Out of the Cold (8 page)

“What about a liquor bottle?”

“There was a bottle rolling around near him.”

“You remember what it was?”

“Sure. That Napoleon stuff you and Vern like to drink.”

“Cognac?” my father said. He sounded surprised. “Doesn't sound like something a homeless person would be able to afford. But I guess you never know.”

“Maybe that wasn't his bottle.”

“You're probably right,” my father said. “Those books, though, they could be interesting.”

“You mean I could check out where he got them?”

“Or if there's anything tucked inside.”

“What about those napkins?” I said. “Maybe they have a restaurant logo on them.”

My father looked positively proud of me. “Good thinking, Robbie. Also, where did he hang out when he wasn't at the shelter? In a park? A library?”

“Or a parking garage. Billy says lots of homeless people sneak into garages to get warm.”

“Is there a walk-in clinic in the area?”

“I can check.” But I was definitely going to need help. “Thanks, Dad.”

He grinned. “Hey, I like puzzles. That's what this is. A gigantic puzzle. But before you can begin to solve it, you have to hunt for the pieces.” His face grew more serious.

“What?” I said. “Is something wrong?”

He hesitated.

“I ran into Ed Jarvis today,” he said finally. Ed Jarvis had been Nick's probation officer.

My heart started to race. “Does he know where Nick is? Is he okay?”

“He didn't even know that Nick was gone.”

“So he hasn't talked to him? He has no idea where he is?”

It looked like my dad was going to say something, but he hesitated again.

“What?” I said. “What'd he say?”

“Only that it's possible that Nick got into trouble again and that's why he took off. He says he's seen it happen before—kids straighten out for a while and then they mess up. When they do, they sometimes go out of their way to avoid the people who have helped them. They're ashamed of slipping and they're afraid they've disappointed the people who care for them.”

“You don't think Nick—”

“I don't know what to think, Robbie. I'm just telling you what Ed said, and he knows Nick a lot better than I do.”

I struggled to keep back my tears. I missed Nick. I wished I knew where he was. But I didn't, and until he contacted me there was nothing I could do.

CHAPTER
SIX

“I

hate this,” Morgan said at eleven thirty the next day. We had a double lunch period followed by PE, which had morphed into library time because our PE teacher was out sick. Morgan had been ecstatic when she'd heard. She'd wanted to spend the extra time doing Christmas shopping. Instead I had convinced her to come down to the shelter with me so that she could help me talk to people. I had asked Billy too—the more, the easier?—but he had a re-view lab he couldn't miss.

“How can you hate it?” I said. “We haven't even started.”

In fact, we had just got off the bus. Morgan was clutching a giant latte, which she had insisted she needed to “keep her going.”

“I mean, I hate that it's so dirty and depressing down here,” she said, shivering inside her faux-fur coat as she glanced up and down the street.

It had snowed about a week ago, which had made some neighborhoods, like my mother's, look like a scene from a Christmas card—snow-covered lawns; white pine trees; all that snow reflecting the glow of Christmas lights. But not this neighborhood. In this neighborhood a layer of grime and litter had settled on the oncepristine snow. Not a festive sight.

“I bet you don't complain when you're down here with Billy,” I said.

She shook her head. “If I did, Billy would take it as a criticism of homeless people.” She sighed. “He's so sweet. I adore him, really I do. He doesn't think poor people can be held responsible if their neighborhoods are dirty and depressing. But come on, it doesn't cost anything to pick up after yourself. Am I right?” She gulped down the last mouthful of her latte and looked around for a garbage can. There were none in sight. “Huh,” she said. She held onto the cardboard coffee container, if only to prove her point. “So, now what?”

“Now we start talking to people. We might as well begin in the obvious place.” I nodded down the street toward the shelter. A knot of smokers had gathered in a circle outside the main door. Morgan looked apprehensively at them.

“What if they won't talk to us?”

“If they won't, they won't.”

“What if some of them are, you know ...” I waited, pretending I didn't know. “You know,” she said again. “A little... crazy?”

“You've spent more time here than I have, Morgan. Why are you acting like you're afraid of these people?”

“You're telling me you're not?”

“They're homeless. They're not criminals.”

“Then why did you beg me to come with you? Why didn't you come down here alone? Or if this is so important to Ben, why isn't he here instead? It would give you two a chance to become better acquainted. Billy says he's nice when you get to know him. And he's really hot, Robyn.”

“First of all, I offered to do this. Me. Not him. Second, I'm
not
interested in him.”

“But with Nick gone—”

“I don't want to talk about Nick. I just want to do what I said I'd do. I asked you to come with me because you're my best friend. We have to talk to
a lot
of people. Two people can cover twice as much territory.”

“Right.” Morgan did not sound convinced. She trailed half a step behind me as we walked the rest of the way to the shelter. When we got there, the smokers ignored us.

“Excuse me,” I said.

They continued to ignore us. I moved closer to the small circle and tapped one of the smokers on the arm.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He turned. So did everyone else. He was about my height, with stubble all over his chin and a cap with earflaps pulled down low on his forehead. He glowered at me from beneath the visor. His mis-matched eyes—the left one was dark, the right one cloudy white—made him look particularly sinister. He was smoking what looked like a hand-rolled cigarette, held with cold-reddened fingers that poked out from the unraveling ends of woolen gloves.

“Hi,” I said again, trying not to stare at the milky eye. “I was wondering if I could ask you—all of you—a few questions about Mr. Duffy.”

It was already cold outside, but it suddenly got a lot colder. Half of the smokers shifted their eyes to the ground. A couple shuffled away down the sidewalk. A couple of others, including the man with the mismatched eyes, stared hard at me. I wondered if they knew that I had ratted on Duffy. Morgan tugged on my elbow, but I held my ground.

“I'm helping Ben,” I said. “You know Ben?” Nothing. Not a nod, not a glint of acknowledgement in anyone's eye, certainly not a friendly smile. “Ben wants to hold a memorial service for Mr. Duffy. He asked me to help him by talking to people who knew Mr. Duffy. So he can say something about Mr. Duffy at the service.”

The two men who had been looking at me looked away. The men who hadn't already left moved down the street, away from the shelter and the two uptown girls who were asking questions.

“Well, we're off to a good start,” Morgan said, watching them. “What do you say we go inside, where we can at least be warm while we're being ignored?”

It was the first good idea Morgan had had all morning.

  .    .    .

“Why don't we talk to whoever's in charge around here?” Morgan said. She glanced around the interior of the drop-in center, spotted a garbage can, and rid herself of her giant latte cup. “I bet they know something.”

Art Donovan spotted me and came over to us. “Ben told me what you're doing,” he said. “I wish I could help. But Mr. Duffy never said much to me. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid talking to me.”

“You must have some kind of records, some kind of information on him,” Morgan said. “Ben said he was here all the time.”

Art smiled pleasantly at her. “It's Megan, isn't it?” he said, which surprised me. He struck me as someone who was good with names.

“Actually, it's Morgan,” Morgan said.

“Morgan,” Art said, as if he were trying out the name. “Sorry. You're right about Mr. Duffy being here a lot. But I'm afraid we don't have any records. Not on Mr. Duffy, anyway. Or most of the people who use the shelter, for that matter. Our mandate is to offer a safe place for the homeless to get out of the cold—or, in summer, out of the heat—provide them with something to eat, and help them get whatever services they might need. Anything they may require and will agree to.”

“Did Mr. Duffy use any services?” I said.

“Not that I know of. He was pretty independent. He never made any trouble, either.” When I looked skeptical, he said, “Well, up until about six months ago. Mostly, Mr. Duffy was quiet and kept to himself. It's only recently that he started acting up. Maybe he said something to Betty. She chased him out of the kitchen often enough.”

“Who's Betty?” Morgan asked after Mr. Donovan had left.

I sighed. It was just like Morgan to volunteer somewhere and not remember the names of staff.

“She's the cook,” I said.

“Great. Let's go and talk to her.” She grabbed my hand and started to drag me across the room.

“The kitchen's
that
way,” I said, pointing in the opposite direction.

When we got to the kitchen door, Morgan nudged me in ahead of her. “This is your project,” she said. “You ask.”

I sighed and led the way inside.

“What do I know about Mr. Duffy?” Betty said after I had told her why we were there. She thought for a moment and shrugged. “Not much, I'm afraid. Except that he liked my beef and barley soup. He always asked for seconds.”

“He never told you anything about his life?”

“Not a thing.”

“Did you ever ask?” Morgan said, sounding exasperated, as if it were Betty's job to at least know
something
.

“Well, I didn't pry, if that's what you mean,” Betty said a little stiffly. “A lot of the people who come here don't want to talk about their past lives. It's too painful for them to think about the times when things were better. Or, for some of them, when they were worse. Some people end up on the street because of tragedy or misfortune—they get sick or they lose their jobs or families. Other people run to the street because it's better than whatever they used to call home. So a lot of them don't appreciate being quizzed about their personal lives any more than anyone else does. If they tell me something, fine. But I don't go around asking. And Mr. Duffy—well, he never volunteered anything.”

“What about the food he stole?” Morgan said.

I blushed. I didn't want Betty to think that I'd been badmouthing Mr. Duffy. But Betty just shook her head.

“He particularly liked to stock up on cookies,” she said. Then she frowned. “He never used to be one for desserts. He must have developed a sweet tooth.”

I thanked her for her time.

“This will go faster if we split up,” I told Morgan. “I'll talk to the people eating breakfast. You talk to the people who are watching TV.” She looked at the half dozen camped out around the television. She didn't move. “They're just people,” I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. What if they looked at me the way Ben did—like I was a two-four who dropped by once and then vanished? What if one was like Mr. Duffy? But we were already there, and I had made a promise. “Some of them, if not most, knew Mr. Duffy. I bet they'll want to help us.”

Morgan looked doubtful. We split up, and then regrouped twenty minutes later.

“Well, that was fun,” Morgan said, clearly disgruntled. “How did you make out?”

“Not great,” I said. “Except for that man at the end of the table, no one would even talk to me.” I nodded to an old man who was two overcoats and glistening with sweat as a result. “But he didn't want to talk about Mr. Duffy. He wanted to talk about how someone took his stuff last winter.” He had told me he always wore all his clothes at the same time so no one could steal them. “What about you? Did you find out anything?”

Morgan shook her head. “Nobody knows anything—not his first name or where he came from or how he ended up on the street. Or if they
do
know, they're not telling. If Ben's relying on my information, pretty much all he'll be able to say is that Mr. Duffy quit drinking for good before he died.”

“Quit drinking? What are you talking about?”

She gave me an exasperated look.

“Am I speaking Swahili or something? Someone told me that Mr. Duffy quit drinking for good a few months ago.”