A Ghost of Justice by Jon Blackwood Page A

interval a busboy emptied a table's leavings into the large bin, but Hardy could see they were small, mere scraps.  As the teenager went back inside, he saw the kitchen clock glowing "9:14" in blue numerals.  The really big eaters were still in there, ordering huge portions of food even they could never finish.
    Looking about, he saw he was the only 'bum' here tonight.  Before the court labeled him a fugitive, he called himself an 'honorable drifter,' doing day labor to support himself cheaply.  But that was then.  Now he couldn't even do that.
    How had things got so impossibly messed up?  Irretrievably wrecked?  I'll never know, he acquiesced.  And if I ever do learn, I'll never understand.
    He only had to duck among the cypress twice before a large amount was dumped into the bin at about ten o'clock.  He scurried over and peered inside, holding his breath against the stench.
    Hardy almost exclaimed aloud with pleasure.  A whole chicken leg rested among some lettuce.
    Well, he rejoiced in his mind, whatever falls on the floor and becomes unacceptable in there is a banquet for me.
    He fished out the leg, a couple of the best-looking leaves and a half-dinner roll he also spied.  Then he shoved it all into his pocket and ran back to the bushes.
    Another hour passed with little luck.  Then a large load was dumped into the bin.  When he got his chance to check, he found a taster bottle of red wine about half full.  Not something he liked, but liquid was liquid.  He snatched it up and, deciding he had risked enough out here, he headed away.  The alcohol would take care of anything nasty in the small supper.
    In view of the somewhat balanced nature of his meal, he would eat somewhere special tonight.  With more boldness than before, he made his way to the museum.  Maybe it had fallen out of favor, but he felt the men themselves at least should not be vilified for fighting.  They thought it was right at the time and right for them.  So be it.  Only with the clarity of hindsight does the morality of something become clear and be seen differently.  And things were what they were when they were.
    He found his way to the little courtyard and settled on a marble bench.  He took a deep breath of the damp, clean air.  For the first time in two months he enjoyed himself, if only for a moment.
    John Hardy was careful to put the bone and the bottle back in his pocket.  Better to wait and toss it in a public can than to risk any amount of detection.  All he needed was for some curator, sexton or manager to find the remains of his meals out by their establishments or responsibilities and they might post upgraded security at night.
    So far, so good, he congratulated himself.  He felt he was learning well how to live like a possum: eat and survive by night, sleep by day.  It wasn't hard.  You just had to find the right sleeping place and be very meticulous, not forgetting anything.
    Maybe that's why he ran the other night.  Going up to his father would have been a mistake.  No one is to recognize me.  So no one is to ever get a good look at me.
    Time to leave.  Looking up at the veranda of the old house, he wondered why he thought that.  After all, time was nothing to him anymore; just a reference.  It mainly existed as dark and light, stars and sun.
    What will I do in the summer, when the cold is gone and both people and sun are out late?   Walking out of the courtyard, he realized he would just do whatever he could figure out.  And would always, always remember the law he now lived with.  His own new law:  Never be noticed, never be seen.
    Walking up Twelfth Street, he saw a glinting in the gutter up ahead.  He quickened his pace to it and found his luck for the night was better than good.  Lying next to a parking meter was a ten-dollar coin someone had dropped.
    For a while he continued on his way, holding the metal disc in his hand.
    He stopped for a rest on the steps of the Main Street Baptist