Robert laughed. “If you hear or see anything, hit a pay phone and call me.”
Popeye pocketed the card and money. “I never said I didn’t have any info for you. I just said I didn’t know where Charlie was right now.” Robert raised an eyebrow.
“Go over to the Crossroads Rescue Mission on R Street NW. Ask for Patrick Miller. He’ll be able to help you. Meanwhile I will keep an eye out.”
Robert jumped out of the way as Popeye hurled out of the alley. He called out to the crippled vet, who turned his chair.
“Was Charlie sick or injured that you know of?”
“Down here, we’re all sick and injured,” said Popeye. He turned, and rolled away.
Robert headed for the Crossroad’s Rescue Mission. He vaguely recalled the mission’s late night commercials soliciting used vehicles and contributions. From R Street he could see the building from nearly three blocks away. Its loud lime paint and huge green and white florescent sign “Crossroads Rescue Mission” stood out even in the daylight, an oasis in a trash-heaped desert.
Something sparked Robert’s senses. A wiry, weasel-looking man stared at him from across the street. He’d been stared at all afternoon, but this guy stood out. When Robert’s eyes fixed on him, the man abruptly looked away. His clothes were tattered, but his shoes barely worn. His face looked pampered, not weather-beaten and heavily lined like most people in the area.
Robert stepped into the street, but a fast-moving Federal Express truck cut him off, splashing mud and slush on his pants and shoes. The truck passed. The weasel was gone.
Except for it’s bright hue and long food lines, Crossroads appeared more like a four-story office building than a shelter. Unlike the rest of the area, nobody slept on the sidewalk out front or in its alleys. The space around it-clean, immaculate. Not a candy wrapper or empty cigarette pack in sight.
A nondescript truck with a trailer the size of a forty-foot container pulled up, and a mangy, but orderly crowd lined up at the trailer’s back door. A group Robert pegged as volunteers, about college age, wearing green polo shirts that matched the building, streamed out of Crossroads, all smiles and waves, greeting some of those in line by name. Brown paper grocery bags, filled with canned food and produce were passed out, and Robert wondered if even so large a trailer could feed such a long line of people.
Inside, the mission buzzed, as more lime green shirts scampered about well-lit hallways like leprechauns, discussing, laughing and pointing people in all directions. Robert noted a room filled with computers, a well-stocked library, and a bustling free clinic. Bronze plaques lined the walls naming benefactors, from Microsoft and McDonald’s, to Barbra Streisand and Kirk Douglas.
At the end of the hallway, at the back of the building, a large cafeteria fed row after row of hungry mouths-chomping, chewing, and drinking.
It seemed the perfect place for Charlie to hide. One face looked like another. Everyone minded their own business. Secrets remained buried, buried alive.
Robert asked where he could find Patrick Miller. A gregarious Bahamian woman wearing a white lab coat and stethoscope directed him to the fourth floor. The top level, a lively sea of cubicles greeted him; as men and women, some in suits, but most in Crossroads signature polos, hurried about with purpose and determination. He heard someone on the phone ordering supplies, while others solicited donations.
“Now there’s a look I’ve seen before,” a smooth baritone voice said behind him.
Robert accepted the outstretched hand of a tall jovial fellow who introduced himself as Executive Director of Crossroads, Patrick Miller.
“Most people are a little surprised when they see the operation at work,” he said, a broad smile pinned to his face. “We don’t all stand on corners panhandling, Mr. Veil.”
“You already know who I am?”
“Don’t look so surprised. Most people don’t have cell phones or e-mail out here on these streets, but our system is almost as fast.”
“Then you know why I’ve come.”
“Yes,” said Miller, dropping his voice. “You’re looking for Charlie Ivory.” He looked around, then signaled Robert to follow him.
What Miller’s office lacked in size, it made up for in substance.
Plaques, commendations, and celebrity pictures lined the walls like a hall of fame, including a picture of Miller playing golf with the President, William Claymore, at Pebble Beach. Robert took a closer look.
“Great President,” said Miller, “ Not a very good golfer. I’m going to miss him when he’s gone. He made me look good out on the links. You play?”
“It’s more like golf plays me,” said Robert, wincing at the thought of his last game.
Miller offered Robert a seat and some jellybeans from a large jar on his desk, next to a copy of a popular novel about a young wizard growing up into his own.
“I’d tell you that book was my ten year old daughter’s, but I’d be lying,” said Miller, popping a few jellybeans into his mouth, leaning back in his chair. “So, what does a gun toting bounty hunter want with a beat-up homeless veteran?”
Robert made a mental note. So, Charlie was in the military. “He’s not in any trouble with me. In fact, he came to me for help, then vanished.” He gave Miller a few more details than he’d given Popeye.
“I need to follow-up and make sure he’s okay.” Miller stroked his chin, grabbed a few more jellybeans, and shook them like dice.
“It’s kind of strange,” he said, as if thinking to himself. “Charlie’s been coming and going for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been working on these streets for almost twenty-five years. Hell, I spent two or three sleeping on them myself. But as long as I can remember, I’ve never known Charlie to reach out to anyone.” Miller’s face colored with uncertainty. Robert looked him directly in the eye. “You don’t know me from Adam,” he said. “But trust me.
Charlie needs my help.” He grabbed a fistful of jellybeans from the jar and tossed a couple in his mouth. I haven’t eaten all day.
Miller hesitated, tapping his desk. “He stays here sometimes,” he finally said. “We haven’t seen him in awhile. That’s not unusual for most of the people around here. We only allow them a bed for forty-seven consecutive nights before they have to move on, sixty if it’s a woman with a child. If they get lucky, they may get back in after three or four months. So they come and go.”
“What about Charlie?” asked Robert, finishing the jellybeans and grabbing a few more.
“Oh he’s as regular as clockwork. He shows up every spring and stays as long as we let him, then moves on. Sometimes we see him twice a year. From time to time he even helps out around here.”
“Helps out?” asked Robert.
Miller’s eyes flashed upward, narrowed, then relaxed. A sign of truth. “Yes,” he continued. “Charlie’s quite a unique fellow. We get all kinds in here, stockbrokers, government workers, business executives, even one or two White House aides over the years. Talented people who for some reason end up on the street burned out.” Robert wanted more jellybeans but didn’t want to be greedy. “And Charlie?”
“That’s what makes him so different,” said Miller. “Most of the time he’s very sharp, clear headed, even shows signs of extreme intelligence.
He’s never told anyone what he did for a living, but I imagine he was good at it.”
Yeah, Robert thought. Real good. “Are there any other places, other missions, where he may have stayed occasionally?”
“None that I know about, but like I said, people come and go. Some make their way across country and back, year after year. There’s no telling where Charlie is when he’s not here.” Robert grabbed more jellybeans anyway. “Did he have any friends or groups he ran with?”
“Now that was one thing strange about Charlie,” said Miller. “Most people out here run in groups, or at least have a partner who’ll have their back in a pinch. Know what I mean?”