Virgin by Mary Elizabeth Murphy Page A

the decades of accumulated grime were as smooth and shiny as
dressed leather. Probably an expensive jacket in its day, with short fringes on
the pockets and a long fringe on each sleeve; only a couple of sleeve fringes left
now, gone with the lining and the original buttons. But no way would Rider give
up that coat. He'd tell anyone who'd listen about the days he'd worn it back
and forth cross country on his Harley, tripping on acid the whole way. But
Rider had taken a few too many trips. His Harley was long gone and most of his
mind along with it.
    "How's it
going, Rider?" Dan said, dropping a heavy slice on his tray.
    Rider always
called him Pilot. Because Rider slurred his words as much as anyone else, Dan
had asked him once if that was Pilot with an o or an a-t-e. Rider
hadn't the vaguest idea what Dan was talking about.
    "Good,
Pilot. Got a new lead on my Harley. Should have it back by the end of the
week."
    "Great."
    "Yep. Then
it's so long."
    Rider's quest for his last bike, stolen sometime during the early eighties, lent a trace structure to his
otherwise aimless day-to-day existence. Rider was the shelter's Galahad.
    The rest of the
regulars filed by with a few newer faces sprinkled in; a couple of those new
faces might become regulars, the rest would drift on. The locals, the
never-miss-a-meal regulars were all there, some in their twenties, some in
their sixties, most of indeterminate age somewhere between. Some called
themselves John and Jim and Marta and Thelma, but many had street names:
Stoney, Indian, Preacher, Pilgrim, Lefty, Dandy, Poppy, Bigfoot, One-Thumb
George, and the inimitable Dirty Harry.
    They all got
one bowl of soup and one thick slice of Sister Carrie's famous bread. After
they finished they could have seconds if there was anything left over after
everyone had firsts. Off to his left, Dan heard scuffling and a shout as the
seconds line formed.
    "Oh,
Father," Hilda said, leaning over the counter to look. "I think it's
Dandy and Indian again."
    "I'll take
care of it."
    Dan ducked
under the table and got to the trouble spot just as Dandy was picking himself
up off the floor and crouching to charge Indian. Dan grabbed him by the back of
his jacket collar.
    "Whoa, Dandy! Hang on a sec."
    Dandy whirled,
snarling. The fire in his eyes cooled immediately when he saw who he faced. He
shrugged to settle his jacket back on his shoulders and straightened his tie.
Dandy had earned his name from his taste in fourth-hand attire. He always
managed to pick the brightest colors from the donated clothing. His latest
get-up consisted of an orange shirt, a green-and-white striped tie, a plaid
sports jacket, and lime-green golf pants. All frayed, all dirty, but worn with
the air of someone who considered his life a fashion statement.
    "Lucky for
Indian you came along."
    "What
happened?"
    "He pushed
me out of my place in line."
    Dan glanced at
Indian, who faced straight ahead, ignoring the two of them. Dan knew he'd get
nothing out of Indian, who wasn't Indian at
all--unless that kinky hair and ebony skin were West Indian. Indian never
spoke, never smiled, never frowned. Apparently someone had called him a
cigar-store Indian years ago and the name had stuck.
    "You were
cutting into the line, weren't you. Dandy."
    "No
way."
    "Dandy."
Dan knew Dandy didn't like to wait in line, especially with those he considered
his sartorial inferiors. "This wouldn't be the first time."
    "I didn't
cut. I axed. I axed him if he minded if I got ahead of him. He didn't say no so
I--"
    Dan jerked his
thumb over his shoulder. "End of the line, Dandy."
    "Hey,
Father--"
    "We've got
plenty today. You won't miss out."
    "But I got
places to go."
    Dan said
nothing further. He stared Dandy down until he shrugged and headed for the end
of the line.
    Like dealing
with eight-year-olds, he thought as he headed back to the serving area.
    But juvenile
behavior was only one side of them, and that was the least of their problems. A
fair number of them were