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
"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
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