One

I used to be like you. 

I used to figure that just fine was good enough for me. My dream was a solid, boring 5-day 9-to-5; a quick few at the bar and back home to the wife and kids. The American dream: three hots, a cot and the odd bit of the old familiar. I wished for nothing fancier than a sturdy rope hammock in my own backyard, with the sun shining through my lemonade and the bees buzzing over my head. I used to want for so little, it hurts to think about it now.

But once you've been bum-rushed by fate -- been held under the microscope, dissected, judged by everyone you see, then thrown in a dark, dark hole for half your life -- you find yourself adapting to suit your situation. You realize that good enough just isn't in your purview. That's when you learn the meaning of compromise.

I hadn't been in town but five minutes before the cop had me sussed. He kind of sidled up to me there on the sidewalk, thumbs hitched in his belt. He wore a pinched smile on his big red Irish face.

"Who goes there?" he said, his jowls all ajiggle, full of fat man's mirth. He used his heavy accent to sound friendly, but his eyes were cold.

I put my hands in my pockets, and when I turned to meet him I didn't look him directly in the eyes. I made my jaw slack and tried to keep my face expressionless. You see, the key to dealing with cops is to make yourself humble before them, to not make them jumpy. Like in the wild, you're pissing in their scrape - so it's only natural to act a little cowy when they catch you doing it.

"Hello, sir." I said meekly. I spoke to him the way I'd speak to a parole officer; or the way a negro would speak to any white man in the deep south. He looked me up and down with a look of distaste, made sure I saw him doing it. His hand just casually wandered up to the baton handle at his waist. The fingers lingered there, gently tapping.

"I asked you a question, bub. Let's see some ID." the Irish said, motioning with his bushy copper-colored eyebrows. His breath smelled of sour mash, and his bulbous red nose was dripping with sweat. He was a hard case, and I'd have to take care not to rub him wrong -- worst case scenario, he'd be showing me the business end of that baton. I kept my head low, like a whipped dog.

I spoke calmly, though I already knew how it would end.

"I'm sorry, sir. I do believe I've lost my wallet." I said.

He made a dry noise in his throat that wasn't quite a chuckle.

"A likely story." 

I clenched my fist in my pocket. He had his hand on my elbow before I could get another word in.

"Let's go."

The lockup was a drab, gray affair (like all county lockups). It was cramped and smelled like an unwashed monkey cage. The toilets didn't work and the floor was covered in daytime drinkers and migrant pea-pickers. In my experience, I've found that most half-developed towns are never much for asthetics, and so usually put more thought into the appearance of their bus stations than their hoosegows. Not that I minded. I was certainly more accustomed to these accommodations than those of any hotel. Experience has also taught me that, if you want to get the dish on any town -- especially the down and the dirty -- the jailhouse is as good a place as any to start.

I was bunking in a faintly odorous cell with an old salt by the name of Whitey McAffe. He was a regular guest there, and seemed to fit the bill as town drunk; his gin blossoms were bright as Spring flowers, his pores as big as needle heads. He spoke too close to my face -- spitting, with breath that could cut paint -- but I enjoyed his company, such as it was. He was loud, with a Boston accent and a crazy shock of untamed white hair that swallowed most of his head. The rheumatism made him look like he was always on the verge of tears. The bum was quick to pal up to me, although that might've had more to do with my cigarettes than my personality.

He'd lived in this podunk hellhole for half his life, and I genuinely pitied him. He'd used to be a ticket-taker on the commuter train or some damn thing, back in Chicago. He'd skipped bail on an assault and battery, hitching out West with the promise of fortunes in the hills of San Bernadino, but that had gone bust right out of the gate (a partner in this venture had ripped him off). After that, he'd wandered up and down the Pacific seaboard until finally settling in Modesto. He complained that he could never hold a job for longer than a week (it might've had something to do with his breath), but that Modesto was a good panhandling town. There was always someone willing to stake him for a drink. 

"Probably ridden a train or two through here. Nice place, weather's nice." He was thoughtfully picking his nose as he spoke. "Lots of big shots, though. Used to be a mining town, back in the oughts. Lots of old money."

We were about halfway through my pack of Lucky Strikes before I really got interested in what he was saying. The conversation seemed to pick up every time he lit a new one. He told me about one big shot in particular, Henry Reed -- a selfish b*****d, one of those types that's never happy with what he's got. Unhappy if someone isn't squirming under his thumb. Had his fingers in all kinds of pies: politics, unions, police. Hell, the guy was even a Freemason. Henry was a hayseed when he first landed here, an Ioway tramp, still picking corn weevils out of his hair when he fell off the truck. But in a town like this it could only work in his favor. He spent years shaking the right hands, greasing the right palms. He made a big noise. Henry had even been vice mayor up until he married a prostitute from South Dakota. It was a real scandal, and about the most exciting news to hit this place since westward expansion. Although he'd lost favor with the fine, churchgoing biddies on the welcoming committee, he'd already bought his way into the pocket of every fatcat in town. Money always takes to money.

The geezer was out of breath by the time he got this out, and he looked just about done in. I put him to bed ever so gently and thanked him for his time.

I had some thinking to do, and the smell of raw onion and rye wasn't helping any.

I stepped out into the sunshine on the courthouse lawn, 20 dollars poorer but rested. On the sidewalk, some lemon-faced granny tried to wish me a good morning, but I spit at her feet and walked on.

I had an address. Seeing as how Main Street wasn't any longer than ten blocks, I wouldn't be needing further direction.

The w***e worked at a hair salon on Sandusky Avenue. I didn't look the type to just wander into a beauty parlor, so I stopped at a soda fountain to clean myself up first.

I sized up the character in the mirror and didn't like what I saw. It was no wonder the cop had collared me so quick.

I usually cut a fairly handsome profile, but the hard times were starting to show. My head was normally square and wide, like a boxer's, but my steady diet of potatoes and rotgut had reduced it to a sack of bones. My face was half sunburned from the bus ride, so I also looked like a part-time peapicker. I hadn't shaved for maybe three days, which only made my sunken, hungry face look all the more desperate. My clothes were fit for washrags. It wasn't going to be easy, but I felt up to a challenge.

"Howdy," I said, letting her see my teeth. Her face was just fine for her line of business. She was heavier than I usually like, but it suited her. Plus her hair was red. I've always liked red hair. Her corset was cinched so tight that her cleavage was almost touching her chin.

She glanced away from her red nails to shoot me an annoyed look. Such cold, pale blue eyes, like gin over chipped ice. I didn't let my smile falter.

"I'd like to make an appointment for a manicure, please."

She sighed heavily to let me know I was interrupting something important and took out a big book that looked like a hotel registry. As she scanned the book, she leaned forward ever so slightly. I think she knew what she was doing.

"I only have an opening at three o'clock." she told me curtly without looking up.

"Oh, that's fine." I said.

She sighed again and wrote down the name I gave her.

I killed the two hours at a dive bar down the street from the salon. It must have been a place for war veterans or shriners or some thing, because there was nobody under fifty in the place. There was a big, dusty moose head above the bar that surveyed the pitiful scene with a look of tired disinterest. The barmaid was a dried-up thing with a face that looked about two teeth away from caving in completely. She tried to make small talk whenever I'd order a drink, but I shut her down every time. The old timers had taken to giving me the stink eye (probably jealous of the attention I was getting), so I chose a quiet booth near he back of the room. They could sit on their hemorrhoids and suck penny candies for all I cared.

I found something scrawled inside the bathroom stall about Henry Reed's wife. It was incredibly detailed, and a touch blue even for my taste. I'd been trying to pace myself with the drinking, which is not at all like me. I'm usually the first one sleeping in the bathtub. I suppose I wanted a nice, even buzz for when I went back to meet up with her. Liquid courage, I guess. I didn't want to show up stinking like a skunk - or so juiced that I started getting a hot head.

She reminded me of another redhead I'd known, years ago. That redhead was a w***e too, and I'd cared for her greatly. She was dead now, so I didn't linger on the memory for very long. I'd sooner leave the sentimentality to the old timers.

I paid my tab at a quarter to and didn't tip.