Spiked by Mark Arsenault

plastic.
    Eddie crawled naked to the edge of the ledge. It dropped twenty-five feet straight down a wall of granite blocks to two sets of railroad tracks. To his left, the tracks gently curved out of sight between chain fences, to his right were numerous tracks and switch-offs, where trains would be stored. Eddie realized he was near the train station, just outside of downtown Lowell, and that Chelmsford Street, one of the city’s busiest arteries, ran above his head.
    A much narrower ledge, like a catwalk, led away from the main ledge and followed along a tall granite retaining wall for about a hundred feet, ending at a steep, grassy knoll. The two-foot-wide catwalk looked like a dangerous exit from this place. It was a trek over patches of ice—a sheer stone wall on one side and a drop of more than two stories on the other.
    Did they really drag me down that walkway?
    The campfire had aged to coals. Somebody had spread Eddie’s suit near the fire. It was cold and wet and he shuddered at the thought of putting it back on. He crawled to a pile of clothes and picked through it. He found blue jeans with holes in the knees. They were short in the inseam and snug in the waist. He pulled on a rust-colored wool sweater with grease smears on the sleeves, and laced up red canvas sneakers, size eleven, one size too big. He tied them tight. He still needed a jacket. There was a large pile of clothes and blankets toward the back of the ledge, heaped against the abutment. He squatted in front of the pile and pulled out a black fleece pullover.
    There was a human head beneath it.
    Eddie’s head smacked a steel girder. The pain started at the back of his skull, roared up over his brain and shot out his eyes in a flash of light that washed the world white for three seconds. He massaged his lump and then crawled back to the pile. The head was attached to a man, buried in dirty laundry; it was the bald guy with the snakeskin tattoo who had tended the fire. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and noisy.
    â€œYou okay, man?” Eddie said, tapping the man’s cheek. “I’m just looking for something to wear.”
    He turned his head and looked at Eddie. His pupils were specks. From his nostrils, drops of clear liquid streamed to his lips. He blinked a few times, and then turned away to sleep.
    â€œI’m assuming you don’t mind if I borrow a jacket.”
    The pullover smelled like sweat and campfire smoke. In the pocket Eddie found a wallet. It was an excellent tanned cowhide, or at least it used to be. There was an imprint of a polo player on it. Ralph Lauren? This was a pricey wallet.
    A voice said, “Those shoes do not match with that jacket.” Startled, Eddie dropped the wallet and spun around.
    The curly-haired man had come along the walkway to the ledge. He was kneeling, watching Eddie under the girders. He had an armful of dry sticks. Behind him, the woman who had warmed Eddie in the blanket edged along the walkway. She stepped sideways, her back to the retaining wall.
    â€œI needed clothes,” Eddie said. His eyes flickered to the railroad tracks below. A long way to jump.
    The man saw Eddie eye the tracks. His smile showed beige teeth. “We will trade clothes,” he said. The accent was Middle-Eastern. His language was formal, like he had learned English in a classroom. He looked about forty-five years old. “Then I will have a suit to wear to my board meetings.”
    They both smiled. The man lobbed the wood at Eddie’s feet and pointed to the fire. Eddie gathered the kindling and stirred the coals to revive them.
    The woman reached the ledge. She looked late forties. Forty-seven, Eddie guessed. “You look better,” she said to him. She had the voice of an elderly woman who had smoked all her life.
    â€œI’m doing better than that guy.” Eddie pointed to the man under the laundry.
    â€œWho? Snake? He’s as good as it gets. He’s on