by Trevanian
“Literally,” Guttmann says.
“What?” the Polish cop demands.
“Did he give you any trouble?” LaPointe asks.
“Any trouble? Wild as a cat crapping razor blades, that’s all! You wouldn’t know it to see him now, but it took both of us to get him into the car. Kick? Wriggle? Scream? You’da thought we were gang-banging the Mother Superior.”
LaPointe looks over at the miserable bomme whose eyes are now squeezed shut as he rocks back and forth, with each movement moaning a high, thin note that stops short in his throat. He is right on the limen of sanity.
“You didn’t give him anything to calm him down, did you?”
“No, Lieutenant. Your Joan told us not to. Anyway, it wasn’t necessary. As soon as we told him you were coming down, he settled right down. Just started moaning and rocking like that. A real nut case. Twenty-fucking-seven bucks! And not a month old!”
LaPointe crosses to the Vet and places his hand on his shoulder. “Hey?” He gives him a slight shake. “Hey, Vet?” The tramp does not look up; he is lost in the treacherous animal comfort of his rocking and moaning. His own motion and his own sound surround and protect him. He doesn’t want penetrations from the outside.
LaPointe has seen men go inside themselves like this before. He is afraid he’ll lose the Vet if he doesn’t bring him out right now. He takes off the wide-brimmed hat and lifts up the head by the hair. “Hey!”
The bomme tries to pull away, but LaPointe holds the hair tighter. “Vet? Vet!” The smell of urine is strong.
The Vet’s vague humid eyes focus slowly on LaPointe’s face. The slack, unshaven cheeks quiver. As he opens his mouth to speak, a bubble of thick spit forms between the lips and bursts with the first word.
“Lieutenant?” It is a pitiful, mendicant whine. “Don’t let them lock me up. You know what I mean? I can’t be locked up! I can’t! I… I… I… I… I…” With each repetition, the voice rises a note as the Vet plunges toward panic.
LaPointe snatches the greasy hair. He mustn’t lose him. “Vet! No one’s going to lock you up!”
“No, you don’t! I can’t go inside! I can’t!”
“Listen to me!”
“No! No! No!”
LaPointe slaps the tramp’s cheek hard.
The Vet catches his breath and holds it, his cheeks bulging, his eyes wide open and staring up obliquely at the Lieutenant.
“Now listen,” LaPointe says more quietly. “Just listen,” he says softly. “All right?”
The Vet lets his breath escape slowly and remains silent, but his eyes still stare, and there are rapid little pupillary contractions.
LaPointe speaks very slowly and clearly. “No one is going to lock you up. Do you understand that? No one is going to put you inside.”
The bomme’s squinting left eye twitches as he struggles to comprehend. As understanding comes, his body, so long rigid, droops with fatigue; his jaw slackens; his breathing slows; and the bloodshot eyes roll up as though in sleep.
LaPointe releases the hair, and the tramp’s chin drops back into his chest. LaPointe lays his hand protectively on the nape of the Vet’s neck as he turns to Guttmann. “Get some coffee down him.”
Guttmann looks around for a coffeepot.
“The machine!” LaPointe says with exasperation, pointing to the coin-operated dispenser.
The two uniformed cops leave the Duty Office, the Polish old-timer fiddling with the back of his pants to see if he can hide the triangular rip, and his partner assuring him that nobody wants to look at his ass.
LaPointe leans against the wall and presses down his hair with his palm. “After you get a few cups of coffee down him,” he tells Guttmann, “dunk his head in cold water and clean him up a little. Then bring him to my office.”
Guttmann fumbles in his pocket as he looks with distaste at the heap of rags stinking of stale wine and urine. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t seem to have a dime.”
“The machine takes quarters.”
“I don’t have any change at all.”
With infinite patience, LaPointe produces a quarter from the depths of his overcoat pocket and holds it up between thumb and forefinger. “Here. This is called a quarter. It makes vending machines work. It also makes telephones work. What would you do if you had to make an emergency call from a public phone and you had no change on you?”
“I just threw on my clothes and came over when they called. I didn’t even—”
“Always carry change for the phone. It could save somebody’s life.”
Guttmann takes the quarter. “All right, sir. Thanks for the advice.”
“That wasn’t advice.”
Guttmann shoves the quarter into the slot brusquely. What the hell is bugging the Lieutenant? After all, he wasn’t the one who was called away from a night with a bird to come down and wet-nurse a drunk who has pissed his pants!
As he starts to leave the Duty Office for his own floor above, LaPointe pauses at the door. He sniffs and rubs his cheek. He is shaven on only one side. “Look. I’m sorry, I… I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Yes, sir. We’re probably all tired.”
“Did you say it was your first time with that young lady of yours?”
“First for sure. And probably last.” Guttmann is still angry and stung.
“Well, I hope not.”
“Yes, sir. Me too.”
It is fully half an hour before the door to LaPointe’s office opens and Guttmann enters, bringing the Vet along by the arm. The old bomme looks pale and sick, but sober. Sober enough, at least. The shapeless old overcoat has been left behind, along with the wide-brimmed hat, and the collar and front of his shirt are wet from the dunking Guttmann has given him in a washbowl of the men’s room. The hair is wet and dripping, and it has been raked back with fingers that left greasy black ropes. There is a small bruise over the eyebrow, half covered by a hank of hair plastered on the forehead.
“You hit him?” LaPointe asks.
“No, sir. He clipped his head on the edge of the washbowl.”
“Do you have any idea what a lawyer would make of that? A lot more than harassment.” LaPointe turns his attention to the bomme. “Okay, sit down, Vet.”
The old tramp obeys sullenly. Now that his first panic is over, something of his haughty sassiness returns, and he attempts to appear indifferent and superior, despite the stink of urine that moves with him.
“Feeling better?” LaPointe asks.
The Vet does not answer. He lifts his head and looks unsteadily at LaPointe down his thin, bent nose. The intended disdain is diluted by an uncontrollable wobbling of the head.
LaPointe has never liked the Vet. He pities him, but the Vet is one of those men toward whom feelings of pity are always mixed with contempt, even disgust.
“Got a smoke?” the Vet asks.
“No.” Once the Vet begins to feel safe, he’ll be impossible to deal with. It’s best to keep him from getting too confident. “I told you we weren’t going to put you inside,” LaPointe says, leaning back in his chair. “I’d better be straight with you. It’s not really settled yet. You may be locked up, and you may not.”
With almost comic abruptness, the tramp’s composure shatters. His eyes flicker like a rodent’s, and his breath starts to come in short gasps. “I can’t go into a cell, Lieutenant. I thought you understood! I was wounded in the army.”
“I’m not interested in that.”
“No, wait! I was captured! A prisoner of war! For four years I was locked up! You know what I mean? I couldn’t stand it. One day… one day, I began to scream. And I couldn’t stop. You know what I mean? I knew I was screaming. I could hear myself. And I wanted to stop, but I didn’t know how! You know what I mean? That’s why I can’t go to jail!”
“All right. Calm down.”
The Vet is eager to obey, to put himself in LaPointe’s good graces. He stops talking, shutting his teeth tight. But he cannot halt the humming moan. He begins to
rock in his chair. Mustn’t let the moan out. Mustn’t start screaming.
Guttmann clears his throat. “Lieutenant?”
“Hm-m?”
“I think he may be a user. There’s a fresh mark on his arm, and a couple of old tracks.”
“No, he’s not a user, are you, Vet? Between pension checks, he sells his blood illegally for wine money. That’s right, isn’t it, Vet?”
The bomme nods vigorously, still keeping his teeth clenched. He wants to be cooperative, but he doesn’t dare speak. He’s afraid to open his mouth. Afraid he’ll start screaming, and they will put him into a room. Like the English army doctors did after he was liberated from prison camp. They put him into a room because he kept screaming. He was screaming because they locked him in a room!
The Vet breathes nasally, in short puffs, humming with each exhalation. The hum strokes his need to scream just enough to keep it within control, like lightly rubbing a mosquito bite that you mustn’t scratch for fear of infection.
“Take it easy, Vet. Answer every question truthfully, and I’ll make sure you get back on the street. All right?”
The tramp nods. With great effort, he forces his breathing to slow. Then he carefully unclenches his teeth. “I’ll do… whatever… anything.”
“Good. Now, last night you took a wallet from a man in an alley.”
The Vet bobs his head once.
“I don’t care about the money. You can keep it.”
The Vet forces himself to speak. “Money… gone.”
“You drank it up?”
He nods once.
“It’s the wallet I want. If you can give me the wallet, you’re free to go.”
The Vet opens his mouth wide and takes three rapid, shallow breaths. “I have it! I have it!”
“But not on you.”
“No.”
“Where?”
“I can get it.”
“Good. I’ll come along with you.”
The Vet doesn’t want this. His eyes flick about the room. “No. I’ll bring it to you. I promise.”
“That’s not good enough, Vet. You’d promise anything right now. I’ll go with you.”
The Vet’s upper lip spreads flat over his teeth and his nostrils dilate. “I can’t!” He begins to sob.
LaPointe scrubs his hair and sighs. “Is it your kip? You don’t want me to find out where it is?”
The bomme nods vigorously.
“I’m sorry. But there’s nothing for it. It’s late, and I’m tired. Either we go right now to get the wallet, or you start ten days of a vag charge.”
The tramp looks at Guttmann, his eyes pleading for intervention. The young man frowns and stares at the floor.
LaPointe stands up. “Okay, that’s it. I don’t have time to fool around with you.”
“All right!” The Vet jumps to his feet and shouts into LaPointe’s face. “All right! All right!”
LaPointe puts his hands on the tramp’s shoulders and presses him back into his chair. “Take it easy.” He turns to Guttmann. “Go down and check us out a car and driver.”
Before leaving, Guttmann glances again at the Vet, who has retreated into the comfort of rocking and humming.
No sooner has the police car carried them three blocks from the Quartier General and the threat of being locked up than the Vet’s whimpering dread evaporates and he reverts to his cocky, egoistic self. He does not deign to talk to Guttmann, who sits beside him because LaPointe got in front to avoid the alkaline smell of urine. Instead, he leans forward and talks to the Lieutenant’s back, explaining what happened in a loud voice because the windows of the car are open to avoid an onset of claustrophobia, and the bitter wind whistles through the car.
“I was just coming down the street, Lieutenant, when I happened to look up the alley and see this mark. He was kneeling down… low, you know? With his forehead on the bricks. I figures he’s a drunk or maybe high on something. Maybe he’s sick, I says to myself. I got first-aid training in the army. You can make a tourniquet with your belt. Did you know that? Sure. Easy as pie, if you know how. This riffraff on the street don’t know anything. They never been in the army. They don’t know shit from Shinola. Well, I walks up the alley. He don’t move. There’s nobody around. It’s real cold and everybody’s off the Main. Now, I wasn’t thinking of rolling him or nothing. Honest to God, Lieutenant. I just thought he might be sick or something. Need a tourniquet, maybe. When I get close to him, I could see he was real well-dressed. He looks funny. I mean, you know, ridiculous. Kneeling there with his ass in the air. Then I notice his wallet’s half out of his pocket. So… I just… took it. I mean, if I didn’t take it, one of those street tramps was sure to. So why not? First come, first served; that’s what we used to say in the army.”
“You didn’t know he was dead?”
“Honest to God, I didn’t. There wasn’t any blood or anything.”
That is true. The bleeding was largely internal.
“So, anyway, it comes to me that I might as well lift his poke. Share the wealth, like we used to say in the army. So I reach over and pull it out. It comes out hard, what with him squatting over like that and the ass of his pants so tight, you know. And just as I got it, all of a sudden this cop car stops down to the end of the alley, and this cop shouts at me!” The Vet’s breath begins to shorten as he relives his fear. “So I takes off! I was a-scared he might run me in! I can’t be locked up, Lieutenant! If I’m in a closed place, I start to scream. You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”
“All right! Take it easy.”
“Did I tell you that the army doctors kept me locked up after they liberated the camp?”
“You mentioned it. Where are we going?”
“Just straight up the Main. Up to Van Horne. I’ll show you when we get there. Yeah, the army doctors kept me locked up in a hospital ward especially for fruitcakes. They didn’t understand. I might have been there forever. But then this young doctor—Captain Ferguson, his name was—he says why don’t they give me a chance on the outside. See how it would work. Well, I got out, and I stopped screaming just like that. They warned me not to get a job where I was cooped up, and I never did. I didn’t have to. I’m a ninety percent disability. Ninety percent! That’s a lot, ain’t it? Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“No.”
The driver twists to get a pack out of his pocket. “Give him one of mine, Lieutenant. We sure could use the smell of smoke in here.”
As they near the intersection of Van Horne and St. Laurent, LaPointe becomes curious about this famous snug kip the Vet has always boasted about. It is generally known on the street that the Vet drinks up his pension check within two weeks and has to sell blood to keep alive after that. Like other tramps, winos, addicts, and hippie types in extremis, he lies about how long it has been since he gave blood, as he lies about diseases he has had. There is always a need for his uncommon type—another source of his endless bragging. Whenever he gets money, he buys a couple of bottles, but he never drinks much on the Main. He brings it off with him to his hideaway.
Following the Vet’s directions, they turn left on Van Horne. The tramp’s voice softens toward confidentiality as he speaks to LaPointe. “You can tell him to stop here at the corner. Just you come with me, Lieutenant. I don’t want anyone else to come. Okay? Okay?”
“I’ll leave the driver here. The young man is attached to me.”
Guttmann glances over, uncertain whether or not LaPointe is sending him up.
The car pulls over to the curb, and LaPointe instructs the driver to wait for them.
An unlit side street of storage companies and warehouses ends abruptly at a woven wire fence that screens off a little-used freight shunt yard, the tracks of which glow dimly down in a black depression below and beyond the fence. LaPointe and Guttmann follow the Vet down the steep embankment, glissading dangerously over cinders, braking to prevent a headlong run that would precipitate them into the darkness below.
At t
he base of the slope, the Vet begins to cut across the tracks with the kind of familiarity that does not require light. LaPointe tells him to wait a minute, and he closes his eyes to speed up the dilation of his pupils. The smudgy dark gray cityglow has the effect of moonlight through mist, obscuring details, yet providing too much light to permit the eyes to adjust to the dark. Eventually, however, LaPointe can make out the parallel sets of rails and the glisten of tar on the ties. He tells the Vet to go on, but more slowly. He feels uncomfortable and out of his element, walking through this broken ground of cinder and weeds that is neither city terrain nor country, but a starved and sooty wasteland that the city has not occupied and the country cannot reclaim.
They cross over half a dozen sets of rails, then turn west, parallel to the tracks. Soon rust mutes the shine of the rails, and ragged black weeds indicate that they are in an unused wing of the shunt yard. One by one, the pairs of tracks end against heavy metal bumpers, until they are following the last along a wide curve close to a dark embankment. Without warning, the Vet turns aside and scrambles down a slope and along a faint trail through dead burrs, and stunted, hollow-stalked weeds brittle with the frost. Wind swirls in this declivity of the freight yard, one minute pushing LaPointe’s overcoat from behind, and the next pressing against his chest and leaking in through the collar. The only sounds are the moan of the wind and the harsh rustle of their passage over frosted ground and through the weeds. They are isolated in this vast island of silence and dark in the midst of the city. All around them, but at a distance, the lights of traffic crawl in long double rows. A huge beer sign half a mile away at the far end of the freight yard flashes red-yellow-white, red-yellow-white. And from somewhere afar comes the wailing of an ambulance siren.
The Vet’s pace slackens and he stops. “It’s right over there, Lieutenant.” He points toward the cliff, looming black against the dark gray of the cityglow sky. “I’ll go get the wallet for you.”
LaPointe peers through the gloom, but he can see no shelter, no shack.
“I’ll go with you,” he decides.
“I won’t run off. Honest.”
“Come on, come on! It’s cold. Let’s get it over with.”