Bone

by George C. Chesbro

  "That's what we're here for, pal," the lumpy-nosed guard who had taken the money said. "Why didn't you report it to us? We'd have taken care of it."

  "There wasn't time. He attacked me with a knife."

  The man holding his right arm snapped, "Nobody gets in here with a knife! Are you saying we let someone in here with a knife?!"

  "He's telling the truth," the man on his left arm said quietly. "I saw; the kid did have a knife. He was Wolfpack."

  "Bullshit," the other man said tersely. "If it ever got out that a Wolf with a knife managed to sneak in here, we'll all lose our jobs."

  "Shut up, both of you!" the guard with the lumpy nose shouted. "We don't have to take the word of some shit-for-brains who'd starve to death if we didn't take care of him. There was nobody with a knife, no Wolf." He paused, fixed his bloodshot eyes on Bone. "It looked to us like you were beating up on that guy, pal."

  "No," Bone replied quietly, meeting the other man's gaze. "He had a knife. Ask the other men."

  The guard with a toupee and dandruff on his shirt snorted. "Ask these wet-brains? They wouldn't know what they saw."

  "He came into the hall about ten minutes ago," Bone said in the same quiet voice as he continued to stare into the muddy eyes of the guard who had taken the money. "Somebody must have let him in."

  Suddenly his right arm was twisted painfully behind his back. "Those doors out there are locked tight at ten, pal. Nobody gets in here after that."

  "We got the word on you, pal," the guard with the lumpy nose said, once again moving close enough to spray Bone with his breath. "That word is that you're a troublemaker. We don't need troublemakers in here."

  The guard on his left arm probably didn't know about, or share in, the bribe, Bone thought. But the guard on his right arm and the one with the dandruff might well be involved. And now, with his right arm twisted up behind his back, it wouldn't be so easy to break free.

  Danger.

  "I think I'd like to go now," Bone said evenly. He paused, repressed a smile. "I don't much care for my room."

  "A wise-ass, to boot," the man holding his right arm said tightly. "Well, we know how to handle wise-asses."

  "Did Frank and Burt tell you I was a wise-ass?"

  The guard with the lumpy nose flushed. "How the hell do you know their names?"

  "I'm learning a lot about this place. Who's Lobo?"

  The two men in front exchanged startled glances, and he heard a soft grunt from the man on his right.

  Bone continued, "What's the Wolfpack?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?!" the lumpy-nosed guard said curtly. Shadows that were fear moved in his muddy eyes, and Bone knew that meant increased danger for him. He sensed that if he remained passive, he could be seriously hurt by three of these four guards. He could not afford to be hurt; he had things to do. He had to find the right pressure to apply—but not too much.

  "The kid who attacked me with the knife said he was doing it because somebody named Lobo wanted me dead. I figure if I can find out who Lobo is, I can go to him and save him the trouble of looking for me."

  "Let's take him to the office," the lumpy-nosed guard said in the same curt tone, and turned on his heel.

  Bone, both his arms now twisted painfully behind his back, was marched down the length of the armory, then shoved outside, across the vestibule, into the glass-enclosed guards' station. He was roughly shoved against a bank of wire baskets, heard his shirt rip and felt a jagged metal tip scratch his back, drawing blood. The man who had held his left arm quickly hurried back out. The other three guards stood in a semicircle around him, feet slightly apart, the expressions on their faces at once both hostile and anxious. The man who had held his right arm was thinner than the others, and kept nervously licking his chapped lips.

  For some reason that he could not fully understand, Bone felt sorry for the three men; he remembered Barry saying how many of the guards were themselves afraid of ending up homeless.

  "Now, pal," the lumpy-nosed guard said in a low, menacing tone, "what's your story?"

  "I don't have any story. All I want to do is walk out of here. There won't be any trouble."

  The thin man with the chapped lips frowned. "Trouble? Why should there be trouble?"

  Bone said nothing, but he kept his gaze fixed on the lumpy-nosed guard, who now stepped closer.

  "You act like you know something that could get us in trouble, pal. All this talk about Frank and Burt, and some guy named Lobo. You wouldn't be a reporter working on a story, would you?"

  "No," Bone replied in a flat voice. "That's Frank and Burt talking again; they're wrong. I'm not a reporter."

  "There you go again, dropping names. You know, if you were a reporter, I don't think your bosses would like it much if they found out you'd gotten into a fight with one of those poor, homeless men in there—and we had to rough you up in order to stop you. That would be our story—and it would be the word of the three of us against yours. Believe me, we'd have no trouble getting a dozen men in there to back up anything we say. Then anything you have to say against us wouldn't carry much weight, would it?"

  He was going to be beaten, Bone thought—and all because the murky minds of the three guards standing in front of him could figure no other way to provide a defense against charges of drinking and sleeping on the job, not to mention taking a bribe from a knife-wielding youth who would enter the shelter to rob, and possibly hurt, the very people the guards were supposed to protect.

  "I think we should give you a taste of just how hard we work to protect the people in our care," the man in the toupee said, moving forward as the other two guards moved to flank him and grab his arms once again. "And you know what our story will be, so it may be just as well if you kept yours to yourself and count yourself lucky that you got away with only a beating; a man could easily get killed in this part of the city at this time of night."

  There was nothing to do but take the beating, Bone thought, and hope that they quit before they did too much damage. If he made a blunt threat to tell what he had witnessed, they might only beat him harder; or, out of panic, they really might kill him and dump his body on some street blocks away. It was useless to try to fight back against the three of them. He braced himself, put his forearms across his face and awaited the first blow.

  Suddenly there was a pounding on the glass wall to his right. Bone took his forearms away from his face, glanced in that direction and saw the anxious, angry, boyish face of Dave Berryman on the other side of the glass.

  "Let me in!" Berryman shouted, his voice muffled by the thick glass. "Damn you, let me in there!"

  The lumpy-nosed guard pointed a thick finger at the ex-advertising executive, then balled his hand into a fist. "You get the fuck out of here!"

  Berryman, his face pale, swallowed hard, shook his head defiantly, then resumed his pounding. "Let me in! I have something to tell you! You'd better not hurt that man, because I'm a witness!"

  That got the security guards' attention. The men exchanged startled looks, and then the guard in the toupee rushed across the room, yanked open the door and dragged Berryman in by the front of his pale yellow dress shirt, ripping it.

  "You little son-of-a-bitch—!"

  "Don't you talk to me like that!" Dave Berryman snapped, slapping the guard's hand away from his shirt. The anxiety was gone from his face, and now his dark brown eyes flashed with anger and outrage. He stepped back, straightened himself up to his full height, spoke in clear, measured tones. "You have no right to talk to me like that, sir, and you have no right to treat this man the way you've been treating him. This Men's Shelter is, as I'm sure you're aware, run by the Human Resources Administration of this city to help its citizens, and you are employees of that agency. I have a good mind to file a complaint—and I will file a complaint, unless you listen to what I have to say. Have I made myself clear?"

  Bone watched, somewhat bemused, as Dave Berryman, his narrow chin thrust forward in pride and defiance,
glared at the three speechless guards. On the other side of the glass walls, faces of other men were beginning to appear.

  The thin guard with the chapped lips was the first to find his voice. "Just what is it you think you're a witness to, shithead?"

  "My name is Berryman; David Berryman. And I insist that you treat me with respect!" He paused, glanced at Bone. "Are you all right?"

  Bone nodded, smiled. "I'm all right. It looks like you are, too."

  "Why the hell shouldn't this man be all right, Berryman?" the guard with the lumpy nose and muddy eyes asked warily. "Are you saying we mistreated this man?"

  "I'm saying that I saw what happened in the sleeping hall, and you didn't."

  "Yeah? What is it you think you saw?"

  "A kid in a gray jacket was attacking this man with a knife. This man was only defending himself—and doing a hell of a job of it, I might add. You came in, and the kid started to run away. This man tried to stop the kid, but then four of you jumped on his back and started punching him. You should be thanking him for doing your jobs, not pushing him around."

  The guards exchanged wary glances. The man in the toupee said, "You talk pretty smart for a guy who's been living off the taxpayers for a year."

  "That kind of talk will get you reported!" Berryman shot back, pointing a trembling finger at the guard. "I'm a taxpayer! I paid taxes before, and I'll soon be paying them again! I've paid your salary, sir, and you will treat me with respect!" He paused, dropped his hand, continued evenly: "But I didn't come in here to make trouble."

  The lumpy-nosed guard said, "Why did you come in here, pal?"

  "I came to volunteer information as an eyewitness, because it appears there has been a misunderstanding. You're treating this man as if he'd done something wrong."

  "It looked to us like he was beating up on the other guy, causing trouble."

  "Well, you're mistaken. He was only defending himself."

  "We don't allow anyone with weapons in here," the guard with the toupee said tightly.

  Berryman shook his head. "The kid had a knife," he said evenly. "I saw it."

  There was a prolonged silence, during which the guards looked back and forth between one another. It was the lumpy-nosed man who finally spoke.

  "All right, Berryman, you've given us the information and set us straight. Now you and the others can go back to bed."

  "I believe I'll wait for my friend here."

  "It's all right, Dave," Bone said quietly. "Thank you. I'm leaving now."

  Berryman frowned. "Leaving? It's the middle of the night."

  "I think I've worn out my welcome. But I want to leave; it's time. You go back to bed—and thank you again."

  Berryman remained where he was. "Maybe I'll go with you," he said quietly.

  "No, Dave. We're traveling in different directions, to different places."

  The boyish-faced man stared at Bone for some time, sadness moving in his expressive brown eyes, then slowly nodded his head. "Yeah, you're right. Thank you, Bone."

  "For what?"

  "For showing me how it's done. A lot of us who end up in places like this think we've lost everything, but we really haven't. You've lost a hell of a lot more than any of us have, but you still have the pride, guts and dignity to keep going after what you want. You reminded me of—and taught me—a few things. People listen to you."

  "And to you," Bone said softly as the other man waved to him, then turned and walked from the room.

  "I hope you realize how easy you're getting off, pal," the lumpy-nosed guard said as he closed the door after Dave Berryman. "We could give you a summons for fighting like that."

  "Yeah, I noticed the kind of summons you were about to give me," Bone replied evenly. "I'd like to go now."

  "You can go; but you're not leaving on your own, like your bum friend who just walked out of here. We're throwing you out for being disorderly. We're blackballing you from this shelter, and we'll make sure the word gets around that you're a troublemaker. If you're a reporter like some people say you are, now you've got nothing to report that we can't deny. If you're just what you say you are, then I sure as hell hope you enjoy living like an animal on the streets, because you've had your last bed and meal in a city shelter. You're history to us, pal."

  "I understand."

  "You got any accusations to make, let's hear 'em now."

  "I have no accusations."

  "Good. Then get the hell out of here. We don't want to see your ugly face in here again; if you try to come in, we'll just boot you out again."

  "You have some things that belong to me. The package I was given with underwear and—"

  "Forget it. Troublemakers like you aren't entitled to gifts from the city."

  "My bone."

  "Your what?"

  Bone pointed to the right of the guard with the chapped lips, to his gray metal basket with his name tag on it. "There's a bone in there that belongs to me. It's a personal belonging, and I'd like it back."

  "Why the fuck don't you split while you're ahead of the game, pal?" the guard with the toupee and dandruff growled as he stepped forward threateningly.

  "The bone is mine. Give it to me."

  "Jesus Christ," the thin guard said to no one in particular. "There was something in, the papers the other day . . . Jesus H. Christ."

  The lumpy-nosed guard unlocked Bone's basket, removed the femur and hefted it with both hands. "What the hell's the matter with you?" he said to the thin guard, who was gaping at Bone. When there was no response but a nervous shake of the head, the lumpy-nosed guard came back across the room and handed the femur to Bone. "Here's your fucking weird personal belonging, pal. Now get the hell out. We don't want you here."

  Bone took the femur, noting how familiar it felt in his—the stranger's—grasp. He went to the door and opened it, then turned back to find the three guards huddled together, with the thin guard urgently whispering to his companions. When the man realized Bone was standing in the doorway watching them, he suddenly stopped speaking. The eyes of all three guards now reflected curiosity—and fear.

  "What the fuck are you staring at, crazy man?" the lumpy-nosed guard said in a low voice. "We told you to leave."

  "Who's Lobo?" Bone asked in an even tone.

  "We don't know anybody named Lobo!" the guard with the toupee snapped.

  "Please," Bone said quietly. "I don't intend to cause any trouble; I won't be back, and I don't intend to say anything to anybody about what's happened here. But I do need to find this Lobo. It's very important to me."

  The lumpy-nosed guard laughed tightly, without humor. "You better hope Lobo doesn't find you, you fucking lunatic. He'll cut your head off for you, and that's for sure."

  "Please," Bone sighed. "Can you tell me where to find him? Or can you at least tell me what he looks like?"

  The guard with the chapped lips strode quickly to a telephone mounted on the wall, snatched up the receiver. "Split, you!" he shouted at Bone. "If you're not out of here in the next five seconds, I'm calling the cops and telling them their crazy headhunter is here causing trouble!"

  There was nothing here of value to the stranger, Bone thought. At least, nothing that he could discover. Nothing at all. He walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. He turned left, walked down a short flight of stone steps, past the metal detectors and across the vestibule, then out the narrow entranceway into the New York City night. He didn't look back.

  (iii)

  Bone stood very still at the corner of Third Street and the Bowery, probing the stranger's mind as dawn broke; the sun was rising behind him, just over his left shoulder. The stranger was used to being up at dawn, Bone thought, and he experienced the rising sun as a deep emotion. And it was more than just a natural, daily event; dawn was something which provided the stranger with a good deal of information.

  But what information?

  Direction: north, south, east, west.

  At night, Bone thought, the stranger coul
d get this information from the stars.

  He looked up. The glow from the rising sun was already washing the sky with light, but Bone doubted that here, in this city, there would be many nights when he could see the stars in any case. Then why, he wondered, should the stranger feel this sense of importance attached to the sun and stars? How had he used the information? It was doubtful that he would have needed it in the city, and it would not have been available to him underground.

  He waited patiently for more than a half hour, eyes half closed, waiting for something more to come to him. It didn't. It was time to move on, he thought, time to find a place to . . . camp.

  Camp. In the stranger's mind, he thought, there was an emotional valence to that word.

  Bone looked to his left, to the southwest. According to his maps, that route would lead to the southern tip of the island of Manhattan, and there was no indication that the stranger had been sighted there. He turned right on the Bowery and headed uptown, instinctively drawn toward a single, tall building that shot up into the sky, higher than the buildings surrounding it, a soaring rectangle of steel, stone and glass that seemed to exude an almost mystical aura for him, drawing him to it.

  He had no sense that the stranger had ever been in the tall building, and yet the way it stood apart from the other buildings reminded him of . . . something; it was important to the stranger. Height, depths; sun and star light, utter darkness. Seeming contradictions.

  He kept walking, noting that the Bowery was slowly angling to the west. He continued northwest, angling from street to avenue, before coming to what a sign identified as Park Avenue South, stopped and looked all around him. The thoroughfare was different from the Bowery, he thought—and markedly so.

  In this city, it seemed that walking only a few blocks could mean an abrupt change in the appearance and atmosphere of one's surroundings; there were neighborhoods within neighborhoods, parallel worlds with virtually nothing in common except for the fact that even on this elegant avenue there were ragged people sitting on the sidewalks or sleeping in doorways. Park Avenue was much cleaner than the Bowery, the shops larger and less flashy, much less cluttered. The lanes were divided by park-like malls with shrubs, trees and flowers which also, he noted, had a strong emotional valence for the stranger.