Authors: Robert T. Jeschonek
Crank said nothing; he just sat there, eating the last bit of his sandwich and staring into space. Joe noticed that he wasn't paying attention, so he decided to stop talking. Instead, he leaned forward and folded his arms on the table, then put his head down on them and closed his eyes.
"I dunno', man," he mumbled. "I dunno'."
Crank swallowed his last bite of food, took a drink of water. "Fuck it all," he whispered, softly, finally.
That night, Joe woke to the sound of sirens. He was sleeping in the alley, of course; he and Crank had gone back there around midnight, after Tap's had closed, and settled in for the rest of the dark Brownstown night. It had been raining a little, so they huddled together beneath a small overhang and piled newspapers on top of themselves. When Joe woke, it was still raining, but Crank was no longer beside him.
Slowly, Joe came around, puzzling over his friend's absence, prodded by the shrill screech of sirens. He wondered what they were doing there, outside his home in the middle of the night.
After a while, he tossed aside the pile of newspaper and started crawling on his hands and knees toward the street. Moving cautiously, he kept his eyes peeled, trying to size up the situation and avoid discovery by whoever was out there. A flashing light skimmed across the wall, strobing along the bricks above his head; he watched it flash across the building and got nervous. It had to be the cops.
He wondered if they were after him, if they were trying to find him and Crank in the alley. Had they found out that the guys were sleeping there and come to arrest them and take them away? What kind of trouble were they in this time?
Reaching the end of the alley, Joe carefully looked around the corner. His pulse raced at what he saw: there were two police cars out on the street, and an ambulance between them. The lights on top of each vehicle were flashing, and the siren of one of them was wailing. Joe saw several men moving around the back of the ambulance; three were dressed in police uniforms, and one wore white. They were all gathered around a long object resting in the street. Looking closer, Joe decided that it was a stretcher, and he thought that someone was lying on it.
Joe crawled out of the alley and got to his feet. He hung back against the building, trying to stay out of sight and get a better view at the same time. His strategy worked: now, he could see the body on the stretcher, could make out its stomach bulging under the sheet. Maybe there had been an accident, he thought, or a fight. Slowly, he moved closer, inch by inch. What had happened?
Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind. Joe swung around, jumping away in shock; it was a cop, firmly clutching his right arm.
"Who are you?" asked the cop. He stared searchingly at Joe, then suddenly seemed to recognize him. "Wait, I know you. You're that punk from the fire."
Joe looked at the cop, realizing who it was. It was the same creep who had questioned him and Crank after the fire at Crank's apartment. Joe winced; he hadn't liked the cop then, and he didn't like him now, either.
"Up against the wall, pal," the policeman ordered forcefully.
Obediently, Joe turned and slapped his palms on the wall. The cop kicked his legs back, forcing him to spread them apart. Then, he frisked Joe, running his hands up and down his body, patting his pockets and pantslegs for signs of a weapon.
"All right, buddy," he said at last, ending his search. "Relax."
Stepping away from the wall, Joe turned to face the cop. "What's goin' on?" he asked, pointing to the ambulance and police cruisers.
"Don't play games," barked the cop, his face stony. "You probably did it."
"Did what?" flustered Joe, confused.
"Your friend," said the cop.
"What?"
"Your friend, boy. The fat one from the fire."
"Crank?" said Joe. "What the hell?" Joe felt funny, drowsy; everything was slow, watery, unreal--the cold air, the bleating siren, the swooping lights. It felt like a dream, like if he opened his eyes again, he would wake up back in the alley and nothing would have changed from before.
"I guess that's his name. It doesn't matter, anyhow," said the cop. "He's dead."
"What?" choked Joe.
"He's dead," said the cop.
Joe froze; his heart stopped. Everything stopped, all at once, became perfectly still at that one moment.
"He's dead," repeated the cop. "Someone beat him to death, right over there on the sidewalk. We don't know who did it, but we'll find out. Hope it ain't you."
Joe just slowly shook his head.
"He was beaten pretty bad," said the cop, matter-of-factly. "Somebody must've just pounded on him for a long time. His head's cracked wide open, like an eggshell. His guts look like ground beef or something."
"Oh God," melted Joey.
"The marks on what's left of the body indicate that some kind of weapon was used. It was a club of some sort," said the cop, "a club, like a tire iron or a two-by-four, or maybe a baseball bat."
"It's a mess," said the cop.
"A real mess," said the cop.
"Poor guy," said the cop.
"Oh God," whimpered Joe, and he cried.
*****
Part Three:
Getting Better
Chapter Seventeen
There were two pigeons pecking at the grass, looking for bits of food. They wobbled from place to place, occasionally bumping into each other, burbling and cooing in their throats as they went. When one reached an appropriate spot, it would bend down and jam its beak in the grass, then bob up and down for a second or two. Sometimes, one of the birds would find a tidbit and would lift its prize triumphantly in the air. It was usually a crumb, or a piece of trash or an insect, and the pigeon would hastily gulp it down. Then, the bird would resume its search, waddling back and forth across the sparse grass by the Stonybank River. Joe just sat and watched the birds. He watched as they bobbled around and pecked at the ground and ate. He watched as they approached him, and, sensing that he had no food, walked away from him. He watched them for a very long time as he sat on the banks of the grimy Stonybank River. He had been there for hours, just watching; he watched the brown water crawling by in the river; he watched the dead steel plant across the river; he watched the grass; he watched the birds; he watched his feet. He was sitting beneath a bridge, and he watched that, too. He watched everything, but he really saw nothing.
It was a warm but windy day in Brownstown. It seemed that spring had finally taken hold in the city; many of the trees and flowers were starting to bloom, a good sign for the middle of May in Western Pennsylvania. Taking advantage of the nice weather, many people were out on the streets, and downtown Brownstown was busy and crowded as a result. Nobody, however, saw Joe, or looked for him. In the shadows of the bridge, he was hidden like a troll from the rest of the city.
That was all that he really wanted right now: privacy. It wasn't hard to come by these days, either. His best friend, Crank, was dead; his other closest friend, Rocky, had moved away. Everyone else that he knew--all his buddies from Tap's Bar or Big Man, the gang he played pool with, the people he talked to in the unemployment office--seemed to be avoiding him. When it came right down to it, very few people really cared about Joe Jones, and even fewer would go out of their way to help him.
It had been three days since Crank's death, and no one had even bothered to offer their sympathy. The day after it had happened, a few people had asked Joe about it, but they were just mildly curious and didn't seem upset by the news. Since then, no one had bothered to talk to Joe, to take him aside and try to console him. Most people avoided Joe; some of them, he knew, thought that
he
had killed Crank.
Before, it had seemed to Joe that he had lots of friends. There always seemed to be somebody that he could drink with, or party with, or just hang around with. Now, there was no one. No one offered him a place to stay, or a meal, or a couple bucks to tide him over till he could get back on his feet. No one even offered him their sympathy or their kind words. No one gave a damn about Joe; all of his friends had blown away like dandelion puffs.
Looking back, he wondered if he ever really
had
any friends-- if, maybe, they were all just figments of his mind. Maybe nobody ever
had
cared, but he'd thought that they did. Maybe all that they'd ever wanted was a good time and a few beers, and Joe was the one who'd always had those things. Maybe that was all that
anyone
ever wanted, even Joe himself.
Everything in Joe's life had been turned upside-down all of a sudden; he couldn't seem to figure it out anymore, as hard as he tried. Until now, he had never really worried about anything. For as long as he could remember, he'd just coasted along through life, doing whatever he'd felt like doing, going wherever he'd felt like going, never paying much attention to anything beyond his immediate desires.
Now, there was too much happening for him to ignore. In the course of a few weeks, he had lost his money, his apartment, Crank's apartment, and even Crank himself. Everything had been taken away from him or destroyed. Sure, he knew that it hadn't been much to begin with: he never did have much money; both his apartment and Crank's were lousy rat-holes; and Crank hadn't always been a wonderful human being. However, they were all that Joe had ever had, and he'd come to depend on them.
Now, it was gone, all of it. Joe was alone, sitting in the shadows of a bridge, thinking back over the past few days and watching the stupid birds eat. When he thought about Crank, he just couldn't believe that the redhead was dead, dead and gone. Joe could picture him vividly, could still hear his voice and see his face in his mind. He remembered Crank's ridiculous laugh, and how he had always doubled over and clutched his gut when he gave out with it. He remembered his huge combat boots, which he'd worn every day without fail. How many times had Joe teased him about those boots, asked him why he never wore real shoes? Joe remembered it all clearly, too clearly. He could easily imagine his best friend was still alive, sitting there on the ground beside him.
"Hey Joey," Crank would say. "What the fuck?"
What the fuck yourself, you asshole.
"Let's go down ta' Tap's," he would say. "We'll bum a few brews an' shoot some pool."
All right, man, let's do it.
"Yo, Joey! There's a big party down at Schick's. We're talkin'
big
! Big booze, big music, an' big broads!"
It's party time!
A truck rumbled by on the bridge overhead, startling Joe so his eyes popped wide open. He woke from his daydream and looked around. There were pigeons nearby, waddling around and pecking. There was a dirty river flowing past his feet. There was no Crank.
Crank was dead.
Again, the facts flashed like neon in Joe's mind. Even though it had been three days since Crank's death, it surprised him to be reminded, and he cried.
Crank was dead.
*****
Chapter Eighteen
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Joe walked down the street, lost in thought. It was dark already, sometime around eight o'clock, and the air was very cold. It was a damp, chilly evening, and seemed to be getting colder all the time; the sky was full of clouds, gray languid masses which blocked the stars and moon and made the darkness thicker still. On the street, there was hardly any traffic, and few people were on the sidewalks. The city was quiet, dark and empty...like Joe.
Brownstown had always been like this, as far back as Joe could remember. The entire town shut down at five o'clock in the afternoon, completely stopped. All the stores closed at five, except for a handful of all-night convenience stores; all the banks and offices and businesses locked their doors; and everyone went home, raced off to the North Side or Hoover or one of the suburbs to watch TV. There was little night life in Brownstown, and nobody seemed to care.
The only places that stayed open late at night were the bars, but they no longer attracted the crowds which they'd once brought in during the town's heyday. When the mill had still been open, the local bars had always been filled with capacity crowds; long into the night, steelworkers would stay at their favorite hangouts and drink beer. They would drink and talk and play pool and watch the Pittsburgh Steelers on TV; they would tell stories and argue and curse at their bosses and wives. Now, National Steel was closed, and the nights in Brownstown were quieter than ever. Men still drank in the bars, of course, but they were bitter, dispirited souls, not the joyful raucous booted workers who had once raised Hell there.
As he walked through the silent Brownstown night, Joe felt truly miserable. By far, he felt worse than he had ever felt before. Over and over, he kept remembering all that had happened: his eviction; the fire; the party at Rocky's; Crank's death. Each time he thought about it, he grew more depressed, more weary and beaten. It seemed as if something was trying to tear his life apart, to destroy everyone and everything he cared about. So much had happened, all of it bad, that Joe wondered if maybe God was out to get him.
He was especially upset about Crank. Even now, three days after the murder, nobody knew who had done it. The police had "launched an investigation," but hadn't turned up a single solid clue. They'd interrogated Joe before anyone else; since he had been the only person at the scene of the murder, he had been their prime suspect. Joe had apparently convinced the cops of his innocence, though, and they hadn't dragged him in for further questioning yet.
It seemed to Joe, however, that the police didn't really care about the whole thing. He'd been to the police station several times to see if the cops had discovered anything, but they never told him much; they treated him rudely, used hostile voices, seemed to be trying to rush him out the door. Joe got the impression that the cops were unconcerned, that they didn't give a damn about who had killed Crank. Crank had been a lowlife and so was Joe, and now Crank was one less bum that the cops had to worry about.
Who could have killed him? Sure, a lot of people hadn't liked him, and a few had really hated Crank's guts, but Joe couldn't think of anyone who had hated Crank enough to kill him. Or
could
he? What about the guy at Rocky's party, the one who had beaten Crank up? He was a very tough customer and had been pretty pissed-off about getting thrown out. Joe figured that he could have killed Crank, ,just to get back at him for ruining his tough-guy reputation.
The problem was, Joe didn't know the guy's name. Rocky had known the guy, but he was in Bartlett, and Joe didn't know what his phone number was. Possibly, Joe could find out more about the guy by asking around, but he would probably be asking for trouble if he did that. If that goon really had killed Crank, and found out that Joe was asking about him, he might decide to get rid of Joe, too.
Joe couldn't think of anyone else who could have done it. No one hated Crank enough, no one was crazy or stupid enough to have murdered him. There just wasn't anyone else who could have killed him...
At that moment, as if on cue, Benny Firestone walked around a corner, headed straight for Joe.
Joe had been hiking through the North Side for a long time, not paying much attention to anything around him. He was submerged in thought, and when he saw Benny striding toward him, it took a moment for the shock to hit. After he spotted Benny, he took two more steps forward, then froze; he quickly became nervous and wanted to run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.
"Holy shit," he whispered, his eyes bulging wider. "Holy shit."
Benny just kept approaching, stomping toward him on the sidewalk. His strides were strong and purposeful, full of barely restrained power. He looked at Joe as he came closer, staring coldly into his eyes, but his face revealed no expression. Benny neither smiled nor glared; he just stared and kept on coming.
Joe didn't know what to do. For once, he was genuinely scared. Benny Firestone was the maniac who had chased him and Crank through Brownstown in his underwear, swinging at them with a baseball bat. He was the perverted recluse who spent most of his time in his garage-apartment, and who, according to Crank, got his thrills having sex with dogs. And above all, Joe suddenly realized, he could very well have killed Crank.
Joe stood in place, frozen with fear and indecision. He didn't know whether to run or keep walking, to say hello or scream for help. He couldn't make up his mind, so he did nothing.
As Joe stood there, Benny walked right up to him. He looked as muscular and menacing as ever: his arms were huge, dominated by hammy, incredible biceps; his chest and shoulders rippled with muscles, standing out beneath his sweaty white T-shirt; his head was bald, shaved clean and smooth as a torpedo. Joe perspired as the monstrous man approached, all those muscles waiting for someone to smash. Holding his breath, he tensed and got ready to run.
Benny stopped about a foot away. He stared at Joe, his face stony and cold and unreadable. Joe's heart pounded as he waited for the first blow; then, Benny's face started to move. Slowly, his hard mouth curled at the edges, and his lips pulled back from his jagged teeth. His eyes crimped a little at the corners and he smiled.
Then, still smiling, he walked past Joe. He never said a word, but as he continued down the sidewalk, he laughed.
Joe released his breath, his heart still hammering. He turned and watched as Benny disappeared around another corner.
There was no longer any doubt in his mind about who had killed Crank.
Joe decided that he would tell the police. Then, he would go to Bartlett, and hopefully stay with Rocky. He thought that it would be a good idea to leave Brownstown until things blew over. Besides, he was tired of sleeping on park benches, anyway.