A Vagrant Story (12 page)

“Book?” Rum said. “Oh yeah, of course you did, that’s what I planned all along.”

Sierra hunched down, laying the book open on her lap. The others leaned over to see.

“Is that what we came here looking for?” Henry asked.

Sierra turned a page. “Maybe. I’m not exactly sure what it is. The clerk started guarding it when we asked about this ‘John’ fella. My guess, whatever we’re looking for is somewhere in here. It’s such a strange book.”

The pages were filled with columns of names and numbers. The names didn’t appear to be listed in any order except the date written, and even that had exceptions. 

“It’s a debt book,” Rum said. “Trust me, I’ve seen a few. Flick to the last filled pages. If our guy’s been here recently his listing should be there.”

Sierra flicked ahead to the last few days. “I don’t see any John here. There’ a Joan – damn it, he’s not here.” Her eye caught a slip of paper sticking out from the next page - it looked like a bank draft.

Holding it to the light, she read it out loud: “Payment for twenty thousand dollars, signed, John Regal.”

“Could it be him?” Henry said.

Alex snatched the note. He stared at it in private contemplation, then requested the suicide note from Sierra. He juxtaposed the two.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “The signature on the suicide note is the same as on the bank draft.”

Rum folded arms in dissatisfaction. “No way you could notice something like that – this fast even.”

Alex handed Rum both the note and cheque. “It’s true. See for yourself.”

Rum scratched his noggin. “I can’t tell. I suppose it looks … sort of the same.”

“It’s the same style of handwriting – like a child’s. He obviously doesn’t know cursive. Then consider the date, this cheque was written up on the 24th – yesterday. It ties in with the information on the suicide note.” 

Sierra took both papers from Rum. “That’s … useful. You’re a pretty perceptive guy, Alex.”

“Whatever,” Rum said. “The guy’s got too much time to think, that’s his problem. If he’s so smart then how about he thinks up a way to trace it? Having the cheque’s all well and good, but it doesn’t tell where the guy is.”

Alex hummed in contemplation. His ideas ran short.

Henry broke in with stuttering little pips, as if waiting for everyone to finish. “I-It’s not made out to Jack Matters. Or the club either.”

Sierra took a second look at the cheque. “Henry’s right! It’s made out to a, ‘Grey Oaks Retirement home.’ It looks like a donation.”

“Strange,” Alex said. “That means the owner of that night club wouldn’t have been able to cash it anyway. Looks like our Mr. John tried to pull a fast one. That might explain why his name’s not on the list.”

Rum snickered. “Not likely. Listen, the suicide note said Jack Matters was hassling his wife and kid. You honestly think he’s going to drop a phoney cheque in that kind of threat hanging over him? If Matters doesn’t break his legs then he’d likely break his kid’s. He might be a deadbeat but no father would put that on their kid – suicidal or not.”

“What are you thinking?” Alex asked.

“Remember when Sierra robbed the guy first? He was slow, he was drunk, staggering all over the place. He was ripe for the picking. When I think back to it now his face looked busted. He wasn’t staggering, he was limping. He wasn’t drunk - someone beat the crap out of him. Back in my day that’s what we did … at least what they did when someone couldn’t repay a loan. He must have gone back to talk his way out of it but failed at the negotiation table. They knocked the snot out of him and took what he had there and then.” 

“Interesting hypothesis,” Alex said. “Having some flashbacks from your gambling days?”

“I’m saying it’s possible. That’s all.”

Sierra grinned. “What’s this, is Rum becoming subtly more dedicated to the cause? You’ve built something of a mythos around this guy now. We better get back on track before we lose the point.”

Alex stood with a stretch. “Sierra’s right. We shouldn’t get too bogged down with assumptions. So … our next target is the ‘Grey Oaks Retirement home.’ Anyone know where it is?”

The group silenced to gather thoughts - silence broken by the intrusion of an outsider.

“I know where that is!” a ragged voice cried out from the other group of bums. A nearby bum burst from the other crowd, lunging forth with an outstretched hand for permission to speak. He tripped on a box and crashed to the ground.

That’s when they noticed all those other tramps gawking in on their conversation. They at once shifted innocently back to showcase positions around the bin fire.

The tramp who came forward pressed up from the ground. He opened his lips to speak, but hesitated upon noticing Sierra. “Hey, ain’t you that girl from the park?”

Sierra tried looking past the splotches of dirt on his face. “Len! I didn’t recognise you. What are you doing out this far?”

“Begging. It is Christmas Eve, more people shopping out this way – more cash for me.” He grinned widely, unleashing a vengeful odour of alcohol. “And you’re with Rum ‘n’ all. Then again, when are you not?”

“You know each other?” Alex asked Rum quietly.

“He hangs around the park. He’s good for the drink,” Rum whispered back.

“What about yourselves? Don’t often see young Rum away from the park like this.”

“Call it a daytrip - against my will,” Rum said.

“Sounded like one hell of a day trip.”

“Right, you were listening after all.”

“Didn’t have a choice – couldn’t hear anything else.”

“You said you know where Grey Oaks is?”

“Know it? Sure, I used to live there for a time. Then they started running out of funds, and well, let’s say I’m doing better here on the street than some of the poor old bastards in that place.” He searched his memory. “It’s about a block from here, if I remember. Follow the river then cross the next bridge. It should be right across the road from there. That’s as good as I can do.”

Sierra repeated the directions to herself.

“You watch it out there. That place is a rough neighbourhood these days. Guy could go in and never come out.”

“We’ll keep our heads low,” Sierra said.

“Won’t matter, they’ll come to you. I guarantee. But forget about that, worry when it comes. You’re a good ways from home, stay here a while. We got a fire, always good to be warm. And if you happen to have some drink on you,” he said the next part slyly, “all the better then.”

“Sorry Len, I’m all out.” Rum raised his arms to indicate such, coat rattling with the stolen bottles.

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I don’t think we could stay anyway,” Sierra said. “We’re supposed to be in a hurry but we keep getting bogged down.”

“Well … will of the Lord I suppose.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. He isn’t really helping with this weather either.”

“Make use of it while you can. Might be cold now but there’s going to be a big one coming in a few days.”

“A big one?”

“A blizzard they say. Reckon it’ll shut down the whole city.”

“Our divine protector really picks his moments,” Rum uttered.

“We’ll just have to finish by then,” Sierra added.

“Then I won’t keep you no more. Good luck with whatever you’re trying to do.”

With that they waved goodbye to the gritty old bum named Len. He quickly wheeled round and merged back to his own group. Once beyond ears distance, Sierra spoke first.

“Well, that was handy.” She looked at Rum. “You lied. You told him you didn’t have any drink.”

“You’re surprised? I lie about everything.”

“It is Christmas … maybe I thought you could take a break.”

“From lying?”

“From most the things you do. Hold off the drink, for a start.”

“Drink? Good Christ that’s a thought … I should really dig into this stuff before Christmas is over. Nice thinking’ Blondie!”

Old Rum delved into his coat pocket, pulling forth a full bottle of whiskey. Uncapping the lid, he slurped back a mouth full, exhaling to release the heat.

With a passive sigh, Sierra rolled her eyes. “Rum, you old … clod. How many did you steal anyway?”

“Four. And they’re all for me. No presents this year.” He drenched his throat with another chug. “Now it’s Christmas!”

Chapter 8

Len understated his warning. This new neighbourhood wasn’t rough, this place was a crime ridden eye-soar. Hookers prowled on sidewalks, hustling the only customers around - junkies and hobos. Clearly enough, drug dealers maintained trade on most street corners. The sights appeared ever seamier amidst the darkness of twilight, tinted blue by the flashing neon lighting over most buildings. They flickered like a warning from the past.

This was an entertainment centred district, at one time anyway. Though the old cinemas and arcades still remained, they’d become nothing but backdrops to the area’s new attractions.

Sierra took in but a few images of the scene. “Nice place.”

“It used to be … a long time ago,” Alex said.

“Have you been here before?” Sierra asked.

“Maybe … it‘s been a while. The place looks so different it mightn’t even be the same place.”

“If you’ve been here before then speak up and show us the way. The sooner we’re out of here the better.”

“Let’s just stick to Len’s directions, they‘d be better than anything I can offer. He said to stay along the riverside then cross at the first bridge.”

Their current path ran straight along by the river. The first glance into its water would reveal a maltreated mess swamped with sewage. It seemed better not to take a second glance.

Up ahead a Victorian style bridge arched over to the other side. Crowds of people loitered all over it, yet it looked originally intended to act as a vehicle crossing. Not one single car had come through this area since they came here so it seemed safe to assume they rarely did.

Crossing the bridge themselves, they realised people weren’t satisfied just treating it like a walking road, but had transformed it into something of a makeshift hostel. It looked like a third rate slum compressed into one small space. Shoulder to shoulder, addicts and hobos rested against the balustrades. Drug dealers hassled the bustle of wayfarers while prostitutes did so in kind. It was as if every social faction occupying this haphazard community could be found in this one spot. The bridge looked like something ripped from a middle age scene, an old time trade location between two towns on opposite sides of the river, a gathering point where traders meet. The trade appeared to be going strong to this day, except these tradesmen had thrown in their produce stacked stalls for cylindrical containers no larger than a baby’s pinkie.

Alex, Henry, Sierra, and Rum hadn’t made it half way across when two men began taking an interest in them. One was a black man, the other white – both wore the same blue hoodie. They followed unwaveringly at a distance.  

“Hey you,” one of them said, tone betraying hostile intent.

The bums continued walking in hope their silence would cause them to lose interest

It took one lapse in judgment from Henry to stir the pot. He didn’t mean to acknowledge them but in alarm he chanced a glance their way.

The two men picked right up on it. “Yeah you! You heard me,” the white man yelled.

“A-are you talking to me?” Henry winced.

Rum could have clipped him over the head for the stupidity.

The two men scuttled closer to the group. “Look buddy, we got some nice stuff here. You want some pills. Give it to you cheap, see,” the black man said.

Since Henry stopped the others had no choice but to stop with him. And since the others stopped, Alex had no choice but to intervene.

“We don’t want any – push off.”

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

“Was he talking to you?” the black man mimicked.

Alex shoved the nearest one back. “Walk away.”

“Hey – calm … calm. We’re trying to help that’s all. Be cool.”

“Help someone else.”

Both men laughed among themselves, pacing away innocently. “No trouble tough-guy. No trouble.” No sooner than they left did they begin bargaining with another tramp. That one didn’t seem quite so reluctant.

Right off, the four of them carried on across the bridge.

“Fucking Dud!” Rum exclaimed at once. “Don’t say anything to people like that, don’t even look at them! That’s how they spot the weakest in the pack.”