Part 10 (2/2)

”Your wife and kids will probably be back tomorrow,” I told his machine. ”They're fine. Be nice. Stark's dead. Killed himself. A long story. Your wife will tell you.”

There was one message on my answering machine. It was one of the secretaries in the law offices of Tycinker, Oliver, and Schwartz.

”Mr. Fonesca”-her voice came through flat and dry-”Mr. Tycinker asked me to remind you that he needs those papers served on Mickey Donophin before Sat.u.r.day. If we do not hear from you, he will a.s.sume you are unable to do this and will contact the Freewell Agency.”

I called Tycinker, Oliver, and Schwartz. There was no one there, but there was an answering machine.

”This is Lewis Fonesca,” I told it. ”Tell Mr. Tycinker I'll have the papers in Mickey Donophin's hands within twenty-four hours.”

I hung up, got my soap, a towel, toothbrush and toothpaste, and my electric razor and moved toward the rest room I shared with the other tenants and Digger, an otherwise homeless old man, who was standing in front of the mirror over the sink when I went through the door.

”Ah,” he said, looking at me in the mirror. ”The little Italian.”

The rest room was almost always clean, which came as a stunning surprise to most visitors. A smiling, r.e.t.a.r.ded man named Marvin Uliaks, for whom I had recently done a job, kept clean the rest room and most of the stores and storefront businesses on the three-block stretch of the seven short blocks of 301 between Main and the Tamiami intersection. He accepted whatever the business owners wanted to give him and smiled even when he was given only a quarter.

”How do I look?” Digger said, turning to me.

He looked like a disheveled mess of a human being who had put on a wrinkled gold tie that had nothing to do with his wrinkled blue-and-red striped s.h.i.+rt and sagging dark trousers.

”Dapper,” I said as he gave me room to get to the sink.

”Got a job interview,” he said over my shoulder, checking his tie in the mirror.

There was no hint of alcohol on his breath. There never was. Digger didn't drink. He couldn't afford to. He had told me when we first encountered each other by the urinal a few months ago that he neither drank nor took drugs.

”It's my mind,” he had said. ”Doesn't function right. I lose days, weeks, get headaches, fall a lot.”

”Where's the job interview?”

He moved out of the way so I could brush my teeth.

”Jorge and Yolanda's,” he said, checking his own teeth over my shoulder and rubbing them with his finger.

I held up my tube of Colgate, and he held out a finger for me to drop some toothpaste on it.

”Obliged,” he said as I stepped out of the way after rinsing my mouth so he could work on his teeth.

Jorge and Yolanda's was a second-floor ballroom-dance studio right across the street. I could see it from my office window.

Satisfied with his teeth, Digger rinsed with a handful of tap water and stepped back. I turned on my razor.

”Want to know what I'll be doing?” he asked.

To the hum of my razor, I looked at him in the mirror and said, ”Yes.”

”Dancing,” he said.

”Dancing?”

I stopped shaving.

”They have dances for their clients and prospective clients every Friday night,” he said. ”They need extra men because they have more women than men. What're you looking at me like that for? I'm a terrific dancer. Anything, you name it, waltz, tango, fox-trot, rumba, swing. You name it. I get fifteen bucks and all the appetizers I can eat every Friday night providing I don't make a hog of myself.”

Digger used to be a pharmacist. He sometimes slept in a closet of one of the twenty-four-hour Walgreen's. There was a seemingly infinite number of Walgreen's and Eckerd drugstores in Sarasota, an even greater number of banks, and a supply of cardiologists, oncologists, and orthopedic surgeons that probably rivaled Manhattan's.

I knew little about Digger's past, didn't want to know more.

”Sounds great,” I said, returning to my shaving. ”Good luck.”

He looked at himself in the mirror again.

”Haven't got a chance, have I?”

”Not a chance in the world,” I said, finis.h.i.+ng my shave and checking my face for places I might have missed.

”What the h.e.l.l. I said I was coming in, answered an ad in the paper. Said I was coming in. What the h.e.l.l? It's just across the street. What have I got to lose? You know?”

He started to loosen his tie.

”Got this tie at the Goodwill for a quarter,” he said. ”Real silk, just this little stain where you can't even really notice, but what the h.e.l.l.”

”What time's your appointment?” I asked, was.h.i.+ng my face.

”Just said I should drop by some time after ten, but what the h.e.l.l.”

”You've got time to shave, use a comb, get a pair of pants that fit, a white s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of socks and shoes at the Women's Exchange.”

The Women's Exchange consignment and resale shop was a few blocks down Oak Street.

”That'd cost,” he said, looking at me with eyes showing a lot of red and little white.

”How much?”

I dried my face.

”Ten, fifteen bucks,” he said.

I fished out a twenty and held it out. Digger took it.

”I gotta pay this back?” he asked.

”Get yourself something at the DQ if there's anything left,” I said.

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