It had been three days since Crank's death, and no one had even bothered to offer their sympathy. The day after it had happened, a few people had asked Joe about it, but they were just mildly curious and didn't seem upset by the news. Since then, no one had bothered to talk to Joe, to take him aside and try to console him. Most people avoided Joe; some of them, he knew, thought that he had killed Crank.
Before, it had seemed to Joe that he had lots of friends. There always seemed to be somebody that he could drink with, or party with, or just hang around with. Now, there was no one. No one offered him a place to stay, or a meal, or a couple bucks to tide him over till he could get back on his feet. No one even offered him their sympathy or their kind words. No one gave a damn about Joe; all of his friends had blown away like dandelion puffs.
Looking back, he wondered if he ever really had any friends-- if, maybe, they were all just figments of his mind. Maybe nobody ever had cared, but he'd thought that they did. Maybe all that they'd ever wanted was a good time and a few beers, and Joe was the one who'd always had those things. Maybe that was all that anyone ever wanted, even Joe himself.
Everything in Joe's life had been turned upside-down all of a sudden; he couldn't seem to figure it out anymore, as hard as he tried. Until now, he had never really worried about anything. For as long as he could remember, he'd just coasted along through life, doing whatever he'd felt like doing, going wherever he'd felt like going, never paying much attention to anything beyond his immediate desires.
Now, there was too much happening for him to ignore. In the course of a few weeks, he had lost his money, his apartment, Crank's apartment, and even Crank himself. Everything had been taken away from him or destroyed. Sure, he knew that it hadn't been much to begin with: he never did have much money; both his apartment and Crank's were lousy rat-holes; and Crank hadn't always been a wonderful human being. However, they were all that Joe had ever had, and he'd come to depend on them.
Now, it was gone, all of it. Joe was alone, sitting in the shadows of a bridge, thinking back over the past few days and watching the stupid birds eat. When he thought about Crank, he just couldn't believe that the redhead was dead, dead and gone. Joe could picture him vividly, could still hear his voice and see his face in his mind. He remembered Crank's ridiculous laugh, and how he had always doubled over and clutched his gut when he gave out with it. He remembered his huge combat boots, which he'd worn every day without fail. How many times had Joe teased him about those boots, asked him why he never wore real shoes? Joe remembered it all clearly, too clearly. He could easily imagine his best friend was still alive, sitting there on the ground beside him.
"Hey Joey," Crank would say. "What the fuck?"
What the fuck yourself, you asshole.
"Let's go down ta' Tap's," he would say. "We'll bum a few brews an' shoot some pool."
All right, man, let's do it.
"Yo, Joey! There's a big party down at Schick's. We're talkin' big! Big booze, big music, an' big broads!"
It's party time!
A truck rumbled by on the bridge overhead, startling Joe so his eyes popped wide open. He woke from his daydream and looked around. There were pigeons nearby, waddling around and pecking. There was a dirty river flowing past his feet. There was no Crank.
Crank was dead.
Again, the facts flashed like neon in Joe's mind. Even though it had been three days since Crank's death, it surprised him to be reminded, and he cried.
Crank was dead.
*****
Chapter Eighteen
Joe walked down the street, lost in thought. It was dark already, sometime around eight o'clock, and the air was very cold. It was a damp, chilly evening, and seemed to be getting colder all the time; the sky was full of clouds, gray languid masses which blocked the stars and moon and made the darkness thicker still. On the street, there was hardly any traffic, and few people were on the sidewalks. The city was quiet, dark and empty...like Joe.
Brownstown had always been like this, as far back as Joe could remember. The entire town shut down at five o'clock in the afternoon, completely stopped. All the stores closed at five, except for a handful of all-night convenience stores; all the banks and offices and businesses locked their doors; and everyone went home, raced off to the North Side or Hoover or one of the suburbs to watch TV. There was little night life in Brownstown, and nobody seemed to care.
The only places that stayed open late at night were the bars, but they no longer attracted the crowds which they'd once brought in during the town's heyday. When the mill had still been open, the local bars had always been filled with capacity crowds; long into the night, steelworkers would stay at their favorite hangouts and drink beer. They would drink and talk and play pool and watch the Pittsburgh Steelers on TV; they would tell stories and argue and curse at their bosses and wives. Now, National Steel was closed, and the nights in Brownstown were quieter than ever. Men still drank in the bars, of course, but they were bitter, dispirited souls, not the joyful raucous booted workers who had once raised Hell there.
As he walked through the silent Brownstown night, Joe felt truly miserable. By far, he felt worse than he had ever felt before. Over and over, he kept remembering all that had happened: his eviction; the fire; the party at Rocky's; Crank's death. Each time he thought about it, he grew more depressed, more weary and beaten. It seemed as if something was trying to tear his life apart, to destroy everyone and everything he cared about. So much had happened, all of it bad, that Joe wondered if maybe God was out to get him.
He was especially upset about Crank. Even now, three days after the murder, nobody knew who had done it. The police had "launched an investigation," but hadn't turned up a single solid clue. They'd interrogated Joe before anyone else; since he had been the only person at the scene of the murder, he had been their prime suspect. Joe had apparently convinced the cops of his innocence, though, and they hadn't dragged him in for further questioning yet.
It seemed to Joe, however, that the police didn't really care about the whole thing. He'd been to the police station several times to see if the cops had discovered anything, but they never told him much; they treated him rudely, used hostile voices, seemed to be trying to rush him out the door. Joe got the impression that the cops were unconcerned, that they didn't give a damn about who had killed Crank. Crank had been a lowlife and so was Joe, and now Crank was one less bum that the cops had to worry about.
Who could have killed him? Sure, a lot of people hadn't liked him, and a few had really hated Crank's guts, but Joe couldn't think of anyone who had hated Crank enough to kill him. Or could he? What about the guy at Rocky's party, the one who had beaten Crank up? He was a very tough customer and had been pretty pissed-off about getting thrown out. Joe figured that he could have killed Crank, ,just to get back at him for ruining his tough-guy reputation.
The problem was, Joe didn't know the guy's name. Rocky had known the guy, but he was in Bartlett, and Joe didn't know what his phone number was. Possibly, Joe could find out more about the guy by asking around, but he would probably be asking for trouble if he did that. If that goon really had killed Crank, and found out that Joe was asking about him, he might decide to get rid of Joe, too.
Joe couldn't think of anyone else who could have done it. No one hated Crank enough, no one was crazy or stupid enough to have murdered him. There just wasn't anyone else who could have killed him...
At that moment, as if on cue, Benny Firestone walked around a corner, headed straight for Joe.
Joe had been hiking through the North Side for a long time, not paying much attention to anything around him. He was submerged in thought, and when he saw Benny striding toward him, it took a moment for the shock to hit. After he spotted Benny, he took two more steps forward, then froze; he quickly became nervous and wanted to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
"Holy shit," he whispered, his eyes bulging wider. "Holy shit."
Benny just kept approaching
, stomping toward him on the sidewalk. His strides were strong and purposeful, full of barely restrained power. He looked at Joe as he came closer, staring coldly into his eyes, but his face revealed no expression. Benny neither smiled nor glared; he just stared and kept on coming.
Joe didn't know what to do. For once, he was genuinely scared. Benny Firestone was the maniac who had chased him and Crank through Brownstown in his underwear, swinging at them with a baseball bat. He was the perverted recluse who spent most of his time in his garage-apartment, and who, according to Crank, got his thrills having sex with dogs. And above all, Joe suddenly realized, he could very well have killed Crank.
Joe stood in place, frozen with fear and indecision. He didn't know whether to run or keep walking, to say hello or scream for help. He couldn't make up his mind, so he did nothing.
As Joe stood there, Benny walked right up to him. He looked as muscular and menacing as ever: his arms were huge, dominated by hammy, incredible biceps; his chest and shoulders rippled with muscles, standing out beneath his sweaty white T-shirt; his head was bald, shaved clean and smooth as a torpedo. Joe perspired as the monstrous man approached, all those muscles waiting for someone to smash. Holding his breath, he tensed and got ready to run.
Benny stopped about a foot away. He stared at Joe, his face stony and cold and unreadable. Joe's heart pounded as he waited for the first blow; then, Benny's face started to move. Slowly, his hard mouth curled at the edges, and his lips pulled back from his jagged teeth. His eyes crimped a little at the corners and he smiled.
Then, still smiling, he walked past Joe. He never said a word, but as he continued down the sidewalk, he laughed.
Joe released his breath, his heart still hammering. He turned and watched as Benny disappeared around another corner.
There was no longer any doubt in his mind about who had killed Crank.
Joe decided that he would tell the police. Then, he would go to Bartlett, and hopefully stay with Rocky. He thought that it would be a good idea to leave Brownstown until things blew over. Besides, he was tired of sleeping on park benches, anyway.
*****
Chapter Nineteen
After his encounter with Benny, Joe did exactly as he'd planned...he went to the police station in the South Side and told the cops about Benny. The officer on duty was groggy and disinterested, but he took down the information and promised that it would be used in the investigation. Joe provided the officer with Benny's name, his address, his regular hangouts, everything that he knew about the goon; also, he mentioned the man at Rocky's party and gave the officer as accurate a description of him as he could. The cop took it all down.
"We'll get right on it," yawned the cop, closing his notepad.
"Yeah," said Joe. "Let me know what happens."
Then, Joe left the station and started walking toward Bartlett.
By this time, it was close to midnight, but Joe wasn't tired. He wanted to get a head start on his trip; it normally took about ninety minutes to reach Bartlett by car, and since he didn't have a car, his journey would last a lot longer. He'd never walked the whole way to Bartlett before, but he figured that it would take him about three or four hours. He could have taken a bus to Bartlett the next day, but he didn't have any money for fare; midnight or not, Joe was determined to leave immediately, wanting only to get as far away from Brownstown as he possibly could.
Joe thought that he could save some time on the road by hitchhiking once he got out on the highway. There was a chance that somebody might pick him up, and at the very least, take him down the road a few miles. Joe had traveled that way before, with varying degrees of success. Once, he'd made it from Brownstown to Philadelphia in half a day, carried by one driver after another. Another time, he'd walked the whole way to Pittsburgh, however, without getting a single lift; that trek had taken him four days to complete. Anyway, it couldn't hurt to try, and he'd never had any problems with crazy drivers before. Joe figured that most drivers were more scared of him than he was of them; if someone had the courage to pick him up on the highway at night, Joe didn't think that they would cause him any trouble.
And so, he set off, walking through the South Side of Brownstown toward the highway. Though the night was colder and darker than before, it didn't bother him. He had a goal now, something that he wanted to accomplish, somewhere he wanted to go. For the first time in the past several weeks, Joe felt as if he had a purpose.
Walking at a quick pace, he reached the outskirts of the city in about fifteen minutes. As he hiked, Brownstown was quiet and still, with only a handful of cars creeping down the streets of his route. Everything was silent and cold, lit only by the dim white light of the streetlamps. Joe just walked along, passing the closed shops and empty doorways like a phantom in a ghost town.
When he reached the on-ramp leading to the highway, he stopped and looked back for an instant. He saw the streets and the streetlights, the stolid brick buildings and the deserted sidewalks, and he felt an extra chill frisk his body. He remembered the good times he'd had long ago, wild times and younger days. Despite all the misfortune that had befallen him there, it had been his home for nearly thirty years; that, at least, counted for something. Joe knew that he'd be back, probably in a couple of days; at that moment, however, he suddenly realized how important the town had been to him. He'd lived there for most of his life, and had never left Brownstown for any lengthy period of time. Strangely, he felt nostalgic, missed the old days.
Then, he thought about Crank, and the nostalgia fled like a burglar through a window. Sighing, he turned and strode up the on-ramp, abandoning his memories.
The highway was even darker and quieter than Brownstown had been. There were no cars traveling down it and there were no streetlights, either. The long, straight road was pitch-black, and Joe could hardly see where he was walking.
The road was Route 219, and by following it, Joe could make the trip to Bartlett in one straight shot. He wouldn't need to make any detours or go through any other towns; 219 would deliver him to Bartlett like a river, like a single pure stream sluicing uninterrupted through the wilderness.
Joe started down the highway, walking along the gravelly berm. To his left, he saw the four lanes of pavement, separated into pairs by a raised medial strip. On his right, there was nothing but forest. He heard crickets singing, and something like an owl hooting in the distance. Joe felt strange; he hadn't been near any wildlife, aside from that at the parties he'd gone to, for ages. When he'd been near the forest before, he'd always been too drunk or preoccupied to notice any difference from the city.
Now, though, he did notice, and it all seemed very weird. On the highway, at one or two in the morning, the crickets and birds weren't just background noise. Their calls filled the night, flooded the woods and highway as they never could during the day. The raucous sounds of horns and engines were absent, and an eerie chorus echoed through the world.
For a long time, he continued onward in the same way, walking at a moderate pace along Route 219 toward Bartlett. After a while, he completely lost track of time, just kept scuffing forward through the darkness without any idea of how long he'd been marching.
Finally, he heard a car, the approaching whisper of tires on pavement. Turning, he saw headlights far behind him, quickly growing closer and brighter.
As the car neared him, he faced it and stuck his thumb in the air to hitchhike. The driver must have had his high-beams on, because the headlights flared so brightly that Joe was soon forced to squint. He squinted so hard that his eyes were almost shut, and he couldn't make out the shape of the oncoming auto. Soon, the car was right in front of him, blinding him with its holy brilliant beams, seeming to gradually decelerate as it entered the hitchhiker's perimeter. While he kept one hand extended to signal for a ride, Joe put the other hand over his eyes, trying to shade them from the brightness.
Then, the car stopped, and its headlights suddenly dimmed. It took a second for Joe's eyes to recover from the ambient
assault; then, he strolled over to the car's window to speak with the driver.
Now that the high-beams were lowered, Joe could see that the car was a white Volkswagen Beetle. Like all Beetles, it was small and cramped, with a curved, sloping hood and a body so round that it looked like a big white ball. The white paint job, though covered with grime, stood out against the dark backdrop of the night.
When Joe reached the car window, he found that it was still tightly shut. Peering into the Volkswagen, he saw that the driver was a woman. Though it was dark inside the car, Joe could still make out her features in the faint light from the dashboard instruments: she was young, maybe in her twenties or very early thirties; she had brown, curly hair; and she was attractive. She looked back at him for a moment, as if debating whether she should talk to him or not; then, she leaned across the seat and reached for the window crank.
Slowly, she began to lower the window. Joe watched anxiously, hoping that he could charm her into giving him a ride. Then, to his surprise, she stopped turning the handle; the window was barely open, only an inch or two from the upper frame. Obviously, she was still suspicious and determined not to take any chances quite yet.
"Look, buddy," she said, her voice pleasant but firm. "It's four in the morning and I've gotta' be nuts, but I'm thinking about giving you a ride. Where you headed?"
"Bartlett," Joe announced, smiling winningly, "but I could use a lift anywhere between here and there."
"Yeah," smirked the woman, "I'll just bet you could." She paused for a moment, apparently thinking things over. Her brows pinched together and she stared at Joe, thoughtfully sizing him up. "Look, I think I'm gonna' give you a chance," she said finally, "just because I feel kind'a sorry for you. I probably shouldn't trust you, but I'm gonna' play the good Samaritan for once. Promise me you won't pull anything, okay?"
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