Free This Dog for Hire by Carol Lea Benjamin Page B

Dropping it into the cup, I asked him if he knew Billy Pittsburgh.
    “Not here,” he said, shoving the cup in my direction, as if to ask for more.
    “He doesn’t hang out here?” I asked.
    “No more,” he said. He was shaking pretty badly.
    I tucked a couple of singles into his cup.
    “Do you know where he might be now?”
    He shook his head. “Don’t know much,” he said. “God bless,” and he walked away.
    On the lamppost on the corner a handwritten sign with the word MISSING on it caught my eye. Underneath it said, “Blue and yellow macaw, last seen flying west on Christopher Street, answers (sometimes) to ‘Arnie.’ REWARD.”
    We started snaking around the streets between Washington and Greenwich, checking every doorway and pile of trash, but finding nothing. »Sri Washington and Bank we saw two transvestites probably left over from the night before. I con id hear their deep voices as they walked by us. The taller of the two had done something wonderful with her scarf. I’d have to try that sometime. At least the morning wouldn’t be a total loss.
    Of course, I’d also have some news for Dennis, something other than that his friend was doing the outdoor version of being a toilet queen when he bought the farm. But I didn’t think that the fact that I had looked for Billy Pittsburgh and failed to find him would make Dennis release balloons.
    We spent about an hour walking around looking carefully at what seemed to be piles of garbage but which actually, sometimes, were someone’s attempt to keep warm. I spoke to two other men. One began to rant and rave, making no sense at all. I think he was afraid of Dash, but I doubt he made sense when he wasn’t frightened. The other guy, a much younger man than you usually see on the street, talked nonstop. He asked for money, for a job, for coffee. He told me how he lost his job and couldn't pay his rent. He said he got beaten up at the men's shelter and that it was worse than the street. He told me three places where he could get meals, but none of them were open on the weekend. He said he had never met a black man called Billy, but there was a black woman called Billie who slept in a loading area on Greenwich Street, near Charles. I thanked him, gave him a couple of dollars, and headed for Charles Street.
    We found Billie asleep under a pile of filthy blankets and newspapers. I put Dash on a sit-stay off to the side so that she wouldn’t wake up, see him, and get frightened. I called her name four or five times before she stirred. Slowly, a hand wrapped in rags pushed up a corner of the blanket, and I could barely see a face deep under the covers looking out at me.
    “Are you Billie?” I asked.
    There was no answer.
    “I’m looking for the Billie who found a man lying on the pier a few weeks ago, the Billie who told the cops there was someone on the pier. Was that you?”
    Still no answer. But the cover stayed up.
    “You’re not in any trouble. I can use your help if you know anything or if you know another Billy who might help me. It’s worth a nice meal, if you can help.”
    The cover dropped.
    By now I was freezing. I didn’t know how these people survived outside in such cold weather. Of course, not all of them did.
    I tucked a couple of bucks under the blanket , then stood there like an idiot waiting for a response.
    Chilled and frustrated, Dash and I headed home, stopping to pick up the photos I’d taken at the pier and at Cliff’s loft on the way.
    Why didn’t homeless people flock together, like birds? Or sleep together for warmth? Then maybe someone would know Billy Pittsburgh’s whereabouts. I felt stupid spending my time looking for him; I even began to wonder if Mary Perry really knew Billy.
    Sometimes the homeless talk like the Alzheimer patients I worked with at the nursing home, stringing things together that they hear and talking about them as if they were real, adding parts of TV stories and overheard conversations to their own