Spoilers/Episodes: a reference to the opening part of
"Gillian," Lonely Greaves and Eddie in the alley behind the Stardust
bookstore.
Warnings:
Language.
Notes:
Much thanks to Destina for beta and for convincing me that somebody other than
me would want to read about Eddie.
Disclaimer:
Starsky and Hutch are not mine. No money is made, no copyright infringement
intended or implied.
Feedback:
troyswann@yahoo.ca
The Naming of Parts
By Salieri
The
Apostles Mission smelled like wet wool and beets and, over in the corner, piss
and bleach, and each smell seemed to move through the low-ceilinged dining room
in its own way, the wet-wool like a heavy-shouldered man with a dog, the others
like pickpockets through a crowd, turned sideways and insinuating so that you
couldn't evade them even if you stayed out of the corner or faced the open
doors. Eddie didn't mind the man-and-dog, but the pickpocket stench made him
fidgety. And thinking about the man-and-dog and the pickpockets made things
confusing, put shadows where there weren't shadows and extra people at the
trestle tables. He stood between the rows of benches and counted the hunched
shoulders of the men and tried to make beets into beets and wet-wool into
wet-wool again. After awhile there were just regular men at the tables and he
couldn't smell the place so much anymore.
"You
gonna stand there blockin' traffic or you gonna eat?"
With an
absent nod, Eddie moved aside mechanically to let the man by, kept his eyes
away from the face and the tray, but he knew him by the gravel in his voice and
the greasy whiff of creosote as Engine Mac. It must be getting cold out these
days for Engine Mac to be in the mission instead of at the rail yard. The rains
were coming to settle into the bones. The mission was full of damp men, wrung
out, water-warped men, shouldering together at the trestle tables, their lips
red with beets. Their voices were a low rumble of nonsense, or, if he listened
closer, the same old sentences cast out, maybe in different voices, maybe in
different order, but always with the same familiar cadence, rising in
worn-edged anger and falling to the flatness of resignation. The cold. The
rain. How many beds here or at St. Mike's. Who's gone suddenly. Who's suddenly
back, new coat already sold and shoes waiting to get stolen.
At the
tap on his elbow, he looked down at Engine Mac's gnarled, three-fingered hand.
There was a half a dinner roll in it and Engine Mac used it to tap him again.
"Last one. I don't like the butter. You can have it."
And
then Engine Mac was moving on, black knit hat above a checked shirt stretched
tight across a bull's shoulders.
Eddie
put the roll in his sweater pocket and shuffled the other way toward the
serving tables. They were already taking away some of the trays, but the soup
pots were still there, and the coffee urn, too, except that someone was already
tipping it forward with a cup under the spout to get the last of it. Eddie
wistfully watched the guy with the coffee wander away toward the thinning crowd
at the tables while little Miss filled his bowl.
"Y'r'late
tonight, Eddie," she admonished him. He liked that word--admonished--the
way the sound was a ribbon stretched between here and someplace far off in time
and space, a stern voice in a small schoolroom in the middle of a bigger world.
New-green grass outside the window, bending all the same way ahead of a wind
that had rain in it. He liked that part enough that it took the sting out of
being admonished. "We had cookies earlier." She set his soup down on
his tray and gave it a rueful look. He leaned over and looked too. He could see
the pattern of flowers on the bottom of the bowl. "Girl Scouts brought
'em. But they only had two dozen."
Miss
smiled thinly to dismiss him and he carried his tray to the corner farthest from
the piss-and-bleach and the humming of the singers and closest to the door. He
didn't mind the singing so much--even when Miss went over and, with her eyes
aimed up at the ceiling, sang so soulfully in her bird-keen voice he couldn't
swallow down the bite of dinner roll without another mouthful of soup. Even
then the singing was okay, except that Lonely always showed up with the singing
and made Eddie's mouth fill up with dust.
He was
there again today, on the edge of the small circle of men and women, droning
through Hymn 652--Have mercy upon me....
blot out all mine iniquity--his big hands gripping the back of a chair and
his grey eyes on Eddie's the whole time. For
my transgressions I confess; My sin I ever see. The collar of his shirt was
askew, showing too much neck under the grizzle of a heavy beard. Eddie was too
far away to make out the missing buttons and the red on the undershirt, but
still, he knew it, anyway, and that was the same as seeing. Far away or close
up didn't matter. He ducked his head lower over his bowl and let the beets
stain his mouth. He could still taste dust, and Lonely's voice rose and fell.
Outside
the open double doors, cars hissed by on the rain-wet asphalt, a fizzy sort of
sound that made the hair on his neck stand up a little. The light out there was
greenish in the wake of the storm, and each passerby on the sidewalk cast a wan
shadow into the entrance hall, angled in a slow sweeping like the hand of a
clock sliding across the long hours of the afternoon. He kept his eyes on the
play of shadow while the singing went on; Lonely's voice was a heavy hand on
the back of Eddie's neck and thrummed through the chair to the backs of his
knees. Eddie watched, unfocused, and the wheels-in-rain became the peppering of
dust against the clapboard walls of a little soon-to-be-dust-swallowed church,
and the people-shadows were dun-coloured dust devils that capered and twisted
outside, wound up in the wind and whipped out like laundry on the line, taking
California out to sea a grain at a time. Lonely's prayer was Eddie's dad's
prayer, low-rumble-tuneless and making the pew behind Eddie's knees shiver with
it--Create a clean heart, Lord, renew, A
right spirit me within--and his mother's voice was glass-clear and faltering
at the ahhhhmen, a rose window with a crack in it. Eddie was fifteen and
barefoot in a sea of dust where the farm used to be and his voice hadn't
changed yet and he was still three years away from killing a man.
The
beet soup was gone, but Eddie lifted the spoon to his mouth, anyway, sucked it
until it tasted like metal, but the dust didn't go away. Neither did Lonely,
and Lonely should have been gone days ago.
He
should never have let Lonely tell him his name.
Three
years from that day in the church and the dust, Eddie's dad was gone and the
farm was gone and his mother had long since stopped singing amen. Eddie's voice
had finally changed, and he'd put on a uniform with good, snug boots, and he'd
sailed over the ocean and he'd killed a man--knife-point right through the
middle buttonhole of his kraut uniform, a seamstress-thrust way too finessed
for the panic that made it possible--and when Eddie asked, he'd said his name
and a lot of other stuff in German. He'd tried to hold Eddie's hand. Eddie chanted
the name all the way back to the convoy, half trophy, half prayer. Gunther
Loen. Gunther Loen was the first of many in those two years of the Second War
to End All Wars, but Eddie was a fast study and, after Gunther Loen, he'd
stopped learning names. The name was the hook in Eddie's brain, the line that
Gunther Loen had followed all the way back to Eddie's barracks, all the way
back to the States, always standing silent at the periphery of Eddie's vision,
and his small, blue eyes never blinked. It was stupid to know a man's name.
Lionel
Percival Lonely Greaves.
Lionel
Percival Lonely stood in the mission at the edge of the circle of singers and
sang along, his big hands wrapped around the back of the chair, his buttons
ripped off by the men who had beaten him to death, a boot heel in red in the
middle of his undershirt, everything soft and crumbling under it when Eddie'd
touched him there and felt no thumping, that day behind the Stardust Bookstore,
before the police came.
Eddie
thought about that bottle in his room in the Empire Hotel. It was half-full.
Enough to wash Lonely from the mission and maybe from Eddie's mouth and at
least from Eddie's brain. Until tomorrow, when the singing called him up again.
broken spirit is to God a
pleasing sacrifice,
Lonely sang, no voice at all.
The
stamping in the hall made him look away from Lonely and at the shadows, not
pale, sliding ones, but solid ones on the black and white tiles. The men were
the same size almost, but the shadows played tricks, one of the shadows squat
under the hanging light fixture, the other long with the light from the
doorway. But really the men were almost the same size, even though the blond
one always looked taller, even without the shadow. He joined the dark one in
the middle of the hall and swiped one hand and then the other across the
shoulders of his jacket, sending droplets out in silver arcs, while the darker
one snapped his own collar to shake the water off, and they were as featureless
and distinct against the rectangle of light in the doorway as their shadows
were, except for the scattering of water-light. Raining again, then, with the
sun shining. The rain would look like gold thread, Eddie thought, strung taut
from clouds to pavement.
Waving
at them, Eddie called, "Starpy! Huft!"
When
they came into the dining room, Eddie could see them scanning the stragglers
for him, so he waved and called again. The blond one smiled when he found him
and pointed the way with his chin, coming down the row between the benches with
his hands in his pockets. He took one out, though, to shake Eddie's, and it was
cold in the fingertips, warm in the palm.
"Heya,
Eddie," said the other one as he threw a leg over the bench beside him.
"Hi,
Huft."
A few
teeth in a grin. "I'm Starpy. He's Huft."
Huft
smiled without teeth. His hands were back in his pockets. Over his shoulder,
Lonely watched, but the singing was over now so he was farther away than
before.
Both of
the men smelled of wet leather, and under that, smoke skulking.
"Hey,
Starpy, you guys been in a fire?"
Huft
sat down backward on the bench across the aisle. "Sort of. You know the
warehouse over here on Maple?"
Eddie
nodded.
"There
was a fire there last night."
Eddie
met Lonely's eyes. He put his spoon carefully into his bowl and scrubbed at his
stubbled chin with the back of his hand. "Oh," was all he could say.
"The
fire was in the warehouse. You worked for the paper supply company next door,
in the same building, didn't you? Sweeping up?"
Eddie
nodded again. Nine 'til eleven, sweeping and emptying the trash cans by the
desks in the office and putting rolls of toilet paper in the bathrooms. One
dollar a night. He put his hand in his sweater pocket and fingered the folded
bill there. He couldn't talk for the taste of dust.
"We're
hoping," Starpy was saying, "that you might've seen some of the guys
going into the warehouse sometime. They were cooking drugs in there, Eddie. We
gotta find them." His grin was gone and he was speaking low and even. He
had blue eyes, and when he joked they were bright and darting, but when he
talked about cooking drugs, they were heavy-lidded and steady. In the house in
the dust ocean forty years ago, there had been a stripe-backed cat who had sat
all day by the mouse-hole behind the woodbox, coiled up and motionless except
for the twitching of his tail. When Starpy said, "We gotta find
them," he was like that.
Eddie
was very still.
"Maybe
you can come down to the station house and look at some pictures for us?"
That was the blond one, soft-voiced, hands hanging between his knees. His smile
was encouraging.
"Yeah,
okay," Eddie said. "But I gotta work." He pointed out the door
toward the Stardust Bookstore three blocks east. "After closing, to clean
up. But later, after Marsha does the receipts. She doesn't like having me
around when she's counting the money."
The
hands clenched together for a second and Huft's eyes met his partner's.
Starpy
grunted, a low, disgusted sound. "Of course not. You're such a bad
seed."
On the
other side of the room, the singers were folding up the chairs and stacking
them against the wall. The dining room was mostly empty now. The bill in
Eddie's pocket was worn to suppleness under his thumb. "The paper company.
Do they still need the sweeping up, do you think? It's Tuesday. Wax
night." Eddie made a brief mopping motion to illustrate. "I get extra
for doing the wax."
Another
glance between them.
"Not
tonight, Eddie," Huft said as he stood up and squeezed his shoulder.
"The place is pretty much destroyed."
"Oh.
Okay." Eddie rubbed his hand across his chin again and searched the floor
and the walls for something, but there were only muddy footprints and faded
posters with unreadable slogans and a crucifix doubled in its shadow. A dollar
a night. Extra on wax night.
"We'll
pick you up at Stardust at seven-thirty, okay?" The dark one leaned
closer. "Okay, Eddie? We'll take you someplace for dinner after."
"But
maybe I won't know anybody from the pictures," Eddie admitted. He tried to
imagine faces, but it was better not to. Lonely was standing alone in the
middle of the hall. "I'm not so good with faces."
"S'okay,"
Starpy said, the grin back again briefly. "We can still get something to
eat. Anything you want."
"Zingburger,"
Eddie said promptly. They put a lot of stuff under the bun.
Huft's
face crumpled in a grimace. "Zingburgers will kill you dead, Eddie."
But then he nodded. "But they put a lot of stuff under the bun."
The two
of them left debating about mayonnaise and whether or not it was a crime to put
any on a hamburger. Eddie sat until he was the only one in the hall, his hand
in his pocket, and listened to the sound of the wind carrying California out to
sea.
Before
he went to the bookstore, he stopped in at the Empire Hotel and waited in front
of the counter until Mikey was done on the phone. The desk clerk raked his
hands through his black hair and came to stare at Eddie through the grate.
"Rent's
due," he said around his toothpick.
Eddie
pulled out the five dollar bill and smoothed it carefully on the counter. The
paper company was supposed to pay him tonight, but there was no paper company
now. The bill was supposed to be beans and bread and maybe another small
bottle. He pushed it through the little gap in the grate. Two days' rent.
Mikey
turned his glare on it and snorted before folding the bill into his shirt
pocket. Eddie turned to go.
He was
almost at the door when Mikey called him back. "Just a minute.
Damnit." When Eddie got back to the counter, Mikey pulled the bill out of
his pocket again and shoved it through the gap. "Here."
Eddie
stared at the bill.
"Take
it, you idiot." Mikey waggled it a little. "Look, don't go getting
all weepy about it. I'm not drunk on the milk of generosity here or whatever
the fuck that is, right?" He shifted his toothpick from one side of his
thin-lipped mouth to the other. "Those two cops was in here looking for
you earlier."
Eddie
nodded numbly. "They came to the mission."
"Of
course they did, you retard. Who d'ya think sent them there?" Mikey
flicked the bill farther across the counter. "They paid you up to the end
of the month and they said they'd break my fucking legs if I stiffed you, okay?
So take your fiver and buy yourself some cough medicine, and quit standing
there catching flies."
With
the bill safe in his pocket, Eddie headed for the door. He didn't bother to
turn around when Mikey shouted, "You better watch it, Eddie. You know what
happens to finks, don’tcha!"
At the
station house, Eddie picked three faces out of the books, but was careful not
to look at the names. The blond cop even ate a zingburger, after, but put his
foot down on the subject of mayonnaise. He let them buy him another zingburger
for later, even though, they joked, it made them accessories to murder by
grease. When Eddie said, "G'night
Starpy. G'night Huft," they didn’t correct him when he got their names backwards. And when they
said, "G'night, Eddie," he didn't tell them that his name wasn't
really Eddie.
Lonely
was waiting for him when he got back to his room.
-the
end-