carried it to the parking lot dumpster.
He returned to the church dining hall, grabbed a broom and began sweeping as other homeless men shrugged into their backpacks and walked out. They were engrossed in their own problems, but it was a point of pride for Malachi to âpayâ for his meal by cleaning up afterward.
This morningâs breakfast manager, a solemn-faced black man with a limp, nodded his thanks. When all the chairs were turned upside down on the tables and the linoleum floor swept and mopped, Malachi shouldered his knapsack and walked into the early June sunshine.
Within moments, he was in front of The Grambling Rambler âs three-story brick and glass building facing South Main Street. He rounded the building and walked through a side alley to the loading dock. A barrel held newspapers discarded because of a bad print â too faint, bleeding colors, shadowy pictures. He could almost always find the dayâs edition, and sure enough, there it was: Monday, June 1.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching. The papers were discarded, but still... A man unloading a truck glanced at Malachi, then continued his work, uninterested in what was going on at the recycling barrel.
Malachi wanted to see if the paper had anything further on the hit-and-run of his friend, Vesuvius, five nights before. Heâd heard talk in the encampment under the bridge, plenty of talk. Vesuvius was drunk. Vesuvius had angered some teenagers who tried to roll him. And his personal favorite: Some artists in Atlanta were afraid Vesuvius was encroaching on their territory.
Malachi shook his head. You had to be careful what you believed out here. More than once heâd heard that one of Gramblingâs street dudes was dead, only to see him walk into St James for breakfast a week later. Malachi seriously doubted a resurrection had occurred.
For all the drug-fueled silliness that went on out here, there was an undercurrent of violence too. Casual violence, Pastor Liam at Jericho Road called it. Casual death, Malachi silently added.
The newspaper had run three inches the day after Vesuviusâs death. Three measly paragraphs. Malachi had seen nothing since. Nothing about an arrest. Nothing about an investigation.
A story that wouldâve made the front page if an upstanding citizen had been the victim was banished to the inside when the victim was a homeless man. Even if, as Malachi suspected, it was something more than Vesuvius being drunk, Vesuvius angering teenagers.
He folded the paper carefully under his arm and walked back up the alley, looking forward to an hour on a shaded bench, keeping to himself, keeping informed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Branigan punched the familiar number into her desk phone, smiling as he answered.
âIs this Liam Delaney, the pope of Jaw-ja?â she asked.
âBrani G! Havenât seen you in awhile.â
âI need two things. One, a lunch to catch up. And two, a time to talk to you about a story Iâm working on.â
âThe hit-and-run?â
âWhat hit-and-run?â
âOne of our homeless men was killed at the corner of Oakley and Anders five nights ago,â Liam said. âThatâs not what you wanted?â
âSorry, but this is the first Iâm hearing about it. Iâm working on a tenth anniversary piece on the Alberta Resnick murder.â
âCome on over and weâll negotiate. I can make time this afternoon.â
âAh, you remember deadlines. Iâll be there at two if thatâs all right.â
âSee you then.â
Â
Branigan left the office at 1:30, giving herself time to run by Beaâs Bakery to grab bagels and coffee. She figured Liam wouldnât have taken time to eat. The Main Street bakery smelled deliciously of yeasty, sugary treats and Beaâs to-die-for biscuits, but she virtuously selected two wholegrain bagels, no cream cheese. She didnât let Bea slice them, convinced that
He returned to the church dining hall, grabbed a broom and began sweeping as other homeless men shrugged into their backpacks and walked out. They were engrossed in their own problems, but it was a point of pride for Malachi to âpayâ for his meal by cleaning up afterward.
This morningâs breakfast manager, a solemn-faced black man with a limp, nodded his thanks. When all the chairs were turned upside down on the tables and the linoleum floor swept and mopped, Malachi shouldered his knapsack and walked into the early June sunshine.
Within moments, he was in front of The Grambling Rambler âs three-story brick and glass building facing South Main Street. He rounded the building and walked through a side alley to the loading dock. A barrel held newspapers discarded because of a bad print â too faint, bleeding colors, shadowy pictures. He could almost always find the dayâs edition, and sure enough, there it was: Monday, June 1.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching. The papers were discarded, but still... A man unloading a truck glanced at Malachi, then continued his work, uninterested in what was going on at the recycling barrel.
Malachi wanted to see if the paper had anything further on the hit-and-run of his friend, Vesuvius, five nights before. Heâd heard talk in the encampment under the bridge, plenty of talk. Vesuvius was drunk. Vesuvius had angered some teenagers who tried to roll him. And his personal favorite: Some artists in Atlanta were afraid Vesuvius was encroaching on their territory.
Malachi shook his head. You had to be careful what you believed out here. More than once heâd heard that one of Gramblingâs street dudes was dead, only to see him walk into St James for breakfast a week later. Malachi seriously doubted a resurrection had occurred.
For all the drug-fueled silliness that went on out here, there was an undercurrent of violence too. Casual violence, Pastor Liam at Jericho Road called it. Casual death, Malachi silently added.
The newspaper had run three inches the day after Vesuviusâs death. Three measly paragraphs. Malachi had seen nothing since. Nothing about an arrest. Nothing about an investigation.
A story that wouldâve made the front page if an upstanding citizen had been the victim was banished to the inside when the victim was a homeless man. Even if, as Malachi suspected, it was something more than Vesuvius being drunk, Vesuvius angering teenagers.
He folded the paper carefully under his arm and walked back up the alley, looking forward to an hour on a shaded bench, keeping to himself, keeping informed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Branigan punched the familiar number into her desk phone, smiling as he answered.
âIs this Liam Delaney, the pope of Jaw-ja?â she asked.
âBrani G! Havenât seen you in awhile.â
âI need two things. One, a lunch to catch up. And two, a time to talk to you about a story Iâm working on.â
âThe hit-and-run?â
âWhat hit-and-run?â
âOne of our homeless men was killed at the corner of Oakley and Anders five nights ago,â Liam said. âThatâs not what you wanted?â
âSorry, but this is the first Iâm hearing about it. Iâm working on a tenth anniversary piece on the Alberta Resnick murder.â
âCome on over and weâll negotiate. I can make time this afternoon.â
âAh, you remember deadlines. Iâll be there at two if thatâs all right.â
âSee you then.â
Â
Branigan left the office at 1:30, giving herself time to run by Beaâs Bakery to grab bagels and coffee. She figured Liam wouldnât have taken time to eat. The Main Street bakery smelled deliciously of yeasty, sugary treats and Beaâs to-die-for biscuits, but she virtuously selected two wholegrain bagels, no cream cheese. She didnât let Bea slice them, convinced that