Billy bagged some of the cans and put them in his safe spot, a deserted grassy hideaway several yards from the underpass. If he hurried back to the park, he might be able to grab more cans before the cleanup crew arrived. He couldn’t go to the recycling kiosk until tomorrow. It’d take a whole day.
His cart rattled even more now with only half the crushed cans to jump around. Billy liked the jingle-jangle. It reminded him of the sound of loose change in his daddy’s trouser pocket. “Ice-cream money,” he’d call it and the two of them would laugh at their secret code so Billy’s mama wouldn’t know they were really going out to buy and share a cheap bottle of vodka.
Billy had just gotten to the park when he heard another vehicle pull in behind him. He moved out of the way but the van stopped alongside him.
“Hey,” a man called out.
Billy kept going, glancing back at the van. The man wore dark sunglasses and rested his arm out the window. Billy noticed a patch on the shoulder. A uniform. Like a cop. Had they sent someone to get him already? He stopped and looked up into the clear-blue sky then turned toward the water of the bay. The waves churned over the ledge but it didn’t look like a hurricane was coming.
“You need to come with me,” the man said to him. “I know it looks like a nice day, but there’s a hurricane on the way.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.” Billy stayed on the curb. “They told me I could bring my shopping cart.”
The man stared at him. Billy decided he wouldn’t go if they didn’t let him take the shopping cart.
“Sure, I’ve got room.” The man climbed out of the van and slid open the side door, ready to help Billy. “You probably should climb in beside it and keep it from tipping.”
As Billy started to crawl inside, stepping over all the bags of ice, he tried to remember if any of the other cops wore khaki shorts and really nice deck shoes. That was his last thought as the rock cracked the back of his skull.
CHAPTER 10
NORTH SEVENTEENTH AVENUE UNDERPASS
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Billy Redding hit the jackpot. His battered shopping cart rattled with stacked aluminum cans. He crushed as many as he could until his hands were sore. The curse of small hands. In fact, Billy had convinced himself years ago that it had always been his worthless little hands that had prevented him from being successful in life. But maybe his luck was turning. Now with most of the cans crushed and almost flat, he could fit another two dozen into the cart.
Saturday nights always left a jackpot in the Wayside Park trash barrels. The trick, Billy had discovered, was to get here early enough on Sunday to beat the city’s cleanup crew. Cashing in this pile would take care of him for a week.
He headed back to the underpass to hide his stash. The short distance exhausted him. He was out of breath when he heard a car coming from behind him. Billy pushed back onto the curb to get out of the way. The car slowed. Billy kept moving uphill, panting in the morning humidity. His T-shirt stuck to his back like a second skin. He hated that and wore a long-sleeve button-down shirt over it, thinking it would act as a layer of insulation or at least soak up the extra moisture. He didn’t mind being hot. He hated being wet. Bugs would get tangled in his beard whenever it got wet. That’s why he learned to stick close to the underpass. It provided shelter from the rain.
“Hey, Billy,” someone called out to him.
He wanted to pretend he didn’t hear them. He needed to keep going. But sometimes people stopped and gave him a couple of bucks. He glanced over his shoulder.
A police cruiser. Damn!
He stopped immediately. Secured the shopping cart with a rock under one of the back wheels. A big rock he carried strictly for that purpose.
As he got closer to the car Billy recognized the orange-haired cop. Sometimes they told him their names but he never remembered. He was always polite. As long as he was polite, they were polite back. So Billy just kept his head down and answered their questions, said “yes” a lot and called them “sir.” Once he even called a female cop “sir.” He was so embarrassed that he couldn’t stutter out an apology. She ended up giving him five bucks and said not to worry about it.
“There’s a hurricane coming this way, Billy,” the cop told him through the rolled-down window of the cruiser.
“Yes, sir.”
“When the time comes I’ll send someone here to pick you up. You’re going to need to go to a hurricane shelter. Do you understand, Billy? You won’t be able to stay out here.”
“Yes, sir. Will I be able to bring my shopping cart?”
“They’ll have food and everything else you’ll need at the shelter.”
Billy kept his head down and kicked at the curb. “It’s hard to find these.”
The cop was quiet and out of the corner of his eyes Billy could see him shaking his head.
“Sure, Billy. We’ll figure something out. I’ll tell them you can bring your cart.”