God Save the Child

The bartender put a pony of wine on the bar in front of him and slid ninety cents out of the small pile of change. Ahmed chugalugged it and put the glass down on the bar. Tom filled it again, took the rest of the change, and moved away. Ahmed nursed the second one. He looked from me to the black guy in the green corduroy. Then he moved down near me.

“Hi,” he whispered. He sounded like Rod McKuen doing the Godfather.

“Where’d you leave your spear?” I said.

“My spear?”

Close up Ahmed smelled stale, and the long fingernails were dirty.

“My, you’re a big one,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Bulldog Turner,” I said.

“Hey, that’s kind of a cute name, Bulldog.” He squeezed my left bicep. “I bet you’re awfully strong.”

The bartender stood polishing shot glasses, watching us with no expression of any kind.

“But oh so gentle,” I said.

“You gotta quarter for the juke box?” He was rubbing his flat hand up and down the back of my arm. Close up there was a gray stubble of beard showing, maybe two days’ worth. I gave him a quarter. “I’ll be right back,” he said and scuttled across to the juke box. He played an old Platters record, “My Prayer,” and hurried back to his stool beside me. He never straightened fully up. There was a hunched quality to him, like a dog that’s just wet on the rug. He drank the rest of his wine.

“Wanna buy me a drink?” he asked. His breath was sour.

“Ahmed,” I said, “I’ll buy you two drinks if you’ll take them down the other end of the bar. I think you’re a fantastic looker, but I’m spoken for.”

Ahmed hissed at me, “Mother sucker,” and scooted down the bar.

I motioned the bartender “Give him two drinks, on me,” I said.

20

It was five more draft beers and two passes later that Harroway showed. It was about 4:30 now, and The Odds’ End had filled up. The juke box was playing “Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B,” and two guys were doing the Funky Chicken in a small open area in front of it.

Harroway came in shrugging his shoulders to shake off the rain. He had an Aussie campaign hat on over his blond hair — probably didn’t want the color to run — and a rust-colored wraparound leather overcoat with black epaulets, a black belt, and black trim at the collar, cuffs, and along the skirt. Slick. He scanned the bar while he took off the coat. His eyes ran over me with no hesitation and kept going. He hung the coat and hat on a rack at one of the booths and sat down. His back to me. I noticed his white shirt was a see-through model. Be still my heart.

The guy he sat down with was a fat Oriental-looking Italian man in a blue chesterfield overcoat with velvet lapels. He kept the coat buttoned up to the neck. The bartender came out from behind the bar and put two highball glasses down on their table and went back behind the bar. When he got back I paid my bill.

Harroway talked with the fat man for fifteen minutes, finished his second drink, and stood up. He put on his leather coat and Aussie campaign hat, said something to the fat man, and went out into the rain, hunching his shoulders automatically as he opened the door.

I went after him. When I reached the street, he was already turning the corner toward Park Square. I hurried along, crossed to the other side of the street, and hung back about a half block behind him. It was raining hard and soaked through my tweed jacket in less than two blocks. Tailing a guy alone is mostly luck, and if he’s being careful, it can’t be done. Harroway, however, didn’t seem worried about a tail. He never looked around. It was twenty past five on a Monday night, and the city was crowded with commuters. That made it easier. We crossed Park Square past the grateful statue of a freed slave. “Lawzy me, Marse Whitey, Ah’m pow’ful obliged fo’ ma freedom.” Balls.

We crossed Boylston and headed past the big United Fund sign up across the Common. The trees still had most of their leaves, and it cut the rain a little but not enough. We went up hill to the round bandstand. Harroway stopped there and looked around. I kept going with my head down and passed him. He ignored me and stood against the bandstand with his hands in his pockets, his collar up.

I went twenty yards further and stopped at a bench. I swayed a little, put one hand on the back of the bench, and stood half-bent-over as if I might be sick. Two old ladies with umbrellas went by. One of them said, “Sober up, sonny, and go home.” With my head hanging like this, I could look back and see him standing in the dark; he hadn’t moved. I eased myself onto the bench and lay down with my knees pulled up to my chest and my head resting on one arm. I could stare right at Harroway through the wet sunglasses. I hoped a cop didn’t come by and run me off. On a night like this I had the feeling the cops were checking for crime down at the Hayes-Bickford cafeteria and making sure no one tried sneaking in the Park Street subway without paying.