Face the Winter Naked (21 page)

At
one point, he aroused enough to imagine someone going through his pockets.
A
dream or a rat
? He brushed the imagined hand away and continued dozing.

Milt's
bleeding face suddenly appeared before him.

"Watch
out, Shine!"

He
grabbed for his rifle, but his hand passed right through like sunlight through
a pane of glass. Never before had he been unable to pick up his weapon when he
needed it. His heart chilled.

"Watch
out!"

His
eyes popped open at once, but the horrific image of his friend was gone. His
heart throbbed and his mouth tasted sandy. His neck had kinked up and his
shoulder was in a knot. He peered around, moving only his eyes, expecting to
see Milt. But he wasn't there. The ghosts of friends who'd died at Flanders
frequently haunted his sleep. Milt's face had appeared as real flesh and blood,
and had left Daniel gasping for breath.

The
sky was still dark, but a streak of daylight glowed in the east. Except for the
scratching of rats, mice, and sometimes cats in refuse containers, and the
snorts and snores of his unfortunate grubby companions, all was quiet.

He
almost expected a burst of gunfire over his head, the ear-splitting blasts of
mortars. He lay in the early dawn hours surrounded by vagrants, trash, and,
likely as not, sewer rats, urine, and feces running through the culverts. The
smell was intolerable. He listened. Not even birdsong broke the silence. There
were no sounds of artillery; he was in no danger except from his own mind.

He
sat up slowly and found himself in one piece. Locating his cap, he pulled it on
and started to rise—stiff, sore, and older by one more night on hard ground.

A
flurry of activity met his ears as shadowy images flashed by. Scuffling sounds,
and men running and swearing told him something was wrong. He thought the
police had come. But before he could join the others, something flew at him
from the darkness. Something that seemed human, yet was too small to be one of
the tramps.

There
was no time to react as a burst of fire lit up the inside of his head. His
knees buckled. He felt himself sliding to the ground. Reflexively, he reached
out and grabbed a nearby garbage container and pulled it down with him.

"Watch
out!"

The
voice faded from his consciousness.

A
rumbling train roused him. He awoke to find himself sprawled on the ground near
the spilled refuse bin, the back of his head throbbing. It took him a few
minutes to get his bearings. His eyes blurred and shadowy creatures moved
through the haze. He sat still for a few minutes. He blinked, and blinked
again, not understanding where he was or what he was doing. He tried to focus
on his surroundings: there were no poppies in this place, no trenches to take
cover in—if he'd aimed at such a hole, he'd missed and hit the ground.

The
war's over, Daniel.

Maybe
that one is, but mine ain't.

He
waited for his mind to clear, and when it finally did, he realized someone had
tried to club his brains out. He remembered seeing something pass close to him
before it happened.

Daylight
was brighter now, the first rays of sunshine slanting between the buildings,
highlighting the squalid conditions around him. The tramps were gone. They
wouldn't have stuck around to take the blame for trying to kill someone. No
sir. They'd cut out like greased lightning and leave him there to die. Nearby
lay a length of board, probably the weapon his assailant had whacked him with.

Panic
gripped him as he remembered his money and reached for his pouch.

Gone!

Frantic,
he rose unsteadily, his head throbbing, and searched around him. It was not in
the garbage littering the alley. Not in his bib pocket, nor his shirt pocket.
He dug his hands in his overalls' deep pockets. Nothing there but a few screws
and nails. His gunnysack lay nearby. He yanked it open and searched among the
shaving soap, the Lava, the Cloverine, his spare socks, underwear, and other
personal items.

He
even searched the banjo: around the back, under the strings—why the heck
anybody would hide a coin purse on a banjo was beyond his comprehension, but he
looked anyway. He straightened the refuse barrel upright and picked through the
garbage on the ground.

Robbed!
He'd been knocked out and robbed of his money. He sat down again with his face
in his hands.
How can I go home? I've failed my wife and kids, my dad, and
my own worthless self.

Tears
seeped through his fingers.

"What's
the matter, mister?"

Startled,
he pulled his wet hands from his face and looked into the eyes of a young boy
badly in need of a haircut and a bar of soap. The child of poverty, perhaps
nine or ten years old, squatted before him staring into his face.

"Why
are you crying?" the boy asked.

He
was a ragged, skinny urchin, his eyes darkly shadowed. With a grim expression,
he resembled a ninety-year-old man in an eight-year-old body.

Daniel
dried his eyes, blew his nose on a scrap of paper from the refuse, and
discarded it in the bin. His head hurt like a sonofagun.

"I've
been robbed."

"Robbed?"

"I
only had me a little money. I was taking it home to my wife."

This
boy might not have a family, and if he did, they'd probably stopped caring if
his dirty bare feet had shoes or his hollow stomach had food.

The
boy sat on the ground beside him.

"I
got no money, either. What's your name?"

"My
name's Daniel."

"Daniel."

"Yep."

He
patted the boy's greasy hair. His own problems seemed to shrink with whatever
troubles this little boy had.

"Tell
me about yourself."

"I
don't know nothing." Said with a shrug.

"How
old are you, about eight, nine?"

"Twelve."

"Is
that right? Well, I'll be."

"My
old man said I'm the runt of the family."

"That
wasn't very nice. Why would a man call his son a runt?"

"Because
I'm too short."

"I
was short once myself," Daniel said. "In fact, when I was born I
could fit in a shoebox." He nudged the boy in the ribs. "Between you
and me and that lamppost over there—I bet you'll outgrow your dad someday.
Don't let it bother you."

"It
don't bother me. Being short makes it easier to—"

"Easier
to what—sneak in picture shows? What's your name? I told you mine." He
waited while the boy thought it over. "You can tell me. I ain't gonna bite
your head off."

"It's
Christopher, a sissy name. My friends call me Chris." He grinned a little.
"My old man calls me stupid, and some people call me asshole."

Daniel
came to attention.

"Who
taught you to cuss like that?"

"My
old man."

"That's
a naughty word for a kid."

"Nobody
cares what I say."

"I
care." Daniel's voice was stern. "You don't say it no more, ya
hear?"

"You
ain't my old man."

"Nope.
But if you hang around you'd better pretend I am, cause next time I hear you
say it, I might lay a strap on your butt." After a minute, he asked,
"Your family here in Springfield?"

There
was no reply. Chris shrugged again and stared into space before turning to
Daniel again.

"I
saw someone take your mon—I saw who robbed you."

Daniel
whipped around to face him.

"Why
didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I
was—afraid." Chris took a deep breath and stared Daniel right in the eye.
"Those other guys left. I was afraid he'd beat me up."

Daniel
picked up the banjo and strummed a note while Chris eyed the instrument.

"Are
you going to tell me who it was?"

Chris
shook his head no and stood. "Aw, I better not."

Daniel
strummed again. "Do you see the thief around here anyplace?"

Chris
thrust his hands in his pants pockets.

"No,
but he might come back."

"He
might at that."

"He'll
hurt me if I tell."

"Nope,"
Daniel said. "Nobody's going to hurt you while I'm here and see 'em
coming. If anyone tried, I'd whack him over the bean with this here
banjo."

Chris
grinned, his eyes huge as they searched Daniel's face.

"You'd
break your banjo for me? Why would you do that?"

"Oh,
I don't know, Chris. Maybe 'cause I got me some kiddies of my own and would
help 'em if they were in trouble."

"How
many kids? Where are they?"

 "I've
got three," Daniel replied. "None of them as old as you, though. Just
little tykes."

"Where
are they?"

Persistent
little cuss.

A
single note floated through the morning air.

"They're
home with their mama."

"I
don't have a mom," Chris said.

"That's
too bad. Is she dead?"

"I
don't think so. She's just gone."

"I'm
sorry." Daniel wanted to put his arm around him, but thought it might not
be welcome. If Daniel himself didn't trust vagrants, why, then, should this
boy? He kept his hands on the banjo. Besides, he was worried Chris could have
lice, or something worse crawling in his dark hair.

"It's
okay," Chris said. "I'm tough."

"So
you saw who conked me on the head and took my money? Tell me, what did he look
like? Maybe I can tell the sheriff to keep an eye out for him."

"He
was white."

"Lots
of folks are white." Daniel said. "I'm white, you're white—under all
that dirt. What else did he look like?"

"I
mean he was really white, not just tan skin like you and me."

Something
rang a bell.

"Go
on."

"His
skin was white, like a piece of paper, and—and his hair was all white."

"An
old man?" Daniel studied the boy's face.

"No.
He wasn't old. Not as old as you. His hair was just—white, like his face."

Daniel
recognized the description of the young man in the diner, Glenn. But he let the
boy continue.

Chris's
hands went deeper in his pockets. He rattled something around—probably marbles,
Daniel thought. He used to carry marbles in his own pockets. He plinked and
plucked the banjo, and a string popped loose. "Damn, there goes another
one." He looked at Chris. "Sorry, I forgot you was here for a minute
or I wouldn't have cussed."

"Ha
ha."

"Well
a boy your age ought not to cuss, but I'd understand if he had to."

Chris
seemed nervous, but Daniel continued prodding.

"Do
you know where the man is who clobbered me?" He laid the banjo down and
stood.

"I
know where he works."

"Where?"

Chris
pointed toward downtown.

"He
lives on St. Louis Street behind a restaurant. His step-mom owns it, and—and I
think she's embarrassed by, uh—the way he looks."

Daniel
raised his brows almost to the brim of his cap. "You don't say."

"Yeah."

Daniel
hitched up his overalls and adjusted his hammer, screwdriver, pliers, and the
hand saw. Then he stooped to retrieve his gunnysack, feeling dizzy as he came
back up. He picked up the banjo and slung the pack over his shoulder.

"Let's
go find the diner and wait till it opens. Then you can point out this gent to
me."

"Nope."

"Why
not?"

Chris
refused to meet Daniel's steady gaze.

"I'm
afraid."

"Told
you I wouldn't let anybody hurt you." He motioned for Chris to follow.
"C'mon, let's go get my money back."

Chris
refused to move. He stood with his shoulders hunched, his fingers twiddling in
his pockets again. Daniel heard rattling that didn't sound like marbles.

"What's
in your pockets?"

"Nothing."
Chris pulled out a bottle cap. "Oh, just this. I collect 'em. I only got
one."

"I
see." Daniel grinned. "First time I ever heard a bottle cap clink in
a pocket all by itself. I'll be darned."

He
reached out with his free hand to grab the boy's arm, but Chris was too fast.
His slender young body twisted out of Daniel's grip and he backed away.

"Leave
me alone!"

He
started to run. Daniel dropped the sack and banjo and caught up with him,
grabbed his arm and spun him around.