Father seemed to agree. And in the two months Haid had been walking the streets, searching, recalling faces and hangouts, he knew that the dealer would be flipping the cards on Couch Street, a glorified alley behind the United Cerebral Palsy building. That was his destination.
His sparse blond hair whipping across his forehead in a November wind that came in off the lake, he made several strides toward’s the alley’s entrance on Dearborn Street before turning back and rechecking that the door had been locked securely. It had been double-locked, but he still had to look.
When he had walked down Dearborn past Chicago to Superior, he still fought an urge to go back and check the lot. But the patch of lighter grey in the overcast sky was dropping further behind the CHA projects. Today was the day he would finally make Father proud.
* * *
Today would be best for the crippled man, of this he was certain. The weather was playing havoc with his own limbs, he knew that the other’s pain must be a hundred times worse. Trapped in the chrome cell of the chair. Yes, the man would welcome his presence and thank him.
On his way to Couch Street, it was only across the river and he’d be there in a moment, Haid stopped in front of a strip joint in the 400 block of North Clark. One of those places where you paid to stick your dingus through a slot and a woman in a booth would suck it. He stopped because the weathered brown door opened and a white man in a wheelchair—he had a bushy brown beard and Haid suspected him to be a veteran of Vietnam—rolled down the step. His features were washed in the lilac neon surrounding the windows. The neon said Bare Bodies and Sex Stage. A man of about the same age followed the other down towards the Merchandise Mart, but Haid knew that they were not together by the way the walking man, with shoulder-length blond hair falling over a black suede jacket, regarded the other. His gaze was constantly going back to the man in the chair, who was making somewhat better time down the block.
The two went in opposite directions when they reached Hubbard. Haid had never met either man before, and seeing the man in the wheelchair coming out of a place like that brought up a slew of questions. The man was following Haid’s own path. He continued watching the guy roll along, wondering what kind of woman was sick enough to stuff a limp piece of flesh in her mouth.
* * *
All the wannabe players were gone to their Metra trains or happy hours—it used to be inthis city, happy hour meant cheap liquor; now the original premise was illegal, and all the bars could do was offer free pizza and shit like that in those hours before the Loop shut down. But for the Polish cleaning women, and they didn’t drink.
So there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot Reginald Givens could do but scrounge for a bottle or some recyclable aluminum cans. His deck of cards, the imprint of the Caeser’s Palace casino on one side, lay in his lap, yet to be boxed, which included the red queen with the subtle fold that gave a monte dealer his edge.
Francis Haid watched the man in the chair rummage through a cyclone garbage can, a Vrdolyak sticker slapped on at knee-level. He was at the corner of Wacker and Couch, the black hustler about a quarter of a block in. The dealer’s arm moved within the depths of the trash as might the hand of a near-sighted man who has dropped his glasses onto the living room carpet. He found nothing worth saving, and looked down at the garbage in disgust.
The November sky had been pregnant with rain for two days and the first drops started to fall. Both men cursed their respective gods. Haid speculated briefly that some might consider rain to be a kind of divine intervention.
The few stragglers along Wacker raised their umbrellas or made their Tribunes and Enquirers into tents and went dashing off. Something else for them to complain about. Bastards didn’t know anything about pain, Haid thought. Then, time
His sparse blond hair whipping across his forehead in a November wind that came in off the lake, he made several strides toward’s the alley’s entrance on Dearborn Street before turning back and rechecking that the door had been locked securely. It had been double-locked, but he still had to look.
When he had walked down Dearborn past Chicago to Superior, he still fought an urge to go back and check the lot. But the patch of lighter grey in the overcast sky was dropping further behind the CHA projects. Today was the day he would finally make Father proud.
* * *
Today would be best for the crippled man, of this he was certain. The weather was playing havoc with his own limbs, he knew that the other’s pain must be a hundred times worse. Trapped in the chrome cell of the chair. Yes, the man would welcome his presence and thank him.
On his way to Couch Street, it was only across the river and he’d be there in a moment, Haid stopped in front of a strip joint in the 400 block of North Clark. One of those places where you paid to stick your dingus through a slot and a woman in a booth would suck it. He stopped because the weathered brown door opened and a white man in a wheelchair—he had a bushy brown beard and Haid suspected him to be a veteran of Vietnam—rolled down the step. His features were washed in the lilac neon surrounding the windows. The neon said Bare Bodies and Sex Stage. A man of about the same age followed the other down towards the Merchandise Mart, but Haid knew that they were not together by the way the walking man, with shoulder-length blond hair falling over a black suede jacket, regarded the other. His gaze was constantly going back to the man in the chair, who was making somewhat better time down the block.
The two went in opposite directions when they reached Hubbard. Haid had never met either man before, and seeing the man in the wheelchair coming out of a place like that brought up a slew of questions. The man was following Haid’s own path. He continued watching the guy roll along, wondering what kind of woman was sick enough to stuff a limp piece of flesh in her mouth.
* * *
All the wannabe players were gone to their Metra trains or happy hours—it used to be inthis city, happy hour meant cheap liquor; now the original premise was illegal, and all the bars could do was offer free pizza and shit like that in those hours before the Loop shut down. But for the Polish cleaning women, and they didn’t drink.
So there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot Reginald Givens could do but scrounge for a bottle or some recyclable aluminum cans. His deck of cards, the imprint of the Caeser’s Palace casino on one side, lay in his lap, yet to be boxed, which included the red queen with the subtle fold that gave a monte dealer his edge.
Francis Haid watched the man in the chair rummage through a cyclone garbage can, a Vrdolyak sticker slapped on at knee-level. He was at the corner of Wacker and Couch, the black hustler about a quarter of a block in. The dealer’s arm moved within the depths of the trash as might the hand of a near-sighted man who has dropped his glasses onto the living room carpet. He found nothing worth saving, and looked down at the garbage in disgust.
The November sky had been pregnant with rain for two days and the first drops started to fall. Both men cursed their respective gods. Haid speculated briefly that some might consider rain to be a kind of divine intervention.
The few stragglers along Wacker raised their umbrellas or made their Tribunes and Enquirers into tents and went dashing off. Something else for them to complain about. Bastards didn’t know anything about pain, Haid thought. Then, time
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