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"Do you think they'll let Steven to go to John's funeral?" I asked.
"As I understand it, he'll be in shackles and guarded, but they will let him attend. It'll be just a graveside rite. No viewing at the funeral home or anything like that."
All I could do was nod. Then I reached across the table and took Daniel's hand. "Thanks for this. Thanks for telling me."
He smiled. "Of course."
We finished our lunches on a melancholy note, but I'd meant what I'd said to Daniel. I really did appreciate his help.
After he and I parted company, I found it hard to shake the sadness of the life John had led. He had been an intelligent, witty, storytelling man who had somehow ended up on the streets. And he'd died in the streets with only the clothes on his back at the age of thirty-six.
Thirty-six. Even to me, part of Generation Y, it wasn't old enough to be dead.
If someone had not taken his life, I felt sure he would have pulled himself out of homelessness given enough time. I was anxious to see what Steven looked like and how he would handle his brother’s death, though I didn’t expect to have an opportunity to speak with him because of his prison status.
It was going to be a very sad event, but I wanted very to be there as one of John's friends.
# # #
The following morning was breezy, with a slight coolness in the air. Finding my way to the grave sites of the unfortunates, I ended at the place where John’s simple wooden coffin rested on a metal framework over the hole that had been dug for it.
Waiting beside it were a minister and two shabbily dressed people I did not recognize. Their attire had the distinct appearance of someone else who lived on the street.
One woman stood alone, at a little distance from the rest of us, but facing the service. She was slender and attractive and nicely dressed, and her long blonde hair swayed in the light wind
Standing opposite me on the other side of where John rested was a young man in shackles. His prison guard stood close beside him. The preacher began the service and read prayers for the departed.
Steven lowered his eyes during the prayer and I stole a glance at him. He resembled John somewhat, though younger. He had the same tawny hair as John and though he was slim, he wasn’t as thin as his brother had been. He closed his eyes tightly as if holding back tears. He no longer had his brother or an ally. I felt sorry for him.
When the prayers ended, Steven looked up at me. I realized I had been staring at him. I wondered how a young man with his whole life ahead of him could disappear into addiction and the streets instead.
In that brief moment, I made a decision. I would have to go and visit John's brother at the prison. I had to know more about my friend's life. I'd come too far to stop now.
When the brief service was over, I turned to leave. I walked back across the parking lot and clicked the remote to open the lock on my car door – and just as I did, I got the feeling that someone was watching me.
When I turned around, I caught sight of the blonde woman who had viewed the service from a distance. She was hurrying to a small compact car parked near a line of cedar trees a few yards away from mine. She got in and then drove out of the cemetery using the farthest exit gate.
Then she was gone, leaving me to wonder who she was. I wasn't the only woman who'd come to the cemetery to say farewell to John.
Chapter Thirteen
The next day off I had from Roasted Love, I went back to Skid Row. I leashed Thor, my partner, and drove down to the blighted downtown area of West River.
Today’s banner across the barred windows of the grocery store advertised five packages of hot dogs for five dollars. I tried not to think about what those hot dogs were made of.
"It’s too bad poor people have to eat such lousy food," I said over my shoulder to Thor. His almond eyes locked onto mine in the rearview mirror. His large frame took up most of the backseat, and I'd learned to rely on my outside mirrors when he was in the car with me.
Slowing down when I got to the potholes in the street, I noticed several people walking or standing alone. I passed the small run-down shops that remained open for business. A large heap of bricks and stone blocks was all that was left of one of them.
I drove until I found a spot to park that looked to be mostly free of rocks and broken glass. My eyes scanned the area where I had talked to the scruffy dealer the last time. I decided to stay inside the car for the moment. The few people I saw standing around were either drinking from paper bag-covered containers or smoking things that I doubted were ordinary cigarettes.
Then I spotted him. The bushy hair was unmistakable. Today he wore a dingy tank top and I could see that his arms were lined with tattoos. I was too far away to see whether the large imprint near his shoulder was a bulldog, but I knew he had to be Ricky Thomas.
I got out of the car and then opened the rear door. Holding Thor’s leash tightly in my sweating hands, I walked towards Ricky. I took one quick glance at his shoulder and saw that yes, it was a bulldog tattoo.
Strangely enough, that helped calm me. Who would go through the pain of having a large bulldog needled onto his arm if he didn’t like dogs? I vowed not to give him an opportunity to make friends with Thor. I needed my dog as an attack beast if it came to that.
Ricky spoke first. "What does John want this time?" he growled.
