The Messenger (3 page)

He was back.

Manny raised himself up on trembling legs, dusted himself off, tried to still his heaving chest. His heart continued to beat like an overworked snare drum. He backed up to the wall, leaned heavy against it, tried to collect himself. He knew without understanding that the pain in his chest had nothing to do with his overworked heart. His whole being
ached
with a loss he could not fathom. He yearned for something he could scarcely believe existed.

The love. It lingered about him like the faintest perfume. The love and the light had
seared
him. In those few moments, he had felt as though unseen shadows had been stripped from his eyes, his mind, his body, his very life.

An empty, aching hollowness swelled within him, filled with the utter nothingness of a wasted life.

Then a lifetime of habits kicked in. Anger swelled to fill the empty void, and more lies formed to veil him from the truth. That was what he got for breaking his own rules. Nothing but trouble. He'd let himself go for one minute, let himself feel something for a pigeon, and what happened? He started slipping.

A two-minute flashback, yeah, that's what it was. Nothing but the dregs of a bad trip. Just forgetting who he was and what this world had in store for people who didn't keep it hard and sharp and fast and furious, letting a too-long night linger and let him go soft for some pigeon.

But it wouldn't happen again. Manny felt the anger mount, and used it to shove himself from the wall. He didn't just get by. He was a beast of the jungle. He fed on the prey. He was tough. He was a hunter.

Manny jerked his leather vest down straight, grabbed the silver card from the machine, turned down the side street, and eased into his familiar strut. A hunter, yeah. That was the ticket. Remind himself of who he was and what he did. Then go out there and hunt down a few pigeons.

****

The reed-thin old man standing guard at the Salvation Army's entrance gave her a smile of surprising brightness, considering his advanced years. “Can I help you, young lady?”

“I was looking for Sister Clarice.”

“Sure, she told me to keep watch for a lost-looking foreign gal. Didn't say she'd light up the room with her looks, though.” The old man cackled. “Shame I ain't ten years younger. Give those young boys a run for their money, I would.”

“Stop with your jawing, already,” complained a derelict tottering two stairs below Ariel. “You're holding up traffic.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He urged Ariel over to one side. “Come right on in, ladies and gents. There's room for all. Same as the place awaiting you when all this is over.”

“Yeah, right.” A bitter-eyed young man stepped forward, held the door for a woman carrying a whimpering child. “You're gonna feed me the line about mansions in the sky, that it?”

“Don't aim on feeding you anything your heart ain't hungry for,” the old man said easily. “But if you fill your belly and still find yourself empty, you can come back and we'll chat.”

“I never had any idea the work was so hard,” Ariel said softly, watching the young man take the child from his woman and walk toward the cafeteria line.

“Hard it is for anybody with eyes ready to see and a heart ready to feel,” the old man said, but his eyes remained bright and his tone cheerful. “Only way to make it through the day is to remember who it is we're here to serve.”

Ariel turned back to the old man, placed a gentle hand upon his arm. “You speak like one who knows the way home.”

“Ariel, welcome, welcome.” Sister Clarice came over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did the police find your things?”

“No,” Ariel said worriedly. “I don't know what to do.”

“Well, nothing like a nice cup of tea to set the world straight, I always say.” She steered Ariel into the hall. “Now, would you like to sit, or would you like to come chat with me while I serve? It's almost lunchtime, you see, and we'll soon be up to our ears with hungry people.”

“Can I help?”

“Bless you, child, what a nice thing to hear. As a matter of fact, we're short one pair of hands. A volunteer hasn't shown up yet, and the line is due to open in just five minutes. If you wouldn't mind serving the soup, it would be a blessing.”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful, just wonderful. Here, take my apron so you don't dirty up that lovely uniform of yours. And if you could manage a smile and a nice word, these folks would be more than grateful. We try to show them that someone still cares for them, you see. You'll find that often means more to them than the food.”

Sister Clarice made a series of swift introductions before stationing Ariel behind a great gleaming vat of soup. She stood and watched as more and more people filtered in through the door to be greeted cheerfully by the old man. Some responded with a grunt, some with anger, some with a yearning word or two that twisted her heart. Ariel stood and inspected the growing line of men and women and children, saw worry and desperation and hunger and fear and pain etched deep into their dirty, lined features. It was all she could do not to cry.

Sister Clarice noticed her distress and moved over. “Now, don't let it get to you,” she warned. “Remember, we're not called to solve all the world's problems. We must simply do what we can with what we have.”

Ariel nodded her understanding, yet felt the woman's words ringing inside her head.
What we have
.

She reached up and plucked the sachet from within her uniform, drawing it up and over her head. She glanced about, saw that everyone was busy with their last-minute duties, opened the little sack, and dumped the entire contents into the soup.

She bowed her head through the blessing, hoping that what she had done was acceptable, knowing that she could have done nothing else.

“My, my, that soup smells
good
.” A smiling black face stood waiting in front of her when she opened her eyes. “How you doing, sister? Don't believe I've seen your pretty face around these parts before.”

“This is Ariel,” Sister Clarice said from farther down the line. “She's a new volunteer.”

“Well, bless you, sister,” the black man said. “Surely is nice to set eyes on a pretty young thing. You make that soup up special today?”

Ariel ladled out a bowl, handed it over, replied, “Just added a little spice.”

“I hear you,” he said, moving on. His place was taken by a gray-bearded man whose grimy features were set in a permanently twisted scowl. Ariel smiled through the shared pain of what lay beneath the man's expression and handed over a bowl. On and on the procession went, each face holding a thousand stories. Ariel did as Sister Clarice had suggested, and shared from all she had.

****

This diner served the worst coffee in all Philadelphia. Still, Manny spent a lot of time there, a cup resting untouched on the counter beside him. Through the steamy front window Manny could look across the street and survey the pawnshop's entrance. As usual, he had a system worked out.

Manny lived by his wits. Always had. He had fashioned a life based on speed and agility and freedom, his desire for close relationships quenched at an early age by a mother who drank and fathers who changed by the week. Schooling had ended the summer he had been dumped on the streets at the age of eleven. Manny had not minded so much. At least the current old man had given him time to get situated before winter hit.

And he'd done all right since then. A loner's loner, he had learned to skirt the city jungle shadows, ever wary of the bigger forces at work—the blue-clad soldiers and the beasts of the night. Both were eager to ensnare him, one to put him in a cage of steel, the other to make him their slave. Manny strived for invisibility and paid homage to none.

Now he sat watching the pawnshop with a stillness that would have surprised those who knew his quickness on the street. Watching and waiting. As always, he allowed a full ten minutes from the departure of the last customer, no matter how long it took, adding those who entered and subtracting all who left, making sure no surprise lay waiting for him in some unseen back room.

When the shop had stood silent and still for the prescribed time, Manny rose from his stool, paid for coffee he had not touched, left the diner, checked the street, crossed, checked again, and entered.

“Manny, hey, just the guy I was looking for.” Spider was a bent, hairless man whose overly white limbs seemed to lack both joints and bones. He spent the better part of his life perched upon a stool from which he could survey his little kingdom. “Where you been keeping yourself?”

Manny's internal alarm started flashing. Spider was not a man known for his hospitality, especially to people trying to sell him something. “Same place as always, Spider. The streets.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” He shifted his stool closer to the wire cage through which he conducted all business and hit the unseen switch that locked the front door.

The first time he had done that, Manny had gone totally berserk. He had always harbored a grim terror of enclosed spaces. But Spider had soothed him, walked over, shown him how the door could now be opened only from within. A twist of the little lever, see, and Manny was free to go. The electric lock was for the special protection of his special clients.

Manny had fished up a sickly grin, wiped off the sweat, and gotten down to business. But he still hated the sound of that electric bolt snapping into place.

Spider slid a hand the color of a fish's belly through the little slit-opening at the base of his wire cage. Overlong fingers beckoned impatiently. “C'mon, Manny, let's see what you got for your friend Spider today.”

Manny walked over, all his sensors on overdrive. This kind of eagerness was new. Spider always acted reluctant when it came to fencing goods, pulling these long faces and talking in mournful tones about how tight the market was for whatever Manny had brought in, dried up or flooded or just not there anymore, sorry, the best he could do would be five cents on the dollar, max.

Manny was used to playing the game. It was part of the price he paid for staying independent. He always entered the pawnshop knowing he was in for a hard-fought battle. But something was wrong now. Spider's new attitude left the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

“Got some top quality goods, Spider,” he said, forcing himself to play it cool, strutting over, reaching for the hidden pockets in his vest and down inside his boot, all the while keeping one eye and an ear tuned for something, anything, either from behind the curtained back door or out front. Yeah, a single whisper of sound, a flicker of movement, one isolated footstep, and Manny would vanish like smoke in the wind. “Check this out, a gold Rolex. And a diamond bracelet, no less. Markings on the back are solid, I already checked. Platinum and fourteen carat.”

“You're the best, Manny, the best, I always said it.” Impatiently Spider shoved the items to one side. “What else you got?”

“Hey, hang on a sec, we're talking top drawer here.” Manny risked a complete swivel, searched the street in both directions as far as he could see. Nothing. Not a movement, not even a car. Still the nerves in his gut jangled their constant warning. “Couldn't take less than an even thou.”

“Right, right.” The unseen drawer slid back, the roll was plucked out, impatient fingers counted to ten. “Thousand on the nose. Just like you asked. I always treated you good, right, Manny? Always played it straight with my number-one man. Now what else you got?”

“What is this?” Manny asked, his heart rate soaring for the third time that day. “You setting me up, Spider?”

“Me?” A bead of perspiration dribbled down from his hairless temple, across the skin of a cheek that had not felt the sunlight in years. “There ain't no future in that. Why'd I want to do in my number-one source of prime goods?”

“Something ain't right,” Manny muttered and crept to the door. He sprang the catch, swung the door wide, searched the empty street, then slammed down the rubber doorstop. “We'll finish our business with the door open, that all right with you?”

“Open, closed, what difference does it make to me? Only reason I lock it is for your protection, you know that, Manny.”

“Right. Then you won't mind if I just check out back.” Without waiting for a reply, Manny walked over and pushed open the back door hard enough to flatten anyone waiting on the other side. He searched the back hall, found nothing but dust and stale odors.

“You satisfied now? Can we get down to it?”

“Yeah, guess so.” Manny walked back and squinted at the white-faced man with undisguised hostility. “Why are you sweating, Spider?”

“Who wouldn't be, the way you're acting.” The shoulderless man raised one limp hand and swiped at the sweat that glistened on his upper lip. “Now c'mon, Manny, let's see the rest.”

“An alligator wallet, a dozen credit cards, a pocket watch, that's the lot,” Manny said, handing over the goods while keeping his attention on the front door. All he wanted was to be away.

Frantic fingers flipped through the credit cards, opened the wallet, searched all the pockets, then the tightening voice croaked, “It ain't there!”

Manny swung back. “What're you talking about?”

“Didn't you get something else today, Manny? Think hard, big guy. Anything else you wanna show your old buddy Spider?”

Manny squinted through the wire cage. The pale-white man was sweating fiercely now. “Like what?”

“Anything, you know, like maybe something you forgot, maybe you slipped into another pocket, you know. Maybe a card or something.”

“Give me the money,” Manny hissed.

Spider peeled the bills off the roll with hands that moved with the desperate motions of two frightened animals. “Hey, sure, but look, don't you want to just check, you know, look through your pockets, maybe one more time for old Spider, you know, just to make sure?”