paternity. Jackie hasn't seen him for years.'
'
'Again, why wouldn't she tell the truth about that?'
'I don't know why anyone does anything,' Tyner said. 'My job is to remind you the universe of possibilities is large. Don't take anything for granted, Tess. Someone printed a file out of your computer. There are two files there, Beale's and Jackie's. Beale was sitting in your office when you arrived, declaring his innocence before anyone accused him of anything. Strange, very strange. Jackie has lied to you at least once. Who knows if she lied to you about the baby's father, if there's someone else out there who wants to find the little girl.' He thought for a moment. 'Do you keep your gun in the office?'
'Yes, in the safe. It was still there.'
'You have a license to carry. Maybe you ought to take advantage of it.'
'Oh Tyner, that's so paranoid.'
'I'd just feel better about you on Butchers Hill if I knew your gun was a little handier. What are you going to do if you walk in on the burglars next time? Say, ‘Excuse me, I just have to get something out of the safe, and then I'll be right with you.' If it is a druggie, you'll need to act swiftly. They're not rational, they might kill you out of sheer stupidity.'
Tess didn't say anything, just kept picking through the pile, still intent on finding that perfect peanut.
Chapter 11
On Sunday morning, Tess started her Treasure hunt.
Although it was on the hot side, she decided to walk, because that's how Treasure would move through the city, heading west to Beans and Bread, then back east to wherever he was squatting near Butchers Hill.
The Beans and Bread soup kitchen was only a few blocks from her own apartment. Now housed in a former synagogue, the Catholic mission had started in a tiny storefront closer to the water, just around the corner from where Tess now lived. But poverty was one of the few businesses in Baltimore that had never known a slow season, and Beans and Bread had long ago outgrown that small space.
Still, Tess wasn't prepared to see almost fifty men and women waiting outside Beans and Bread's doors at 11 a.m. on a Sunday. A broad-shouldered man in mirrored sunglasses stood with his back to the door, murmuring into a walkie-talkie. Occasionally, the door would open a crack, a woman would lean out and whisper to him and the doorman would then shout numbers to the crowd. Five to ten people would present tickets and be admitted inside. The scene was not unlike one of those New York clubs of the moment, although those waiting here were more polite.
'You can't bring your dog in here, sister.' The doorman's voice was firm, but kind. 'I'll watch him while you eat, if you like. We've got about a thirty-minute wait right now.'
'I'm not here for a meal. I'm trying to find someone who comes around here, though, a kid named Treasure Teeter.'
'Treasure Teeter?' The mirrored sunglasses stayed focused on the crowd. 'Doesn't sound familiar, but I don't know all the names. Sister Eleanor would probably know him, but she's not here today. Can it wait until tomorrow?'
'If it has to, it has to,' Tess sighed.
'You know what he looks like?'
'No, just that he's real young, about seventeen, and he may be using.'
'There's one kid who comes in here regular, but I've never heard anyone call him Treasure.' He muttered something into the walkie-talkie, listened to the static-y reply. 'Joe Lee says the guy I'm thinking of was here when the doors opened at ten. He's long gone by now, though. That's three or four seatings ago.'
An old toothless man, who wore a wool hat and heavy coat despite the warm day, sidled up to the doorman and whispered shyly in his ear. He had been on the streets so long that it looked as if dirt and grime had been baked into his skin and clothes. When Esskay tried to sniff the hem of his navy pea coat, the man shrank back in fear and scurried halfway up the block.
'What was that about?'
'Guy says he heard Bea Gaddy is giving away food today, says this kid was headed up there when he left. You know her place, over on Collington?'
The old man had creeped back toward them, rummaging in his pockets even as he kept his eyes on Esskay. Again, he whispered to the doorman, his voice so soft that Tess couldn't make out a word of what he was saying.
'Your dog bite?' the doorman asked.
'Only if you're a hot dog or a rodent.'
'See, Howard? Her dog don't bite, and I don't think she does either. Go ahead, ask the sister what you want to ask.'
The old man shook his head bashfully, then pulled a can of orange soda from his pocket and held it out to her. The back of his hands were filthy, but the palms looked recently scrubbed.
'A guy from the Superfresh donated a couple of cases of sodas today, and we're giving each diner a can as they leave,' the doorman said. 'Howard wants you to take his. Says it's a long walk over to Bea Gaddy's place, and you'll get thirsty on a hot day like this.'
Tess looked at the soda can in the gnarled hand, the yellowed, ridged fingernails rimmed with dirt. The bright orange can-America's Choice, the Superfresh's generic brand-was still beaded with condensation. It couldn't have rested in that pea coat pocket for long. She felt the doorman's eyes on her. America's Choice, her choice. She took the can, trying not to flinch when her fingers brushed against his, popped the top and took a long drink.
'Thank you, Howard,' she told the man, who began walking away from her backward, then turned and ran up the block.
'You made his day,' the doorman said.
'By taking his soda and scaring him with my dog?'
'By letting him do something for someone else. Nobody wants to be on the receiving end all the time, you know. Howard smuggles bread out of here every day, just so he can feed the birds, just so somebody will need him.'
Sure enough, Tess saw him standing in the middle of a flock of birds as she turned east on Bank Street. The pigeons and seagulls circled close to him, but he wasn't scared, she could tell. He cooed at them in their own language, crumbling the slices of bread and tossing them into the air like bright white pieces of confetti.
Although summers were a slow time for Bea Gaddy, who put most of her energy into putting on-and promoting-a Thanksgiving dinner for thousands, she kept a table outside her rowhouse for the donations that trickled in every day. Today, the table held only some sweaters and a box of used videotapes. Amazing the kind of junk people sloughed off on the local charities, Tess thought, as if they were tax-deductible dumps.
A young man was examining the videotapes with great care, as if he were at his neighborhood Blockbuster Video and choosing his night-time entertainment. Maybe he had even had a VCR once, but his wasted frame told the story of many pawnshop tickets, of a life plundered of anything that could yield a dollar or two.
'‘Dorf on Golf,'' he said, putting the tape down. 'Aw, there ain't nothing here. I heard you had TastyKakes today.'
'We did,' said a woman watching over the table, making sure people didn't carry off armloads to sell, not that these clothes would fetch much. 'You're about ten minutes too late. You know sweets go fast.'
'Aw, man.' He drew the syllables out in the fretful whine of a disappointed child, stomped his feet a bit. 'Did they have Butterscotch Krimpets? Don't tell me they had Butterscotch Krimpets.'
'Why do you care? They're gone. You're not getting any.'
'A man likes to know what he's missing. You get me? Now did they have any Butterscotch Krimpets or not?'
'I don't know,' the woman said sullenly. 'It was mostly Juniors and fried pies.'
