Four Kinds of Rain

by Robert Ward

  “Yes, my son, you are witnessing a High Holy Moment. The Blessing of the Packets.”

  He laughed wildly, kissed one packet of hundreds after another.

  Oh money, money, money. How do I love thee, let me count the fucking ways.

  He took out the packets and covered himself with them. A blanket of money.

  A coat of money, a coat that would protect him in his old age.

  A coat that would lift him, along with his newfound celebrity, to higher and higher circles of power.

  Oh God, he loved it. Absolutely loved it.

  He lay that way for a little while, then reminded himself that he had to be practical, together. Many a criminal had been caught wallowing in his newfound dough. He had to play it smart. And he would.

  He quickly gathered up all the packets and put them back into the briefcase, then carried it over to his knotty-pine wall. And right here, Bob thought, was further proof that having the money was his destiny, because for years there had been this loose knotty-pine board on the back wall, a board Bob had intended to fix but had never gotten around to. And now he knew why. Because this loose piece of knotty-pine planking was there expressly for the purpose of providing a hiding place for his money. He pulled the board out and felt around inside, and there it was, a neat little hollow that was just big enough to stick the briefcase in.

  Well, of course, it was. Because this was all fated.

  Bob put the knotty-pine plank back up, then began to beat the nails in with the heel of his shoe.

  The money was safe there in the wall, he was pretty sure of that. Safe for a few days anyway.

  But what was the next move?

  Ray had mentioned a guy he knew, Jake Gimble, a crooked lawyer, who would launder the money for them. But going to see Gimble seemed dicey. Before the bomb blast, Bob had just assumed that he and Ray would waltz in there and see Jake, and because no one fucked with Ray, the guy would treat them both like solid citizens.

  But now he had to go see the guy all by himself. How did that work? You went in and gave the guy all your money and what did you get back, some kind of lame bank receipt from the Cayman Islands?

  Like, what would it say? “Received from Bob Wells: Five Million (Minus Gimble’s Cut) in Blood Money.”

  And, Christ, what if the guy decided to stiff him? It wasn’t like you could go to a cop and say, “Ah, Officer, perhaps you heard about the big bombing down at the old American Brewery, in which quite a few people were blown to very tiny bits? Well, just purely by accident, ha ha, I happened to end up with all the stolen dough and I gave it to this crooked lawyer fellow and he seems to have had the temerity to steal it from me, and I wonder if you could possibly aid me in getting it back?”

  Yeah, that would be just great.

  He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Christ, what in God’s name was he going to do? Trust the guy? No way …

  Then he realized the answer. He would have to convince the banker that he was no one to fuck around with. Yep, that was it. He’d have to go in and see Jakey boy and let him know that if there were any games he’d blow his nuts off.

  That was his new power, after all. Since he no longer played by civilized rules, after all, he’d have to be willing to back up his threats.

  But could he?

  If the guy stole from him, could he be like Scarface and do something … something violent?

  Bob Wells, the kindness merchant? Do something completely, openly vicious?

  The truth was, he didn’t know. There was a time, not long ago at all, that he would have said absolutely not …. Okay, he had punched Garrett in the nose once long ago in a street fight, but that was just a tussle.

  That wasn’t gangster stuff.

  But kill a guy or badly hurt him over money?

  Could he do that?

  Now he wasn’t sure and the thought tortured him. He had gone through so much to get the money, seen men die. Okay, not the best men in the world, but living, breathing men … guys he had started to feel a kind of maggoty affection for. Dead, flaming, their heads on fire … images he never wanted to think of again yet would never forget.

  He had almost been one of them, but fate had spared him.

  But having undergone all that, hadn’t he been changed forever?

  If someone threatened his money now, money he had gone through hell for, wasn’t it his right as a man to protect what was his?

  Okay, okay … he had stolen it. He’d almost forgotten that. But it didn’t feel that way. Why, it was as if the money had been left to him by the recently deceased. Yes, and he was the rightful and legitimate heir to the fortune.

  And if some banker tried to steal it from him …

  For that matter, if Emile Bardan came back, and he might very well … what was he willing to do to protect his money, his and Jesse’s future?

  Would he really hurt his old patient to stop him from grabbing the money?

  Forget “hurt.” That wasn’t the real question. The question became one of killing.

  Would he kill Emile to keep the money?

  Bob continued to nail the knotty-pine plank back into his wall and felt the sweat run down his neck.

  It had all seemed so funny when it had started. Bob remembered doing his little dance down at the pier. It was a lark, a crazy scam…. No one was going to be hurt, not even Emile, who certainly was insured for the mask. But now … the laughs were over.

  Bob had to decide now. How far would he go to protect his new fame, and his money?

  And the scariest part of all was he suspected he already knew the answer to that question.

  After all, having gone this far, he could never, ever go back to the moldy old land of the poor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Today show people came to Baltimore just as they claimed they would. Bob made sure Dave knew all about it so that he and Lou Anne could be in the show, too. Bob had worried a little that Ethel Roop and Perry Swann wouldn’t want their stories aired on national television, but this only showed how out of the loop he was. Not only did they want in, they couldn’t wait to tell their stories to Lori Weisman. Bob stood by stunned, as Ethel Roop described her “battle with flab,” even pinching her chunky thighs on camera, so the whole world would know exactly how gross she was. She said all the right things about Bob, what a great shrink he was, how much he cared, how amazing his insights were, things she had never said before, things Bob doubted she even believed. The truth was he felt that he’d failed with her and he was pretty sure that she felt the same way. But none of that seemed to matter now. She was, after all, on a major television show; the script called for a hero, so a hero Bob would be.

  The same went for Perry Swann, who had once flat out called Bob a “fake” and a “jerkoff,” but who now told the cameras that Bob was “the only man I’d ever confess my sins to. Because he took the job as seriously as a priest.” Bob wasn’t sure that was such a compliment, given the quality of priests these days, but Perry radiated such sincerity that Lori Weisman said, “Beautiful. Right after the show they’re probably going to fucking canonize you, Bob.”

  The same went for all the old black women Bob saw every week. Lutitia Morgan, the ninety-year-old woman who sang spirituals for Bob, said, “Dr. Bobby is the onliest white man I would ever trust.”

  Dave, of course, got on camera and positively gushed about Bob.

  “Bob is the kind of guy whose whole being is bound up in helping other people. And what does he get for it? Nothing. Sometimes less than nothing. Sometimes a kick in the teeth! But it doesn’t stop him from being a great guy.”

  Frizzy-haired, hip Lori Weisman lapped it up. She interviewed Bob outside his house as Jesse watched from the neighbor’s stoop alongside Dave and Lou Anne.

  “How do you manage to keep your equilibrium, your balance, when you see longtime friends like Rudy Runyon making money, while you, frankly, have so little?”

  Bob smiled his modest smile and gave Lori Weisman his best Gentle Be
n look, then did a variation on the speech he’d given when he was coming out of the hospital, ending with his “I consider myself one of the luckiest men on earth” line. He almost added, “Thank you, Lou Gehrig,” but managed to resist.

  When he was all done there was a reverent silence, and then Dave said, “Bob, that was beautiful, man.” And Lori Weisman nodded and said, “Yes, it was. It’s going to play beautifully, too.”

  Bob blinked and shrugged a little as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “Play.” What does that mean?

  Then he added:

  “I hope it didn’t sound pompous or anything. I sort of got caught up in the moment there. Guess it’s my dear old dad’s influence. He was a union man and a hell of a speech giver.”

  “Oh, really?” Lori Weisman said. “Tell us about him a little, while we walk around your neighborhood.”

  “Really?” Bob said, as he began to walk toward Patterson Park. “You think anyone will care?”

  “Oh yeah, they’re going to care,” Lori said. “Trust me, after this piece comes on the air, your whole life is going to undergo such an amazing change. Wow, we may have to do a follow-up piece in a year to see how you handle fame and celebrity.”

  Bob made a shrug face and then looked over at Jesse.

  “He’ll do just fine,” Jesse said. “Bob knows exactly who he is.”

  “We’ll see,” Lori Weisman said. “I just hope I’m not creating a monster here.”

  There were laughs all around at that one. Imagine sweet, caring Bob Wells, a monster. What a thought.

  That afternoon Lori Weisman and her crew arranged a lunch down at Bertha’s Mussels, the Fells Point bar and grill where Jesse worked. They shot her serving the lunch crowd and interviewed her about her relationship with Bob. She said that Bob was the “realest person she had ever met, and the kindest.” Then a few minutes after Bob arrived, Leslie and Ronnie, the kids whose lives he’d saved, showed up, fully recovered. They tearfully greeted Bob at the bar and all of them hugged and kissed one another, as the cameras rolled.

  “We’re not going to try and interview you right now,” Lori told the happy gang. “We want it to be real. Just go for it. Reality, I mean.”

  The three of them ate mussels, drank pints of beer, and Leslie said, “They say he’s a man, but I know better. There’s no way he could have jumped over that hole without wings. I say Bob Wells is an angel.”

  She cried and Lori Weisman smiled as the camera caught it all.

  As Bob, Jessie, Lori, and the cameraman, Danny, left Bertha’s around 7:00 that night, the big moon hung over the little shops on Broadway and Bob really felt like the luckiest man on earth. Here he was surrounded by two charming women, the cameraman recording his every word and gesture. No doubt about it, his fortunes were on the rise, and at home, stashed away in the wall, was a cool five million dollars.

  Of course, there was still the specter of Emile Bardan out there somewhere, but maybe he’d never come back. Hey, maybe he’d already died of his wounds. Not that Bob wanted him to die exactly, but if he had, well, wouldn’t it be the result of his own evil intrigues? Of course it would. Any sensible person would say so.

  And if he did come back … Bob felt that somehow he would handle him. It was almost as if a lucky star was shining down on him at last. Maybe, Bob thought giddily, it was all due to Utu. The god of vengeance and justice was on his side. Now there was a goofy thought … but when you were riding high like Bob, such thoughts weren’t merely demented. No, when you were famous, celebrated, and rich, such thoughts were poetic, or at the very worst, eccentric.

  The three of them chatted happily as they walked home, when suddenly from the alley next to Oriole Liquors, Bob heard a groan.

  “Terrorists,” the voice said. “They’re coming ….”

  Bob stopped and listened again.

  “Terrorists,” the voice said.

  “There’s somebody back there,” Lori said.

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “And I know who it is. Hang on a minute.”

  “Be careful, honey,” Jesse said.

  Lori looked at Danny.

  “You have to get this,” she said.

  Bob headed back into the dark alley, waiting for an attack and 911’s trademark kick in the balls.

  “911,” he said. “You back here, Nine?”

  “Get away from me,” a drowsy voice said. “I got a knife. You fucking terrorists.”

  Bob turned and saw the cameraman behind him.

  “Don’t shine the lights yet,” he whispered.

  “Don’t come a step closer,” 911 said.

  Bob’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. There, in front of him, lying in a heap next to a Dumpster was 911. In his hand was a broken bottle. He thrust it out, but looked more hapless then menacing.

  “Nine, it’s me, Bob Wells,” Bob said.

  “Dr. Bobby?” 911 said.

  “Yeah. How you doing, Nine?”

  “I’m fine,” 911 said. “What’s that behind you?”

  “That’s a friend of mine. From TV.”

  911 squinted past Bob.

  “That a terrorist?”

  “No, Nine, a cameraman?” Bob said. “He wants to take your picture. Me and you. How about we go get some food somewhere? Like McDonald’s?”

  Just then, Danny the cameraman shone the camera light into 911’s face.

  “No,” Bob said.

  911 let out a terrible shriek, leapt to his feet, and lunged at Bob with the broken bottle. Bob, having been through this a hundred times before, deftly swept his hand aside and watched the bottle go crashing to the ground. Then he turned 911 around and pulled his arms back in a full nelson.

  A few seconds later, Bob had kicked the homeless man’s feet out from under him and had him pinned on his stomach on the ground.

  The stench from his clothes was terrible, but Bob didn’t notice. He felt a terrific kindness and compassion sweep through him, the way he had felt almost all of his life when he had to tussle with street people.

  “Now calm down, Nine,” Bob said. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

  “Two days ago,” the haggard, desperate man said in a small, helpless voice.

  “I see,” Bob said. “Would you come with me now? To McDonald’s?”

  “Okay,” 911 said.

  “I’m serious, Nine. No kicking people. Okay?”

  “Okay,” 911 said. “Can I get supersize fries?”

  “Man, this is really good,” 911 said, devouring a Big Mac and revealing two great gaps where his front teeth had fallen out. “Thanks, Dr. Bobby.”

  “That’s okay, Nine,” Bob said. “After we finish here, I’d like to get you down to the shelter. And then maybe get you to an AA meeting. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know about them AA meetings,” 911 said. “They got terrorists in some of ‘em.”

  Lori Weisman shot Bob a quick look. Jesse gripped his hand under the table, as Danny shot the scene.

  “Not this one, though,” Bob said. “Lower Broadway kicked all the terrorists out.”

  911 looked at Bob with a measure of doubt in his eyes.

  “You sure?” he said.

  “I’m sure,” Bob said.

  Suddenly, 911 gave Bob a sweet smile.

  “I love this guy,” he said, looking at Lori.

  “Everybody does,” Lori said.

  Jesse squeezed his hand and Danny caught it all.

  After his Big Mac and his massive amount of fries, 911 was tired and dreamy, and went off with his little entourage to the Broadway men’s shelter with barely a peep of protest.

  “Now don’t forget the AA meeting, Nine,” Bob said.

  “Okay,” he said, looking just past Bob’s head, at whatever phantoms tortured him. “I been there before, you know?”

  “That’s good,” Bob said. “How many days did you have?”

  “A whole year once. And I had a job working for the Department of Recreation as a s
wimming coach over at Patterson Pool. But some of the terrorists over there had me fired.”

  “I heard about that,” Bob said, feeling happy inside. “But they’re all gone now. You could do it again, Nine. Hey, what’s your real name anyway?”

  911 looked down at the table and cupped his hand around his mouth.

  “I don’t want them to hear,” he said.

  Bob put his head close to 911’s.

  “Barry,” the homeless man said. “Barry Lansing.”

  “Cool,” Bob said. “Maybe we should start calling you Barry, huh?”

  “You think?”

  “Better than a number, Barry. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Barry said.

  Barry smiled at Bob and then looked at Jesse.

  “He don’t give up on nobody,” he said.

  Jesse smiled sweetly and took Bob’s hand.

  “I know he doesn’t,” she said.

  Suddenly Bob felt like he was going to cry. He couldn’t bear Barry’s kindness and gratitude. He had a crazy impulse to fall down on his knees in front of him and confess everything.

  “Hey,” Jesse said, looking at her watch. “We have to get moving. We’ve got to play some rock ‘n’ roll tonight.”

  “Cool,” said Barry. “But I’m a little tired now. I think I’ll go in there and go to sleep.”

  He hugged Bob and then quickly walked up the steps to the shelter. When he reached the top step he turned and saluted.

  “I’m sorry for kicking you that time,” he said. “I thought you was a terrorist.”

  “That’s okay,” Bob said. “ ‘Bye, Barry. Get to that meeting, okay?”

  Barry Lansing nodded and smiled as if he was struck by his name. Then he turned and walked through the old doors into the cavernous shelter.

  “It’s amazing,” Lori said. “He sounded completely okay for a minute there.”

  “That happens,” Bob said. “I remember when he was lucid for a month last year, but then he went off again.”

  “Why?” Jesse said. “What makes him lose it?”

  “He’s got some real instability. Drugs and booze don’t help. But the worst thing is nobody giving a shit,” Bob said.