“Fred, I . . .”
“Tell me, Mike!”
“Da-dad hurt the guys. Dad said that they were never going to hurt any other little boys.”
“But they didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“No! They were nice to me! I told Dad that–” Michael’s voice had risen into a shrill wail. I was afraid he would wake Doc.
“Mike, I have to go now. Will you promise not to tell your father I called?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“I love you, Mike,” I said, not believing my own ears and hanging up before Michael could respond.
This time it took me a scant twenty-five minutes to make the run back to Milwaukee. Blue Mound Road had become an old friend in the course of three harried hours.
Back within the city limits where Blue Mound Road turned into Wisconsin Avenue, I stopped at a filling station and inquired with the attendant about the whereabouts of Marquette University and Milwaukee’s skid row.
“The two are within shouting distance,” the youth said. “Take Wisconsin Avenue to Twenty-seventh Street, turn left until you hit State Street. Don’t hold your breath, but hold your nose.”
Marquette University extended a solid ten blocks on the periphery of a skid row that rivaled L.A. ‘s Fifth Street for squalor and sheer despair–bars, package liquor stores, blood banks, and religious save-your-soul missions representing every faith and sect imaginable. I parked my ear at Twenty-seventh and State and went walking, dodging and sidestepping knots of winos and ragpickers who were passing around short-dogs and gesticulating wildly at one another, babbling in a booze language compounded of loneliness and resentment.
I took my eyes off the street for five seconds and went crashing to the pavement; I had tripped over an old man, naked from the waist up, his lower body wrapped in a gasoline-soaked tweed overcoat. I got to my feet and brushed myself off, then attempted to help the old man up. I reached for his arms, then saw the sores on them and hesitated. The old man noticed this and began to cackle. I reached instead for a hunk of his overcoat, but he rolled himself away from me like a dervish until he was lying in the gutter in a sea of sewer water and cigarette butts. He cursed me and feebly flipped me the finger.
I left him and continued walking. After three blocks, I realized I had no real destination, and moreover that the denizens of the row had taken me for a cop: my size and crisp summer suit got me looks of fear and hatred, and if I played it right I could use this to my advantage without hurting anyone.
I recalled what Kraus and Lutz had told me: George “The Professor” Melveny, George “The Gluebird” Melveny, former Marquette chemistry teacher, last seen sucking on a rag in front of the Jesus Saves Mission. It was almost noon, and the temperature was soaring. I felt like shedding my suit coat, but that wouldn’t work: the skid row inhabitants would then know I wasn’t packing a gun and was therefore not the heat. I stopped in my tracks and surveyed the row in all directions: no sign of the Jesus Saves Mission. On impulse I ducked into a liquor store and purchased twenty shortdogs of Golden Lake muscatel. My liver shuddered as I paid, and the proprietor gave me the strangest look I have ever encountered as he loaded the poison into a large paper hag. I asked him for directions to the Jesus Saves Mission, and he snickered and pointed east, where the skid row dead-ended at the Milwaukee River.
There was a line of hungry-looking indigents extending halfway around the block as I approached the mission, obviously waiting for their noon meal. Some of them noticed my arrival and jabbed at one another, signaling the onslaught of bad news. They were wrong; it was Christmas in July.
“Santa Claus is here!” I shouted. “He’s made a list and he’s checked it twice, and he’s decided that all of you folks deserve a drink!”
When all I got was puzzled looks, I dug into my paper bag and pulled out a short-dog. “Free wine for all!” I yelled. “Free cash to anyone who can tell me where to find George ‘The Gluebird’ Melveny!”