Dick Tracy’s closing in. With Duke and Reese, that makes three hot on my trail. Now the motivation of those two neighborhood brands is as obvious as hogs in a sweet potato patch. They know my operation and want their share, or the whole damn thing. Not so Dick. He's asking questions around, and it’s got me puzzled. I normally take my noon meal at the Lovebug Grill on Rampart Street. I go in, and Leroy Henderson sets down a steaming plate of red beans and rice, two juice-popping sausages, and a cup of chicoried jake alongside that’s one of life’s joys and wonders. Now Leroy tells me some “weird, funny-talkin’ dude” has been around inquiring. It’s Dick, of course, and he’s asking all about me. Wants to know my name and anything about my background. Wants to know about my family, and Leroy, black as bituminous coal, informs him he’s my one and only brother, which sends Dick packing.
“He fuzzy,” Leroy tells me. “But he ain’t off no local peach.”
“Where from?” I ask, shoving in the beans.
“Nawth, maybe,” says Leroy. “He sound all bullshit jive — don’t talk no sent-zes. Just dis n’ dat — like Kojak.”
“Or Dick Tracy,” I add.
“Who dat?” Leroy inquires.
Now I find he’s been asking around elsewhere, talking to my customers along the route. Of course I can’t have that, because it makes some people nervous, and business is just that. Then, I consider my past and the reasons for the way things are my business. I prefer to have people think I’ve been a rustic, bearded old coot forever. It makes things simple, and if there is one thing I’ve sought my last twenty or so years of roaming about, it’s simplicity.
So what I do is I begin to stalk Dick Tracy.
I find him over on the comer of Camp and St Joseph, talking with none other than Duke and Reese. Now this crossroads happens to be one of the great hobo gathering places, not only of New Orleans, but of the entire world. And Dick’s polyester pinstripes stick out more than ever.
I come up behind him and say, "Listen, Dick, I’d like to ask you to stop bothering my customers.”
He turns around, his hawk face all gagging surprised, and nearly swallows the Lucky Strike dangling between those thin, cruel lips. “Nail it, canman,” he says, and walks away with his own personal fifty-mile-an-hour arctic tail wind pushing him along.
“Listen, Shoppin’ Cot,” says Duke, grinning, “whut choo done now?”
'‘Robbed the Poydras Whitney,” I reply and start getting out of there myself.
Reese, a scrawny, pock-faced white, as opposed to Duke’s sprawling jungle blackness, hisses, “Save it, you old geek. What are you doing down at Western Union each month? You send money out don’t you! Don’t you! Listen—”
By now, I’m vamoosed.
After that odd enough, Dick’s a little more open about things. The elusive atmosphere dwindles; that is, his sneaky ratlike demeanor calms somewhat I find that regretful, but it’s easier on the both of us. For whatever reason, he has to trudge after me all over the city, I accept it and it becomes something of a routine. I have nothing to hide, and I finally begin to enjoy our little game. Dick, it seems, has a job to do, and I've never been one to interfere with any poor soul’s livelihood.
So we strike up sort of an unspoken agreement, and it’s fine after that. Dick doesn’t have to duck foolishly down any more alleyways, and I don’t have to keep worrying about losing him in the crowd, because a tailsman he’s not. From dawn to dusk he stays close. He comes to know my pattern so well, he can drop out at any moment, say, into a bar for a cool one, then merely check his watch and head across town to catch up with me. He walks only a short distance behind me now. He smokes, chews gum, and maintains his expression of utter boredom. After introductions, my customers also greet him, which he openly resents, but, being such a prominent part of my day, I begin to worry about his feeling left out We eat together at Lovebug’s counter, although he always makes sure there’s a couple of stools between us. One day I buy him lunch, and the next day, resentfully, he returns the favor, with Leroy telling me, “Kojak say tighten up, canman.”
“Just being hospitable,” I turn to him and say. He ignores me and busies himself looking through the toothpick jar for a clean one.
Saturday nights, as is my routine, we go to the movies. For years I’ve gone to this Cuban picture show up on Magazine. They show all the old stuff up there, double-feature westerns and adventures and coppers, which I enjoy. Of course everything’s in Spanish which, initially, I see drives Dick crazy. That first time, with Don “Red” Berry up there babbling away, he sort of looks over at me and shakes his head. But after that he loosens up. The following week is Gable night and, believe me, you can hardly get a seat because of it. The first one’s a real rough-and-ready and, halfway through, I glance over and see Dick cheering things on with the rest of them. He’s sharing his popcorn, and they’re all slapping him on the back like one of the boys. During intermission I find him talking pidgin English at the candy counter, buying everyone Snickers and cold drinks, then back inside they go.
After the show a funny thing happens. Dick saunters over and says, “Cuppa jake, canman?”
“Why not,” I reply. I figure this is the big moment, anyway, so I say, “Let’s go back to my place.”
Which shocks the hell out of Dick. He’s using his little finger to pick corn kernels out of his teeth when he hesitates, then catches himself and blends it real nice. “Machts nichts, canman.” Of course I’m confused with myself, then realize I’ve had enough and want to get everything out in the open where I can see it. The truth is no one knows where I live. Not a soul. Dick knows that from asking around and reacts accordingly. Oh, he’s tried to follow me home often, but I would just get him down into the warehouse district which I know like mom’s face, and cut him loose. One night Duke and Reese were tagging along too, and it was a regular night at Mardi Gras. I stayed on the streets an hour longer than usual because I was having so much fun. And the real killer was, just as I was ready to do my Harry Houdini, this crummy Camp Street special floats by, pushing his cart. Now, it wasn’t nearly the same, but I guess the three after me were too tired to see that, and, I’ll tell you, it was a sight to behold. There he headed up River Road, which just winds on and on forever, and those three right after him. Dick didn’t show up for a day or so and was sore as hell because of it
But now I’ve got a feeling about him. I don’t know who he is or why he’s doing this, but I don’t think he means me any harm. And, if he did, I would just pack up and move on, because, like I’ve said, I stay real close to the ground.
So I take him over beneath the big New Orleans bridge and show him my compound. It’s tall Cyclone fencing, and we slip in through this rear corner. Inside is a lot of weeds and bushes, and right in the middle is my camp. What it is, is this stack of oil-well pipe. There are a dozen sections and they’re huge, each one about three feet across. I imagine by now anyone's forgotten it’s even here, because, as I’ve said, I’ve never had any visitors.
With the street lighting nearby there’s a continuous mercury vapor glow over everything, and Dick takes his time looking around. Meanwhile, I fire up the Coleman and get our coffee ready.
“Bedroom, canman?” Dick asks, peering into one section of pipe. My folded linen and accessories are within.
“I move around,” I tell him. “Get bored with one hole and move on to the next.”
Dick finds my little fluorescent camplight and clicks it on. Then he’s rummaging through my book box, reading the titles. He finally pulls out one of my port bottles. “I figured you hit it,” he says with a sneer.