Bum's Rush

center}Chapter One{{/center}



He needed to talk to God today. He needed to ask for patience. Only God could perform that miracle.

Half listening to grandma, Jack Troy grunted on cue as he mentally ticked off the events that had befallen him since he’d climbed out of bed that morning with a migraine: A cold shower, the water heater had given out after twenty-five years, a flat tire at five-thirty a.m., and the annual graveyard visit had started it out. His secretary called in sick, and his computer crashed just before the Board of Director’s meeting. The meeting itself, where he’d spelled hot coffee on himself, and in his haste to keep from sustaining second degree burns, had knocked over the Public Address system. The dark roasted smell still rose from his lap. Until now, the remainder of the day had passed without more mishaps. Now, here he sat listening to Grandmother.

Jack sat back in the softness of his leather chair with the phone trapped between shoulder and ear. He threw his arms over his head and rolled his eyes. It seemed fitting that grandma would call and lament the loss of her only son, and to her way of thinking, her youngest grandson.

He and Ancel had met grandma and grandpa that morning for their annual visit to their parent’s grave. It wasn’t that he didn’t have deep religious convictions, Mom had seen to that, but, hey, they weren’t there anymore, and he didn’t believe they haunted their own graves. His brother wanted to commemorate the passing less each year, but grandma had insisted. To accommodate all their schedules, they congregate at the gravesite at six a.m. Their parents couldn’t have picked a colder day to die.

He glanced at his watch. In ten minutes, Tranny’s Transmission closed, and his car would be impounded for the night. In thirty minutes, he had to meet with old college friends for dinner. In an hour and a half, he had to be home to check his brother’s homework.

His grandmother sobbed into the phone, “It seems like yesterday, Jackie.”

“I know, Grandma,” Jack said. The last six years had gone by fast, and the years had dulled the pain for him, not for her. He let her mourn because losing a child at any age had to be one of life’s harshest ordeals.

“We never even got to say goodbye,” she said.

“I know, Grandma,” he repeated. Much more than “goodbyes” had been left unsaid between him and his father. Jack regretted that the most.

“I tried to talk Ancel into spending the night with us, but he declined,” she said.

“That boy spends much too much time alone, Jackie. He should stay with us after school, or I should be there when he comes home like I used to before you allowed him to believe he didn’t need a sitter anymore.”

Here it comes.

“We should keep him here, where he’ll be supervised, during the week while you tend to business. You need a normal life, dear. You should have married that pretty blond girl, what was her name?”

“Penelope,” Jack said. They had this conversation at least once a week. As if continually putting Penelope in front of him would erase the fact she had married his best friend. He knew his grandmother wasn’t daft, so why couldn’t she remember Penelope’s name?

“Your grandfather and I should have been great-grandparents by now.”

“Grandma, Ancel is fifteen. By the time basketball practice is done, he’s only home alone for an hour, and he knows he’d better have his homework done before I get home. He’s fine.” He avoided her reference to his personal life. What woman would want to live with an angry man and a troubled teen?

“Humph,” she said.

Once or twice a week, Jack had to atone for the sins of his parents who dared to specify him as Ancel’s guardian in their will. That their only son had not named them as guardians irked his grandmother to no end, and she blamed that on his mother’s influence. To Jack’s shame, it had irked him as well. He had almost allowed his grandmother to persuade him to give the boy over, but Ancel had thrown himself into Jack’s arms and launched a heart-wrenching bid to stay with his big brother. Now Jack knew, if he hadn’t stood firm with his grandparents, Ancel would have remained a stranger to him. Though, at fifteen, Ancel had given him days when he regretted that decision. 

“Grandma, I really have to go. My car is in the shop, and it closes in a few minutes.”

#

Frozen arctic air filled Jack’s lungs as he stepped from his office building to the plaza. With his day, contracting pneumonia might add a little variety and possibly garner a little sympathy for himself. On second thought, that kind of attention might come back and bite.

He shuddered and sniffed the diesel fumes and motor oil that mingled with the faint odors of cigarette smoke and body odor.

Mist fell like pin points on his exposed skin. He stopped to slip on his fir-lined, leather gloves and gazed at the sky. Cold drops fell like soft dew on his face.

The most beautiful architecture in the world loomed above the streets. Some of it, his father had been responsible for. Just that morning he’d read that Portland had been named one of the top five most livable cities in the country.

He glanced at the panhandler, only a few feet from him. The man’s stench had a kick. It’s not so livable for the hundreds of homeless in this town.

Jack shivered, even his heavy Brooks Brother’s overcoat failed to keep out the damp. Of all the days he could have dropped his car off to have his transmission serviced, he had to pick the coldest damn day of the year—typical.

While he wrestled his gloves over fingers tingling from heat loss, he watched a city crew hang a colorful candy cane on a light pole. Christmas lights twinkled from the bare branches of trees that lined the sidewalk. With Thanksgiving a month away, and early bird sales in the offering, the retailers would rake in pre-Christmas bucks.

Jack took a step then stopped to watch the beggar. The man used a Styrofoam cup like an alms tray. Jack marveled he could stand the cold with the lightweight jacket he wore. The green backpack strapped to his shoulders surely offered some warmth as did his stocking cap, yet he visibly shivered with each gust of wind.

He didn’t look like your normal whacked out bum, in fact, he could have passed for a college student. His dark stocking cap all but hid his face. Only his slightly hooked nose and green, watchful eyes were visible. He gazed at each passerby with frank boldness and offered his cup, but he spoke not a word. Most people ignored him, but once he caught their eye, they seemed captivated. As Jack watched, several people contributed to the beggar’s collection. They were rewarded with a humble smile.

The man turned his intense gaze on Jack, drawing him in, but a fresh blast of wind blew Jack’s breath away and broke the spell.

Tranny’s, remember?

By the clock tower clock, he had five minutes. He took his cell phone from his belt to call them. He’d be cutting it close.

Something slammed into Jack with the force of a jousting pole. He grunted and staggered as a million watts of electricity passed through his body. The phone skittered on the sidewalk, and he clutched his shoulder. Someone screamed, then someone else. He looked around at the commotion, but his vision had gone fuzzy; he felt lightheaded, and a shrill ringing in his ears deafened him

Jack looked at his hand and saw blood. That's strange. His heart spiked in his chest. He'd been shot, damn it; he was going to die.

He opened his eyes, dazed, lying on his back on the cold ground, and confused—Topsy turvy, one moment there, the next moment here staring up into the face of a stranger.

#

The tall man stared at him, his expression non–judgmental, and. his attire flawless with expensive overcoat, leather gloves and highly polished shoes. The outfit could buy Skip a year’s worth of meals. Impressed, Skip could imagine the man stepping off the cover of a Gentleman’s Quarterly magazine. He’d never seen anyone so well put together.

A gust of frosty wind hammered his face. He turned, pulled his coat closer around him, and closed his eyes against the ceaseless, bitter chill that penetrated deep into every pore. This is bullshit; he’d die of exposure before he’d starve to death. He decided to quit for the day and head for cover.

A muffled crack sheared through the mist and reverberated off the surrounding buildings. At first it sounded like a car backfire, then someone screamed, then someone else. Chaos erupted as people scrambled.

Skip froze, his numb fingers tightened around the Styrofoam cup as blood roared into his ears and his heart crashed into his chest. He stuffed the cup in his coat pocket, crushing it, and turned to run.

A man fell into his arms knocking him backwards. He clawed at the man’s body and hit the sidewalk hard. Dead weight crushed him as effectively as a refrigerator falling from a second story window. His lungs deflated, his vision blurred, and nothing happened when he opened his mouth to breathe. His immediate danger wasn’t the gunman, but the crushing weight of the GQ man on top of him.

Desperate for air, he thrashed until his lungs inflated, and he inhaled with an explosive gasp. Squirming and twisting, he managed to extract himself from under the human slab, expecting to see the plaza littered with corpses. No dead bodies, no live bodies either, just he and this one dead guy.

Skip glanced down. The man stared back at him—not dead. A faint scent of citrus and sandalwood drifted past Skip’s nose as he reached down to help the man to his feet. The GQ guy had passed out or maybe died.

It sucks to be you. The man’s chest rose and then fell. Shit. Skip stepped away, the man was nobody to him, but then he stopped, his dead mother’s words a marquee behind his eyes, “Some have entertained angels unawares.” Maybe, but this angle had a powerful enemy, that, or just bad luck.

Skip stooped over the man, pulled his overcoat and jacket open, and rocked back on his heels. Blood had turned the man’s blue shirt scarlet. Skip shrugged his backpack off and unzipped it with trembling fingers, yanked out his spare shirt and applied pressure to the wound. Sweat beaded his forehead, and frustration angered him at his inability to call out for help.

#

Jack didn’t have the strength to open his eyelids. His bed had the consistency of stone, ice age stone. A sudden rash of perspiration beaded his forehead, yet a chill ran through his blood. He tried to reach up to wipe the perspiration away.

Pain, big pain, and increasing like waking up with a headache that swells and throbs . . . my God, his shoulder was on fire.

He opened his eyes and squinted into a perfect halo of light surrounding a head directly above him. An angel.

Pressure against his shoulder eased the pain, his vision increased by degrees and features; a dark stocking cap, a hooked nose, a scraggly beard, and green eyes. Jack identified the stench before he recognized the bum and recoiled.

The bum gave him a sharp look and shook his head, his eyes filled with concern.

He’s just a boy. The kid was skittish and watchful. “What happened?” Jack said. His voice sounded far away and raspy to his ears. The boy didn’t respond. Jack opened his mouth to ask again, then he heard the siren.

#

Skip flinched and nearly sprang to his feet at the sound of sirens. He’d been dodging the cops for a year, he’d be damned if he’d let them get him now. He grabbed the man’s hand and forced it against the shirt compress, holding it hard for emphasis and nodded his head, hoping to covey the urgent message. In spite of the man’s dazed confusion, he seemed to understand and held fast.

At the curb, the cop car slowed to stop. Skip knew the stranger wouldn’t understand, but he had to try. He mouthed the word, “sorry” and drew a circle over his heart.

“Put your hands on your head, and step away,” the policeman shouted, his gun already removed from his holster.

Skip froze. The cop thought he shot this guy. He couldn’t tell him he hadn’t, and since the cop had a big black cannon pointed at his chest, Skip had to comply. Another cop, making his way around the cruiser, had already pulled his cannon.

Skip locked eyes with the injured man, gripped the straps of his backpack, and slowly stood, as if obeying orders. He could see blood had saturated through the man’s shirt. Someone had better staunch the flow soon, or he would pass out. Another step back, he turned and dashed around the corner of Sixth and Morrison.

The policeman’s heavy footfalls sounded behind him. He didn’t think the man would shoot him, but ran across the street on an amber pedestrian light to put car and foot traffic between them. He had to push his way through several people.

“Hey, watch it,” a man yelled.

“What the,” another man said.

Those coming toward him parted, letting him pass. Skip glanced over his shoulder. The policeman, dashed through Skip’s trail unencumbered by pedestrians. He had gained ground.

Angling off the walk into Pioneer Square, Skip navigated around the front of Nordstrom’s Department store and brushed against a woman in front of Starbucks.

“Asshole,” she shouted.

He ran down the steps of the amphitheater three at a time, his breathing labored, and his lungs frozen. At the bottom, he made a sharp right and peered back. The cop had stopped his pursuit, busy talking on the microphone on his shoulder. Skip kept walking with the crowd, keeping their pace, blending in. Across the street at the alley entrance of the courthouse, he stepped into the shadows.

An ancient bag lady waddled in behind him. He wasn’t surprised. She was never far away.

“Hurry,” she whispered, as she pulled him toward the opposite end of the alley. She slowed and tucked her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow before they emerged back on the sidewalk. Arm and arm they walked as if on an evening stroll. Skip pulled his stocking cap off and kept his face hidden behind his long hair just as another cop car rounded the corner with its lights flashing. He held his breath until the car disappeared.

Chapter Two

They waited in the shadows for the police to finish their search of the garage. Then Skip and his companion made their way to the top floor to check on the injured man’s progress.'

He glanced at the woman; her weight heavy on his arm. Days like this, her arthritis burdened her. She called herself Lilith and refused to give a surname. “Only reason for a last name so’s the Feds can spy on you,” she’d say.

Like today, it had been bitterly cold. Lilith had found him huddled in an alley behind a dumpster. Had it been a whole year? Though Loopy and smelly, he’d grown used to her. He wouldn’t have survived if she hadn’t mothered him and taught him the secrets of survival. She never made a big deal over his refusal to talk and had picked up enough sign language to understand him.

Skip stared at the ground as they walked and half listened to Lilith’s banter about something that didn’t interest him. Suddenly, she stopped; he did too. Through his tangled hair, he spotted a man with menacing dark eyes. The way the shadows fell on the man’s face, gave Skip the heebie-jeebies. The sinister look and his dark clothing reminded Skip of a mobster from the old time movie era his mother had enjoyed watching.

The man’s cologne, a pleasing vanilla scent, sweetened the air. They needed to be away from this daunting stranger. He took Lilith by the elbow and led her around the back of an SUV as far from the man as the garage would allow and permit them to peer over the railing.

Skip watched the man until he turned and disappeared into an elevator. He relaxed and shrugged out of his backpack, then helped Lilith shed hers. They looked down on the chaos below where police and ambulance lights flashed erratically.

Lilith shaded her eyes with a gnarled hand and whispered, “It’s enough to cause a seizure,”

The paramedics lifted the gurney with the stranger and his arsenal of attached IV bags. Skip sent up a thank you to a God he wasn’t on speaking terms with.

Lilith patted him on the back and said, “You’re going to be a doctor some day my boy, just as soon as we get you off the streets.”

Her faith in him touched him, and he appreciated her for it. She still prattled on about his future. In a few more sentences she would have him promoted to President of the United States.

“I seen what you done for that man,” she said. “That was real nice of you, son. Your momma would be proud of you.”

His “Momma.” a lump formed in his throat. She had died two years before. He hadn’t had time to mourn before the state hustled him away and lost him in the foster home system. Sometimes at night, cold and alone, he would think of her and cry, just a little.

People began filing into the garage to retrieve their cars, chattering among themselves, animated and nervous. Lilith pulled Skip behind a support beam out of sight.

The exhaust from too many engines in the semi-enclosed area had become cloying. He leaned out over the railing for fresh air. By now, the emergency vehicles had pulled away, their flashing lights revealed their progress through the clogged city streets. Police were still down there talking to people and taking notes.

“Come on boy, it’s not safe up here anymore. Let’s go.”

Skip shrugged his shoulders, picked up his pack, and followed the old lady. Something bounced off Skip’s foot, into the wall, and ricocheted back in his path. He bent and picked it up, examined it, then shoved it in his pocket. Could the police have missed this?

Chapter Three

Golden light softened the pastoral wood floors and walls of Sam’s Eatery. Cole Sigaphoose stood inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. He considered the dark mahogany bar with the traditional mirrors, posters, and ornaments, and wondered if he should grab a brew before facing the inevitable. A beer would go good about now. He hadn’t had alcohol in over three years.

He glanced at his watch, then scanned the restaurant. Twenty minutes late, no excuse, either made up, or truth would suffice.

There she was. Penelope, stunning, as always, even with the familiar scowl on her lovely face. Like the sow and the thoroughbred, she pulled the rabble out of him, raising him to a higher station just by association. Under the surface, the crass, uncultured boy from the slums still lurked.

He took a deep breath, and waved. At her table, he bent to kiss a cold, indifferent cheek—better than a slap in the face.

A waitress took his drink order, “Coke, and another wine for the lady.” he said.

He folded his elbows on the table and leaned toward his wife and said, “You’re mad.”

She looked at her watch—her hand tremble.

“Cole, I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes. Jack’s not even here, and he’s never late.”

Jack, the first thing out of her mouth. Her wrath would have been preferable. Anger threatened all his good intentions, but he pushed it back and swallowed it hard.

“Did you forget he had to pick up his car? I’m Sorry to disappoint you. I tried to be as late as possible so you’d have an opportunity for an intimate moment with your ex.”

Her expression turned from a scowl to disgust. “Don’t start that, Cole. I simply forgot, is all.”

“In case you might have been worried about me, I was detained in traffic; someone had a damn heart attack or something. Traffic was backed up, emergency vehicles were all over the place. Jack probably got caught up in it, too.”

She didn’t speak while the waitress brought their drinks. Penelope didn’t touch hers; Cole took a greedy swallow of his.

Her demeanor changed, the anger forgotten for a moment. “Actually, I’m glad Jack is late. I wanted to talk with you alone, anyway, and now is as good a time as any.”

“Oh? That can’t be good. You, wanting to talk to me,” he said with his best grin.

“Cole, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t separate for awhile?”

His stomach tied in a hard knot. She had blind-sided him.

“I’m getting tired of your little innuendoes about my feelings for Jack,” she continued. “If you feel this kind of bitterness, why are you friends with him? Do you give him the same parcel of crap about me?”

“No,” he said. Anger bypassed grief and served up jealousy. “He doesn’t feel anything for you, Penny. He hardly ever mentions you and when he does, it’s in reference to us both. And I’m friends with him because I love the guy. He’s like a brother.”

Tears welled in her eyes and her voice shook. “I have no romantic feelings for Jack. He and I have been friends far longer than you and he. And what was between us ended six years ago. I’m getting tired of fighting over it.”

Cole cringed. It had started last night, a fight, another one, a bad one. As she dusted the fireplace mantle, she had come across the picture of Jack and his brother that had been there since last summer. She’d lingered over it, and Cole didn’t resist the urge to remark.

She threw the picture at him. He ducked, and it smashed against the wall behind him cutting a slice out of Jack's face. It had been an ugly fight, one where she listed the brutal details of Cole’s shortcoming. He ended up sleeping on the couch.

He didn’t for a moment believe she had no romantic feelings for his best friend. Jack had ended it with her when his parents died. It had broken Penelope’s heart, and he knew the scar still ran deep. He also knew he shouldn’t rub salt in that wound, but watching her pine for someone else pained him. With Jack out of their lives, she might forget about him.

Cole didn’t reply. She opened her mouth to speak just as his cell phone blared out, “Walk this Way,” by Aerosmith. Saved by the bell, he snatched it out of his pocket, “Sigaphoose.”

#

Still dressed in sterile scrubs, the surgeon approach Detective Shade, of the Newport Police, and said, "It went well. We’re keeping him in a coma. It’s the fastest way for him to heal pain free.”

“Did he have any identification?” Shade asked.

”He was barely clothed when they brought him in,” the Doctor said.

“Did anyone ask him his name?”

“Yes, of course,” The doctor thumbed through some papers on a clipboard, read through them, then said, “According to the admitting emergency room doctor, he was agitated and largely inarticulate. He didn’t give his name, but he claims his two brothers threw him off a cliff into the ocean for money. He didn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t remember how he survived the fall. That’s all it says here. That’s why you were called"

“What about the brothers? Did he mention their names?”

“Not according to this report,” the doctor said.

“Did he say anything else about the money?”

“As I have already said, the report says he didn’t elaborate.”

The doctor showed signs of exaggerated patience. Shade didn’t care. “Anything else?” he asked.

“No sir, here’s the doctor’s report. You can talk to him.”

Shade took the paper from the doctor and read it. He looked up and said, “My report says an older couple found him tangled in seaweed. Obviously, he had been washed up on shore or someone went to a lot of trouble making it look like that. Had he been shot or stabbed?”

“No gunshot wounds, no stab wounds. His whole body is in trauma. The perpetrators would have, rightfully, assumed he had died in the fall. No weapons would have been necessary. Why he is still alive is the biggest mystery.”