part 3 red....

Broken grey light filtered in through dirty windows over strewn clothes, a tossed about bed and boots that had walked many miles. Red Bilodeaux stood at the enamel sink in his bare feet filling the capless teapot, a cigarette between his lips and sleep still in his eyes. Cigarette before coffee, coffee before breakfast, breakfast before lunch. Routine was a comfortable sameness, a blanket he had wrapped himself in a few years ago when he discovered this little niche in the city. There was a corner market, a few drinking establishments where he had been known to frequent, a laundromat, a bowling alley and a park all within walking distance.
And he liked to walk. Red hadnt owned a car in ten years and found no reason to have a license. The streets were his home, a familiar face walking the blocks, he said hello but not much else. He liked to keep moving, keeping his eyes open and his ears alert to waht the city had to offer. Each day, rain or shine, he walked at least a little, maybe down to the market for a fifth or smokes from the Filipino named Rosy. And then, of course, if there was a game on the radio, he'd pick up a 5-pak of King Edwards and laze his way through nine with Scully.
But today was a different day, he thought, looking at himself in the mirror trying to decide whether to shave or not. Coffee on the sink edge, steam wafting up, Red looked deep into his eyes, searching for any guilt or remorse. Finding none, he picked up the soap and turned the hot water on, preparing to scrape the shadow off his face with a new twin blade.

A fresh blade for a fresh day because a feeling had come over him while brewing coffee that there was something in the air. He had talked with Madjack and some of the other Hideaway regulars as well as the cops over the past few days to no avail. He wasnt suspected of anything yet the reports being heard on the street were that the shells found were from those of a .45. And those who knew Red, knew his .45. They also knew Red to be drunk that night, usually the case at that hour if he was out wandering around. What they didnt know, was that it wasnt his hand on the trigger nor was it his fault that the kid on the oiled street was dead.

The girl's face was seared into his memory, while the mangled body of the kid was an amorphous shape clouding vision of that night. He remembered well enough to know he did nothing wrong but not enough to know what happened. His gun in her hand, a crash and another body, lights, darkness, sirens, hot metal in his pocket and an urgent but steady beat to his feet. The rain had been falling and he was wet and shaky, rousted from a drunken stupor in the exact moment of time hell seemed to be shaking loose.
He recalled her face. A look of shock, despair, fear, pain, dismay and utter sexiness that he felt ashamed for thinking of. But the woman's eyes sparkled in the wetness and as he reached for his gun, her hand raised in the firing position, he paused just to stare at her. The radiant beauty of this woman transcended his moment to a fixed point in his universe. The action slowed as she wilted when ceding the gun, sapping her apparent strength and leaving Red suddenly unable to move. That's what he recalled, not the broken bodies or crashed car, but the face of the girl. And since the cops didnt ask about her, he didnt tell them. Hers was a story he wanted to know, but not at the expense of the law bringing its inept and inane pracitces into the equation. She would be around again and myabe he would talk to her, ask her the story, buy her a drink and share a laugh.

Finished with the morning bathroom rituals, he cracked a couple of eggs into a sizzling pan while waiting for his white bread to transform into brown toast. Over easy is how he like to think of himself, having been worked over by the life the easy was, and as his eggs bubbled to a runny finish he smiled the smile of a man with nothing to lose. Up popped the toast onto the plate side by side they lay as the eggs slid from pan to toast in one fluid motion borne of years of friendship. Salt, pepper, fork, knife, coffee, chair, table, and his four star dining experience was about to begin.

Cracking the yolks, he quickly and absently thought of the little marshmallow Easter peeps popular in the spring. And the, with no aforethought, he decided on going down to the Hideaway for a couple of drinks and some banter with the other flies. He thought there might be a game on the TV, but he really wanted to find out if there had been any developments in the so called 'case'.

Shuffling down the sidewalk in his haphazard way, Red tipped his ballcap up and let the air fill his nostrils as he closed his eyes. It was a nondescript day, neither warm or cold, in a nondescript part of the city where the long streets never changed character or acquired any. The street was buzzing with busses, cabs and horns, people and bicycles, but Red felt like he was walking in a bubble, unaffected by the commerce and actiuvity surrounding him. Lighting a cigarette, he stopped at the corner of 28th and Haley, where shards of glass and splintered remains of head light covers lay spread out before him. The contemplative first drag of his winston brought him back to this corner five nights ago, in the rain and blur of an alcoholic fog.

Crossing the street, dodging traffic he found the unassuming door to the Hideawayy, and, escaping the light of day ducked in with a sordid smile on his face.
Beer, Red?
Please.
What's new on the streets today?
Bird shit, pieces of glass, same old gum and a couple of wrappers.
Same old shit then?
You got it.
Cops are poking around looking for you again. Seems they might think its shells from your .45 that shot out the window into that guy's brain.
Whaddaya mean, MY .45? that guy died?
Somebody pinned the .45 to you, and yeah, he died. The back of his head was pulp.
All of a sudden, Red's light mood had gone south. The last thing anybody wanted was the cops looking for him, especially in regards to a potential murder rap. The TV above the bar provided a respite from his now rapidly processing thoughts, watching with blank eyes a meaningless game between a pair of cellar dwellers in the American League, the Royals and Whitesox. The only sounds came from Jack riffling the paper and idle chatter from the two old timers at the other end of the bar.
Alone with his winston, his High life and the silent ball game, Red knew he had nothing to fear, knew he hadnt done anything wrong, knew cops were crooked and knew they would try to pin this on him if they could. As the smoke traced up past his eyes, over the bill of his cap and into the musty stillness of the idling smokeeater above the bar, the door swung upen and in walked two plain clothes detectives. Just like that, Red saw parts of his life flash by in front of the liquor bottles lined up not six feet away.

As good a feeling as he had walking into this bar was now trumped by the bad feeling he was getting from the two dicks at the door letting their eyes adjust to the light, but still looking straight at him. Cops seem to carry bad mojo with them in the pockets of their cheap jackets and button down Wal-Mart white dress shirts, doling it out as they see fit and to whomever they think looks like their having a good day.

I'm Detective Harrison and this is Detective Alvarez.

Perfect, a fat one and a skinny one, a tall one and a short one. Do they always have to be opposites, thought Red. He wondered if it was some guy's job at the academy to assign partners in this way.

What can i do for you?

Are you Red Bilodeaux?

Yep.

Do you own a Colt .45?

Yep.

Is it registered?

Yep.

He felt an invitation for a ride to the station coming on, and so drafted his beer and pulled on the last of his cigarette, stubbing it out in the glass tray between him and Harrison. He had already ansewered the requisite questions from Saturday night so he knew that wasnt on their minds.

Where's the girl?

Coming from left field, the questions aroused his eyebrows in an accented arch.

What girl?

The girl that was with the dead kid who pinched your gun from your passed out ass.

Dont know.

Dont know what? the girl? the time? tell me something Red, you have anything to do with this business? 'Cause if you do and you're not tlling me something, your days could become a little more trying if you know what I mean.

Listen, I dont know who the girl is, where she is or anything about her. I dont know the dead kid or anything about him either. What I do know is that you're interrupting my very pleasant afternoon of a beer and a ballgame. Now, if that's all, I wouldnt mind returning to both.

Hey Jack, could i have a whiskey water please?

Ok,OK Red. Watch your game, but the noise of this isnt going to die down anytime soon, hear me?

Ya Ya loud and clear.

As they finally began to leave and eventually shuffled out the door into the light, Red began to breathe again, a steady rhythm to slow his heart rate and calm his trembling hands. Cops always made his pulse race and his hands shake, came with the territory of always being just this side of the law, he guessed.

He had a feeling this day would be different and he was right. Nothing like being bullied by cops to put one i a mood, Red thought, looking at his nearly empty whiskey glass and wondering if he should pursue this line of reasoning. Deciding against it, he threw a few dollars on the bar for Jack and asked him to put those on his tab. A nod was all he in return as he straightened his hat, pulled up his pants, and strolled toward the door.

The bright light of early afternoon shocked his eyes and he blinked back the black spots at the edge of his vision, trying to squint away the uncomfortableness. Red knew what they wanted but it wasnt his to give, and so the barking up of his tree wasnt going to get them anywhere.

The longer he walked, past the railyards, and down to the industrial heart of the city, the more he wanted grist to feed his mill of curiosity about the dark haired raven of that night. As much as the cops wanted this same information, there were different reasons behind thier respective searches. Red only wanted to be around her, hear her speak of that night, smell the shampoo of her hair, and see the wrinkles of her mouth as she smiled. Cops, they just wanted to make her life miserable.

The city beat with a palpable pulse, winter was taking a back seat but the heat of summer hadnt arrived yet. Leaves were turning green, grass was beginning to come back, the city wide beautification was underway putting flower boxes on street lamps and corners, and the sky was infinitely lighter. Women wore skirts and running shoes over business district pavement while men shed overcoats for sport jackets and wandering eyes. The 'roach coaches' litttered the corners again, flags flying, inflatable hot dogs wafting in the breeze and the smells of downtown mixed with these epicurious odors to give off a percolating aura.

As the city slowly awakened into summer leaving spring a sweet muddy blossoming memory, bikes appeared, windows were rolled down, the mood elevated and smiles became de rigeur. Winter grips cities, people and objects alike. Showing no regard to anything, the cold weather wraps around like a suffocating sweater, focussing inward and pulling the fringes in together. In small towns, neighbors get re-acquainted over shoveled drives, stops at the post office, lingering in the lines at the grocery store to chat, anywhere social, while cities push people away, away from idle talk and into the hurried lives of not having enough time in the dwindling day.

With the changing seasons came changes in Red's routine. Still walking in winter, albeit shorter, he would find the sharp edges of industry, and see the greyness spread out from here infecting the streets and avenues. The noise of winter was muted, the bars darker, the buildings harder, the sun dimmer. In this way Red found depression an easy companion, but come spring, sadness, for whatever reason anyone has, leaves town by its own freewill and everywhere, everyone breathes a little easier.

With spring springing, and pigeons dessicating the potential cleanliness of sidewalks everywhere, a warmish breeze blowing down Lexington, Red felt conflicted. On one hand, he had the law breathing down his neck making him uneasy for no reason. But on the other, he has a figment of a woman beginning to haunt his days and nights, giving him an ;unbearable lightness of being'.

And so a smile eased across his wrinkled face on this day, ignoring the weight the law was trying to strap to his ankles and imagining the pursuit of "raven" in the coming weeks. Not being a man of impulse, Red surprised himself by his desire to follow through on a flying chance. Granted, nothing as yet had come of it, but he felt the layers of ennui peeling off his psyche the longer he walked and thought. She was out there and he would find her, sometime, somewhere so Red put this in his backpocket and slid into another bar called the 'LooseNut" wearing a kind of smile he hadnt worn in years.

The LooseNut was a renaissance bar on the edge of the trendy part of town, that had been re-energized by the makeover of its surrounding neighborhood. With the newly realized in flow of money, people , and construction, the Nut also took a step up. Knocking walls down, carving out more windows, removing twenty years of tobacco stains, tiling the floor, installing new lighting, the owners of the Nut wanted a comfortable bar with a neighborly feel that would attract the divers crowd that was populating the area. And to a degree, they had accomplished this but to Red, any bar that didnt open before noon didnt deserve to be called a bar.

The Nut opened at two most days, ten on sunday mornings during footballl season, and closed at two every night. It wasnt a busy bar but it held its own and with the upscale stools, the few island tables and a worn cedar plank to lean your elbows on and a foot rest running its length, it fit the bill for an afternoon visit by a smiling, walking thirsty man.

Two women sat at one of the islands, an ashtray between them with a smoking butt hanging off the edge, talking quietly but animatedly about a girlfriend of theirs. A bowl of unshellled peanuts sat next to a Budlite table tent advertising drink specials at happy hour. Peanut shells were'nt littering the floor yet, but at the end of a busy night it was wise not to walk around barefoot. Van Morrison sang something melodic in the background, his music blending into any surrounding it was played.

Red swung the door open and dropped his hand into his pocket, noticing the women turning to look him up one side and down the other, then returning to their bloody marys and their chatter. He looked around at the football pennants, the game day posters, the pool table under a beat up Coors light, the sombrers hanging in the corner and a street lamp at the end of the rail with a green light on, and decided to spend some of his handed out money. Slipping onto a stool, he spun a little on its axis, turning to the woman walking toward him with a smile and a bevnap in her hand.

What'll it be boss?

Whiskey water please.

Conversation from the table drifted over him like cigarette smoke, mingling with the other two guys down a few stools sipping Buds and watching the same game Red had been eyeing two hours ago at the Hideaway. Kansas City was up 5-2 at the end of eight.

Unintentionally eavesdropping on the bloody marys, he picked up a fragmented account of some kid being shot or run over or mugged that was Sadie's newest boyfriend. He heard the name Sadie again, and with his ears now effectively tuned to the right station, he surmised that Sadie was his night raven and that she had left town yesterday, heading west, etither Portland or Seattle.

Buoyed by a random dash of hope he tried to sort fact from fiction, hearing in strange voices a clue as to what his next step toward finding Sadie the raven would be. He had no business anywhere, and only assorted friends to keep track of so as long as his checks could findhim he'd be OK. Lighting up and inhaling deeply, the smoke filled his lungs, puffing out his chest in a bravado that didnt really exist. Red was not a spur of the moment guy, a man addicted to patience and routine. It's why baseball so appealed to him, the slow methodical rhythms of the game, the starting point and end goal all within the lines of the playing field that could seemingly stretch out infinitely. Baseball was a game of inches, of strategy, of mind, of grace and beauty, and of childhood never abandoned.

Planning his return to the ethos of baseball, Red began to use a manager's mind to get inside her head, trying to figure out what she would do next, where she would go, how she would get there, and by what means could he accomplish these tasks. In a sense he was beginning a treasure hunt with only a few very indefinite clues, that only provided a teaser of the many more miles he would traverse in those lonesome boots .