me you was coming,” he said. “Go right in.”
Liam’s office was a boldly colored space, painted lime green and sporting canvases from Jericho’s art room. He stood to greet his old friend, his red hair unruly, his face breaking into a welcoming grin.
“Hey there!” he said, pulling her into his skinny six-foot frame and grabbing the Bea’s Bakery bag. Though Branigan was taller than average — five-feet-six in flats — she reached only his shoulder. “I’ve missed you!” he said. “And I’ve missed lunch.”
He rooted around in the bag. “Are you kidding me? Naked bagels? No cream cheese? What’s wrong with you, girl?”
“Think of it as an appetizer.” She plopped her bagel and coffee on the coffee table that sat between two rocking chairs. He took the rocker with navy cushions, motioning her to take the softer, green-upholstered rocker she loved.
“Despite your unwillingness to feed me adequately, I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “These guys think no one cares when one of them dies.”
Branigan was embarrassed. She hadn’t been aware until this morning that one of them had died, and reluctantly told Liam so.
“You can make it up to me,” he said. “I’ll help if I can with your murder story, and you write something on the hit-and-run.”
“Deal.” She took a sip of coffee. “You know what I’ve always remembered you saying? Early on you said a man told you the worst part of being homeless wasn’t being cold or wet or hungry. The worst part was being ‘looked right through’.”
Liam nodded. “And we try to look. I say that in every speech.”
“That sticks with people. Anyway, tell me about your guy. After I talked to you, I looked it up. All we ran was three inches. I missed it entirely.”
“Well,” he said, “Vesuvius Hightower was killed on his bike where Oakley crosses Anders, there at the library. The driver didn’t stop.” The intersection was three blocks away, between the church shelter and Main Street. “I have no idea what he was doing there.
Obviously, he missed our 9 o’clock curfew, so he was going to have to sleep outside. But he had done that before. No big deal.
“Vesuvius was a sweetheart when he was on his meds,” Liam continued. “Very gentle. Childlike. I’m pretty sure he was MR in addition to bipolar.”
Branigan scribbled “mentally retarded”, which was still the official diagnosis, though not the politically correct one. “Mentally challenged” or “mentally disabled” were the terms The Rambler used.
“He lived here for eight months,” Liam went on. “Our mental health worker was making progress with him. He was on his meds and about to get permanent housing. But the reason I thought it was a story for you is that his father died the same way five years ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
Liam picked up his phone and punched in three numbers. “Dontegan, can you come to my office for a minute?” He turned back to Branigan. “Dontegan told me about Vesuvius’s father on the morning we got word about V. It must have happened just weeks before I got here, because I didn’t know.”
Dontegan walked through Liam’s open door.
“Don-T, can you tell Branigan what you told me about V’s father?”
“V used to ride his bike with his ol’ man,” Dontegan said. “Ever’where. You ain’t never see one ’thout the other. They come to church here way before Pastuh Liam, when nobody else hardly came. They stay in that neighborhood ’cross Garner Bridge. One night the ol’ man got on his bike, way late in the middle of the night. They think he was headed to the grocery. He got hit crossin’ the bridge. Car kilt him.”
“Another hit-and-run?” Branigan was amazed at the careless violence this population faced.
“Nah, the woman, she stop,” Dontegan said. “She was all cryin’.”
“Was she charged?”
He shrugged.
“Then how do you know she was crying?”
“Just what I heard.”
The Cantaloupe Thief Page 2