wizard-of-the-pigeons

Today there was a carelessly dressed woman standing beside a trash bin.
Three winos were grouped respectfully around her.
Wizard kept his distance as they each produced their small coins. Only then
did the woman stoop, to drag out the hidden bottle from beneath the trash bin.
She poured them each a measure into a much crumpled paper cup. When the last
wino was drinking, and the two others were licking their lips, he approached
them. They regarded him with hostile alarm. He was too well dressed to
voluntarily speak to them. What did he want?
“Seen Cassie?” he asked gently. They stared at him uncomprehendingly. “If
you see Cassie, tell her I’m looking for her.”
“If yer lookin fer a woman, whasamatter with me?” the woman demanded
boldly. She gave a waggle of her body that reminded Wizard of a labrador
retriever shaking off water.
“Mononucleosis.” He wished she had not asked him. Now Truth was on him
and must be told. “You got it from a wino you served last week. But if you go to
a clinic now, they can help you before you spread it to all Seattle. Tell Cassie I’m
looking for her.”
Wizard walked briskly away just as one wino got up the courage to hold out
his hand, palm up. He wished the woman had not asked him, but once he was
asked, he had to answer.
All powers had balancing points, and all sticks were dirty on at least one end.
Down to First Avenue and the bus. A derelict accosted him at the bus stop.
He was a heavy, jowly man dressed in a black overcoat, black slacks, and brown
shoes. “I’m just trying to get something to eat. Can you help me?” The man held
out a pink hand hopefully.
“No,” Wizard answered truthfully. He could smell the Bread of Life Mission
meal on the man’s breath. The man stumped off down the sidewalk, blowing like
a walrus on an ice floe.
Wizard’s bus came.
It took him north up First and farted him out at the intersection of Pine. The
wind off the water waited the sound and smell of the Pike Place Public Market to
him. He strolled toward it, savoring anticipation. He never saw it with jaded
eyes. The market bore her eighty-odd years as well as any eccentric grande
dame. It never showed him the same face twice. Depending on bow he
approached, it was a bower of flowers, or a bouquet of fresh fish, or a tower of