The Long-Legged Fly

I shook my head.

“My men had standing orders. Every night they’d find you about twelve or so and see that you got home. You didn’t want to go home, but you did. Sometimes they’d take you home three or four times a night.”

He paused and I said, “That bad.”

“One morning the captain wanted to see me. ‘Who the fuck is this Lew Griffin’, he said. ‘He a dealer, a stooge, what?’ I told him you were a friend. ‘They don’t pay us to take care of friends, Walsh’, he said, they pay us to scrape the bad guys off the streets, keep a little order out there. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I said, ‘Yessir’. He said, ‘I’m not going to hear this name anymore now, am I?’ I said, ‘Nosir’. But my men still had that standing order.”

I started to say thanks, but Don said, “Just shut the fuck up, Lew, all right?” I did. “Then a night or two later I get this call from Thibodeaux. I’d promised Maria we’d have that night together, it was our anniversary or some damn thing, and between the second drink and salad the beeper lets loose. It seems the waitress at Joe’s had called. For about an hour you’d been methodically walking into one of the walls there, saying you were trying to find the bathroom. The guys picked you up, I came down and had a look, and I told them to bring you up here.”

“My thanks.”

“I didn’t hear it.” He looked closely at me. “You’ve given me some grief, Lew. More than I’d ever have taken from just about anyone else. One thing you never did, though, was bullshit me, ever.”

“Right. But when, and how, do I get out of this rabbit hole?”

“You’re court-committed, old friend. For what the laws call a reasonable period of observation.”

“Which means that I’m delivered, without reservation or restraint, into the hands of those for whom I’m an ever-renewable meal ticket.”

“Lew. Think about where you were, man.”

“Have you met these guys, Don? I tried to shake hands with one of them and I thought he was going to leap over the couch and run out the door. My so-called social worker has an American flag pinned to his lapel. There’s Muzak in every fucking corner of this goddamn place, even in the bathrooms. Yesterday I heard a synthesizer version of Bessie Smith’s ‘Empty Bed Blues.’ ”

“Things’ll get better, Lew.”

“Now you’re bullshitting me. Things never get better, Don. At the very best, they only get different.”

He stood there a moment, then said, “Seems like it, doesn’t it? I’ll do what I can, Lew. Money, a place to stay, someone to talk to. You let me know.”

“I will.”

He nodded and left.

That week they decided the detox was complete and took me off sedatives. I was feeling pretty shaky, and the dreams weren’t near as interesting, but it wasn’t too bad. The rest, they said (three of them talking about me among themselves behind stacks of folders while I sat cross-legged on a folding chair at the front of the room), could be handled on an outpatient basis. A couple of days after that, they let me go. Don had dropped off some clothes. I sat in new navy polo shirt and chinos staring across at a bug-eyed accountant until he stopped making noises about my bill and discharge payments and so on and said all right I could go.

It was cool outside, and overcast: gray. The world didn’t look too much different from the way I remembered it before checking out for a while, only noisier, faster. But then, it wasn’t the world that had changed. I felt like someone long underwater, sucking in those first lungfuls of precious air. And at the same time I felt weighed down out here, overcome by so much activity, chance and change.

I took a cab to the Napoleon House-Don had dropped off some money with the clothes-and ordered a double scotch. Sat there looking at it, and being looked at by the waiters, for two hours. Then I got up and left.

I really didn’t know where to go. I’d given up paying rent on the office a long time ago, and I was sure I didn’t have an apartment anymore either. Sun goin’ down, black night gonna catch me here. Finally I stopped at a phone booth, dropped in my nickel, and dialed Verne’s number, the new one.

“ ’Lo,” she answered.

“It’s Lew, Verne.”

There was a pause.

“Can’t get away from the past however fast we run, can we?” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it probably sounds. How are you, Lew?”

“Better.”

“I heard.”

“Walsh?”

“My husband golfs with one of the docs who watchdogged you at Touro. You gonna be okay, Lew?”

“I’m gonna try to be. But I’m going to need a place to stay.”

“That’s easy. Take the old place on Daneel; I kept it for sentiment’s sake. Key’s where it always was.”

“Thanks, Verne. Be happy.”

“Lew! Wait a minute. Some guy’s called for you; I almost forgot. God only knows how he got this number. Hold on. I’ve got a note here some where…. William Sansom. Ring any bells?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He wants you to call him.”

“He didn’t say what about?”

“Nothing. But the number’s 524-8592. Anytime, he told me.”

“Right. Later, Verne.”

I hung up, dug out another nickel and tried the number. A breathy female voice answered “Yes?”

“William Sansom, please.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Sansom is out of the building just now. May I say who called?”

I told her.

“Ou or ew?” she said. “Excuse me, sir…. Mr. Griffin, I’m sorry, but Mr. Samson is in after all. Will you hold a moment? Thank you, sir.”

Stevie Wonder music came on the line. Moments later, a heavy male voice.

“Lew Griffin! How’s it going, man? You okay?”

He stopped, and I said nothing.

“You may not remember me, Mr. Griffin. We met some years ago, and you knew me then as Abdullah Abded.”

“Of course,” I said. “The Black Hand. Finger in every pot, just like the chicken in every.”

“You got our check, I hope.”

“You know I did.”

“We appreciate what you did, Griffin. You keep up with what happened with Corene? She went back to school, got her M.D. Now she’s in South America, traveling from village to village down there, doing what she can. There’s no stopping the woman.”

“So what’d you need?” I said.

“Not me: you. Heard there’d been some hard times for you, Griffin. Thought we might be able to help.”

“Yeah?”

“Heard you were just out of stir and maybe needing a place to stay. We run a halfway house down below the Quarter-some junkies, a few ex-cons, a lot of lost souls. Low batteries needing some time off the rack. You’d be welcome.”

“Why?”

“Anyone’s welcome. But you’re a brother-and you’ve helped us in the past.”

“Got my own tracks, though.”

“That’s cool. But if it comes to it, don’t forget us. This number is always good. Take care, man.”

“Right.”

I went up to Canal and walked around a while in the streams of shoppers, tourists, folks grabbing a half or whole hour off work, others hanging out aimlessly at bus stops and corners. Outside Maison Blanche, Sam the Preacher was holding forth on evil, atonement and the eternal struggle for rebirth. Sam’s been at his post for over