Finding the crusties took under three minutes. They were stirring up trouble along Market Street.
Clyde and I watched them. Six grimy white boys jitter-walking up and down the sidewalk, accosting tourists and suit-clad business folks. The passersby were having none of it. Probably they knew that pulling out their wallets would invite the hyenas to circle and attack. The pedestrians averted their eyes and speed-walked on by to shouts of derision and the occasional shove meted out by the punks.
I didn’t see Rotten in the crew. Clyde and I skirted the gang and a block farther along spotted a girl sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, panhandling solo. She probably figured she’d have better luck going it alone than mobbing it with the more aggressive members of her pack. It seemed to be working. Unlike the guys, she had a nice pile of cash in her bowl. If she wasn’t careful, another crustie or an enterprising junkie would make off with it.
The girl didn’t yet have the street-hardened look. Her torn jeans were dirty but not filthy, and her lavender INY T-shirt still had most of its sequins. The tips of her dirty-blond dreadlocks were bright purple—a recent dye job. She wore pink lipstick and oversize sunglasses. Just like any girl her age might.
The cardboard sign propped in front of her read NEED $ FOR TRAIN HOME.
If she was new to the community, she wouldn’t know many folks. But she might be more willing to talk. And maybe I could give her a nudge in the direction of a shelter.
I approached and held out a twenty-dollar bill. She grabbed for it without looking up, and I pulled my hand back.
I said, “I’ll trade it for answers to a few questions.”
She wiped her nose with the back of a dirty hand. “Give me the dub and fuck off.”
Ballsy. Given her chosen line of work, that was a good thing. “A few answers, and you get not only the twenty bucks, but a good meal. And a safe place to stay, if you want it.”
“You a fucking lesbo?”
“Just a person in need of information.”
She lifted her eyes, took in my suit and shield. Her pink lips curled into a snarl. “You’re a cop.”
Couldn’t fool these kids.
She grabbed her bowl and stood, preparing to flee. But then she saw Clyde. She froze, a moment of indecision.
She wiped her nose again. “He yours?”
“We’re partners.”
She reached a tentative hand toward Clyde.
Gently, I blocked her. “Better not.”
“Will he bite?”
“He’s on duty. But if you let me buy you lunch, you can pet him. He’ll be on break.”
We walked to Union Station, the multihub train and bus depot. The girl waited outside while I ordered a couple of burgers, fries, and a milkshake. When I came back out, she was sitting on a bench near the rail lines watching a departing passenger train and chewing her lower lip. I knew what she was thinking.
Crusties hopped coal bins. Rich people rode Amtrak. Just the way it was.
I sat next to her on the bench, comfortable knowing for the first time that day that my reek of chicken slime couldn’t hold a candle to weeks of street living.
I handed her the paper bag. “You got a name?”
“Purple.”
“A real name?”
“Purple.” She opened the bag. “This all for me?”
“However much you want.”
The first burger was gone almost before she unwrapped it. She took the second burger more slowly.
“He’s a mal, right?” she asked between bites. “I had a mal when I was a little girl. Or my stepdad did. Tom was an asshole, but Loki was a good dog.”
I motioned Clyde to sit, then unbuckled his vest, signaling a break from his workday. The girl wiped her greasy hands on her pants, and I showed her how to introduce herself, then scratch Clyde under the chin. Clyde rolled his eyes at me, but he tolerated the girl’s attention like a pro.
Purple rubbed Clyde’s shoulder. “How do you get a dog like this one?”
“He’s a former military working dog. Sometimes people can adopt them.”
“Not street kids.”
“You need a stable home first.”
Purple gave Clyde a final pat, then leaned back on the bench and chewed through the french fries. When they were gone, she pushed her sunglasses up on her head. Her expression was soft and loose—food and a little time with an animal can do that.
“You could go almost anywhere from here, couldn’t you?” Her voice was wistful.
I nodded. “Anywhere a train goes.”
“Wish I had money to buy that kind of ticket.”
“My dad used to ride the rails. He taught me how to catch out when I was just a kid.”
She blinked. “No shit?”
“No shit. You from Denver?”
“California. I’ve been in Denver a couple of weeks. I’m gonna catch out pretty soon.”
“Any place in particular?”
“There’s a rock festival in North Carolina next month. Might go there.”
“Long way to go for a concert.”
“I like the music scene.” She gave a shrug with one skinny shoulder, and a tattooed butterfly on her neck fluttered briefly. “I’m gonna settle down one of these days. Get a grown-up life. A house with a yard and a dog. A mal, like yours. Kids. Some guy who thinks I’m amazing. He and I can make the kids eat their vegetables and argue about who’s going to pick up the dog shit. Normal stuff, you know?”
She hugged herself, rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms. When her face softened, she looked like the teenager she was. Someone who should be painting her nails at a sleepover and giggling over her latest crush.
Few things were harder than pretending to be tough when the street hadn’t yet kicked you across that line.
I pulled out a business card for a friend of mine who ran a shelter and offered it to her.
Purple took it, shrugged, stuffed it in her back pocket.
