The man hurried back into the building and Russell got down on one knee and took a cigarette from the duffel bag. He looked around. Up and down the tracks. At the sagging facade of a hardware store. At the empty parking spaces on the downtown streets. A few minutes later the door to the station opened again and the man came out and pointed at a two-door Toyota parked around the side of the building.
“Well. Come on,” he said.
Russell walked to the car. “You mind the smoke?”
“Not if you got one for me. Been one of them damn days. I don’t guess I’m telling you nothing.”
They got in the car and Russell gave him a cigarette. The man turned a vent toward Russell, the straight burst of air causing him to bat his eyes. He pushed the vent toward the ceiling and he rolled down his window. He sat with the bag in his lap and his knees bunched up in the compact space of the compact car.
“Where to?”
“Over there. Behind the fire station.”
“What fire station? Out by the mall?”
“The one downtown.”
“Shit. That station’s been shut down five, six years. Don’t reckon they care if we burn to the ground down here. Gotta sit next to all the new shit, I guess. Make sure some insurance man don’t get all worked up. The station down here is apartments now. You believe that? Couple of gay dudes bought it and fancied it up. Think it was even on some TV show. You sure you in the right spot?”
“I’m sure. It’s been a while. Over behind the place you’re talking about. Michigan Avenue.”
“That’s better. Street names are still the same far as I know,” the man said and he flicked his cigarette out the cracked window. “So what was that back there? You get on that guy’s wife or something?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.”
“Just old blood.”
“Old bad blood.”
“They seemed pretty damn serious. Weird looks on their faces. Especially that tall one.”
“Yeah. Especially,” Russell said.
The Toyota weaved through downtown. Women in heels leaving their bank jobs for the day and walking to their locked cars with black purses hanging from their arms. An OPEN sign shined in a café window and a pack of grayhaired men stood outside its door smoking. They passed the old fire station and the flagpole was gone from the front yard and a dogwood stood in its place. A wrought-iron balcony stretched across the upstairs floor and plants hung from hooks and their vines leaned lazily across the balcony railing, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. The red brick had been painted dirty gold.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” the man said. After the old station they left the downtown buildings and came upon a neighborhood. At a four-way stop Russell pointed right onto Michigan Avenue.
“About four down, I think. On the right. Or the left.”
“Yeah, I’d say it’s one of them.”
It was five down on the right. Russell lifted his hand and said stop.
“Don’t look like nobody lives here,” the man said.
“Nobody does.”
The man looked at the house and he looked at Russell. “You sure you okay? I see a lot of weird shit get on and off that bus but I never seen a guy jumped before.”
“I’m fine.”
“Want me to run you over to the doctor or something?”
“Hell no.” He shook his head and then the man’s hand and he opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He tossed away his cigarette and then he lit another one and he dropped the duffel bag to the ground. Stared at the house. Well, he thought. Home sweet fucking home.
8
THE HOUSE WAS LIKE THE OTHER HOUSES ON THE STREET. A CARPORT on the right, a porch in front, a porch in back, a thin walkway leading from the sidewalk to the door. Hedges under the front windows. An iron handrail up the front steps. Russell finished his cigarette and stood and opened the mailbox and took out an envelope. His name was scribbled on the front and he opened it and took out a house key.