Ben Soul

by Richard George

Len wrote something on the card. “There. See Minnie Vann. I put her name and extension on the back. Tell her Len DeLys sent you.” Len smiled. “Now, I’d better let you deliver more water.”

  “Thank you, Mr. DeLys. I appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, Ben. You’ve done your bit to help. Call me, sometime, and we’ll have coffee and a Danish.”

  “Yes, thanks. I’d like that.” Len nodded, and walked away.

  The tent hospital operated for three more days before the City’s hospitals were able to take in the severe injuries. By then, the lesser injuries were ambulatory, and up and on with their lives. Ben sat with Noah Count on a bench near the tent’s opening. “Well, all this is coming down tomorrow,” Ben said. “The City’s getting back on its feet.”

  Noah, whose name Ben never learned, said, “Yes. Do you know what you’re going to do next?” Noah’s arm was supported in a sling. His wrist had a splint on it.

  “I’ve got a job interview appointment tomorrow.”

  “Still thinking of staying in the City?”

  “Yes. I don’t have a lot to go back to Colorado for. A few friends, maybe. My brother and his wife have the farm, and they’re welcome to it. I was never much of a farmer.”

  “I’ve never been on a farm. What’s it like?”

  “It’s a lot of work, a lot of dust, and, if you’ve got livestock, a lot of manure. Chickens, for example, are full of shit, and they drop it all the time.”

  The other man chuckled. “I’ll stick with the City. There’s shit here, too, of course. Lotta people don’t clean up after their dogs.”

  “Most people don’t clean up their own messes, according to a professor I had.”

  The other man stood up. “Well, if I’m going to get home tonight, I’d better get a bus. They aren’t running too late, not until things are back to normal.”

  “Nice working with you.”

  “Likewise. See you around.”

  “Right. See you around.” Ben watched Noah walk away, then got up and went in the tent. There were a few minor chores to take care of before he’d feel the job was finished.

  Aftershocks

  The Chief Inspector Eats a Sandwich

  Chief Inspector Pryor sat at his desk eating a sandwich. His telephone rang. He sighed and answered it. “Chief Inspector Polk N. Pryor here,” he said.

  “This is Lieutenant Frank Lee, Denver PD,” a young-sounding voice on the other end said.

  The Chief Inspector shaped his tone to be as business-like as he could, yet still convey curtness. “Yes. What do you want from the City PD?”

  “We’re trying to catch up with a bank loan officer who absconded with some important bank ledgers,” Lieutenant Lee said. “We think he may be in the City.”

  “Why?”

  “The owner of the bank in question, Neighborhood National, had to fire a loan officer a few days ago. The man is known to have bought a bus ticket for the City.”

  “This loan officer got a name?”

  “Yeah. Benjamin Dover Soul.”

  “This bank owner sure this is his man?”

  “Yeah, he’s sure. Says the guy’s some kind of sexual pervert, that’s why he fired him. Probably is, since he’s coming your way.”

  The Chief Inspector heard the undercurrent of sneer in the Lieutenant’s tone and grimaced. “Yeah, right. We do encourage diversity,” he said as pompously as he could. Let the Lieutenant interpret his meaning as he would. “You don’t sound so sure he’s guilty,” the Chief Inspector said.

  “Not enough evidence to form an opinion,” the Lieutenant said. “Could be one or two other loan officers, I’m thinking.”

  “Well, I can look around for him,” the Chief Inspector admitted, “but it’s not going to be a priority. We had an earthquake here, yesterday. Things are a mite upset.”

  “I understand. We’re under a lot of pressure about this, you understand. Fuller Grace, the bank owner, owns half the city council. When he says jump, we flex our knees real fast.”

  “Tell him the chase has my undivided attention, when I’m not working earthquake issues.”

  “Okay if I decorate that a little? Just to keep him off my back?”

  “Fine, as long as you don’t tell him it’s my only priority.”

  “Understood. Thanks. My number is 303-555-1894, extension 7.”

  “Got it. I’ll get back to you. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The Chief Inspector put the receiver in its cradle and groaned. “Just what I need,” he said to his sandwich fragments, “a fugitive chase in the middle of chaos. Maybe Lee will find him, or another crook, before I have to do something about it.” He took up the pickle spear that had come with his sandwich and bit into it. Its sourness puckered his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut, but whether in ecstasy or agony, no casual observer could have told.

  It was a couple of days later that Chief Inspector Pryor came into the tent looking for Len. “Mr. DeLys, someone said you have a young man here from Colorado. Is that right?”

  “Yes, I do. Ben. His name is Ben.”

  “Or, that’s the one he’s given you. Has he mentioned why he’s here in the City?”

  “Something about a lost job, at a bank, I think.”

  Chief Inspector Pryor looked around the almost-empty tent. “Is he here right now?”

  “No, he’s gone back to his motel to take a shower. We’re short of water here, you see. All we have we have to boil ourselves.”

  The Chief Inspector took out a notebook and a pen. “What motel would that be, sir?”

  “I think he said it was the Dancing Pixie. Why are you interested in him?”

  “Just some police inquiries from Denver he may be able to help clear up.”

  “Is this about anything serious? Ben’s been a big help, here. Willing to do any crappy job that I needed done.”

  “That’s a good character reference. I’m not sure what the Denver police want to ask him. How long has this Ben been gone?”

  “About twenty minutes, I think.”

  “Good. He’s probably still at the motel. That’s over on Hauser Street, right?”

  “It was, the last time I checked.”

  “Thanks for your time” the Chief Inspector said. He shook Len’s hand, and left the tent. Len watched him go, a concerned expression on his face.

  It was late afternoon when Ben returned to the Dancing Pixie Motel. The clerk was behind the desk. Lanterns dimly lit the desk. A radio muttered in the background. Ben couldn’t quite make out the broadcast. The clerk said, “Hello, Sir. Room 501?”

  “Yes. I need to shower. Is the water working here?”

  “Yes, but it’s not hot. We don’t have gas to fire the boilers.”

  “If it’s wet enough to wash the smoke and stink off me, I’ll be okay.”

  “You’ll have to use the showers in the gym. It’s at the back of the Motel. The pressure’s too low to reach your room. Use as little as possible. According to the radio the Fire Department needs to conserve water to fight fires.”

  “Okay.”

  “You seem to have survived the quake without too much damage.”

  “Yeah. A couple of bruises. I’ve been helping out at a tent hospital. Boiling water over open fires.”

  “Sounds like a movie cliché.”

  “Well, I suppose. At least I’m not birthing babies.”

  “Right. Have a nice quick shower. The Languishing Langoustine is closed, but I hear there’s sandwiches in the machines at the bus station.”

  “I ate at the tent hospital. Some of the food booths at the street fair survived. They cooked for us.”

  “Here’s your key. It opens the gym, too. Get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I hope.” Ben went to the gym, rinsed the detritus of the day from his body, dried quickly, and went to his room. It was eerily dark, without the flashing Languishing Langoustine
sign.

  The Chief Inspector entered the Dancing Pixie’s lobby. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Chief Inspector Polk N. Pryor of the City Police,” he identified himself to the clerk.

  “Yes, Chief Inspector,” the clerk said. “How may I help the City Police?”

  “Do you have a young man registered here, a Benjamin Soul, from Colorado?”

  The clerk consulted his register. “We have a Mr. Benjamin Soul, who lists his home address as Denver, Colorado. Is that the man you want?”

  “Very likely. Is he in his room?”

  “No, he’s in the gym, taking a shower. The water pressure’s too low to reach the fifth floor”.

  “Where’s the gym?”

  “It’s behind the desk, here. Go to my right, your left, and down the hall to the end. Do you need to show me a warrant, or something?”

  “Not in this case. The gym’s a public room in a public establishment. Besides, we only want to talk to this Ben.”

  “Here’s a key that will let you into the gym. We keep it locked to keep the street riff-raff out.”

  “Right you are. Thanks.” The Chief Inspector took the key and started down the hall. The clerk stared curiously after him.

  Ben had wrapped in a post-shower towel around himself. He was standing over his clothes when Chief Inspector Pryor startled him.

  “Are you Benjamin Dover Soul?”

  “Yes.”

  The Chief Inspector showed Ben his badge. “I am Chief Inspector Polk N. Pryor. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes?” Ben let the question hang in the air.

  “I understand you are a resident of Denver, Colorado. Is that correct?” The Chief Inspector spoke with his most official voice.

  “I have been. I’m thinking of moving out here,” Ben said.

  “Is it true you were recently dismissed from the employment of