Out of the Cold (10 page)

I stared at her.

“What?” she said, annoyed—at me, at the spit on her coat, at the lukewarm non-latte coffee, at our surroundings.

“You did good, Morgan.”

“You sound surprised.”

I
was
, a little. I had asked Morgan to help me, and she had agreed. But deep down I'd had my doubts about her ability (or willingness) to coax information out of complete strangers about another complete stranger.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “So,” she said, “what did
you
find out?”

What I had found out, item one: “I talked to workers at the two shelters around here. They both said more or less the same thing. They know him only by the name Duffy. They have no idea where he came from, what his past life was. No idea how he ended up on the street.”

“Are you detecting a pattern here, Robyn?” Morgan said.

I continued: “One of the workers I talked to has been at the shelter for maybe five years. He said that Duffy used to sleep at the shelter from time to time, but not very often. Both of them said that he didn't feel comfortable at the shelters.” Ben had told me the same thing.

“But you hear yourself, right, Robyn? Mr. Duffy did know where those shelters were. He could have gone to one if he'd wanted. He didn't
have
to sleep outside.”

Maybe.

“They also said that in the past few months they'd caught him sneaking in a couple of times and stealing stuff. They never pressed charges. They just made him leave. And both of them said that up until recently, Mr. Duffy drank
a lot
. They said most of the money he made begging probably went to buying booze.”

Morgan reached for her coffee cup, and for a moment I thought the caffeine addict in her was going to win out over the quality-snob. But she sighed and tucked her hands in her lap.

Item two: “Mr. Duffy was a regular at the soup kitchen at St. Brigit's Church. They offer a hot meal there at noon every Tuesday and Thursday. He showed up at least once a week. Never talked to anyone. He never caused any trouble, either—until recently, when he started filling his pockets with extra food, which is strictly against the rules. They let you take a sandwich and a piece of fruit for later in the day, but that's it. Mr. Duffy started taking more.”

Item three: “I described Mr. Duffy and showed his picture around in ten, maybe eleven, coffee shops and fastfood places in the area where he asked for change. Only two people recognized him, and one of them wasn't one hundred percent sure. They both said he came in from time to time, bought a coffee, and then sat at a table until they had to ask him to leave. Only one person, a guy who works at a place called the Black Cat Café, knew Mr. Duffy's name.
That
guy said he let Mr. Duffy use the phone a few times—which he wasn't supposed to do—including a couple of days ago. But he doesn't know who Mr. Duffy called.”

Item four: “There are dozens of underground parking garages in the area.” They were all cold and horrible and scary. But I had trudged down to the tollbooth in each of them and showed the picture that Mr. Donovan had given us. “They all said the same thing, Morgan. They always find homeless people—usually more than one—sleeping somewhere inside when the weather is cold. Usually in stairwells, if they can get in. And usually they let them stay, at least until about seven the next morning, when the commuters start to arrive. But nobody remembered Mr. Duffy specifically.”

“Great,” Morgan said. “So we froze our butts off all day and, basically, we don't know any more about Mr. Duffy than we did when we started.”

“We know a few things,” I said.

“But not his first name. We don't know anything about his past life. We don't know why he's homeless. We don't even know where he's from.” She stood up. “Let's get out of here.”

I glanced at my watch. “We got down here far too late to catch people on their way into work.”

“So?”

“So, people will be heading home soon. Mr. Duffy begged in the same location every day. Maybe some people gave money to him regularly. Maybe some of them know something about him.”

Morgan shook her head. “No way,” she said.

“No way what?”

“You want to stand out in the street accosting people, don't you?”

“Well, I—”

“How are you even going to get them to stop?”

Good question. “Maybe if we—”

“We?” Morgan said. “You're my best friend, Robyn. I'd do anything for you—up to a point. But my feet are sore, I have a headache, I have dried spit all over my coat, and I promised Billy I'd meet him at”—she consulted her watch—“right about now. I gotta run. Come on, Robyn, let's call it a day.”

“You go,” I said. My feet were sore too. I also had a headache. I didn't have spit on my coat, but I
was
discouraged. Still—“I'm going to stick around.”

Morgan glanced at the men at the tables around us. “I don't think this is the best place for a girl alone—”

“I don't mean here,” I said. “I'm going to try to talk to people who might have given Mr. Duffy money. I'll have to do it sooner or later. I might as well get it over with.” I dug out some money and slapped it onto the table to pay for our coffees.

We went outside. It was colder now than it had been earlier, or maybe it only seemed that way after we'd been inside for a while.

“Robyn, are you sure?”

I nodded. How hard could it be, right?

CHAPTER
EIGHT

H

ow do you convince tired, busy people hurrying through a cold, dark evening to their cars or to catch a bus so they can get home to their families or dogs or cats to stop and chat? Once they've stopped, how do you find out what they know about a scarred, cantankerous old homeless man who recently froze to death?

I stood near the corner outside the mediumsized office building where Mr. Duffy had asked for change on weekdays. It was the same building where I had seen him the first day I went to Art Donovan's shelter. In another thirty minutes, people would start to pour out of the building—and all of the surrounding buildings. Some of them must have paused at least once to throw money into Duffy's hat. Why else would he have come back to the same spot every day? But how would I get any of them to stop? If I approached one person, I would miss five or ten others—maybe people who knew something—while I explained what I was doing to that one person, who might know nothing at all. I thought for a few moments and then headed across the street.

  .    .    .

By the time I got back to the spot where Mr. Duffy used to beg, there were only two thoughts on my mind: 1)
I hope this works
, and 2)
I'm really glad that Morgan can't see me now
.

Then: “Robyn?”

I whirled around. “Ben? What are you doing here?”

He stared incredulously at me. When he finished reading the front of the homemade sandwich-board sign that I was wearing, he circled around to read the back. “Do you think that's going to work?” Ben asked.

I shrugged. “It would probably be better if I had someone to help me.”

He smiled. It amazed me how that simple change of expression could transform a person's face.

“What do you want me to do?” he said.

What Ben did was draw attention to me and my signs. Some people shook their heads as if they thought I might be crazy. Some smiled, also as if they thought I might be crazy. A few people came up to me and said that they'd heard what had happened, but that they hadn't known that the man who froze to death was the same man they walked past every day. A lot of people said that they had dropped money into his hat every now and then. Almost all of them said how sad it was that in such a big city, there were so many people who had no roof over their heads. My brilliant plan wasn't exactly an over-whelming success. A grand total of four people said they had actually exchanged words with Mr. Duffy.

“I used to buy him tea on the really cold days,” an older woman said. “I can't remember how I found out that he liked tea, but he did. The first time I offered him a cup, I was nervous. I thought he might be insulted. But he wasn't. He thanked me so politely. But that's all I know about him.”

“I heard about that man,” said another of them, a man with an expensive-looking briefcase. “That was him, huh?” He shook his head. He really seemed to care. “I wish I knew more about him,” he said. “Mostly he didn't say much. I remember one time, though, after I'd been on vacation, he mentioned he hadn't seen me around. He asked me if I'd been sick. That really surprised me. When I told him I'd been out west, he said he bet the daffodils were out on the coast already. I remember being surprised at that too, because I hadn't given much thought to where he might have come from. You don't, do you, when you see someone asking for change? So I asked him if that was where he was from.”

I held my breath.

“He didn't answer,” the man said.

I tried to hide my disappointment.

“He'd had a head injury,” I said. “Maybe he couldn't remember.”

The man shook his head. “If it wasn't for bad luck, I guess he'd have no luck at all, huh?” Before he left, he asked me for the name of the homeless shelter and said he'd make a donation.

“I tell you what,” the third person, another man, said. “He knew something about computers. I had dropped some money into his hat—every day at the end of the day I drop all my spare change into some homeless person's hat. Why not? Who wants to drag around a pocketful of coins? Anyway, a week or so ago, I'd dropped all of my change into his hat and I was talking to a buddy of mine, a software developer, like me. Just chitchatting. My buddy mentioned this project he was working on had him stumped, and the old guy—what did you say his name was? Duffy?—he gave my buddy a suggestion. While he was talking, the lights came on in my buddy's eyes. That old guy knew what he was talking about. Turned out it was a good suggestion. Just the other day my buddy asked me if I'd seen the guy around. He wanted to talk to him. You say he's the guy who froze to death, huh? Terrible way to go.” He dug out his wallet and pressed a wad of twenties into my hand. “You give that to that shelter of yours,” he said. “It's not much, but ...” He shrugged.

And, finally, from a grandmotherly woman: “I heard about what happened. What a shame. That little girl is going to miss him.”

“Little girl?” I glanced at Ben. He looked as surprised as I was. “What little girl?”

“There was a little girl who used to come by and talk to him,” the woman said. “My office is right across the street.” She pointed to an elegant stone building across the street. “He used to smile when he saw her coming. I think it's the only time I ever saw him smile.”

“Do you know who she is?” I said.

The woman shook her head. “She looks about five or six years old. She always comes by with her mother. At least, I assume it's her mother. They're South Asian—Indian or Sri Lankan, I'm not sure.”

“Do you know if they came regularly? Maybe at a particular time or on a particular day?”

The woman shook her head again. “I didn't pay that much attention. I just used to look out the window sometimes and see the girl and her mother. The little girl would be talking to the man you're asking about.”

“Do you know when they were here last?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I really don't know anything else.”

As she walked away, an elegantly dressed man came up to me and said he'd been listening to what I'd been saying. He thought what I was doing was “admirable.”

“It's always so gratifying to see a young person take such an active interest in the community,” he said.

“Did you know the man who used to sit around out here?” I said.

“To be honest,” he said. “I'm not sure. I've been tossing coins into several hats every day. It will probably sound terrible to you, considering what you're trying to do here, but I don't pay a lot of attention. I see whatever they're using to collect money, and I throw something in.”

I'd thought Mr. Duffy had a face that was impossible to forget. But when I described him, the man shrugged apologetically.

“I'm in town for the next couple of weeks. My company is setting up a new office right up there,” the man said, pointing. “If it will help, I'll ask around the building and see if anyone there knows anything.”

“I'd appreciate it.” I hunted around for a piece of paper, scribbled down my name and number, and handed it to him. “This is where you can reach me,” I said.

“Robyn,” he said, reading what I had written. “I'll remember that. How did you come to know this man?”

“I didn't really know him,” I admitted. “But my friend Ben did.” I waved Ben over and introduced him. “Ben volunteers at the shelter that Mr. Duffy liked to go to.”