“You didn’t know he was dead?”
“Honest to God, I didn’t. There wasn’t any blood or anything.”
That is true. The bleeding was largely internal.
“So, anyway, it comes to me that I might as well lift his poke. Share the wealth, like we used to say in the army. So I reach over and pull it out. It comes out hard, what with him squatting over like that and the ass of his pants so tight, you know. And just as I got it, all of a sudden this cop car stops down to the end of the alley, and this cop shouts at me!” The Vet’s breath begins to shorten as he relives his fear. “So I takes off! I was a-scared he might run me in! I can’t be locked up, Lieutenant! If I’m in a closed place, I start to scream. You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”
“All right! Take it easy.”
“Did I tell you that the army doctors kept me locked up after they liberated the camp?”
“You mentioned it. Where are we going?”
“Just straight up the Main. Up to Van Horne. I’ll show you when we get there. Yeah, the army doctors kept me locked up in a hospital ward especially for fruitcakes. They didn’t understand. I might have been there forever. But then this young doctor—Captain Ferguson, his name was—he says why don’t they give me a chance on the outside. See how it would work. Well, I got out, and I stopped screaming just like that. They warned me not to get a job where I was cooped up, and I never did. I didn’t have to. I’m a ninety percent disability. Ninety percent! That’s a lot, ain’t it? Hey, you got a cigarette?”
“No.”
The driver twists to get a pack out of his pocket. “Give him one of mine, Lieutenant. We sure could use the smell of smoke in here.”
As they near the intersection of Van Horne and St. Laurent, LaPointe becomes curious about this famous snug kip the Vet has always boasted about. It is generally known on the street that the Vet drinks up his pension check within two weeks and has to sell blood to keep alive after that. Like other tramps, winos, addicts, and hippie types in extremis, he lies about how long it has been since he gave blood, as he lies about diseases he has had. There is always a need for his uncommon type—another source of his endless bragging. Whenever he gets money, he buys a couple of bottles, but he never drinks much on the Main. He brings it off with him to his hideaway.
Following the Vet’s directions, they turn left on Van Horne. The tramp’s voice softens toward confidentiality as he speaks to LaPointe. “You can tell him to stop here at the corner. Just you come with me, Lieutenant. I don’t want anyone else to come. Okay? Okay?”
“I’ll leave the driver here. The young man is attached to me.”
Guttmann glances over, uncertain whether or not LaPointe is sending him up.
The car pulls over to the curb, and LaPointe instructs the driver to wait for them.
An unlit side street of storage companies and warehouses ends abruptly at a woven wire fence that screens off a little-used freight shunt yard, the tracks of which glow dimly down in a black depression below and beyond the fence. LaPointe and Guttmann follow the Vet down the steep embankment, glissading dangerously over cinders, braking to prevent a headlong run that would precipitate them into the darkness below.
At the base of the slope, the Vet begins to cut across the tracks with the kind of familiarity that does not require light. LaPointe tells him to wait a minute, and he closes his eyes to speed up the dilation of his pupils. The smudgy dark gray cityglow has the effect of moonlight through mist, obscuring details, yet providing too much light to permit the eyes to adjust to the dark. Eventually, however, LaPointe can make out the parallel sets of rails and the glisten of tar on the ties. He tells the Vet to go on, but more slowly. He feels uncomfortable and out of his element, walking through this broken ground of cinder and weeds that is neither city terrain nor country, but a starved and sooty wasteland that the city has not occupied and the country cannot reclaim.
They cross over half a dozen sets of rails, then turn west, parallel to the tracks. Soon rust mutes the shine of the rails, and ragged black weeds indicate that they are in an unused wing of the shunt yard. One by one, the pairs of tracks end against heavy metal bumpers, until they are following the last along a wide curve close to a dark embankment. Without warning, the Vet turns aside and scrambles down a slope and along a faint trail through dead burrs, and stunted, hollow-stalked weeds brittle with the frost. Wind swirls in this declivity of the freight yard, one minute pushing LaPointe’s overcoat from behind, and the next pressing against his chest and leaking in through the collar. The only sounds are the moan of the wind and the harsh rustle of their passage over frosted ground and through the weeds. They are isolated in this vast island of silence and dark in the midst of the city. All around them, but at a distance, the lights of traffic crawl in long double rows. A huge beer sign half a mile away at the far end of the freight yard flashes red-yellow-white, red-yellow-white. And from somewhere afar comes the wailing of an ambulance siren.
The Vet’s pace slackens and he stops. “It’s right over there, Lieutenant.” He points toward the cliff, looming black against the dark gray of the cityglow sky. “I’ll go get the wallet for you.”
LaPointe peers through the gloom, but he can see no shelter, no shack.
“I’ll go with you,” he decides.
“I won’t run off. Honest.”
“Come on, come on! It’s cold. Let’s get it over with.”
The Vet still hesitates. “All right. But he doesn’t have to come, does he?”“
Guttmann presses back his hair, which the wind is standing on end. “I’ll wait here, Lieutenant.”
LaPointe nods, then follows the Vet along the dim path.
Guttmann watches the vague figures blend into the dark, then disappear as they pass close to the embankment. He catches a bit of motion later, out of the corner of his eye where peripheral night vision is better. He strains to see, but he loses them. After several minutes, he hears the distant clank and scraping of metal—a heavy sheet of metal, from the sound of it. He hugs his coat around him and tucks his chin into his collar.
In about ten minutes he hears the crackle of dead, frozen stalks, then he sees them returning. The Vet’s body is stooped and slack; he seems deflated. For the fourth time that night, the bomme’s personality and manner have changed abruptly. The conditions of his life long ago ground away any pretensions of dignity, but there remains the husk of pride, and that has been damaged: the Lieutenant has seen his snug little kip. He passes Guttmann without a glance, and leads the policemen back through the field of frozen weeds, along the single unused track with its rusted rails, back over the pairs of glistening rails, to the base of the embankment, just below the wire fence and the light of the city.
“We can find our way from here,” LaPointe tells the tramp.
Without a word, the Vet turns and starts back the way they came.
“Vet?” LaPointe calls.
The bomme stops in his tracks, but he doesn’t turn to face them.
“You know I won’t tell any of them about your kip, don’t you?”
The Vet’s voice is listless. “Yeah.” He clutches the brim of his floppy hat against the wind and trudges back across the tracks.
LaPointe looks after him for a second. “Come on,” he says. They scramble up the cinder embankment, over the wire fence, and soon they are back in the light, on the truncated street of warehouses. As Guttmann walks on, LaPointe stands for a moment and looks back over the shunt yard, a matte-black hole ripped out of the map of Montreal’s streets and city lights. His sense of reality is upset. Somehow this street with its warehouses and the noise and light of passing traffic down at the corner seems artificial, temporary. That dark, desolate freight yard with its faint paths crowded in by black frozen burrs, with its silence in the midst of the city’s noise, its dark in the midst of the city’s light—that was real. It was not pleasant, but it was real… and inevitable. It is what the whole city would be six months after man was gone. It is the seed of urban ruin.