Free The Less-Dead by April Lurie Page A

license, but since he’s been such a screwup lately, his dad took his keys away and hasn’t let him drive. Luckily Carson made a spare in case of an emergency Like this one. He grins. “Yeah. It’s in my room. Why?”
    “Let’s take it down to the Drag. We need some answers.”

    Carson parks the Lexus on Twentieth and Guadalupe, and together we head to the old Methodist church.Doomsday is propped up against one of the carved wooden doors, hunched over a tattered book, his lips moving. I peer at the book’s cover, expecting a Bible, but it’s Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass
. Quindlan is lying beside Doomsday on his bedroll, eyes closed, petting his mangy dog and taking in the sun. As we climb the stairs, I hear Doomsday reading aloud to Quindlan.
    “Scented herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I glean …”
    Suddenly the dog’s ears perk up. He lets out a yap. Quindlan sits up; Doomsday stops reading. “Well, well, what do you know?” Quindlan says. “We’ve got company, Dooms. It’s Rasta Man and the Bible Answer Boy.”
    Doomsday blinks a few times and scratches his beard. The guy’s ancient. He gazes at me like he’s Moses and I’m the burning bush.
    Carson leans over and whispers, “Did that guy just call me
Rasta Man
?”
    “Yeah. I guess it’s your dreads.”
    Quindlan stands and holds out a hand to me. He looks to be in his midthirties, and if you didn’t know he was homeless, you might think he was a grad student living in one of those hippie co-ops. He’s pretty grungy, though, and his dog’s got some nasty-looking bald patches. I hesitate for a moment, wondering which communicable disease I’m going to catch if I shake his hand. He chuckles. “Don’t worry, Bible Boy, I don’t bite. Besides”—he pats the dog’s head and grins—“Hercules and I both got our rabies shots last week.”
    Doomsday bursts out laughing. “You better watch out, boys. That Quindlan, he’s a bit of a schizoid.”
    Quindlan winks at me. My face burns as I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
    “Same here. We were hoping you’d stop by. Doomsday’s your father’s biggest fan.”
    “Nice,” I say. “I’ll be sure to let my dad know.”
    Quindlan moves on to Carson, who doesn’t look too thrilled about the handshake either. “We saw you here on the Drag last week,” Quindlan says to Carson, “playing evangelist and chasing after that pretty girl.”
    “Yes, we did,” Doomsday chimes in, giving Carson the death stare. “If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out! Better to lose one part of your body than to have your whole body thrown into hell. Matthew five, twenty-nine.”
    Carson’s speechless. He looks at me.
    “Don’t mind Doomsday,” Quindlan says. “He means well; he just gets carried away sometimes.”
    Carson leans over and gives me a nudge. “Come on, dude, get on with it.”
    “Listen, maybe you guys can help us,” I say. “We’re looking for Will. Do you know where he is?”
    “We might,” Quindlan says, “but, please, come join us for a while. Doomsday was just finishing a beautiful passage from
Leaves of Grass
. The man reads with such heart.”
    “Oh, no thanks,” I say. “I mean, we’d like to, but we’re in kind of a rush.”
    “Yeah,” Carson says. “A big rush.”
    “Plus,” I go on, “we’re really worried about Will, so if you could—”
    “Will’s fine,” Quindlan says. “Absolutely fine. And besides, there’s always time for poetry. Especially if Doomsday’s reading.” He gazes up at the UT tower. “Did Will tell you? Doomsday used to be a professor at the college. He taught American literature. In fact, that’s how he and Will got to be such good friends. They both love words.”
    Jeez, maybe Quindlan is a schizoid. “Um, no, he didn’t mention that. But if you would just—”
    “Please, come, sit down. When Dooms is finished, we’ll talk about Will.”
    I look at Carson and shrug. It’s not like we have much of a