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hunched his thin shoulders all the way up to his ears, as if he expected me to hurl it at him. He was
like a dog that’s been beaten so often it expects no other treatment. “No harm and no foul, okay?”
“Get out, bastard-ball! Go back to where you came from and leave me alone!”
“It’s a deal.” I was still recovering from the startle he’d given me, and the residual adrenaline
mixed badly with the pity I felt—not to mention the exasperation. The same exasperation I’d felt
with Christy when I came home to discover she was drunk-going-on-shitfaced again in spite of all her
promises to straighten up, fly right, and quit the booze once and for all. The combination of emotions
added to the heat of this late summer midday was making me feel a little sick to my stomach.
Probably not the best way to start a rescue mission.
I thought of the Kennebec Fruit and how good that root beer had been; I could see the gasp of
vapor from the ice cream freezer as Frank Anicetti Senior pulled out the big mug. Also, it had been
blessedly cool in there. I started in that direction with no further ado, my new (but carefully aged
around the edges) briefcase banging against the side of my knee.
“Hey! Hey, you, whatsyaface!”
I turned. The wino was struggling to his feet, using the side of the drying shed as a support. He
had snagged his hat and was holding it crushed against his midsection. Now he began to fumble at it.
“I got a yellow card from the greenfront, so gimme a buck, motherfucker. Today’s double-money day.”
We were back on message. That was comforting. Nonetheless, I took pains not to approach him too
closely. I didn’t want to scare him again or provoke another attack. I stopped six feet away and held
out my hand. The coin Al had given me gleamed on my palm. “I can’t spare a buck, but here’s half a
rock.”
He hesitated, now holding his hat in his left hand. “You better not want a suck-job.”
“Tempting, but I think I can resist.”
“Huh?” He looked from the fifty-cent piece to my face, then back down at the money again. He
raised his right hand to wipe the slick of drool off his chin, and I saw another difference from before.
Nothing earth-shattering, but enough to make me wonder about the solidity of Al’s claim that each
time was a complete reset.
“I don’t care if you take it or leave it, but make up your mind,” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”
He snatched the coin, then cowered back against the drying shed again. His eyes were large and
wet. The slick of drool had reappeared on his chin. There’s really nothing in the world that can match
the glamour of a late-stage alcoholic; I can’t think why Jim Beam, Seagram’s, and Mike’s Hard
Lemonade don’t use them in their magazine ads. Drink Beam and see a better class of bugs.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“A job, I hope. Listen, have you tried AA for that little problem you’ve got with the boo—”
“Fuck off, Jimla!”
I had no idea what a jimla might be, the fuck off part came through loud and clear. I headed for the
gate, expecting him to hurl more questions after me. He hadn’t before, but this encounter had been
markedly different.
Because he wasn’t the Yellow Card Man, not this time. When he raised his hand to wipe his chin,
the card clutched in it had no longer been yellow.
This time it was a dirty but still bright orange.
2
I threaded my way through the mill parking lot, once again tapping the trunk of the white-over-red
Plymouth Fury for good luck. I was certainly going to need all of that I could get. I crossed the train