He raised his eyebrows. “You mean after he abandoned me and left me with a drunkard? No thanks. I’m going to get out of this mess on my own. In fact, I have a chance to make a few bucks right here at the shelter.”
“No kidding. They’re hiring you?”
“Not exactly hiring. Just odd jobs. I’ll be doing deliveries. I’ve got my first one scheduled tonight.”
I glanced at the clock. It was approaching eight. “Tonight? This late? What are you delivering?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s forty bucks.”
“Hey, Tyler. You need to know what you’re getting into here. Sounds a little shady.”
He reached one hand in his pocket and retrieved a few coins. “I have exactly forty-seven cents. No way am I turning down an easy forty bucks.”
I backed off a little. I didn’t want Tyler to become defensive. “So who’d you talk to? Did you approach them looking for some work?”
“No, Jim approached me. He was just trying to help me out, probably because I’m the youngest one here. He said that some of these guys are satisfied with their life. They don’t care about getting off the streets. But a young guy like me, well he said he’d do what he could to help.”
“So how are you doing deliveries without a car?”
“They have one I can use. Jim said they’re just short on manpower.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. Short on manpower that late at night?
He craned his head toward the entrance. “In fact, I see him now. I better get moving. Nice to talk with you.”
“Just be careful.”
Tyler walked toward a hefty man standing by the entrance, hands on his hips. His T-shirt stretched over a protruding belly, but his biceps looked like he managed to visit the gym. A military haircut did nothing to compliment his full, bristly face.
Tyler met up with him, and they walked out the door. I made my way to that side of the room in time to see them turn the corner toward the side alley. The daylight was fading, but enough remained for me to see through the side window. The slats on the blind were tilted, but not fully closed. Tyler and Jim approached a late model car that had seen better days. Jim opened the trunk and handed Tyler a small box with mailing tape wrapped around it. Tyler took the box, and Jim pulled a folded paper from his pocket. They looked at it together. Jim pointed a finger at him, tapped his watch, and Tyler got into the car.
I turned from the window, certain the package contained drugs. Would the contents of that box end up in the arms of teenagers? Teenagers like Edwin?
I walked back into the room where we ate. Some men lingered, talking. Others made their way up the stairs to where the cots were located. I had no heart for starting another conversation tonight. I turned and headed up the stairs. In the quiet of my cot, I pulled out my tablet and jotted some notes from our conversation.
Little by little, as more men came to bed, the hacking noises began, reminding me of Tyler’s words. The cots were placed no more than two feet apart, and the odor of so many men in close quarters replaced any fresh air that had been there. I pulled the blanket up over my mouth and nose to shield myself from the germs. Tyler might be right when he said it wasn’t much better than the bridge.
I never heard Tyler return, but when I woke and made a trip to the bathroom, I saw his sleeping form, one arm wrapped tightly around his backpack.
6
Scott Harrington
One final look in the mirror before heading to my appointment. With my face clean-shaven and scrubbed free from the sweaty grime, I looked presentable. My hair remained the only change from my normal routine. It wouldn’t do to have a professional cut when returning to the streets, so I combed my shaggy hair back to mask the length and headed into the city for my appointment with Ray Brockman, director of Three Rivers Mission. I hoped the interview would provide some insight into the mission’s funding and what they did beyond providing a meal and a bed. Thankfully, the office was not adjacent to Stanwix Street. It wouldn’t do to have Pete or Tyler see me cleaned up in a shirt and tie.
I couldn’t keep my mind off the kid. Tyler hadn’t had a break in his life, and he could be headed down a dangerous path. I’d like to help him but couldn’t blow my cover. I suspected there were drugs in those packages, drugs that ended up in the arms of teenage kids. Kids like Edwin.
Tightness gripped my chest when Edwin’s name entered my mind. Could I sit back and pretend I didn’t know? Yet I wanted to stay focused on my project. It’d been a long time coming, and if I pushed him too much, Tyler might cut me off. A young kid like him could end up being the best of the three bios. I should go to the police with my suspicions, but Tyler might find himself behind bars. I wouldn’t do that to him. But how long could I protect him before involving the police? I’d stayed silent too long once before.
Arriving at Ray Brockman’s office, I shoved thoughts of Tyler to another corner of my mind, one that, I was certain, would be revisited. Equipped with my digital voice recorder and notebook, I opened the outside door to the office complex and entered the first office on the left, with the placard Three Rivers Missions. The room was silent except the click of a keyboard. A receptionist, no doubt the one who had set up the appointment, glanced over her thick-framed reading glasses without a pause in her typing. Stuffy air and the rich smell of leather from the deep brown sofa were my only greeting. Despite the fact that I walked into her empty office, she never offered a hello.
With a few short strides, I stood before her desk.
“Hi. Am I in the right place to see Ray Brockman?”
“It’d be the right place if he was here. Can I help you?” Her tone remained indifferent and she only slightly slowed her typing. I made a mental note—rude receptionist, not that it would ever enter my report.
“I’m Scott Harrington. I have an appointment with him at ten o’clock.” I glanced at my watch for emphasis, quite certain she already knew about the scheduled meeting.
For the first time, she removed her hands from the keyboard and tipped the glasses up onto her head. “Oh, you must be the newspaper guy.”
I corrected her misinformation. “I’m a journalist, but I don’t work for a newspaper.”
“Same thing. You’re the writer. I’m Caroline McMann.” She stuck out a red-tipped hand with a ruby ring and a cluster of bangle bracelets.
Ignoring the remark, I took the offered hand. “Pleased to meet you, Carolyn.”
“Line,” she said adamantly, a slight pout crossing her face. It’s Carol-LINE.”
I tried to suppress a grin. She had mastered the art of the pout. It actually softened her snarky attitude which, I’m certain, wasn’t her intention. I made a career out of reading people. Caroline tossed her strawberry-blond hair back and leaned forward, a motion of power. But her eyes gave her away. Her green eyes drilled me but couldn’t maintain contact. She covered it with busyness—looking down to move a paper to another stack, glancing at the monitor or her keyboard, smoothing her sweater. Miss Caroline McMann wanted to present a persona of power but covered a deeper insecurity.
“Well, Carol-line,” I emphasized the last syllable, “When will he return? Does he know we’re meeting?”
“Oh, you’re not meetin’ with him. He told me to do the interview. I have all of the material you’re lookin’ for.” The more she spoke, the stronger her accent surfaced.
I tried to lighten the moment, aware that my info would be coming from her.
“So, I take it you’re not from around here.”
“Savannah, Georgia. Born and raised.” That brought a momentary smile.
“Beautiful city. What brought you to Pittsburgh?”
“I’m happy to tell you, but it’s your thirty minutes.” She pointed a finger at my watch.
I let out a whoosh of air. “Well, then, let’s skip that part. Where are we meeting?”
“Right here. Pull up a chair.”
She had no intention of moving from behind her massive mahoga
ny desk. My jaw clenched. I couldn’t let my annoyance show. I’d asked for the interview. I took a deep breath, found a hard metal folding chair propped against the wall, and pulled it up. She remained seated in her immense leather swivel chair with substantial side arms. I motioned to my digital voice recorder.
“May I record?” That brought the second smile of the day.
“So, you must like my Georgia accent.” She stretched out the vowels into two syllables each. “Let me tell you about Three Rivers Missions.”
My questions weren’t needed. Caroline offered information, walking me through all aspects of the organization.
The thirty minutes turned into forty-five. Caroline proved herself a worthy source of knowledge, despite her snarky attitude. Halfway through the interview, my list of adjectives had grown. Rude, snarky, sassy, and cute. But I needed to stay focused. I wasn’t writing about Caroline McMann.
I turned off the digital voice recorder and stood.
“Thank you for the wealth of information.”
“Wait.” She reached behind to a file cabinet and retrieved some brochures. “These repeat some of what I’ve told you, but there’s contact information and some great pictures.” She flipped through them to identify each one. “Three Rivers Mission. That’s the one on Stanwix. South Hills Safe House. This is the one for abused women. Clearway. This is the drug rehab facility in Westmoreland County.”
I took the three brochures and flipped to Clearway. “And this is the one that’s a profit-making facility? The other two are non-prof?”
“That’s right.”
“Carol-line,” I overemphasize the second syllable of her name. “Thank you for the time and for sharing your knowledge with me.”
“You’re welcome. Say wonderful things about us in your paper.”
This time, I felt compelled to correct her. “I’m a freelance journalist. What I do will result in a documentary, both broadcast journalism and in writing. As a freelance, I’m not sure where this will end up. I don’t have it contracted.”
“So this could all be for nothin’?” She frowned.
My smile was probably condescending. “Well, my work always gets picked up somewhere. I’ve won a number of awards.”
“Really?” She sounded impressed. “What were they for?” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk.
With the reading glasses in her hand, her bright green hypnotic eyes made me forget about the snarky side. When I found my voice again, I said, “I’ll bring copies of a few things I’ve done so you can read them.”
Why did I say that? I had too much to focus on already.
“I’ll look forward to that.” She motioned to the chair I had vacated, tapping her red nails on her desk. Like a scolded child, I folded the chair and returned it to its spot against the wall.
I opened the door to leave.
“Oh, and Mr. Harrington…?”
“Scott,” I corrected her.
The bright green eyes penetrated into mine. “Scott. What brought me to Pittsburgh? Boyfriend. Followed him here. He dumped me. Too humiliated to go back home. That’s the cliff notes’ version.”
I shook my head. “A very foolish man.”
She gave up yet another smile as I pulled the door closed behind me.
~*~
Ginger snored at my feet while I reviewed my notes. I’d adopted her as soon as I finished college. Edwin and I had begged for a dog, but no pets were permitted in the Harrington estate. Mother freaked when Edwin found a stray and stole it away in his bedroom. His marbled black and white fur matted into dried clumps, making his breed obscure. We named him Tramp because of his mangy look. We managed two days of complicity before discovery. Tramp got the boot immediately. Leticia called animal rescue to pick him up. Edwin and I had noses pressed to the bedroom window as the van pulled away with our first and only pet. Leticia then proceeded scrubbing every surface that Tramp had touched, fully erasing him from our lives.
I dreaded putting on my scrubby clothes and heading back to the city, but the empty spaces on my flowchart compelled me to get moving. The absence of a third chart presented a growing concern. I had to find another subject. Two wouldn’t make it. D.J.—did I dare try to open that door? He locked himself up about as tense as a man can be. But on the plus side, he always hung around Pete, making him accessible. That in and of itself proved interesting.
The doorbell broke my concentration. I peeked through the blind. Stella.
“Hey, Stel.”
When I opened the door, she stood there with her hands on her hips, a small brown shopping bag dangling from her wrist. “Bad news, neighbor. Someone broke in and stole your dog. He’s not in my house.”
I grinned sheepishly. “Guilty. I only had an hour or two, so I didn’t stop by the café.”
“A real shame, because the special today was tilapia with mango salsa, which I happen to know you love.”
“Ahh, you’re killing me. I’m ready to make a frozen pizza.”
Stella flinched and covered her mouth in distaste. “You mean, the kind with cardboard crust?”
“Guilty again.”
“You’re one lucky man, Scott Harrington. I happen to have a take-out special with your name on it.” With that, she reached into the bag and retrieved a container. “And don’t go feeding cardboard pizza to our dog.”
“You’re the best! Did you bring something for yourself? Can you stay?” I took the meal and raised my hand for a fist bump.
She touched her knuckles to mine. “Nope. Gotta keep moving. Don’t forget to return Ginger. I’m kinda getting used to the old girl.”
I closed the door behind her and turned to take my meal to the table when I glanced out the window. Stella didn’t walk in the direction of the café. She turned toward her home. I had the uneasy feeling she had given me her lunch.
~*~
Back on Stanwix Street, I sat alone at Three Rivers Mission eating meatloaf, canned green beans, and mashed potatoes made from an instant mix. I was disappointed I hadn’t seen the kid anywhere. Having secured a bed for the night, I took time now to scan the room. I made my way around, trying to find a suitable third. Nothing caught my eye, but I managed to strike up a dialogue with an older fellow anyway. A little too much like Pete—same age bracket and signs of alcohol abuse. I needed a little more variety than that.
I meandered over to another man, middle-aged, shabby clothing but clean, close cut hair, and a clean-shaven, coffee-brown face.
“Hey there. How you doing today?”
His eyes darted around the room as though looking for a place to escape. He mumbled an incomprehensible string of unrelated words. His gaze shot back and forth again, and he walked away.
Either mentally ill or stoned. As I turned, a cluster of older men sat at a table. I stopped by and introduced myself. Jack, Charlie, and Luther politely returned the introduction then went back to their conversation, ignoring my presence. I was striking out.
Around eight o’clock, I spotted Tyler coming in the front door with the guy he’d called Jim. He towered over Tyler with his barrel chest thrust out and hands that made sharp movements as he talked. They finished their conversation and strolled into the kitchen where a meal had been saved in the warmer. Jim left and Tyler took his plate to a table. I hung back for a few minutes, not wanting to seem too anxious. I meandered over to the counter where coffee and water were available, poured myself a glass of water, and acted surprised when I saw Tyler sitting there.
“Tyler. How you doing tonight? How’d you get a late meal?”
“Hey. Doing OK. I just got here so I didn’t have a chance to eat earlier.”
I played dumb. “But the doors lock when it’s full. If you’re not here by five, you have a slim chance of getting in.”
“I told you I’m doing some errands for them.” His annoyance was evident.
I nodded slowly. “Oh, I remember. Deliveries, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Ever figure out what you�
�re delivering?”
“Told you, I don’t know and don’t care. Why you so interested? What’s it to you?”
Edwin’s face crossed my mind, but this wasn’t the time or place for that. “Long story, buddy. Long story.” I shook off the memory. “But I am concerned about you. I’d hate to see you go from bad to worse.”
“I suspect it can’t get much worse,” Tyler spoke while he took a mouthful of potatoes.
I pursed my lips. “It sure can, Ty. It sure can.”
His head shot up, and he wore a strange expression. “My dad used to call me Ty. He’s about the only one who ever did.”
Our eyes met, and I nodded in understanding. “What do you prefer?”
He started to say one thing but switched gears. “Either is OK.”
He returned to the task of eating.
Of my three sleeping experiences, the bridge, the vacant shed, and the shelter with cots in uniformity, I chose the vacant shed. This place offered a hot meal and a shower, but the stench of forty men spaced not much more than two feet apart reeked.
The plastic mattress crackled with every turn of my body. How often did they sanitize these things? Hopefully, every day.
I recapped my discussion with Tyler so I’d keep it fresh in my mind until I could preserve it on paper. Once we put the topic of deliveries aside, we managed to talk all night. His bio would be a perfect story since I had details of several childhood experiences. I should be able to find his father’s name with a little cyber surfing. If I could locate and get his dad’s side of it, well, that would ice the cake. The kid had potential.
According to him, he did well in school without any help or encouragement. He couldn’t graduate with honors since he never remained in one place long enough to meet their requirements, but that made it all the more remarkable that his percentages were so high. He shrugged when he told me it came easy. It would be something if he had a chance to go to college. Could we solicit donations to help offset the cost?
7
Claire Bassett
I walked through the propped-open door to our office complex.
The Least of These. Page 5
