of struggle-'
'How could you tell, our alleys.'
'Right. Obvious that the truck hadn't been the first thing after him that night, though. No evidence that he, or anyone else, was living in the alley. Could have just wandered in there, or been dropped there afterwards. No sign of personal property or belongings, aside from what he had on him. I've got a copy of the report here for you, you want it.'
'Thanks, Don.'
'No problem. How'd it go at the hospital?'
Long and shallow. The man stuck resolutely to his story. He was Lewis Griffin, a novelist who wrote about what it was like on the streets, about the city's real, subterranean life. Self-taught A primitive. Working on a new one now. He'd done three chapters just that morning.
You mean yesterday morning, I said.
Whatever. He'dfixed himself a light lunch, some leftover roast pork with Creole mustard on pumpernickel. Had a couple of pickles and a Corona with it. Then he'd gone out for his usual afternoon walk and somebody must have jumped him, because that was all he remembered.
I asked him where he lived.
Uptown.
Been there long?
Ten, twelve years. He told me about LaVerne, how they'd once lived there together, but that was a long time ago. Some days everything seems a long time ago, he said.
I asked him to tell me about his books.
You haven't read them, then?
I'm afraid not.
He shook his head, sadly. Not many people have, I guess. But this new one could change all that.
He had some of the titles right, almost everything else, including the plot of The Old Man, dead wrong.
You wouldn't happen to have any paper, would you? he asked as Bailey and I were leaving. Thought I might take advantage of this, try to get some work done on the new book while I'm here.
I said I thought that was a good idea. Gave him the notebook and pen I always carried.
When I finishedtelling him about it, Walsh was silent.
'Damn, Lew,' he finally said. 'That's just plain creepy, any way you look at it.'
I told him it definitely was, and he said he'd get back to me as soon as anything came in on the prints or photo.
I was lying on the bed, dipping in and out of dreams and thinking how any minute I was going to get up and put on coffee or maybe start a new career as a test pilot, when the phone rang again. Richard Garces, to tell me that, while the first responses to his request for information on the network were coming in, nothing thus far seemed to merit a closer look. I repeated my update on the hospital situation. He was appropriately incredulous.
'I have that list of local missions and community service centers you asked for. I don't suppose it's possible for me to just zap this over to you by modem.'
'Not if you want it to get here.'
'And still no fax, right?'
'Nope.'
'Wouldn't you know it. And here I am fresh out of carrier pigeons.'
'I'll swing by, pick it up.'
After I'd done so, myfirst stop was on the stub end of Dryades, just before Howard breaks everything off into downtown streets. Forty years ago the building had probably been one of the big chain stores, a Montgomery Ward, a Sears; now, painted bright blue, it was the New Orleans Mission. Not without difficulty I found someone who finally admitted that well, yes, he did kind of look after things.
'You live here, then?'
He nodded. The only hair he still had was two thin patches, a couple of inches wide, above his ears. These hadn't been cut in recent memory and looked like limp wings. 'Room downstairs, in the back, too small for much else. I sweep the place, clean toilets, lock up at night. They give me the room and meals.'
I asked if the mission passed out clothes.
'Sure do, when we have 'em. Ever' so often a bunch of stuff'll turn up that somebody's give us. Don't never last long, though. Goes real quick. And then it's likely to be a spell before any more comes our way.'
I asked about books.
'We got a few. Got 'em when the flea market up the street shut down, I think, year or so back. Can't say anybody's ever had much interest. They're stacked up down by my room still. Bible's 'bout the only thing anyone 'round here ever reads.'
I showed him a picture of David and a copy of the one Don took of the patient claiming to be me and asked if he remembered seeing either of these men. He shook his head and, in exchange for a twenty, agreed to show me around.
Next stop was the warehouse district, until recently a desolate region of abandoned, boarded-up buildings and shattered sidewalks, now quickly filling with art galleries and upscale apartments built into the old hulls. The mission had no name beyond Gold Dew worked into the bricks above the doors, for the beer long ago brewed here.
A peculiarly small man sat at a desk to match in what was once the building's lobby. He wore a brown plaid suit with a bright yellow rayon shirt and blue knit tie that, from the look of the knot, never got untied.
'Hep you?'
I introduced myself and was telling him why I was there, when he interrupted.
'Look, you don't mind my saying, we got two int'rests, them that needs hep and those that's got somethin' for us to hep with. You dressed too good for the first, and 'less I'm mistaken I don't see you carryin' thing one. Have a nice day.' He looked behind me. 'Next'
No one there, of course.
Putting my hands on the desk, I leaned over him. If rain had broken out among the ceiling's high struts and girders, he'd have stayed dry.
He looked up, thought about it, and decided he might have time to hep me after all.
But he couldn't remember ever seeing either of those two. Couldn't be sure, of course, so many coming and going every day, so many that just needed a meal, a warm coat or a pair of shoes that didn't leak too bad.
I knew: none of them amounting to much more than their need.
We touched base on clothing and books, how the place operated, hours and occupancy, records. He'd think about it, get back to me should something come to mind. In the meantime maybe I had a dollar or two? Not for himself, mind you.
I gave him two twenties and stepped out onto the street. This part of town, it could still be 1940. The ancient brick buildings fill whole blocks, shut off view of the rest of the city: downtown's high-rise hotels, the Superdome. Trucks delivering foodstuffs, bread, beer, liquor and cleaning supplies thunder by. There's only the sky you see directly above you, this heavy, rumbling commerce, an occasional glimpse (high between buildings as you cross a street) of the twin-span bridge vaulting the river to Gretna and Algiers.
I crossed Canal, which not too many years ago was itself on the way to becoming a wasteland, and stopped at the Cafe* du Monde for what remains the best cup of coffee in a coffee-crazed city.
The usual gaggle of tourists, dark-eyed locals and Quarter freaks, all in ill-fitting clothes. Tabletops and floor sticky as ever from powdered sugar. Cringeful out-of-tune calliope music from behind the levee, one of the cruise ships there.
A Swamp Tours van stopped out front to retrieve dropped-off clients, backing up traffic for blocks. Across by Jackson Square, carriage mules shrugged shoulders in their livery, flicked tails and snorted. A young man bantered at passersby on the sidewalk outside, periodically breaking off to perform solo versions of a cappella hits.
I had told myself that I wouldn't spend more than half the day trying to track down Lew Griffi. Then I'd get on with what I should be doing: looking for Shon Delany. Though really I shouldn't be doing either. I should be sitting at home getting notes together for my classes, possibly taking another look at the pages I'd done for what might be
