?I ain't,? the small man whispered, ?I ain't got it no mo'.?
?Ain't got what??
?I spent it on wine, man. Yo' money is gone, brother. Gone.? Hoagland's eyes closed and then slowly opened again. ?You still here??
The odor intensified the longer Socrates stood there. He already felt that he should go home and wash away the horn-player's stench.
?Get up,? Socrates ordered. ?Get up.? He caught the soiled man by his shoulder, lifting him to his feet.
?Ow! Damn, man, what's wrong wit' you?? Hoagland was suddenly wide awake. He tried to pull away but Socrates held on to the boy-sized man. He held him at arm's length to keep from suffocating on the fumes released by lifting the wino.
?Lemme go, brother. I ain't got nuthin'. You cain't take nuthin'. Just lemme go or hit me an' leave.? Hoagland was unsure on his feet but Socrates kept him upright, then he began to walk.
?Where you goin'?? the wino protested.
But Socrates didn't answer. He dragged Hoagland Mars to a phone booth on Ninety-second and made a call to a man named after a poet.
?? and bring a tarp or sumpin' that we could put'im on, Milton,? Socrates said into the mouthpiece, ? 'cause he smell more'n a outhouse and he might vomit any minute.?
The twenty-five-year-old gold Lincoln Continental pulled up twenty minutes later. Hoagland was sleeping on the sidewalk.
?Damn, man,? Milton Langonier, semiretired gypsy cab driver, said. ?That smell might get inta the seats.?
?Just to Luvia's,? Socrates said. ?You can keep the windows open an' I'll pay ya ten bucks.?
Socrates laid the unconscious jazz man on the painter's tarp that Milton used to cover his backseat. Milton drove with all the windows and vents open. He also turned on the air conditioner and waved one free hand under his nose.
Socrates carried the man like a boy in his arms. He let the legs swing down and supported Hoagland with his right arm while he rapped on the door with his other hand.
He didn't know what to expect when Luvia saw the mess he'd brought to her doorstep. They had been at a partial truce ever since Socrates had started to pay for her monthly visits to Right Burke's grave. Socrates accompanied her, driven by Milton Langonier. He spoke very little and respected her few moments alone with the old man she'd taken care of and loved in silence.
Rail thin, and mean in a way that only some Christians seemed to master, Luvia opened the door and scowled at Socrates. She looked at Hoagland Mars dangling off the side of the ex-convict like a Siamese twin who had died and withered, leaving his brother the task of carrying him until the day that he too passed away.
Luvia didn't wrinkle up her nose or fan her face.
?This here is?? Socrates began.
?Bring him out back to the garage,? Luvia interrupted. ?I got a tub out there we could use. I usually use it for old clothes we get in but it'll do.?
She turned and walked down the narrow hallway that went through the house and out a door into a small cement yard. Across the yard was a double door that led to a garage. Therein stood two washing machines, an industrial-sized sink, and a huge iron tub lined with cracked porcelain.
Luvia connected a small red rubber hose to the spigot and tested the water between hot and cold as if she were preparing to bathe an infant.
Socrates didn't need directions to undress Hoagland. It was impossible to tell if the man, who was semiconscious at best, had any objections. Socrates stood Hoagland up in the tub and then he took the hose from Luvia and formed a weak spray by applying pressure against the spout with his huge bone-breaking thumb.
Hoagland began to laugh. He giggled and assumed modest poses like a young girl walked in upon while dressing. He squealed and turned, using his hands to cover his genitals. Finally he sat down in the tub and allowed Luvia to scrub him with an oversized sponge.
Socrates gave her the hose. She just laid it down in the unplugged basin, using it to rinse off the places that needed it. Hoagland Mars lay back in a languorous euphoria allowing Luvia to wash him and move him with