Chapter 11

We talked to any number of street people – some of them just bums, some not perfectly sound in their minds, some so permanently stoned that they would never need to do drugs again, and some willing to work and set up housekeeping if they could only find a job within easy distance of a reasonable place to live. As government meddling has first ruined the economy and then held it back from its natural recovery, I've taken to carrying a bunch of index cards in my pocket with the names and phone numbers of people I know who are willing to hire someone as long as he's willing to work – and that's actually a decent list, since sometimes the work ethic is utterly absent from people who want a job.

Cecelia and I had gotten so engrossed in what we were doing – though we'd come up with no leads – that we didn't notice the time until it was nearly 2 in the afternoon. I was just about to ask her if she was ready to break for lunch when I heard the most marvelous drumming. We were crossing the Civic Plaza at the time, and it sounded like it was coming from the southeast corner, where Tijeras crosses 3^rd. I glanced at Cecelia, and she lifted her eyebrows. I've known her for ages now, and I figured she was "saying" that she was intrigued and would follow my lead.

Maybe I was wrong, but I led on, MacDuff, and sitting there on the steps at the edge of the plaza, his back toward us, was a guy. I could tell that much by the proportions of his shoulders and hips – even a boyish woman isn't that broad upstairs and narrow down. His hair was long, brown, and flowed over his shoulders from what looked like a natural center part. He was wearing a fringed leather jacket, like the one Cecelia had worn Tuesday, and what looked like worn jeans. He looked clean, however, as though he was a drifter but not averse to soap and water.

Of course this was all just a glance from behind, with his arms working at whatever he was drumming on, and it could be wrong. Cecelia and I walked on around, and he had a pair of bongos in front of him. I looked carefully, and he had just the two standard hands – but it sounded like he was using four. The rhythms he was knocking out were so complex that he didn't need any other instruments – his drumming was a song unto itself.

I fished in my pocket and pulled out my money – it's too much trouble digging it out of a wallet, and anyway pickpockets don't even try to dip into your shirt, not that I've ever had much trouble with such – and pulled out a five. I dropped it into the hat that was upside down on the sidewalk in front of the man – a flat crowned thing that would have gone well on a riverboat gambler in a western movie. At that, it wasn't much different from the hat Charles Bronson wore in One Upon a Time In the West, which is my favorite movie.

The guy nodded, and I sat down beside him, Cecelia to my left. He left off drumming and said, "Thanks, man."

My ears perked up at the accent – but I couldn't be sure, not just off of two words. "That's just for what I heard, an' I suspect I underpaid you by a long way. I got more if I can just set here an' talk with you a moment."

"Sir, as much as I love my music, I do love a break also." That was indeed a thick accent, one that I'd hate to have to try to spell.

I grinned. "Virginia, right?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "How did you know?"

"My mother's people were Virginians. I've never had a lot of business with 'em, an' she died when I was five, but though it's one accent I can't imitate, I know it when I hear it."

"Well, you certainly knew it this time. So, what can I do for you?"

"Answer some questions, maybe take some advice if it seems warranted."

"I can answer questions till the sun expands to the orbit of Mars – time I have plenty of."

I've given up being surprised at the knowledge that some street people have. I've not yet met any ex-professors, but there are people on the street who at one time or another have read all sorts of books, and retained what they read too. "I hope it won't take as long as that," I said. "Although I must admit it would be interesting, and more so to hang around for the heat death of the universe."

He smiled, dimples suddenly showing on his cheeks. I guessed him at 25 or so – weathered from sun and wind, but not yet wrinkled with age. "I'm fully prepared to surrender my space on this world after my allotted span," he said. "I have no need to witness the triumph of entropy."

Cecelia broke in, leaning forward to speak past me. "Sir, I perceive that you are educated – not in the desultory fashion of today's college products, but rather after the fashion of a man who seeks actual knowledge."

He was grinning like a fool now. "Ma'am, I don't claim to be a scholar, but I do love to learn, and I enjoy speaking well. And I take it you are the same, from your speech."

"This is Cecelia, my wife, and I'm Darvin Carpenter," I said. "An' now if I could introduce you to her?"

"Certainly – I'm Mick Foyle, Michael P. Foyle III if you wish the full name, late of Petersburg."

"Egad, the man talks like Twain," I said.

"And you speak like a snag in the Mississippi River," Cecelia said. "Kindly do not interfere with my pleasure at conversing with someone who actually speaks English." She extended her right hand past me. "I am extraordinarily pleased to meet you, Mr. Foyle."

"And I to meet you, Mrs. Carpenter. And you, sir, I presume prefer the first name?"

"Yes, I do," I said perhaps more emphatically than I ought to've. I'm congenitally casual, and while I love Cecelia and enjoy listening to her, I really didn't care to be the net in a game of who-has-the-best-English.