Whatever the truth, one trade-off is that I lose track of time, so when the peaceful dull murmuring of the dark basement all around me was suddenly and raucously disturbed by a grating sound followed by a loud metallic clang, I had no idea how long I’d been waiting for just such an interruption.
Despite my eyes being fully adjusted to the gloom, all I could see was the vaguest outline of a body slowly lowering itself through the coal chute, its feet outstretched and groping, until its toes touched the top of the platform. The bulky shadow of a man quickly followed, clambering handily down to the floor.
This was a moment to which I’d given some considerable thought. Hermits like John Harris are not best surprised in the dark, and I had no interest in giving a man I’d never met either a heart attack or good cause to try to kill me. I had therefore decided to let him discover me, rather than force the issue, and so I stayed as silent as before, watching him place a bundle on the ground next to him, cross the room to a spot near the door, and fumble with something invisible near the low ceiling. A small, bright spark sputtered between his hands, and a lightbulb suddenly burst to life over the toolbox.
His back still to me, he returned to the bundle, removed a six-pack of beer from its bowels, and took one step toward the toolbox.
That’s when all my planning went down the drain. Catching sight of me, Harris screamed, jumped back, dropped the six-pack, and fell head over heels over the low platform behind him.
I leaped to my feet to see what was left of him. He was wedged upside down, between the platform and the stone wall, with his head at an angle I didn’t think was survivable. His eyes looked about ready to explode, whether from fright or lack of oxygen, I wasn’t sure. The only thing I could tell, if only from the strangled breathing, was that he was still alive.
I helped topple him over onto his side, where he lay thrashing feebly. “Who the fuck’re you?” he gasped.
“Joe Gunther. I’m a cop.” I was loosening the scarf he had tightly wound around his neck, hoping I had no open cuts on my hands. The smell this man put out was starting to affect my own breathing.
“A cop. Jesus Fucking Christ. You damn near scared me to death.”
I stepped back to stop my eyes from watering. “Sorry about that. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk to me? So you hide down here? Why not walk up to me in the street?” He had struggled to a sitting position by now and was glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.
“I didn’t know where else to find you.”
There was a slight pause as we looked at each other. Finally, he pulled his cap from his head and rubbed his neck. “I could sue for brutality.”
There wasn’t much punch to the comment. “I didn’t touch you,” I answered. “Besides, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to talk.”
He considered that. “I’m not wanted for nothin’?”
“Not that I know of.”
He gave me a crooked, brown-toothed grin. “Then fuck off. Why should I talk to you?”
I returned to my padded seat and watched him slowly regain his footing. “Because it’ll be worth your while.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know what you got to tell me. A little could get you five. A lot might get you twenty.”
He took his coat off, revealing a second one under it. “Okay.”
“You know Milo Douglas?” I asked him.
“Sure. I know he’s dead, too.” Harris removed his second coat. Underneath was a ragged herringbone sports jacket. “You think he was done in?”
“Do you?”
He shrugged and took off the jacket. The next layer was a sweater. “Nah. I heard his ticker quit.”
“Were you two friendly? Had you seen him recently?”
Harris sat on the edge of his platform, still breathing hard, and retrieved one of his beers from the ground. “He was all right. Took to the life for the right reasons.”
He popped the beer can and drank deeply.
“When did you see him last?”
“A few days ago.” Harris paused to belch loudly. “Maybe a week. We were sharing a Dumpster. But he’d picked up a bit of money. Was at a restaurant the night before. ’Course, he coulda’ been bullshittin’ me.”
“He say where he got the money?”
“Nope.” Harris took a second long swallow, finishing the can. He dropped it at his feet and reached for another.
“Did Milo have a regular route?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Up Putney Road early in the week, maybe spend the night at the north end, come back the next day. He’d work Canal end of the week. Sometimes he’d go by the kitchens, dependin’ on the weather. He didn’t like hangin’ around other people.” He opened the next can and half-killed it in a swig.
“Did he ever talk about using that new construction site?”
The other man was dubious. “To sleep, you mean? I don’t know-he never talked about it.”
“Did he say the money would keep on coming? Or was it a one-shot deal?”
Harris considered that for a while. “I don’t remember the words exactly, but I thought he’d hit on somethin’ pretty good. It’s like he had the best of both worlds, you know? The freedom of the life and steady cash for the necessaries.”
He drained his second necessary and dropped it next to the first.
“We didn’t find any money on him, or with his belongings.”
He burst out laughing. “Well, shit. We get money, the last place we stash it is on us.” He smiled as he reached for a third can.
“Would the stash be nearby? Where was he living last?”
Harris drank, wiped his mouth and eyed me craftily. “Where’d you find him?”
“Storm drain under the Whetstone bridge.” He toasted me with the can, obviously beginning to feel no pain. “Bingo. But the stash wouldn’t be there-too exposed. Depends. I knew a guy once with a bank account-I shit you not.”
“You sure he didn’t say where the money came from?”
John Harris killed the third can and made a pantomime of seeming thoughtful. “What’s the meter readin’ so far?”
“Twenty if you get this last one, but it’s got to ring true.”
He smiled and removed his sweater, dazzling me with a red-and-black checked wool shirt. “He said he was set. I said nobody was. He said maybe not, but he wasn’t goin’ to live forever neither, and this would sure as shit see him that far. I flat out asked him what his scam was. But he just said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ ”
I pulled my wallet from my pocket and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “Did he say when he got lucky?”
“Nope. Like I said, it coulda been all bullshit. He was Dumpster-diving, right?”
I got up and handed him the twenty. “Thanks, Mr. Harris. You’ve been a big help.” I motioned toward the door. “By the way, I saw how you got that bulb going-good way to burn the whole place down. I’m going to get an electrician in here to put a switch in, so keep out of sight till he’s done.”
“I don’t want no fucking electrician.”
“Live with it or leave-your choice. See you around.”
It was cold and dark on the street, and well after 10 p.m. I’d waited almost six hours for Harris.
Elliot Street butts into Main, a ten minute walk from the Municipal Center. Considering where I’d just been, the fresh air, frigid as it was, had become a near-medical necessity. I walked along the well-lit, mostly empty streets with my coat open, willing the cloying heat and lingering smells to disappear. It was one of my favorite combinations of weather and time-late night in midwinter. Brattleboro was at its most benign-its businesses mostly closed, its workers dispersed to surrounding towns. It murmured of warm homes, people with their feet up and their stomachs full. Even the John Harrises were settling down, albeit less wholesomely, preparing for a comfortable night’s oblivion. When I’d been on patrol, years ago, I’d looked forward to hitting the streets near midnight, less to catch bad guys and drunks, and more to experience the peace of mind I was longing for now.