Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [118]
I checked out the locker situation. They were the type where you put four quarters in and removed the key. The kind we used as kids at the roller-skating rink. There were approximately thirty of them. The price was one dollar for the first twenty-four hours and two dollars each additional twenty-four hours with a ten-dollar lost-key charge. I read the notice on the front. ARTICLES LEFT WITHOUT PAYMENT AFTER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SUBJECT TO IMPOUNDMENT. Then I carefully studied the key. I had a feeling with those sort of prices I was barking up a wrong tree, but I sat down on one of the blue plastic chairs and dug through the Tupperware container. The attendant behind the counter must have seen stranger things because he didn’t even look twice at me. None of the keys matched.
Disappointed, I put the lid back on the container and thought for a moment. Where else could the homeless store things? I got up and went to the phone and dialed an acquaintance, Sister Clare, down at the Mission Food Bank. A nun who was also a social worker and ombudsman for the homeless, she probably knew their world better than anyone else. I’d met her when the co-op had donated a quilt for a benefit auction to raise money for the food bank’s new commercial-size freezer.
“Sister Clare, this is Benni Harper. I’m not sure you remember me—”
“Sure do,” she said, her slight Scottish accent denoting her birthplace. “Run that museum, you do. What’s up? Got a pretty penny for that quilt. We do thank you.”
“Anytime, really. Our artists have a real commitment to helping the community. I have a question about the homeless.”
“Shoot.”
“Where do they keep their possessions?”
“What they don’t keep with them, they usually keep down at their camps. But they sometimes split their stuff up and store it in different places around the city. Lots of times they even forget where, poor souls. A lot of them just are singing their own tune, you know? Why? You looking for something specific?”
“Not really. It was just a question.”
“Doing a little investigating, are you?”
“Well . . .” I hedged, not wanting to lie to a nun.
“You don’t have to answer to me. I think a wife should be involved in her husband’s life. And I think the journalists in this town are doing a real injustice to Chief Ortiz. He’s a fine man. Since he’s been chief, his officers have treated the homeless with real dignity. He concentrates on the real criminals, not the poor disenfranchised souls the rich folks think muck up our pretty streets. The only other thing I can tell you is that the shelter down by the bus station keeps lockers for the homeless. They have to be looking for a job, though, and they’re inspected regularly. First sign of drugs or booze, they kick ’em out.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll give them a try.”
“Tell Frank I said you were okay. He’s a little distrustful sometimes.”
The shelter was only two blocks away. Frank’s suspicious demeanor disappeared when I dropped Sister Clare’s name.
“Sister Clare’s good people. There’s about fifty lockers. We provide the locks, but we keep a copy of their key. We do spot inspections, but usually everyone follows the rules. They use them mostly to keep clothes in.”
I described the Datebook Bum to him.
“Oh, you mean, Mr. Iacocca.”
“What?”
He laughed and brushed some invisible dust off the sleeve of his green double-knit shirt. “That’s what we call him. Sure, he kept some stuff here. Haven’t seen him for a few days, though.” He leaned close and said in a confidential voice. “Technically I shouldn’t keep his stuff. Guy’s never going to get a job, but he’s a nice old coot and doesn’t bother nobody. I made an exception.”
I told him about the police finding the man’s body and the futile search for any family.
“That’s real pissant,” he said, his voice genuinely sympathetic. “I always wondered about him. Figured a guy like him musta been somebody at one time.”
“About his stuff—”
“Ain’t much, but you