The lights downstairs were all off. The dishes from Mike’s breakfast earlier in the morning still sat in the sink; the soft sound of water drops echoed in the silent twilight of the room.

Mike glanced around expectantly, all five of his sense on maximum awareness, ready to respond. Someone was in his house – he could feel it. Someone had the audacity to enter his home – his home – and do something – what he didn’t yet know – but whatever it was, he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

He stepped quietly to the closet in the den and picked up his trusty baseball bat. If someone wanted to get physical with him, he was going to have something other than his fists to protect him. He still had seen no sign of the intruders, but he knew they were there somewhere, and he was going to introduce them to Big Bertha.

Now armed with the bat, he moved slowly towards the stairs up to the second floor of the house. The creaking of the carpeted stairs hid the sounds floating down from upstairs until he made it to the narrow hall at the top of the stairs.

Once there, the sound was clearly audible. He turned left towards it, bat held at the ready, and crept towards the bedroom. The perspiration collected in large beads along his forehead, then ran down into his eyes. He didn’t dare remove his hands from the bat to wipe them, and instead ignored the burning sensation and slightly blurred vision the saline sweat produced.

He reached the bedroom, the apparent source of the sound. The door was only partly open, and he sidled alongside the doorway, back pressed against the wall. He peered inside the crack of the door, but nothing was visible.

The sounds were growing louder. Soft, hushed breathing and occasional low moans had turned into groans and raspy, labored breaths, coming at a much greater frequency than before. Mike took a deep breath, gripped the handle of the bat till his knuckles turned white, turned and stormed into the bedroom, yelling at top of his lungs.

Chapter 12: Identification

“Wow, what a dump,” Cobb said as he stepped into the small one bedroom apartment. “Not much of a decorator, is he?” The apartment was bare except for a small unmade bed in the corner. The floor was bare cement, the normally white walls a light brown from months of city soot and grime.

“Well, I guess you get what you pay for,” Ames commented as he moved deeper into the interior of the apartment. “Doesn’t look like there’s a whole lot here. The landlord did say the kid had been subletting the place, and that the other two tenants left about a month ago.”

“Two people lived here?”

“Well, not everyone has the benefits of a detective’s salary, Cobb,” Ames smiled wryly. Cobb shook his head in response. “Hard to believe, that’s all.”

He detectives glanced around again.

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s anything here. Maybe the kid was just coming back today. He did have those tickets in his backpack.”

“All right. What next?”

Cobb sat down on the bed, looking around the room in thought. “They said the other guy was most likely homeless, right?” Ames nodded. “Not too unusual in this part of town. I think there’s a shelter down on Sullivan. Maybe somebody there knows the guy.”

“You read my mind. Let’s go.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, following Ames out of the ground floor apartment and back to their car. “You drive,” he said, throwing Ames the keys.

Ames was surprised. “Say what? You never let me drive? What’s the deal?”

“I just want to look around a bit. You drive.”

Ames didn’t argue. Cobb was reticent as he started up the engine and pulled slowly out of the apartment complex and back onto the main road, making his way towards Sullivan Street .

Cobb looked out of the passenger side window at the groups of homeless men and women underneath the bridges as they passed. Their faces were dirty, hair greasy, a broken, beaten look in their eyes.

He thought back to the last summer he’d spent with his mother. He’d grown up in a neighborhood not unlike this one. He didn’t remember exactly how it had happened, but one day, his mother had come home from work telling him to pack his things into his small backpack, and they’d left the apartment that had been his home.

They had walked forever that day, him with his backpack, his mother with a small blue suitcase. When evening fell, they had found shelter under a bridge with others like themselves – others with nowhere else to go.

Cobb hadn’t liked it there at first. The cement was a hard, cold bed, and the others there had smelled funny, but his mother had held him close, told him that everything was going to be OK, and eventually he was able to fall asleep.

Every day they followed the same routine – they’d get up, repack their belongings, and walk around the city streets, looking for whatever they could find. At first, his mother went into a few places looking for jobs. Cobb would sit out in front of the store, patiently watching his backpack and the blue suitcase, but every time his mother returned with a sad look on her face, and they started walking again.

Eventually, his mother stopped looking for jobs and started looking for food. Cobb was always hungry, and so their lives became a constant search for sustenance. His mother would take his hand and they’d walk along the alleys, looking in dumpsters for food or other things that might prove valuable in trade to someone else.

This had been his life for that summer. Towards the end, his mother had started leaving him under the bridge in the evening. She would return a few hours later, often with new bruises, but the next morning, his mother would pull out a small wad of crumpled cash, and they would go out and have a big breakfast, with orange juice, eggs, and pancakes, and sometimes, they’d go to the carwash and wash themselves with the hose. Those had been his favorite days.

One day a policeman had stopped them on the street and had taken them to the police station. He had sat on the bench with his mother fearfully clutching her hand, and had cried incessantly when she said she had to go and he would have a new family and a new life.

Social Services had placed him with a foster family, and he had gone back to school. The foster family was nice enough, but all he had really wanted was his mother. He hadn’t seen her since that day in the police station. He wondered now, as he peered out on the dirty faces, if perhaps one of them was her.

Abruptly, the car turned onto Sullivan Street and Cobb was drawn back into reality.

“There it is, at the corner, on the right,” said Ames quietly as they approached the St. Ives shelter. Cobb looked up at the large stone structure looming in front of them. The white brick exterior was worn and caked with city grime. The large orange neon cross above the entrance flickered “Jesus Loves You.” A few grubby, coated figures sat on the large stairs, sharing a cigarette between them.

Ames pulled up next to the entrance and parked the car. “Ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Cobb pulled his jacket tighter around him as they exited the car and walked towards the figures sitting on the stairs. They seemed to have the right idea. He could really use a cigarette right now. He pulled one from his pocket and lit it as he and Ames took the stairs towards the entrance.

“Better not smoke that inside,” one of the figures on the stairs said as they passed by. Cobb stopped and turned. “Why not?”

“Rhonda won’t like it. She doesn’t let us smoke inside. Why else you think we’d be sittin’ out here? Shit, it’s warm in there.” The man gestured towards St. Ives. The others sharing the cigarette laughed.

Cobb handed the cigarette to the man. “Well, I guess you guys can have this one on me.”

“Thanks, officer,” the man responded, accepting Cobb’s offer.

“Is it that obvious?” Cobb asked, putting his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Only cops move the way you two do,” the man responded, inhaling Cobb’s cigarette slowly before passing it along to the next one in the small circle.

Cobb smiled. “Must be our police training.” A few men chuckled as he turned and followed Ames into the large St. Ives vestibule.

“Sounds like Rhonda’s the one we want to talk to,” said Cobb as they hung their coats on the rack in the corner. Ames murmured in agreement, and they walked up the short staircase into the large dining hall. It was mostly empty, except for one of two men sitting at distant tables, eating.

The only sounds seemed to be coming from a door at the far side of the room, so they walked in that direction, aware of the strong smell of food wafting more strongly as they approached.

“They say it’s warm in here?” Ames commented as they entered the doorway to the kitchen. “Seems chilly to me.”

“Wal, you try heatin’ a big old place like dis wit what money we got! ‘Sides, it’s warmer than outside, and that’s warm enough for most folks here.” Rhonda turned from the kitchen sink and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Are you Rhonda?” Ames asked, stopping at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Sho ‘nuff,” Rhonda replied. “And you must be cops. Only cops walk the way you do. What can I do for you?”

Cobb interrupted, “Hi Rhonda, I’m Detective Cobb and this is my partner, Detective Ames. I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but there were a couple of men found earlier this morning, and one of them is dead. He appeared to be homeless, so we were wondering if he’d have maybe come in here. We’re just trying to find out who he is and how he got shot.”

“Shot? Well, dat’s a new one for one of my guys. Usually they do a pretty good job of staying out o’ da way of guns. You got a picture?” Ames nodded, reaching into his jacket pocket for the Polaroid.

“Ma’am, this is from the crime scene, so…”

“Just let me see it. I’ve seen worse, I’m sure.” Rhonda walked over, accepted the picture, and inspected it with a frown on her face, shaking her head.

“Yeah, this is Darryl. I don’t know his last name.” She shook her head again. “Poor guy. Guys around here call him da Squeegee Man, on ‘ccount o’ his always cleaning car windows down on State Ave. Last time he came in, he was pretty beat up, but he didn’t seem to wanna talk about it. We don’t pressure ‘em ‘round here. He ate a bit, talked to Ernie once, but didn’t stay the night. I hadn’t seem him since den.” She handed the picture back to Ames .

“Do you know anything more about him? Any reason you can think of that he would have been shot?” Rhonda shook her head.

“No, Darryl was a nice guy, real friendly and he’d talk your ear off if you let him. He was different last I saw him, though. Real quiet. Like I said, he was beat up. I spect he got in front of that bullet by accident – he wasn’t the kind to seek out trouble.”

“OK. You mentioned he talked to Ernie last time he was here. Who’s Ernie?”

Rhonda smiled. “He’s a reg’lar ‘round here. He’s not all right in the head, but he’s a sweet boy. He didn’t have anything to do with this, I can tell you dat. He used to talk to Darryl a lot; went out with him to State Ave. once.”

“Any idea where we can find him?”

“Wal, he usually goes down and hangs out with some kids around 34 th and Broadway, but I doubt you’ll get much from him. Ernie can’t describe things very well. His mind don’t work dat way. Tell you what, though, there’s a girl that some of da guys talk about ‘round here. She works up at the Dominick’s just up the street. Da guys say she’s real nice. I know Darryl knew her; Ernie does too. She might know somethin’ more. Sometimes dey talk to other people better – they don’t tell me too much. Now, I’ve gotta get the rest of this food made, we’ll be having a large crowd here for lunch in a bit. ‘Scuse me.” She brushed pas Ames and Cobb and rummaged around the counter.

“OK. Thanks a lot ma’am. If you hear anything just give us a call at the station.” Rhonda nodded, and Cobb turned back and left the kitchen, Ames close behind.

“You want to head over to the Dominick’s?” Ames asked.

“Might as well. Foster’s going to call us when the kid wakes up. Might as well try to figure out why the homeless guy’s dead.”

Cobb pulled out another cigarette as they exited St. Ives. The men on the stairs were gone.

“Maybe the kid was bein’ held up or something, and this Darryl guy went to help him out. From what she said, he sounds like he might have done somethin' like that,” Ames commented as he unlocked the doors. “Am I still driving?”

“Yeah.”

Ned felt uneasy as soon as Cobb and Ames entered the store. There was a purposefulness in their walk that said they were on the job, they were looking for someone; this was not just friendly stop for donuts and coffee.

Positioned at the register nearest to the entrance, he was their first stop. They flashed a badge. “Police. Can you call the manager down for a second? We need to speak with him.”

Ned nodded and walked to the intercom mounted on the support beam behind the register. “Bob, please come to register one, Bob, to register one.” Bob was the nearest thing to a manager today. He wasn’t the big man himself, but he was in charge for the time being.

Ned returned to his position behind the register. “He’ll be right over. Anything I can do for you gentlemen?”

Ames looked at Cobb for confirmation. “We’re looking for a girl that works here, may be real friendly with the homeless guys that live around here.”

They were talking about Holly, no doubt. “This girl in some kind of trouble?” Ned asked.

“Not at all. There was a homeless man that was murdered earlier this morning, and we’re trying to identify him and figure out what happened. Rhonda from St. Ives said this girl might know him.”

Ned was relieved. He had been concerned as soon as they had mentioned Holly. He knew she’d had her run-ins with law enforcement before, but she was a good kid – he didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. It looked like the police officers just needed information.

“Yeah, she was probably talking about Holly. She works here. She knows a lot of the guys that live around here. I go out with her and talk to them every once in awhile. Maybe I can help you out.”

Ames had already taken the Polaroid out of his pocket and thrust it into Ned’s hand. He peered into it. It was a grisly photograph – the man in it was obviously dead.

“Yeah, Holly’s talked to him a couple of times. He’s stopped by when she brings pizza or hot chocolate or something, but I don’t know if she knows anything more than what he does and where he works – on the street, I mean. None of these guys have real jobs.” He handed the photo back to Ames .

“Tell you what, I think Holly just took a break. She might be out back smoking or something. I can take you out there if you’d like.” He wanted to be there when they talked to her – he could keep an eye on things and make sure they hadn’t been lying to him about why they wanted to talk to her.

Bob approached from the back of the store, smile pasted on his pale face as always. “Hey Ned, you called? What do you need?”

Cobb spoke up before Ned had a chance to answer. “Well, your employee here has been kind enough to help us out. We’ll let you know if you need anything else.” He flashed his badge again. A confused expression clouded Bob’s face, but he replaced it quickly with his award-winning smile and nodded.

Ned grinned to himself. It was satisfying to see the cops put Bob is his place. Bob was too used to having things under his control, to being the ultimate decision maker. But the cops didn’t even give him a second glance as Ned led them to the back of the store.

As Ned had expected, Holly was standing outside in the back parking lot, a lit cigarette between her lips. She smiled as Ned and the cops joined her on the sidewalk. Cobb lit another cigarette and smoked while Ames explained the situation.

Holly’s eyes teared upon inspection of the Polaroid. “Yeah, this is Darryl. He’s really friendly. Such a great guy.” She cried harder, and Ned put his arm around her.

“I’m sorry ma’am. Do you happen to know anyone who would have wanted to kill him?”

Holly nodded, still crying softly. “Oh no, not at all. I mean, every once in awhile somebody’d get huffy with him for cleaning their windshield, but Darryl just let it go. I can’t imagine him doing anything to anyone that’d make them want to kill him.”

Ames looked at Cobb, who signaled their departure by flicking his half- finished cigarette to the ground. “Thank you, ma’am. And again, we’re sorry.” The detectives made their way towards the back entrance to the store.

“Wait!” Holly called softly. She ran up, tears still in her eyes. “Some of the guys have been talking lately about something. Something that has them all scared. They were saying that sometimes, one guy disappears for a night, then shows up the next day all bruised and beat up. It happened to Darryl one time. I tried to talk to him about it, but he wouldn’t tell me what had happened. But everybody seems nervous about it these days. Even the homeless guys try to stay in pairs now, just to be safer. Maybe it has something to do with that, I don’t know.”

Ames and Cobb thanked her again and continued on into the store. Holly was still crying as Ned put his arm around her again.

**Chapter 13: Beat Down **

Mike’s vision focused slowly as he stormed into the room, yelling wildly. His own voice was soon drowned out by Marie, shrieking maniacally at the top of her lungs, and by that of a man as he jumped free from his position on top of her and rolled off the side of the bed.

Marie clutched the sheets around her naked body and continued to shriek on the bed, a fearful look in her eyes. Mike’s hands were still tightly grasping the bat, and he ignored her screaming as he scanned the room for the man. He moved around to the left side of the bed, where the man was cowering next to the night table, holding his hands in front of his nude, trembling body in an attempt to shield himself.

Well, this was an interesting development. He glanced around the room in an effort to discredit the conclusion he already knew to be true. The room was in perfect condition, just like the rest of the house; no, Marie had let this bastard into the house.

Marie regained her composure to some degree and shouted, both in fear and anger, “Mike, what the hell are you doing?”

Mike’s mission now seemed clear. His job was gone, Angelo was going to kill him, and Marie was cheating on him; with this pasty-faced bastard, no less. He couldn’t do anything about the job or Angelo, but he’d be damned if he was going to let her get away with this. She was going to pay.

The weakness he’d been feeling on his trip home was now fading, replaced by the familiar rage that fueled all his best work. He was starting to feel normal again – in control. But this time was going to be different. He wasn’t going to stomp around, screaming vulgarities and throwing things around the room. This time he was going to do it fucking right.

Mike glanced back at Marie, a strange stillness in his eyes. He replied icily, eyes staring blankly into the distance, “I’m fuckin’ killing your boyfriend, that’s what I’m doing.”

He swung the bat down forcefully, striking the pale, sweating man on the left side. His arm crumpled as he cried out in pain. He scrambled towards the bed, looking for shelter, but Mike bent down, grabbed his ankle, and pulled him out one handed. With his other hand he swung the bat again, hitting his target just between the shoulder blades.

The man gasped, then went limp, and Mike struck again, with both hands this time. The man’s body was unresponsive, and in his subconscious Mike realized that he was either dead or knocked out, but the beating continued.

Marie jumped from the bed onto his back, screaming nonsensically at him and pounding weakly at him with her fists. The man groaned unexpectedly and Mike smiled inwardly at the realization that he wasn’t dead yet. The beating could continue.

He grabbed Marie’s arm and swung her off his shoulder, then clutched her towards him and threw her hard towards the left closet door. She smashed awkwardly into the full-length mirror there, sending fireworks of sunlight from the early afternoon sun around the room, and landed in a heap of broken glass, broken skin, and tears.

Mike smiled at her. “That’s right, bitch,” he spoke smoothly, resuming his swings with the bat. The man was now in a fetal position below him, moaning softly. Bruises had already started to form on his legs and back, and his disfigured arm gushed blood where white bone jutted incongruently out of his pasty skin.

Mike pounded on him mercilessly with the bat, paying special attention to his broken arm and now purple back, then abruptly dropped to his knees and continued with his own fists, focusing on the face and neck. His own blood mixed with the man’s as the cuts on his knuckles reopened. He raised his hand for another blow, and without warning, stopped short, instead grabbing the bat again and standing slowly up.

The tip of the bat was smeared a dark crimson now, and flecks of a similar color dotted the sheets and bed surrounding the crumpled body of the man. Mike smiled coldly, satisfied with his work. He looked over at Marie, where small rivulets of her own blood ran along the glass pathways on the clean hardwood floor, fueled by constant drops from fresh cuts on her back, legs and buttocks. She caught his cold stare from behind a shroud of matted, blood- flecked hair.

Mike turned and threw the bat at her feet. Its noisy clatter was drowned out by her own surprised shriek, and she scrambled away quickly, leaving a broad swath of crimson in her path.

Mike reached down and picked up the telephone on the night table, throwing it at her. “You’d better call 911, Marie. I think your boyfriend needs to see a doctor.” With that, he turned and strode quickly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

He stopped at the sink, running cold water over his own wounded hands. The white of his own knuckles shone through as the blood washed away. He saw Marie’s purse in it’s customary position on the kitchen counter, and he swung it over his shoulder as he walked to the garage.

Marie wouldn’t be needed her SUV – he might as well take it. It was really his anyway, he’d paid for it. The angry adrenaline surged pleasantly through him as he pressed the garage door button. Sunlight streamed brightly into the dark garage as the door opened. What a beautiful day, he thought. He pulled out slowly onto the street, and continued on through the path of finely manicured lawns, stone yard fountains, and hedge art. It was time to go see Angelo.

Chapter 11: Debt

Mike came to propped up against the side of the tower. His head hurt. It took him a few moments to remember what he was doing there. He was vaguely conscious of a uniformed security guard standing just inside the tower door, peering out the window at him. As he looked back at the man, the security guard raised his walkie talkie to his mouth, uttered a few words, and turned away from Mike.

The two security men who’d escorted Mike out of the tower hadn’t known what to do with his unmoving body. It wasn’t uncommon for them to drag a recently fired employee out of the office, but they had always stayed conscious.

Mike collected his muddy thought, rubbed his head and slowly stood up. The adrenaline that had fueled his angry tirade earlier was now gone, and the realization that he was in deep shit had fully sunk in, leaving his mouth dry, his head aching, and his knees weak.

He was dizzy. What was he going to do? He tried to ignore it, but the thought of what Angelo was going to do to him kept coming back. He had needed that bonus! He willed himself to get angry again – to muster up the chemicals in his brain that would restore him to his normal self – but nothing would come. He was too tired. He wanted to sleep for a very long time. In his dejection he found it strangely humorous that he would soon get his wish; when Angelo found out he didn’t have the money, he’d make sure that Mike would be sleeping for a very long time.

He eventually became aware of the people staring at him. He must have looked very awkward, staggering on his feet, blood on his shirt, hair mussy, a distant look in his unfocused eyes. But why did they stare? Had they never seen a jobless guy downtown before?

“Screw you!” he yelled at a passing woman who’d kept her eyes on him for a moment too long. She jumped and scurried on along, looking back every so often as if she was worried he might follow her.

Finally his head stopped swimming and he gingerly stepped off the tower stairs down towards the street. The security guard was there in the window again, no doubt ordered to keep an eye on him. He spoke into his walkie talkie again, and maintained his watchful gaze as Mike stepped along the street slowly.

It occurred to Mike, as he staggered down the street, that he had no money for a cab on his person. He normally kept his wallet on him, but on this particular day he’d worn his nice Italian pants; the back pocket was far too small for his oversized wallet, stuffed with business cards, credit cards, and pictures of his wife to show potential customers. It’s large bulge in the back pocket of these particular pants was unsightly, not to mention uncomfortable, so he had placed it in the briefcase along with his files – the briefcase that was by now being ransacked by Maureen and her team in search of his notes on his new campaign.

He reached in his pocket, feeling for his keys and cell phone – they were still there, along with his train pass and a few cents in loose change. At least he could call Marie. He fumbled with the phone a few minutes before he finally got the number punched in. There was no answer? She hadn’t been there earlier either; where was she?

Without consciously realizing it, he’d been walking towards the State Avenue train station. It was just as well. He could at least ride the train up towards his house, then try calling Marie again and hope she would answer. She could pick him up at the station.

As he approached the platform, he reached in his pocket and quickly counted the change he had. He was 50 cents short of what he needed to get back up north.

He sighed, defeated, realizing the sick sense of humor the universe must have. He began to ask passersby if they could help him out with a little change, but they shrugged him off and hurried by. Why didn’t they believe his story? He wasn’t a degenerate – he was an important man! And he only needed 50 cents! It wasn’t a big deal! The irony was not entirely lost on him as he remembered the earlier events of the morning. referring back to beggar story with Mike, need to addYes, the universe had a sick sense of humor.

After several unsuccessful attempts at soliciting assistance, and a couple of close scrapes with a public transportation employee who seemed to enjoy pointing ominously at the small signs posted around the station that read, “Solicitation Prohibited,” Mike tried a new approach. He checked around the vending machines at the station, poking his finger into the change return and fishing under the machine with his hands. His efforts yielded two dimes, three nickels, and a collection of pennies, which he exchanged with the public transportation employee for additional nickels and dimes.

Before long, he had the requisite 50 cents and found himself on a northbound train, heading home. He was emotionally drained. Hopelessness enveloped him, and he tried to sleep, but was constantly plagued by nightmares of Angelo’s response to Mike’s explanation of why he didn’t have the money.

It had all started two months ago, when Mike was riding high on the success of another of his accounts. This account was much, much smaller than Richmond, but the campaign he’d designed had worked considerably well, and he felt the need to celebrate that fact in some way.

He had overheard a conversation in the office regarding a horse that was “a sure thing.” Mike had never thought of himself as a gambler, though others would no doubt have termed him that, but when thinking about just how to celebrate his recent victory at Copeland, a sizable bet on a “sure thing” seemed to be just the thing. There were few things more exciting to Mike than watching money turn into more money (this was an important thing in advertising – it was his job to turn a client’s advertising budget into revenues), and his cursory research into the horse, named Day Tripper, indicated that he had a good chance to do well with his bet. His own research coupled with the overheard office discussion made his decision decisively simple.

He had called up Angelo, whose number had been collecting dust in his Rolodex, and put a sizable bet on Day Tripper to win. Angelo had been more than happy to take Mike’s bet, reminding him again of the debtor’s obligations to his creditor. Mike had brushed it off; Day Tripper was a sure thing – it was money in the bank.

That was when things started to go wrong. Day Tripper had lost miserably, and the following day at Copeland he was informed that his client had misreported their revenue from the last campaign, and the ads weren’t doing as well as they had initially thought. Mike had had his first and only out of body experience at that point, and upon returning to normal, had proceeded to throw random objects around the office and threaten to fire each and every person on his team.

Angelo, of course, was pleased with the outcome, and was sickeningly calm and collected when he phoned Mike to inquire about payment. Mike was in for a lot, and without the expected bonus from that recent campaign, he didn’t even have the money he’d put up, let alone enough to cover the juice Angelo was already running.

Angelo had been more than happy to extend Mike’s repayment period; after all, the interest went straight to his pocket. He had, of course, informed Mike in no simple terms the extreme regret he’d feel if he didn’t pay the money back when it was due.

Mike had readily agreed – he figured he could get the money somehow – he would have done anything to get Angelo off his back for the time being. And when the Richmond guys said they were looking at renewing their contract, Mike was confident that the bonus would pay his debt and leave plenty left over for a little celebration. As the bonus began to seem more and more a reality, Angelo and the debt were demoted to the back corners of Mike’s thoughts.

But now, it was all he could think about. Mike didn’t know exactly what Angelo was capable of, but he knew enough to worry. Angelo wasn’t the kind of guy you could look up in the yellow pages. Mike had a need to be discreet about his gambling; that’s why he went through Angelo in the first place. He had never anticipated actually having Angelo hunt him down.

He couldn’t decide whether he should call Angelo and let him know he wouldn’t have the money, or wait for Angelo to wonder where he was and send someone for him. Either way, the outcome would be the same. He shook his head, trying to shake off the uneasiness and worry that plagued him. Well, no matter what, he was going home now. He was going to drink a large glass of scotch – perhaps the whole bottle – and accept Marie’s soft, tender arms around his neck to comfort him. And then, perhaps… well, he would have to wait.

Then he would figure out what to do. The alcohol and Marie would help to calm him down; it would clear his head, it would make everything better. Then, and only then, would he be able to make a rational decision, to do the right thing.

As the train passed by the Allerton station, he looked out towards the highway, hoping to catch a glimpse of his car. It wasn’t there. He sighed; it had probably been towed to the city impound, which meant he’d have to pay to get it back. It was surprising how quickly something as small as an impound fee could become a financial burden.

The train pulled up to the far north station – his station – and he stood up, head still swimming somewhat from his earlier bout with unconsciousness. He phoned Marie as he stepped out of the nearly empty train; she still wasn’t picking up. Her lack of attentiveness to his needs, whether she knew they existed or not, was starting to wear on him. She was his wife, dammit! What the hell was she doing.

The few cents in his pocket had not, unfortunately, transformed into more during the trip, so he was still unable to afford a cab. He had no choice but to continue on foot. He called Marie at about every block, but she never answered. Eventually he started getting busy signals; was she there, and simply ignoring him? That bitch!

The mile-long walk to his home went by quickly. He had too much on his mind to feel the growing blisters on his feet, cramped inside the Italian leather shoes; too much to feel the throbbing pain of the reopened wound on his hand, now oozing blood again.

The house was dark and quiet when he reached the front door. He grabbed his key from his pocket, and inserted it into the deadbolt. As he pushed the key in, the door swung open silently; it was unlocked. Something was wrong – the door was never unlocked. Marie was obsessive about security – the only reason the door would have been unlocked was…

He bolted into the room, looking around frantically. Nothing seemed out of place.

Chapter 9: Warning

Ernie felt weak. His stomach hurt, his heart was racing, and all he could think of was getting out of there. He wasn’t prepared to see a dead body, let alone the body of someone he knew.

He turned and ran back out of the alley, leaving Ken scrambling to pick himself off of the pavement and follow. Ernie didn’t go far. He ducked behind the building at the end of the alley and sat down, back against the side of a dumpster, and hugged his knees close to his chest.

He didn’t cry, but he felt like it. He couldn’t get the image out of his head – Darryl, with his grimy face and bloody hands, lying there motionless on the gurney, a twisted expression of fear on his face. At least his eyes had been closed… Ernie shuddered again.

Ken caught up with him, and assumed the same position as Ernie just to his left.

“Hey, Ern, what’s goin’ on, man? You know that guy or somethin’?” Ernie didn’t reply audibly, but nodded slightly. Ken knew him well enough to realize that if you wanted information from Ernie, you were better off to just ask a lot of questions.

Ken hadn’t gotten a really good look at the man, since Ernie had dropped him before his eyes could fully focus, but he knew Ernie didn’t know a whole lot of people except the kids at the corner and the residents of St. Ives.

“Was is one of the guys from St. Ives, Ernie?” Ernie nodded ever so slightly again. “Man, that sucks.” Ken leaned his head up against the dumpster, hugging his knees even closer to his body.

A burst of inspiration struck Ken like a lightning bolt. This was a perfect opportunity to do some sleuthing! Like many children, Ken vacillated when it came to “what he wanted to do when he grew up.” But lately, he’d been leaning towards the glorious life of a private eye, due in no small part to the mystery novels that his friend Rex provided him.

He could use this opportunity to get some valuable experience. By investigating the cause of the mystery man’s death, he could try out his gumshoes and maybe even help Ernie somehow. It was an opportunity that shouldn’t be missed.

“Hey, Ern, I’m going to head back to the store and see if I can figure out what’s going on. Just stay here; I’ll be right back.”

Ernie was more than happy to stay right there. He was still feeling quite sick. Sweat gathered quickly on his brow, and his breath became shallow. As Ken scuttled back towards the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, Ernie’s mind cleared enough for him to think about what Darryl had told him a few weeks previous.

Darryl was a regular at St. Ives, though he wasn’t there nearly as often as Ernie. He was known by many of the other St. Ives residents as “the squeegee man,” largely due to the fact that he spent his days down on State Avenue cleaning the windshields of commuters as they waited at the lights. It couldn’t be called a living, since he still made moderate use of St. Ive’s free food supply, but he did better than many of the others who begged at street corners or outside grocery stores.

Part of Darryl’s success was due to his easy smile and the fact that he never ever asked for any money in return for his services. He strove to make it appear that he was simply helping people out; he didn’t want people to think he needed their charity, even though he most definitely did.

Darryl preferred instead to believe that people would pay for a service well done, even though they didn’t necessarily know they needed the service. He told Ernie on one occasion that most people didn’t realize how dirty their windows really were until he’d cleaned them, and after that, they were more than happy to throw a few cents his way in thanks. His attention to detail certainly didn’t hurt his enterprise either; Darryl made sure your windows were clean. This was not a cursory effort; this was professional service, even if it did come from a grimy, off-smelling homeless man.

Ernie had accompanied Darryl one day, and initially he found it interesting, but he didn’t excel at smalltalk and smiling the way Darryl did, and the customers’ looks of dismay upon their approach was more than enough to convince Ernie that he was better off to stick to his jive.

He’d learned a lot from Darryl, though, especially about keeping a positive attitude. Darryl had told Ernie stories of drivers that had gotten particularly angry at him – so angry that they had stepped out of their cars and gotten physical with him. Every so often, Ernie would see Darryl with fresh bruises on his arms, or a cut above his eye. But he never let it get him down. He had explained his philosophy to Ernie once.

“Ya see, Ernie, da way I figger it, everybody’s got a lot goin’ on that we don’t see. Take you and me, fer example. Most folks don’t realize you and me ain’t gots no home, ain’t gots no food, but at the same time, we gots to understand that they’se maybe had a rough day. Maybe da wife left ‘em and took da kids. Maybe dey got fired an’ worry about endin’ up like you and me. I dunno. But da point is, we don’t know. We gots to give them the opportunity to be mad, cuz we don’t know why dey are. Maybe it’s me, but I don’t think so. I think it’s something else. It’s like my momma used to always say, ‘Dey’s more to it than just a broken leg.’”

Ernie had never quite understood what Darryl’s mother had meant, but if Darryl’s account was at all truthful, she was the most intelligent and insightful woman the earth had ever known, “a true angel,” as Darryl liked to say.

Ernie wasn’t sure if he and Darryl were friends or not, but he knew he enjoyed his company, and whenever Darryl was at St. Ive’s, Ernie sought him out.

A few weeks ago, Darryl had come to dinner at St. Ives a changed man. He was bleeding from numerous cuts on his face, his clothes ripped and torn more than usual, and his hands were blistered so he could barely hold the now broken squeegee.

Rhonda had clucked over him for an hour, dressing his wounds and cleaning him up as best she could. Darryl was strangely reticent during the whole procedure and on into the evening, despite Rhonda’s attempts to get him to explain what had happened.

Ernie hadn’t had any luck either. He sat with Darryl at the dining room table long after dinner, waiting for Darryl’s explanation, but it never came. He just stared aimlessly into space, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Finally, Ernie grew restless and stood up to leave, but Darryl had grasped his arm urgently.

“Ernie, listen!” He spoke with an uncharacteristic urgency that immediately caught Ernie’s attention. There was a bizarre fire in his eyes, but they stared aimlessly the way they had that entire evening.

“If a man ever comes to you, sayin’ he’s got da answer, dat he can get you out, you just gots to do one thing, don’t listen to ‘im. Don’t let him take ‘vantage o’ you. Tell him you’ll get out y’own way. Tell him you don’t need ‘im. Hear me?” He clenched Ernie’s arm so hard he cried out in surprise.

Ernie nodded a slow acknowledgment and drew his arm away quickly. Darryl had never done anything that would hurt him before, but his eyes still stared off aimlessly into space; he didn’t seem to even realize he’d done or said anything.

Ernie had gone to bed that evening troubled, and he had wanted to ask Darryl what he was talking about, but Darryl was gone in the morning. It wasn’t unusual – Darryl often didn’t spend the whole night at the shelter. He preferred to find his own place to sleep. But Darryl hadn’t returned, and no one Ernie had spoken to had seen him around his normal Stae Avenue workplace.

Ernie hadn’t worried too much, though. Darryl was an old-timer; he’d been on the street for a long time. He knew the ropes and could take care of himself.

But now, seeing Darryl’s still body in the ambulance, the look of pain in his eyes, Ernie wondered if perhaps there had been more to Darryl’s admonition than he’d thought.

**Chapter 10: Investigation **

Ken was having considerable luck on his first foray into the investigative arts. He had quickly found a perfect listening post from a fire escape just beyond the row of police cars and ambulances. From his vantage point, he could get a relatively complete view of the mass of blue-suited officers with little risk of being seen. And if he was quiet and listened carefully, he could make out the conversations of them men below without too much difficulty.

Two men in trench coats and white dress shirts seemed to be running the show. Ken had heard them be addressed as Detectives. Detective – that was a title he could get used to. Detective van Zandt – yes, it had a nice ring to it. This investigation stuff was going to be a blast!

Despite the fun he was having, Ken tried to keep a serious attitude. A man was dead, and while that in and of itself wasn’t terribly stunning, especially in McAllister Park , this was someone Ernie knew, and that made it even more important that Ken take things seriously. He desperately wanted to find out something that would put Ernie at ease, or at least give them a clue as to what had happened. He’d never seen Ernie this way before, which meant that he knew the dead man pretty well.

One of the detectives approached the ambulance where Darryl’s body lay. Ken craned his neck to hear the conversation.

“Any idea who we’ve got here?”

“No, sorry. No identification at all. But judging from his appearance and smell, he was probably homeless. We had more luck with the other guy. We found a few books and some plane tickets from Sumatra in his backpack, and I think somebody mentioned that they had his wallet as well.”

“OK, any idea on what happened?”

“Not really. Both victims had gunshot wounds, but judging from the blood loss, I’d say John Doe over here got hit first. The kid probably stumbled on the perps or tried to help the guy or something. A regular saint, I guess.”

“Where’s the other victim?”

“Well, they’ve got him on the train back up to Elston Memorial. Stomach wound, but it seemed to have missed all the important stuff, so maybe he’ll be all right. We’ll see.”

“OK, thanks.” The detective turned and walked towards his partner.

“What do we have, Cobb?”

“Looks like a homeless guy,” the first detective said, removing the toothpick he’d been chewing on nervously from his mouth.

“Well, we’ve got the other guy’s wallet. His name is Joel Mendocino. Address on his license is for an apartment just west of here. They’ve taken him to Elston.”

“Yeah, that’s what I hear. Is Foster gonna call us when he’s awake so we can get statement?”

“Yeah, she said she would.”

“All right, let’s head to the apartment and see what we can find there.”

Ken watched as the two men headed on up the road towards their car, debating whether the rest of the uniformed cops would have any useful information. None of them seemed to be talking – they were all simply looking around the scene and taking notes. He decided it was time to go let Ernie know what was going on, and scrambled noiselessly off the fire escape and headed towards the dumpster behind the alley, where Ernie was still sitting, head on his knees.

Ken pulled gently on his arm.

“Ernie, I found out where they’re taking the other guy. There were two of ‘em. Come on, lets go see if he can tell us anything.” He pulled more strongly against Ernie’s resistance.

Ernie reluctantly stood up slowly and followed Ken to where his bike lay on the asphalt. He didn’t much feel like “investigating,” but Ken seemed to think it was the right thing to do. He instinctively reached for the headphones around his neck, but stopped short of pulling them to his ears. No, he didn’t feel much like jiving either, so he and Ken made their way up the street in silence.

Chapter 8: The Weakest Link

The train didn’t seem to be moving as quickly as it had the last time he’d ridden, mont hs ago. He was getting restless. The executives would be expecting him momentarily. He glanced at his watch for the millionth time. Time seemed to be slogging along at an incredibly slow rate.

The jagged cuts on his knuckles had stopped bleeding, and now pulsated a dull pain through his entire right hand. He’d inadvertently gotten blood on his fresh white shirt and dark tie; he probably wouldn’t have the time to clean himself up before the meeting – if he even made it.

Thee train creaked to a stop. Was this it? No, one more to go. He examined his appearance in the low-contrast reflection of the train window. Wow, he was a wreck; hair mussed up from the run, the gritty dull white powder of dried sweat on his forehead, blood on his shirt, collar and tie loose and wrinkled. He certainly didn’t look like a poster child for one of the most powerful advertising firms in the city.

A wave of anger passed over him, largely directed at Marie. After all, it was her fault that all of this was happening. If she’d made sure he was up this morning, he could have gotten on the road earlier. Granted, it was he that was out late last night, but that was her fault too. If she’d kept him satisfied, he wouldn’t have had the need to stay out late cheating on her to satisfy his sexual appetite. See, it was all her fault. He ought to leave her. Well, she’d be kissing the nice house in the Glade goodbye if he didn’t get his bonus. At least this affected her as much as it affected him – she wouldn’t get away scot-free.

After what seemed like an eternity, the train finally made it to State Avenue , and not a moment too soon. Mike grabbed his briefcase and hurried out the door, pushing past the mob of people and ignoring their shouted protests as he continued along.

The path along State Avenue to the tower was relatively clear; it was so late in the morning, a majority of people had already made it to their jobs. His previous physical activity had left his body reeling, and he was unable to move faster than a brisk walk towards the tower. He pushed his way through the revolving doors and ignored the pleasant greetings of the security guard as he headed straight to the elevator.

He pressed the up button urgently, somehow feeling that the faster he pressed it, the faster the elevator would descend. The pristine ding of the elevator’s arrival could not come soon enough, and he boarded the car anxiously. He was followed by two other nicely dressed individuals who ogled his appearance as they boarded. He forced himself to smile smoothly, despite his strong desire to rip their heads off. Who the hell did they think they were?

“34, please.” He murmured at the two other passengers as the doors slid to a close with a hiss. A brief downward force signaled their ascent, and Mike looked at his watch again. Shit, it was going to be close. The other passengers departed at the 18 th floor, taking their time, much to Mike’s chagrin. He pressed the door close button even more urgently than he had the elevator call, and leaned back against the far elevator wall with an anxious sigh. Fortunately for his sanity, it appeared no one else had any need to use the elevator at this late morning hour, and his trip to the 34 th floor continued uninterrupted.

The doors opened and Mike flew out frantically, briskly heading towards his office to grab the collection of charts and mock-ups for the new campaign.

“Oh, Mr. Turner, I’m so glad you’re here! They’re waiting for you in the conference room! Oh my, are you all right? Do you need…”

“No, Susan, just let them know I am on my way right now. I’ll be there in a minute.” He tightened his tie and buttoned the top button of his collar, then quickly glanced at himself in the glass reflection of his office window. Well, this was as good as it was going to get. He pulled the rolled posters from his desk and walked towards the conference room.

He pushed the door to the conference room open with his back, and turned to notice that a majority of the management staff was present. That was odd – he thought this was just between Bill, his direct supervisor, a few of the other executives, and himself. And what was Marlene doing here? She shouldn’t have anything do with this.

“Ah, Mike, glad you made it… Oh, are you all right? Do you need a few minutes?” Bill stood in greeting.

“No, no, I’m OK. I just cut my hand on my way over. No big deal.”

“Well, all right then. Go ahead and have a seat.” There was something strange in his demeanor. He was too professional, too friendly. He and Mike were barely on speaking terms – why the charade? And what were all these people doing here?

“Mike, as you know, we’re here to talk about the Richmond account…”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got some mock-ups here for you to look at.” Mike interrupted in excitement. He was especially proud of his ideas for the new campaign. They were quite possibly his best, and equipped with the right team, he could really deliver the goods on this one.

He reached down for one of the rolled-up posters and began to unfold it. “As you can see, I’ve totally rethought the logo and how it integrates with the rest of the campaign, and I’ve got some new…”

“Well, Mike, let’s just wait on that. You see, we’ve had a lot of discussion about the Richmond account, and as you know, they haven’t been pleased with the latest campaign. We rely on their business, and we really need to pick up the pace f we want to get them to sign a new con…”

Mike was annoyed. He already knew all of this. He knew how important the account was, both to the company and his own career. Why did Bill have to rehash all this stuff here?

“Yeah, I know, Bill, which is why I’ve totally rethought our approach, and if you’d just give me a second to exp…”

“Please Mike,” Bill said, holding up his hand and shaking his head. “Please let me finish. We… all of us…” He motioned to the rest of those in the room. “We’ve decided that we need some new leadership on the Richmond account. Marlene, as you know, has a working relationship with some of the Richmond guys from her days at Alliance , and we think that she might be able to leverage that relationship to produce some good results.”

Well, that explained Marlene’s presence. “What the hell is going on, Bill? Are you letting me go?” Mike could feel himself getting hot.

“In a word Mike… yes.” That son of a bitch. He looked around the room at the rest of the observers. They all averted their gazes, looking at the floor or out the window. Was this really happening?

He stood up suddenly, causing a gasp to ripple through the rest of those present. Marlene pushed away from the table quickly. Bill stood up to meet him, a nervous look on his face. He moved his hands slowly, obviously trying to calm the situation.

“Now Mike, settle down…”

Mike didn’t want to settle down. He didn’t want to calm the situation. He wanted to rip into someone.

“This is why you called me down here, Bill? This is the meeting you told me about two weeks ago? This is what I’ve been preparing for, spending late nights in this fucking office, cultivating and developing what is quite possibly the most brilliant idea this firm has ever had? You son of a bitch!”

Mike advanced towards Bill. There was too much going through his head. He couldn’t think everything through. His blood was boiling! Did they honestly think that Marlene, that bitch, was going to be able to take over for him? He was the heart of this company – Richmond was his account! What the hell were they doing?

Bill backed away slowly, still moving his arms in a vain attempt to calm Mike down.

“Come on Mike, you have to understand…”

“What?” Mike shouted. He was pissed now. “What do I have to understand, Bill? Do you really think this little cunt can take the Richmond account?” There was no answer. “Fine. Let her try!” With a roar, Mike turned and slammed his right fist into the wall. Pain shot like hot needles through his arm, but he didn’t care.

He turned back to where his briefcase and posters sat, leaving a streak of maroon conspicuously on the cream conference room wall. Someone must have called the tower security; two hefty-looking gentlemen stood in the doorway stolidly.

“Mike,” started Bill again, as Mike began to pick up his briefcase and mock- ups. With mock-ups like these, he’d at least be able to get another job.

“Leave the stuff here. You know you can’t take it with you.”

Shit, he was right. Nothing Mike had done while working at the company was his – it all belonged to Copeland. Those sons of bitches. He now understood why they’d waited to tell him they’d decided to fire him; they knew he’d put all of his energy into revamping the campaign if he thought he had an opportunity to really change it. Now they could take his work, give it to Marlene, and turn it into a money-making campaign. And all it cost them was his severance pay.

“You’re all sons of bitches, you know that?” He dropped the posters and briefcase as the two stolid gentlemen grabbed his arms and led him towards the elevators. His rage continued to mount as the elevator descended. He considered his options. He could try to take out the two security men and go on a rampage through the office, but sadly, he had no weapons. The men looked pretty solid, anyway; he wouldn’t be able to take both of them out.

This sucked. No amount of profanity murmured under his breath could fully express the sense of betrayal he felt. As the security men dragged him out of the elevator on the ground floor, a sudden weight fell down on him. The adrenaline that his anger had brought forth unexpectedly dissipated, and he felt light-headed. The last thing he saw before passing out was two delivery men wheeling a large cake through the tower lobby. The icing read, “Congratulations Marlene!”

**Chapter 7: Shopping **

Angela ran up and down the aisles, shrieking gleefully at each brightly colored box of food that she did not recall being there the week before. Melissa pushed the now overflowing cart behind her rambunctious daughter, ignoring the disapproving stares of the store employees and other customers. She’d grown accustomed to them over the years.

“Can we get this, please?” Angela asked, throwing yet another box into the cart before turning around quickly and running back to grab more useless products, pony tail bobbing happily. Melissa sighed again. If she could get paid a nickel, or even just a penny, for every sigh she’d uttered since Angela’s birth…

Melissa could hardly wait until Angela was old enough to start dating. That hellion would eat a boy for breakfast! Melissa nearly laughed out loud at the thought of some boy seeking Angela’s affections, standing at the door with flowers, nervous upon meeting his date’s father. Melissa chuckled again. Someone frightened of Lawrence , ha! Whatever boy wanted to date Angela would be in for a surprise, that was for sure. If he could handle her, then the rest of the family would be a piece of cake.

Melissa shook her head sternly as Angela rounded the corner with a new box in her hand. A shadow fell across the five-year-old’s face. The fun and games were over, it seemed. Melissa motioned with her finger, maintaining the stern expression on her face.

“Come on, Angie. I told you you had to settle down, and you haven’t. Come on, up in the cart.” She motioned towards the toddler seat in the overloaded cart.

“But Mommy, I’m not a baby anymore,” Angela replied, putting on her best pouting face. She looked pitiful, but Melissa was not falling for the act. Lawrence might, but she was tougher than he, especially when it came to their daughter.

“Well, you certainly seem to act like a baby, so I think you can ride like a baby. Come on, up you go.” She lifted the girl and placed her in the seat. Angela crossed her arms across her chest and forced her frown to become even more pronounced. It was comical. The entire store seemed to erupt in silent applause at the site of the annoying blonde trapped in the toddler chair.

Melissa pushed the cart along each aisle, silently replacing each item that Angela had placed in the cart, ignoring the small whimpers escaping her mouth at the loss of each incredibly important item. The rest of the excursion would transpire in silence, since Angela’s method of retribution when wronged was to keep her mouth shut. Lawrence hated it. If he’d made her angry, he’d spend the next hour trying to get her to talk to him, but Melissa simply ignored her. Making her angry was often the only way to get her to shut up anyway.

At last the final one of Angela’s contributions to the day’s purchases was replaced on the shelf, and Melissa double checked her short list to ensure that she had found everything she needed. The cart seemed sparse after removing all the superfluous items, but she had everything she needed. Surveying the surrounding aisles quickly for any last-minute things she might have forgotten, she turned the cart briskly and strode towards the checkout lines, which were overpopulated with customers.

“OK, Angela, you can have one small thing – just one. What do you want?”

The girl didn’t respond. Apparently she was still angry. Melissa shook her head and sighed. It was her loss.

She peered around the register lanes, looking for Ned, the nice man who always helped her to the car and always said something kind to Angela. There he was, ringing up a constant stream of customers, as usual. The wait in his line would be worth it. She could use a pick-me-up today.

Ned was back in his groove. The brief break earlier had really rejuvenated him, and he’d been visited by several of his regular customers already today, which kept him feeling good. The pain in his knee had grown duller, and while still present, was bearable.

He was scanning items more efficiently than he had in awhile, passing item after item quickly over the glowing red bars of the UPC scanner. He had explained once to some of the other cashiers how the scanning machine worked. They all were amazed at his knowledge, and for a brief shining moment, he had felt like he was himself again. A smart, respected engineer, whose knowledge of mechanical and electrical machines was belied by his soft eyes and quiet demeanor.

Of course, Bob had quickly disbanded the small group of listeners to Ned’s explanation, somehow turning a UPC scanner into a major character in the latest episode of his corporate kiss-ass saga. Holly had been kind enough to listen to his further explanation during one of their mutual breaks. She had seemed genuinely interested, though Ned knew she had promptly forgotten everything he’d said. It didn’t matter. She’d given him the chance to feel smart and useful again, and that was what he needed.

Ned often spent his breaks chatting with Holly when he could. They often sat out on bench in the parking lot, while Holly smoked a cigarette. She never failed to offer one to Ned, though he always declined. Truth be told, he found the habit disgusting and repulsive, but Holly was interesting to be around, and her presence offset the acrid smell of the smoke. In fact, there were several things that Ned disapproved of about Holly, and if she had been his daughter, they certainly would have a lot to discuss. But she wasn’t his daughter, and as their work relationship turned into a true friendship, he found that the eyebrow piercing and smoking habit defined their relationship less and less.

He was constantly astounded by her generosity. She often invited the beggars standing outside to join her for a snack, and always listened to their stories of heartache and longing. That was her real gift to them, whether they realized it or not – the gift of a listening, interested ear. Anyone could give them a piece of pizza or the loose change in their pocket, but Holly’s genuine concern for them and inquiries about their well-being lasted longer than both the food and the loose change.

Ned knew that many of the homeless men and women that frequented the area surrounding the store were residents, either permanent or otherwise, of the St. Ives shelter. He had mentioned to Holly that she should consider volunteering there or something, but she seemed reluctant. She always just smiled and said, “Yeah, Ned, I know,” but to his knowledge, she never had even set foot in the shelter.

He shot a glance to register 7, where Holly was now busy ringing up her own long line of customers. She caught his glance and smiled. He smiled back. He might hate his job, but at least he had to opportunity to become friends with good people.

“Thanks a lot, Ned. I’ll see you next week.”

“You too, Mark. Be careful on the way out, it’s a bit slick by the door,” he replied, referring to the small puddle of soda, remnants of an overactive bottle of Sprite.

He looked up to identify his next customer, and groaned inwardly as he saw Melissa and Angela. Melissa was nice enough, but her daughter was a brat. Ned had seen the way Melissa and Lawrence doted on her every whim, and it made him sick. If _she’d _ been his daughter – well, he was just glad she wasn’t. He’d have picked Holly over her any day.

“Hi, Ned! How’ve you been?” Melissa inquired cheerfully, her smile contradicted by the obvious tension and exhaustion in her voice.

“Oh, I’m fine, fine. And your husband?”

“He had to work today. It’s just me and Angie.”

“Ah, I see. And how are you, little miss?” He smiled, eyes peeking over the edge of his nose at the girl who looked very angry, arms crossed defiantly across her chest.

“Fine,” she replied, not looking up.

He began to scan the items on the small conveyor belt. He knew that would get Angie’s attention. She was always intrigued by the speed at which he loaded the bags, so much faster than any other cashier.

Today was no exception. As the beep, beep, beep, of the scanned items reverberated in the echoic store, Angela became transfixed on Ned’s hands. They seemed to blur as he scanned and bagged each item with lightning speed.

Ned grinned at her, willing his arms to move even faster, mentally confirming that every item had scanned by carefully listening for the confirmation beep. He was going fast today.

Unexpectedly, his hands faltered. The jar of peanut butter, fortunately plastic, flew from his fingers and clattered loudly on the tiled floor. The store seemed to freeze; the all of the customers’ attention was focused on him, and him alone.

The silence was broken by Angela’s childish laughter. She clapped her hands with glee, apparently deriving some sadistic pleasure from Ned’s mistake. Ned, speechless at this unexpected development, knelt down silently and picked up the jar. He scanned it again and continued, moving more slowly and del iberately this time.

The rest of the store reanimated itself, and Ned glanced up again to see Holly still looking his direction. Her eyes asked, “Are you OK?” He nodded back at her and painted his smile back on before looking back up at Melissa.

“Well, will there be anything else for you this morning?”

“No, Ned, that’ll be all. How much do I owe you?”

“Well, you owe me a smile, but the store will want $87.13.” Ned joked back, trying to shake off the embarrassment he felt at having dropped the peanut butter. Melissa grinned.

“Well, here’s your smile, and here’s the check for the store. Can I trust you to make sure they get it?”

“But of course,” he replied. “Would you like some help getting out to your car?”

“Well… Actually, yes, that’d be great.”

Ned glanced around, looking for one of the young cart collectors to help Melissa, but there were none to be found. Oh well. “I’ll be right back, everyone.” He flipped the light on his register off and limped along behind Melissa to her car, ignoring the faces Angela made at him as they walked. He’d be glad when they were gone, especially the little brat.

Melissa opened the trunk and Ned quickly loaded the bags into it with his strong arms, oblivious to the sound of sirens as they passed along the street in front of the store.