Shoot the Moon

Chapter Nineteen - With Pharaoh In Central Park

It was a beautiful spot. The full moon defined the towers of the San Remo apartments to the west and cast a dim glow on the lake. The moonlight faintly limned the Bow Bridge across the water. The red and gold autumn leaves were all cast in pewter for the night.

I was damned if Mickey was coming into my home. The co-op board would find out I was entertaining the homeless and complain to Echo. So I had bought a six pack in a deli on Columbus and led Mickey into the Park. We had entered by the Seventy-Second Street Gate and walked down through the covered pathway, across the Drive and into the little rustic shelter on the shore of the lake. We sat down on the bench and I put the bag of beer cans on the floor between us.

Mickey took a Budweiser, pulled the tab and tipped it back, swallow after swallow until the can was empty. I took a beer and balanced it on the slats of the bench. I didn't really want it. The evening was fine and clear, but it was a little too cool to be drinking beer outdoors. But I wasn't sweltering under ten layers of vermin infested rags the way Mickey was.

I had given Mickey the short list of my adventures, just the highlight reel of "Murphy Tied to the Railroad Tracks." I had asked for an explanation of the amusing stew I found myself simmering in and I was waiting for his answer. It was bound to be a lulu. Mickey opened another can of beer, finished taking his first long gulp and pulled the dirty felt sack off his head. Mickey's hairline had retreated even further up his skull and hung in lank yellow strands on his shoulders. He looked like a skid-row clown, Bozo on a bender.

"Thanks for the beer, doctor. I could actually go for something harder, aged twelve years, but... Have to live my cover story," he sighed, squeezing the can and making an irritating little sound, "Let me tell you, it's hard to get a drink if you have to beg for it. People are getting selfish. What happened? And how come it's all Republicans now, anyway?"

I stared at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Hiding, man."

"You're hiding. On the street. In that get up."

He adjusted the rags on his shoulders and said, "Naked is the best disguise, doctor. Hide-in-plain-sight kind of thing. Nobody looks at us homeless folks. I bought these off a guy for fifty bucks. I could of gotten them for less but I didn't think it dignified to haggle. Guy had a shopping cart full of stuff. I gave him fifty and he said take what you want. We switched clothes. I took this coat right off his back. He couldn't wait to get busy drinking up that fifty. Addiction's an awful thing, isn't it?"

I stood up and prodded him with two fingers. He looked at me and I did it again. My fingers came away smudged with a dry grainy dirt like soot.

"I'm not in the mood for amusing repartee, Mickey. I already know what a character you are, so save it. Homicidal Colombians have been all over me. I've got a dog that's hooked on doped chocolate truffles turning my wife's apartment into a public health hazard. I want you to tell me what's going on. You can start any time."

"Hey, why do you think I'm here, brother? I'm sorry about all this, really -"

"Save it, Mickey. You told those people I had something called 'Duro'. What's that?"

"That's the dog's name. Cruz is almost as angry about losing the dog as he is about the other stuff. You wouldn't take the guy for an animal lover, you know. I had to bring the dog along bec -"

"How did they know I'd have him?"

"I have an apartment up on the East Side. Shit started flying sooner than I expected and they almost caught me there. Fortunately I was walking the dog. Unfortunately... I left a list in the place. You know, like, Things To Do? You were on it and... hey, sorry, man - "