Chapter Twenty-Six
Kevin
KEVIN GLANCED INTO the refrigerator and shook his head. What he craved was a juicy T-bone, but what stared back at him was a half-finished package of bologna. That did it. To hell with risks. He needed a job.
It was bad enough he’d had to transfer a meager portion of his belongings to this scrappy, pint-sized dump, which could only be reached by entering a urine-soaked hallway and climbing endless flights of rotting stairs.
The kitchenette, bedroom and living room were so close to each other the roaches and mice darted back and forth from the sink to the mattress, accounting for the rustling he heard at night.
He’d bought a nine-inch black-and-white set at a resale shop. Watching the tiny screen was the only thing that kept him sane. That is, until last week, when it had also betrayed him by flashing his release picture and a sketch of his Ed Anderson disguise. The cops had made the connection. A fragment of the silver-and-gold bow he’d taken such pains in tying had retained his fingerprint.
He’d never go back to prison. Immediately after seeing himself on the news, he’d dyed his hair black and pasted on a fake mustache. Matching black-framed non-prescription glasses shielded his eyes. The sketches on television didn’t even look like him now. Still, cops and crooks were wise to disguises and tricks.
He sighed. Being careful was a pain and awfully lonely. Even in prison he’d had his prison mates to talk to, and once in a while, his old man. Now he had no one. If he tried to reach Derek, either side would nab him.
Shit, right now he’d settle for talking to the second Mrs. Green. The times he’d met her she’d seemed sympathetic and friendly, making him feel warm inside. He wished she’d have been his mother. How soppy. The solitary life was getting to him. He ought to be planning, not bellyaching. It was Thursday. Rent was due Monday. He had to get some bread.
The next morning, a gnawing hunger made him grab his grubbiest jeans and tear the sleeve off his flannel shirt. Using his last five quarters as fare, he hopped the bus. He got off outside the Madison Street Metra station. That’s where the bums hung out. With sad faces and plastic cups, they moaned and sang ditties to passersby. Some even played crude instruments like plastic buckets. And for doing that, they got money tax-free. People were suckers.
When he stepped onto the bridge, he felt self-conscious and nervous. Would one of his pursuers discover him?
His stomach growled, reminding him of why he’d come. With eyes downcast and holding out his cup, he put on a hopeless face.
After a few minutes, he was rewarded with a clink, then another. One generous soul donated a ten spot, which Kevin immediately pocketed.
After an hour his legs grew tired, so he sat down and huddled on the side of the bridge, leaving his cup extended. That drew an even greater response since people thought he was sick and felt sorry for him.
When dusk fell, Kevin trudged home and spread out his haul, a whole ninety-eight dollars. Not bad for a first day. Better than most jobs.
The following morning he parked himself at the same spot, but those who’d been generous before passed him by. After a slow time of it, he moved a few blocks down. He had to keep switching to find fresh victims.
For a few weeks, he was satisfied. Then the constant contact with down-and-outers wore thin. He could do better.
Two Wrongs Page 28