mind, Tommy sitting on his duffel bag out on the sidewalk, as dazed as he’d been the afternoon he’d moved in.
***
Homer Tibbets had showed up a few weeks ago, Tommy in tow. Little Homer, a dwarf, maybe four-six, looking like a kid except for his adult’s head and torso, holding six-foot Tommy’s hand. Like a kid and his father come to collect for the United Way or something. Only Homer was the adult in this case and big Tommy was the child.
“I wundered if you still had that apartment,” Homer said. No hello, no how you been, though Deal hadn’t seen him in months, his voice, as always, surprising in its depth and resonance. Tommy goonying around like he’d been snatched out of some other dimension.
“You read about him,” Homer said, noticing Deal’s eyes on Tommy.
Deal shook his head. He had no idea what Homer was talking about.
“I found him under I-395,” Homer insisted. “With those guys froze to death.” Homer pronounced the word like
debt
.
It had begun to sink in. Something on TV, four homeless men, part of the growing brigade flooding downtown, left without shelter to huddle under a freeway overpass on the coldest night in a half-century. Three dead, one in Jackson Memorial, social agencies raising hell. There’d been no mention of Homer Tibbets in the stories Deal had seen.
“
You
found those guys?” Deal asked.
“I was on my way to the dealership.” Homer shrugged. He was referring to the downtown location of Surf Motors. Homer was a lot boy there, had been since the days when Deal’s father had traded at the place.
“They were all laid out right there by the sidewalk.” Homer shook his head. “Must have froze to death up top, where they like to hang out, slid down the concrete bank in the night. They had
frost
on their faces, you know that?”
“Christ, Homer.” Deal tried to imagine it. You stumbled across things like that in the Gulag, in screwed-up Third World countries, not in Miami. You didn’t find people dead of exposure on your way to work in Miami.
“Then I noticed this one,” Homer continued. “He looked like the Michelin Man, all puffed up. I thought maybe it’s what happens when you freeze or something. Then I realize he’s still alive.”
Deal found his eyes locked on Tommy’s. Clear blue eyes, guileless as a child’s. The man smiled and Deal nodded back.
“Next thing,” Homer said, “I ran out in front of a guy in a Mercedes, talking on a car phone—really pissed him off—made him call 911.
“So while we’re waiting for the ambulance, I figure out why Tommy is all puffed up.” Homer tugged Tommy’s hand, proud. “He’d gone and stuffed a bunch of plastic bread wrappers down his pantlegs and shirt, for insulation. EMS guys said it’s what saved his life. So now we call him Tommy Holsum, on account of the bread wrappers, you know. He’s one smart cookie, Deal.”
Tommy seemed to have drifted off somewhere, his gaze blank, his jaw slack, his head tilted as if he were tuning into a signal from a distant source.
“Did you guys want to come inside?” Deal offered.
“Funny you should ask that,” Homer said. And that’s how Tommy had come to stay.
Homer had gone on to explain: City officials, already under fire for their shameful treatment of the homeless, had latched on to Tommy in a big way. Got him the best treatment at Jackson, some plastic surgeon from Utah flew down to save his fingers and toes, blah, blah, blah. Then they enrolled him in one of these programs for guys who aren’t exactly firing on all their cylinders, set him up with a job busing dishes, enrolled him in “life-enhancement” counseling. Now he needed a place to stay.
“He ain’t all there, but he can cope in the mainstream, that’s what they tell me,” Homer said.
“You want him to live in my building?” Deal asked.
“Hey, I figure there’s worse places than Deal House, here. And HRS will pay. American money.”
The truth was, Deal had been running
***
Homer Tibbets had showed up a few weeks ago, Tommy in tow. Little Homer, a dwarf, maybe four-six, looking like a kid except for his adult’s head and torso, holding six-foot Tommy’s hand. Like a kid and his father come to collect for the United Way or something. Only Homer was the adult in this case and big Tommy was the child.
“I wundered if you still had that apartment,” Homer said. No hello, no how you been, though Deal hadn’t seen him in months, his voice, as always, surprising in its depth and resonance. Tommy goonying around like he’d been snatched out of some other dimension.
“You read about him,” Homer said, noticing Deal’s eyes on Tommy.
Deal shook his head. He had no idea what Homer was talking about.
“I found him under I-395,” Homer insisted. “With those guys froze to death.” Homer pronounced the word like
debt
.
It had begun to sink in. Something on TV, four homeless men, part of the growing brigade flooding downtown, left without shelter to huddle under a freeway overpass on the coldest night in a half-century. Three dead, one in Jackson Memorial, social agencies raising hell. There’d been no mention of Homer Tibbets in the stories Deal had seen.
“
You
found those guys?” Deal asked.
“I was on my way to the dealership.” Homer shrugged. He was referring to the downtown location of Surf Motors. Homer was a lot boy there, had been since the days when Deal’s father had traded at the place.
“They were all laid out right there by the sidewalk.” Homer shook his head. “Must have froze to death up top, where they like to hang out, slid down the concrete bank in the night. They had
frost
on their faces, you know that?”
“Christ, Homer.” Deal tried to imagine it. You stumbled across things like that in the Gulag, in screwed-up Third World countries, not in Miami. You didn’t find people dead of exposure on your way to work in Miami.
“Then I noticed this one,” Homer continued. “He looked like the Michelin Man, all puffed up. I thought maybe it’s what happens when you freeze or something. Then I realize he’s still alive.”
Deal found his eyes locked on Tommy’s. Clear blue eyes, guileless as a child’s. The man smiled and Deal nodded back.
“Next thing,” Homer said, “I ran out in front of a guy in a Mercedes, talking on a car phone—really pissed him off—made him call 911.
“So while we’re waiting for the ambulance, I figure out why Tommy is all puffed up.” Homer tugged Tommy’s hand, proud. “He’d gone and stuffed a bunch of plastic bread wrappers down his pantlegs and shirt, for insulation. EMS guys said it’s what saved his life. So now we call him Tommy Holsum, on account of the bread wrappers, you know. He’s one smart cookie, Deal.”
Tommy seemed to have drifted off somewhere, his gaze blank, his jaw slack, his head tilted as if he were tuning into a signal from a distant source.
“Did you guys want to come inside?” Deal offered.
“Funny you should ask that,” Homer said. And that’s how Tommy had come to stay.
Homer had gone on to explain: City officials, already under fire for their shameful treatment of the homeless, had latched on to Tommy in a big way. Got him the best treatment at Jackson, some plastic surgeon from Utah flew down to save his fingers and toes, blah, blah, blah. Then they enrolled him in one of these programs for guys who aren’t exactly firing on all their cylinders, set him up with a job busing dishes, enrolled him in “life-enhancement” counseling. Now he needed a place to stay.
“He ain’t all there, but he can cope in the mainstream, that’s what they tell me,” Homer said.
“You want him to live in my building?” Deal asked.
“Hey, I figure there’s worse places than Deal House, here. And HRS will pay. American money.”
The truth was, Deal had been running
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