The Street Lawyer Read Free Page B

some of these charities—”
    “Shut up!”
    He waved the damned gun again.
    “How about homeless shelters? Places we sleep when it’s ten degrees outside. How many shelters are listed there in those papers?”
    Invention failed me. “None,” I said softly.
    He jumped to his feet, startling us, the red sticks fully visible under the silver duct tape. He kicked his chair back. “How ’bout clinics? We got these little clinics where doctors—good, decent people who used to make lots of money—come and donate their time to help the sick. They don’t charge nothing. Government used to help pay the rent, help buy the medicine and supplies. Now the government’s run by Newt and all the money’s gone. How much do you give to the clinics?”
    Rafter looked at me as if I should do something, perhaps suddenly see something in the papers and say, “Damn! Look here! We gave half a million bucks to the clinics and soup kitchens.”
    That’s exactly what Rafter would do. But not me. I didn’t want to get shot. Mister was a lot smarter than he looked.
    I flipped through the papers as Mister walked to the windows and peeked around the mini-blinds. “Copseverywhere,” he said just loud enough for us to hear. “And lots of ambulances.”
    He then forgot about the scene below and shuffled along the edge of the table until he stopped near his hostages. They watched every move, with particular attention paid to the explosives. He slowly raised the gun, and aimed it directly at Colburn’s nose, less than three feet away.
    “How much did you give to the clinics?”
    “None,” Colburn said, closing his eyes tightly, ready to cry. My heart froze and I held my breath.
    “How much to the soup kitchens?”
    “None.”
    “How much to the homeless shelters?”
    “None.”
    Instead of shooting Colburn, he aimed at Nuzzo and repeated the three questions. Nuzzo had identical responses, and Mister moved down the line, pointing, asking the same questions, getting the same answers. He didn’t shoot Rafter, much to our dismay.
    “Three million dollars,” he said in disgust, “and not a dime for the sick and hungry. You are miserable people.”
    We felt miserable. And I realized he was not going to kill us.
    How could an average street bum acquire dynamite? And who would teach him how to wire it?
    AT DUSK he said he was hungry, and he told me to call the boss and order soup from the Methodist Mission at L Street and Seventeenth, Northwest. They put more vegetables in the broth, Mister said. And the bread was not as stale as in most kitchens.
    “The soup kitchen does carryout?” Rudolph asked, his voice incredulous. It echoed around the room from the speakerphone.
    “Just do it, Rudolph!” I barked back at him. “And get enough for ten people.” Mister told me to hang up, and again put the lines on hold.
    I could see our friends and a squadron of cops flying across the city, through rush-hour traffic, and descending upon the quiet little mission where the ragged street people hunched over their bowls of broth and wondered what the hell was going on. Ten orders to go, extra bread.
    Mister made another trip to the window when we heard the helicopter again. He peeked out, stepped back, tugged at his beard, and pondered the situation. What type of invasion could they possibly be planning that would involve a helicopter? Maybe it was to evacuate the wounded.
    Umstead had been fidgeting for an hour, much to the dismay of Rafter and Malamud, who were joined to him at the wrists. He finally couldn’t stand it any longer.
    “Uh, sir, excuse me, but I really have to, uh, go to the boys’ room.”
    Mister kept tugging. “Boys’ room. What’s a boys’ room?”
    “I need to pee, sir,” Umstead said, very much like a third-grader. “I can’t hold it any longer.”
    Mister looked around the room, and noticed a porcelain vase sitting innocently on a coffee table. With another wave of the gun, he ordered me to untie Umstead.
    “The