But Homer also stood out because, in a community of fragmented minds and souls, he'd managed to keep some part of himself intact. On an outreach shift a few years ago, I'd turned my back on a bulky schizophrenic living out of a park utility shed, and the guy had taken a swing at my head. Homer, who'd followed along with me in hopes of free lunch, had tried to flop on his shoulders but misjudged his jump and landed on a water fountain. The guy rang my bell pretty hard before I recovered and subdued him with the help of a coworker. Homer seemed utterly unshaken by the episode; his only injury was where he'd hit his funny bone on the water fountain's spout. He'd shrugged off my gratitude, but I'd never looked at him the same. Whoever said it was the thought that counts was sure as hell right when it came to going up against a 280-pound schizo off his risperidone.
I hurried into the store, Homer at my heels, and snatched a Los Angeles Times from the stack. "Have you eaten?" I asked.
"No."
"If I give you a couple more bucks, will you buy a sandwich?"
He nodded his head.
"Come on, then." I detoured to the refrigerated aisle, and Homer perused the selections with maddening thoroughness. Hacmed watched us closely from behind the counter. "How's an Italian sub sound?" I asked, shifting the cash on my back and trying to move things along.
"A lotta fat in mortadella," Homer said.
"Do you have one in the back without mortadella?" I called over.
"For Jesus sake, Homer, is there not expression about beggar and chooser?" Hacmed looked at me and I looked back, and he sighed and went through a curtain that looked like something from a drive-through car wash.
While Homer waited at the counter, staring at the alcohol cabinet, I searched out the prepaid cell phones and grabbed a few from the hook. Hacmed returned, and we paid and walked out, Homer sliding the pint of whiskey into a ragged pocket and munching away, bits of bread clinging to his beard.
"Can I get a shower?" he asked.
"Thursdays only," I said. "That's the deal. You can wait until tomorrow."
"I don't see what the difference is."
"The difference is, if you shower whenever you want at my place, then you can start paying rent or putting out."
"Okay. Tomorrow." He slid down the wall, kicking his legs out at a flung-doll angle, and readied himself for the next passerby. "Do I look sufficiently abject?"
I gave him the thumbs-up and rushed home, reading the paper. Front and center, the article about the San Onofre face-off was vague, all quotations coming from "high-placed government officials." It mentioned neither Charlie/Mike Milligan nor me. A terrorist whose name couldn't be released due to security considerations had been thwarted in a plot to blow up the nuclear power plant. Bland as the story was, it had pushed the debate roundup, more flattering to Caruthers, to below the fold.
Evelyn Plotkin was in the lobby sorting through her mail and dumping the flyers into the trash bin. She had on a neck brace.
"Evey. Are you okay?"
She was holding her eyeglasses up before an envelope, but she let them fall back around her neck. "Not really. I'm feeling very weak. I haven't eaten all day."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want my mouth to be full of food if you should call to let me know you were all right."
I'd already hurried into the elevator, but I dug deep for patience, shouldered out, and walked over. She appraised the small wound on my face with heightened gravity, then gave me a warm, clutchy hug, the kind only mothers give.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Who did that to you?"
"The Secret Service. There was a mix-up. They confused me for someone else." I got on the elevator again but stuck my foot out just before the doors closed. "By the way, did one of the agents call you to apologize?"
She looked at me like I was out of my mind, then laughed.
The elevator closed, shutting me in with my anger at Sever for ignoring my only request. I rode up, the rucksack sitting heavily on my shoulder. The hoarded cash likely took Charlie out of whistle-blower contention, which meant that his involvement was less than honorable. Given the two $10,000 stacks with matching purple bands Charlie had brought with him to San Onofre, I figured he'd started with two hundred grand. A heist? Extortion money? Terrorist funds? Or a payment? For what service? Aside from $180,000 and a key, Charlie had barely left behind an imprint. He was a phantom. A cipher.
None of that troubled me much. His association with Frank did.
The crime-scene tape across my dark doorway reminded me of the mess awaiting me. I yanked it down and stepped in, dumping the rucksack.
A rustle startled me around, the shadow on my wrecked couch resolving slowly as a feminine form, and then Induma's voice came out of the darkness. "Love what you've done with the place."
"Jesus, you scared the hell out of me." I righted a tipped-over floor lamp and clicked it on. "Why didn't you turn on a light?"
