Dante's Poison by Lynne Raimondo

had a special reason for looking after his welfare, so after fruitlessly calling his name a few times, I went over to ask Richard, the security guard, if he knew what was going on.
    â€œNope. I haven’t seen him since last week,” Richard said. “You worried about him?
    I nodded. For as long as I’d worked there, Mike had never missed a day of selling Streetwise , the newspaper put out by a local homelessness-empowerment group. Somewhere in his sixties, Mike was known to all the building’s occupants for his brightly colored tie-dyed clothing and irrepressible gold-toothed smile. Living on the streets wasn’t good for his health, and recently I’d noticed a rattle in his chest that wasn’t there six months ago. I’d been trying to get him upstairs to be examined by one of my colleagues, but so far he’d steadfastly refused, explaining that he’d wait until the new state health exchange was up and running to see a doctor. Mike, I’d come to learn, hated all forms of charity.
    â€œI’m worried about the old man too,” Richard said. “Did you know he used to play backup for Buddy Guy?”
    â€œNo kidding. How’d he get from there to the streets?”
    â€œThe usual. Got hooked on smack and did a fiver at Dixon, where he got cornered and shanked in a fight. Messed up his fret hand so he couldn’t play anymore. When he got out, Buddy offered him work doing odd jobs at Legends, but Mike was too proud to take it, and there isn’t a whole lot of other work out there for ex-cons. Had a wife once, but she divorced him when he went to prison.”
    I was surprised. “How’d you get him to tell you all that?” I’d also learned from experience that Mike didn’t like to talk about himself.
    â€œI didn’t. I recognized him on the back of an old album cover when I was at Jazz Record Mart and did some asking around at the clubs. I play blues guitar myself, and a few of the old-timers filled me in on the story. Sucks, doesn’t it?”
    I agreed. “Do you think any of them will know what’s happened to him?”
    â€œI doubt it, but it can’t hurt to ask. Want me to make a few calls?”
    â€œI’d really appreciate it. If he doesn’t turn up soon, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
    â€œNo sweat. Give me a couple of hours until I get turned loose here, and I’ll see what I can find out.”
    â€œThanks,” I said. “If you do hear anything, will you call me right away?” I pulled out a business card and pen and scribbled my home phone number on the back. “Here if you can’t get me on my cell. Even if it’s the middle of the night, I’d rather find out that he’s OK. And while we’re at it, why don’t you put your number in my cell, too.” I handed him my card and my phone.
    â€œYou betcha,” Richard said, taking them and observing that my handwriting wasn’t half-bad.
    â€œCatholic school,” I said. “My knuckles are still smarting from Sister Ursula’s ruler.”

    Before heading upstairs, I stopped at the Argo Tea franchise in the lobby for my morning caffeine jolt, listening on my phone to the baseball stats while I waited on line. The Mets appeared to be gearing up for yet another epic September fail, with series against the Nationals, Braves, and Phillies on the horizon and their star hitter in a slump after catching a mysterious disease that team doctors had first diagnosed as jungle fever. At least they got the fever part right.
    I arrived at my office just in time to find Yelena exiting in a cloud of Obsession. It was one of her signatures, along with a shoe collection that would have done Imelda Marcos proud.
    â€œâ€˜But soft, methinks, I scent the morning air,’” I said.
    Yelena snorted. “Not Hamlet again.”
    â€œIt’s not cheerful enough for you? Maybe you’d prefer