#15
Once more, Hitchgins wiped away the heavy drops accumulating among his eyebrows and threatening to flood his eyes. He stood there, stooped, a shoulder leaning against the porch of his building. He noticed the milkman had finally come by but that the homeless children had stolen one of the bottles again. At least, they had the correction to leave him the other one. He knew some richer and better educated people who wouldn't have shown such consideration. Having only one bottle to carry this day was better anyway. He had hitched along the most sordid and unpopulated alleys to carry his wounded leg back home and had labored hard to climb the five steps of the stoop. Now, he was there, panting, offering his unfashionable trench-coat to the icy drizzle, much like an old dented carapace still as tough as ever. He was waiting there for some time already and looked like he had sunk in deep apathy, refusing to see the trial ahead of him: three stories to climb. He growled what was supposed to be a sniggering as he realized how this scene could be a faithful metaphor of his life. Never mind, he had to move because the rain did not manage to dissipate the red puddle that was slowly flowing from under his trousers.
“Onward and upward me dear Hitch...” He muttered.
He took the bottle of milk and opened the door, which swayed silently thanks to the generous amounts of lubricants the hinges were always enjoying. The caretaker was such a maniac that it wasn’t uncommon to stain your clothes just by inconsiderately leaning against a doorframe. But while the door did not squeak, the wooden floor didn’t deprive itself of the pleasure, instantly warning the Cerberus of this place.
“Ah, it’s you Mister Hitchgins! Isn’t that very early to get back home? Oh my! You’re gimping!”
“Err… Don’t worry ‘bout me Miss Blausenthal. I’ll be fine, just got me leg bruised a little coz I missed a step. Not’in serious, really.”
The old woman shook her head.
“Here’s what happens with your habit of fumbling in the dark! I bet you haven’t even noticed that the light bulb on your floor had blown.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, I had it changed by David.”
“Vat a helpful little guy. X’cuse me Miss Blausenthal, but I gotta fix dis mess ‘bout me leg…”
She nodded with a compassionate grim on her face. Hitchgins began his daunting climb, leaning heavily on the handrail. He closed his eyes just before the light in the staircase could blind him.
“You had forgotten again. Is it absolutely necessary for you to get hurt again?”
“Bah, ya know I’m just like any rat or cockroach: always fleein’ light, eh?”
The caretaker showed her sorrow.
“You shouldn’t speak like that Mister Hitchgins, nor sink in such dereliction. I’ll tell you: you really need a wife to care after you.”
Hitchgins opened his eyes wide for a second and laughed. It wasn’t upbeat but his amusement was disarmingly genuine nonetheless. He resumed his climb before the old woman could have a chance to notice that his claudication had nothing to do with a strained ankle.
He had reached his floor at long last and was about to put down the bottle of milk in order to dig in his wide crowded pockets for the key when he noticed a tiny scrape on the lock. It was slightly shinier than the rest and he was sure he hadn’t noticed it when he went out this very morning. He sighed with resignation and simply turned the knob and took a step in the living-room. He smelled, cocked his ears and briefly peered through the room before calling out:
“Haroumpf! What d’ya do in me home and where dida learn’o make such a slapdash’o a lockpickin’, eh?”
A black man in his thirties with a face ravaged by ancient acne – unless it had been small pox- came in from the kitchen.
“Shit! I didn’t hear you come in man. Hey, you’re jazzing, man: I took care of your door! You’ll even be able to close and open it just like before.”
As Hitchgins did not seem willing to answer, he went on:
“You do have guts anyway. I would have been freakin’ out if I had found a guy in my kitchen like that.”
Hitchgins headed to a small closet whose content disgorged down to the floor.
“Yeah, and ya’re gonna freak out to death if ya don’t explain pronto vhy ya searched me flat.”
“What are you speakin’ about man?”
Hitchgins was foraging through the heap of bottles, drums, cans and cardboard boxes collapsing at his feet.
“Did ya really think I wouldn’t notice?”
The stranger cast a circular glance at the hilly mass of clothes, approximately intact dishes, old books, stained papers, crumbling folders and a host of other weird objects surrounding him.
“Well, frankly: yes.”
Hitchgins took a brown stained-glass bottle and showed it to the black man:
“Were lookin’ for sumthin’ like that?”
The other one read the label.
“Denaturated alcohol? What d’you think man? I wouldn’t drink that! Now, if I had put my hand on some tasty rum of course…”
“Dat’better coz’ I’ll need it.”
Hitchgins went to the kitchen where he grabbed a pair of chopsticks jabbed in the remnants of a bowl of rice forgotten near the sink about a week ago. He also picked the pair of rusty scissors masterfully hidden under the cobwebs that dressed an abandoned broom in a wedding veil. Those tools equipped, he came back to the living-room.
“Oh, by the way, I did ask’ya a couple o’questions, didn’t I?”
“Oh, that. Well, I was in trouble in the neighborhood. There’s a hell of a mess out there. I was around for business, see? But everything’s getting tail over head since the Kamilet began to strike out at the Ruskies. Each and every single minor gang has deserted, just as if they had agreed upon it.”
“Pfft… The Ruskies…”
“Ruskies, Slavs, Boches… Why should I care?”
“Greek. They’re Greek.”
“Well, if you want, man. As soon as it began, however, all of them have forsaken the Kamilet and my little business made a flop. That’s why I decided it would be better to hide somewhere and let the storm pass.”
“Sumewhere was me flat, o’course.”
“Err… That’s my boss who said that in case of real trouble…”
Hitchgins had begun to cut his trousers to reach the wound, forcing like a mule on the mostly jammed scissors.
“Damn! You’re seriously banged up man.”
Hitchgins did not seem to notice the comment.
“Luis. Musta be Luis. Why does he feel like he can send his losers takin’ refuge in me kitchen, eh?”
“Easy, man! And how do you know it’s Luis anyway?”
“Ya just told me.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I do know vat’s goin’on. If Luis is int’rested, then I may pay him a little visit just to know vat it’s worth to him…”
Having unscrewed the bottle cap, Hitchgins generously washed his wound. While the black stranger winced in commiseration, Hitchgins himself just grit his teeth and grabbed the chopsticks he had left lying.
“Hey man, you’re crazy or what? You won’t put these disgusting things in your leg, will you?”
“Mind your own business.”
As a matter of fact, Hitchgins slipped the chopsticks in his injury, probing for the bullet. It was deep and would take days to heal, perhaps even weeks. Being an half breed wasn’t a sinecure, indeed. He finally located it: it had been stopped by the femur. He pinched it between the sticks and took on extracting it, millimeter after millimeter. His unknown visitor watched him in horror, gaping at the wounded cop’s concentration and at the blood gushing in small jerks.
The bullet finally emerged with a tiny sucking noise. It was huge and must have been fired by a machine gun. It was miraculous that the bone had withstood. Well, an expected miracle, but still. Hitchgins thought that being even just a half breed wasn’t that bad after all.
