Unto the Least of These . . .

By L. C. Allen

Heavy curtains shroud the past for Henry, a homeless man struggling for survival against the elements, a rogue street gang bent on his extermination, and his own mental anguish over his buried identity. Follow Henry's saga with his community under the Ninth Avenue bridge as the strange, the interesting and the exciting happens to the community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098371371

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Unto the Least of These…

L.C. Allen

ISBN (Print): 978-1-09837-136-4

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09837-137-1

© 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Contents

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1

The cloying stench of wet cardboard stung his nose. His stomach bucked acid into his throat. He gagged, coughed and swallowed hard. Pins and needles spiked his shoulder and hip from lying on his side, legs drawn up, arms wrapped about his knees. Inky blackness smothered everything. Where the hell am I?

In strobe-like flashes of insight, brain fog cleared. That’s right, I pulled the refrigerator box over the steam vent at the curb on Ninth Avenue. A full night of undisturbed sleep. Couldn’t remember the last time. Couldn’t recall anything beyond his arrival in the community that lived under the Ninth Avenue bridge. Reaching back for his past, when wide awake, a fruitless and painful experience. Had to rely on his dreams, fitful snippets, to fill in his back story, but they were infrequent and had no meaning as far as he could tell.

He dreamed again last night, of simpler times, ancient, where no motors polluted the air, no giant aircraft broke the tranquility of the deep blue skies. Trudging the narrow streets with the crowds, he fit right in, but never knew where he was, greeting unfamiliar people who all knew him well. Why couldn’t he remember, something, anything? His dreams were vivid, but in the end just dreams. Didn’t belong in his dream world, did he?

Stray bits penetrated the thick curtains shrouding his past at odd moments. That image of a small house with fancy gingerbread decorations seated next door to the tiny white church was a frequent visitor. The smell of sweet flowers on the trees in the front yard, Magnolias. He managed to remember that. But for these few vignettes, mere ghosts, strangers prowling his present, he had no recall of his past—no touchstone to his own reality. A single factoid, the rock upon which his very sanity existed—he knew with a certainty that had no basis, his name was Henry.

Twisting himself onto his back, he kicked at a sliver of light down by his legs. The end flaps of the box burst open. Both feet shot out into cold November air, one shod in an old black Ked, the other in a derelict wing tip. The drooping sole of the once expensive shoe slapped back with a snap. Needed to do something about replacing that one before first snow, not that far off.

Henry edged his body part way out of the box. Bending forward, he twisted skyward, squinting in the early morning light. Clouds blinked the sun on and off as they scudded between the horizons. Going to be one of those fast days, he could feel it—brisk, rapid fire, where stuff came at you unannounced and unexpected. Henry hated fast days.

He rolled himself onto his hands and knees, and stood, unpacking his six-foot two frame. Every joint, ligament, and muscle screamed in protest. Getting too old for this, but what was the alternative? Wavering a bit in the biting wind, he was alone on the corner. Strange, usually a mix of laborers and office workers scurrying to beat the time clock populated Ninth Avenue at this time of the morning. What day was it?

Henry grabbed at the lapels of his old tattered overcoat attempting to rewrap it about his pencil-thin torso, but it was too twisted to make a simple adjustment. A brownish, houndstooth at one time, well used when he found it, with one torn patch pocket flopped down like a bloodhound’s ear. A tear at the arm-pit yawned each time Henry raised that arm letting cold air in and warm odors out. Should try to find something better while he searched for a shoe.

Laboring over the knot in the piece of clothesline that served as a replacement for missing coat buttons, he shuffled over to the newspaper vending machine on the curb. Warm in his box for the first time in weeks, the biting wind ripped his comfort away gust by gust. He hugged the coat around himself as he peered into the small window of the box. Always found the day from the byline pressed against the back of the glass, but only one paper was left, lying flat on the floor. Henry changed angles, but it was impossible to make out any of the print.

You going to buy that one?

Henry spun around to face a three-piece dark gray suit. A youngish man with a dour face, and a head topped with greased hair slicked back on either side in neat, glistening furrows. A manicured hand, cuffed in glaring white, held change at the ready.

He shook his head not so much in reply, but as an attempt to clear away cobwebs in his mind. Couldn’t remember when he had a pocket full of coins, couldn’t remember if. No need for coins these days, and the only pants he was able to scrounge up sported holes in the pockets so he had no place to carry change. Ah, no—can’t.

Thought not. Excuse me. Coins clanked into the machine and the young man retrieved the paper.

Henry leaned in and squinted at the front page. Massive letters screamed, President Assassinated. The young man yanked the paper down by his side. Couldn’t find any papers anywhere this morning. This may be the last one. Banner headline. Collector’s item. President Kennedy has been killed.

Yes, I see that—but could you tell me—what day is it?

The paper folded under his arm with a good deal of care, the man turned away but not before Henry caught the grimace there, the look of fear mixed with disgust reserved for his kind, homeless. The fleeing man shouted over his shoulder. Today? Saturday November 24th.

The lights cycled to allow traffic to flow up and down Ninth Avenue. Henry leaned against his box and studied the buildings that made up the Warren across the street. A cluster of businesses occupying what had once been a massive manufacturing plant extended five blocks up Ninth and three blocks down Water Street. The entire complex was ringed with a formidable perimeter of the decaying red brick of the street-facing buildings. Narrow alleyways penetrated the facade every so often for access to the interior structures. Someone told him that the original factory was designed for explosives and munitions manufacture and stood alone in this section of town before city growth engulfed the area. Even the Ninth Street bridge didn’t exist back then. Explosives were hauled straight down to the river and shipped out by barge.

None of the buildings in the interior were connected. They varied in size and shape, and were placed at irregular intervals to yield a maze of passageways across the entire plant site. This Henry understood was for safety. If one building went up, the others, detached, were less likely to blow. The twisted passages gave the place its name, The Rabbit Warren.

The Warren was a two-faced wench cloaked in dusty brick red. A foreboding exterior, but an enticing embrace, a harbor for peace or mayhem, industry or evil. She pulsed with the vibrant energy of commerce during the day. By night, she opened her passageways and loading docks for a quiet place to sleep or a playground for roving hoodlums to vandalize and maim, undetected. Cappy, a good friend, was killed in the Warren just a few weeks ago. No glaring headlines for that death. No one noticed, but then Cappy lived on the streets not in the White House.

A droplet formed in the corner of his eye. It gave way to gravity and coursed a trail down the dirt lined crags of his face, disappearing into the snow-white forest of his beard. President or pauper, deaths like Cappy’s or Kennedy’s were all senseless.

Saturday. Got to move. They served at St John’s on Saturday, but you had to be there early, because they moved you in and out real quick and no late arrivals got fed. The church ladies wanted the place cleaned up for Sunday morning.

A shout echoed up the canyon of East Water Street behind him fragmenting thoughts of food. There’s one of those creeps. Get him!

Henry whipped around. Four kids ran up the Water Street hill towards Ninth. The tall, skinny one, the shouter, was pointing right at him. Fear crept out of the pavement and up his legs, roots binding him to the spot. His head swiveled taking in his surroundings.

The young man with the paper was three blocks up and trudging away. Neither direction, up or down Ninth, offered any way out. This group would catch him, and Henry knew they were not interested in talking. Henry hacked off the roots of lethargy and vaulted into the flowing traffic.

Amid blaring horns, screeching brakes, and a few unkind epithets known only to city cabbies, he cut a zig-zag path towards the opposite curb. Left palm prints on more than one yellow taxi hood. Henry bolted down Water Street. Had to hide. He would be safe under the bridge, but it was too far away. The Warren was his only possible hope, but she could also be his pathway to death. He raced for the opening half a block away, heartbeat thrumming in his ears, breath rasping at his throat. The slap, slap, slap of the loose shoe sole echoed off the walls ticking off what might be the last seconds of his life.

2

Sergeant Tom O’Rourke took a sip of the black poison the precinct called coffee. Why the hell did the lieutenant put out the order for everyone to be here on a Saturday morning—layoffs? The expanse of the bull pen, beyond the floor to ceiling windows of the break room, overflowed with multiple shifts jostling for space. Garabedian had commandeered their shared desk, so O’Rourke came in here for a coffee and quiet. Didn’t seem possible, but weekend stuff tasted worse than the swill available during his normal tour. One sip obliterated the taste of the great cup his wife, Ellen, handed him on the way out the door; a consolation for having to work on a Saturday. Nauseated, he spilled the contents down the drain hoping the plumbing wouldn’t dissolve.

Tom O’Rourke contemplated the worker bees buzzing about the hive beyond the glass, a grand show of dedication for Lieutenant Stultzman, commander of the precinct. Cops running scared a more accurate description. Twenty-six long years he worked here. A motor patrolman still, with sergeant stripes no less, he spent most of his time training rookies. He pissed off the wrong people early on, never a wise policy in a political organization. Trapped on the lower rungs of the precinct ladder, he had little prospect of advancement.

Management came and went, but O’Rourke’s reputation stuck, like his nick-name, T.O. Everybody called him that. Each change in the upper echelons let in small rays of hope, but he was always passed over for promotion.

Back when he was still interested in his future, he took the Lieutenant’s exam, right alongside Stultzman. T.O. figured his seniority and better test scores would make him a shoe-in for the precinct commander. Hell, he trained the kid as a fresh recruit. In the end, they gave the job to trainee not the trainer. One more body blow to his ego.

Stultzman’s promotion got to him. Wanted to quit right then, but Ellen, the voice of reason in his life, convinced him to stay on. He was your student. How bad can it be? Only five more years before you can go out with full benefits.

His wife had one thing right, he did understand how Stultzman worked, but this promotion promised to be a disaster. The kid didn’t have the smarts to run a precinct.

The lieutenant appeared in the doorway to his office scanning the bull pen bustle, his head nodding up and down like some bobble head doll in an earthquake. The king paying homage to his serfs. Stultzman’s gaze swept to the glass walls of the break room and locked with T.O.’s. The bouncing head now moved side to side. After a long glare, Stultzman retreated into his office shutting the door.

A few years ago, he might have been motivated to at least appear busy, but his short time left made him cocky—they wouldn’t dare let him go without cause. The troops would riot. Needed to hold on, so he worked his assignments and didn’t give the brass too many excuses. Didn’t pretend either, or mince words.

As long as he kept his nose clean, the union protected his employment and assured he got his raises. He slogged on because he couldn’t see himself doing anything else. Although he never admitted it out loud, he enjoyed bringing the new recruits up to speed. To watch them grow up, and move on became a source of real pride. The lieutenant was the exception.

Once ensconced in the job, Stultzman mounted a campaign to force T.O. out, and made his days a living hell.

Tony Gentile, his new trainee, appeared in the doorway and cleared away the daydreams. Yo, sleepy head. Lieutenant wants us all in the briefing room. Didn’t you hear?

Gentile, six months out of the academy, showed real promise. Awkward in some situations and a bit quick to judge, but they all came that way. This kid had a high level of intelligence and a sensitivity to the nuances of his surroundings. Make an excellent cop, a good detective if he wanted it. T.O. liked him.

A sea of blue flowed toward the conference room. No, I didn’t hear. Any word as to what this is about?

Lieutenant didn’t say. Just to get our asses to the briefing room, now. Better move it.

Everyone was in the room as T.O. sauntered to his desk for a pen and pad. Be lucky to find one now that Garabedian had been messing things up for the last ten minutes. Always seemed to take forever to reorganize after a shift change.

Tony hung by the door engaging a couple of the other cops in conversation, stalling for time. T.O. couldn’t care less about being the last one in. Should be good for a few chuckles.

Stultzman’s voice funneled through the briefing room door. Come on, Gentile. Stop being an ole woman. Where the hell’s your partner?

T.O. waved Tony into the room as he zig-zagged across the bull pen.

Right behind me.

The heavy note of sarcasm in Tony’s response could land him trouble. T.O. had to remember to give the kid his fine line of loyalty speech. He always made sure each recruit understood that backing him unconditionally put them on a sure path to disaster in the precinct. He schooled them all when to take the fork in the road that split their own self-interest over following him without questioning.

Stultzman spotted him as soon as he entered. Nice of you to grace us with your presence, O’Rourke. Panning over the rest of the room, he continued, Now that his eminence is here, we can start.

A ripple of nervous laughter spread across the room before an awkward blanket of silence descended. Not many of the officers in the precinct liked the lieutenant and jokes at T.O.’s expense sat poorly with the rank and file. Stultzman never got that part, or he didn’t care.

T.O. took his time as he wandered to the back of the room, accompanied by nervous coughs and the groan of a folding metal chair protesting a weight shift. He had long since learned to pick his fights and would not rise to this bait. Said nothing, instead let Stultzman stand at the podium gaping while he found a seat next to Tony.

The lieutenant began. Listen up! A new task force has been formed uptown. They’ve asked for this time, so we’re all here on a Saturday morning at their request. Agent Jesus Salazar is here to conduct this briefing.

Classic Stultzman, deflect the blame for this extra duty on someone else. Like they needed an introduction to Jesus. He’d been with the precinct until nine months ago when he moved uptown into narcotics.

T.O. wondered at the need for another rah-rah speech on the drug issues in the city, but he would listen, because Jesus Salazar, another of his successful trainees, considered it important.

* * *

Fuck! Head splitting. Go away damn it. He blinked, blinked again—Tiny white dots floating before his eyes wouldn’t go away. Everybody shoutin’. What? What’re they all yelling at. Wanted to barf, no can’t. Hated throwing up. Horns loud, hurting, makin’ my teeth ache. Jesus, shut the hell up.

Metallic stink of hot motor oil. Somebody pulled at his arms. Leave me alone. Go away.

Blue sky, up high, big, yellow thing, shiny metal right on top of him, like a blanket. Letters, numbers in a small square. Shit, a license plate. I’m half under a mother fuckin’ taxi. Squeaky yanked on his arm again, screaming to get up. Had to scram the hell out of there. Some foreign guy leaned over the front fender pumping his fist and hollering Stupeed ass, shoulda’ keep goin’ and run heem over. Fineesh the job. Radio’d my deespatch for da cops.

Lenny Kobeleski yielded to the tugs of Squeaky and the new kid Joey as he backpedaled out from under the car. Close, coulda’ been killed. He shot a glance up Water Street as he sat on the pavement, the bleating horns rising in volume. Wanted to smash every cock-suckin’ driver in the mouth to shut the damn things up. Where did that stupid homeless bum go. Bet he’s in the Warren. Otta go and finish him off. That’s the leader of the bunch that lives under the bridge, that Henry guy he was sure of it. Eliminate him and the rest would be easy to drive away. A real improvement to the neighborhood. Hated those miserable gutter rats. Made walking down here a drag. They brought the place down. Damn my head hurts.

Squeaky pulled again. Come on Snake, we gotta scram outta here. This clown says he radioed for the cops. Don’t wanna be around when they show up here, do we?

Snake, everybody called him that since middle school, pushed off the macadam and stood up. The world began to spin. Grabbed the nearest shoulders and held on, shutting his eyes trying to stop the carousel of whirling cars and buildings. His stomach rolled. We should go after that bastard. In the Warren, I think. Find him in there, take him out.

Why did a I shout at the bum. Warning gave him the opportunity to get away. We had the creep right there.

A siren wailed in the distance. Come on Snake, we ain’t got time for that shit now. Gotta be gone. You ain’t in no condition to chase that jerk now.

Hated taking orders from Squeaky, but the little twerp had this one right. The siren got louder. Better get outta there. The group helped him to the sidewalk. They turned north toward his apartment.

3

T.O. dropped his eyes to his notebook, but kept his ears tuned to the two up front, Everyone else had vacated the briefing room. Nobody, except the guys on shift, wanted to spend any extra time here on a weekend.

Jesus had outlined the startup of a new gang task force. The gangs out in LA were getting organized and taking control of entire sections of that city. The concept hadn’t reached here yet, but bunches of kids and motorcycle clubs were already here and they could form up. The city hoped to nip this stuff in bud. Most of the gang style activity here, occurred in the north end, where two of the cycle clubs had picked names and staked out turf. But, the task force felt that another gang might be forming right here in the precinct. So far all they had were a few incident reports. They wanted confirmation.

T.O. found the acknowledgement a refreshing change. A bunch of kids down here were doing small smash and grabs. He suspected that same group beat up and killed Cappy, one of the homeless who lived under Ninth Street bridge. The murder occurred in the Warren. Everybody else in the precinct wanted to classify this as a crime of opportunity, a random occurrence. Stulzman made it his personal mission to squash any thoughts on the subject of gangs. If you didn’t talk about an issue it wasn’t one. Cappy’s case got no priority because he was homeless and had no family to pressure the politicians.

T.O. remained behind to speak to Jesus about his own ideas, but Stultzman dragged his ego out and hopped up on a soap box. T.O. tuned into the tirade.

"… expect me to commit resources to a ghost hunt, to validate some number cruncher’s view of what might or might not be happening in the real