The Hard Way by Carol Lea Benjamin Read Free Book Online

short while, I was speechless. How did this happen, this boy being sent a million miles from home, doing what he was told to, harmed in some awful, terrible way, a wound you couldn’t bandage, medicate, touch or fix? How had he held on to his humanity? Because despite the clumsy attempt to grab some money at the ATM, he surely had.
    â€œI’m a private investigator, Eddie. I’ve been working undercover to try to find a homeless man suspected of pushing another man off a subway platform into the path of an oncoming train.”
    I took a sip of wine, watching to see if Eddie was following what I was telling him. Part of me thought I’d gone too far already, way too far for every reason. But there was something else happening, something that made me tremble the way Eddie had, the way Dashiell did while his pizza cooled. Looking at Eddie, I remembered the day I’d “liberated” Dash, the day when we locked eyes for the first time and I knew he was my dog, despite the fact that I had to steal him to make that so and, by doing that, rescue him from someone who would have fought him when he was old enough, rescue him from a short and violent life in the pit. Is that what I thought I could do for Eddie, that I might be his answer, the hand to hold to find out who he was, to find the person he’d lost somewhere in Iraq, that I might save him as I had Dashiell? And that Eddie might be the answer I needed to find the homeless man I was after, the one I’d so far failed to find, that Eddie might show me the way?
    â€œGo on,” he said. “I’m listening.”
    And he was, too. Not half listening, listening all the way.
    â€œI’d been on the case for a few days when I heard that some homeless men and women were squatting at an old warehouse in Chelsea, at the place where you sometimes stayed.”
    â€œThe place that burned.”
    I nodded. “Bad timing for me, that fire.”
    Eddie looked down.
    â€œI know. Worse for you.”
    â€œBut why the getup?”
    â€œBecause most homeless people have learned to be mistrustful of the rest of us, people who have homes and jobs and moneyfor food, people who go out of their way to avoid them, who go out of their way to ignore them. I didn’t know how many people would talk to me if I appeared to be one of them, but I thought my chances would be remarkably better than if I appeared to be an outsider.”
    â€œBut they haven’t been?”
    â€œUh-uh. Not so far.”
    He thought a moment.
    â€œDespite the old clothes,” he said, “you are an outsider.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œI’m not saying you didn’t do good. You had me fooled, remember?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œI thought you, well, Eunice, was really homeless.”
    â€œYou even offered to show me a place to sleep.”
    â€œYeah,” he said. “I did.” Frowning.
    The waiter brought a basket of soft Italian bread and large, crisp, thin pieces of flatbread along with a small dish of olive oil with sun-dried tomato in it for dipping, reason enough to come to this restaurant. Eddie picked up a piece of bread, dipped it into the oil and took a bite, closing his eyes as the smell and feel and taste of it filled his senses.
    I thought the conversation would be over for now, but it wasn’t. Eddie looked up, waiting for me to continue. So I did.
    â€œI must be doing something wrong,” I said, “because aside from you, very few people have talked to me,” wondering if telling me to fuck off counted, because a few of them had said that, but not much more.
    â€œSomeone told you about our house,” he said, dipping a second piece of bread in the oil, dripping it onto the paper table cover as he lifted it to his mouth.
    â€œThat’s true,” I said. Then, “Actually, it was a cop friend who told me about it, not a homeless person.”
    â€œHow do you think I can help you? You