I already told McGraw, Laird says and gives me this smirk. But don’t worry. I didn’t tell him how much. What was it? Ten, fifteen thousand? More? I’ll leave it to you to tell him that. I don’t want to make you look bad.
Another maddening smirk.
I don’t have anything to look bad about, I say.
I feel Laird watch me go. I keep walking down Leavenworth toward McGraw’s office and make like I’m buzzing the bell to be let in the door but I’m really looking out the corner of my eye at Laird. I have enough to do without worrying about him. Raymond supervises the shelter and drop-in center. Until recently, he answered to Don, my program coordinator, but Don got hired by the AIDS Foundation right before I was going to lay him off. If Don was still here this would be on him to fix. But he’s not here. So now I got to deal with Laird. And McGraw. Son of a bitch. You picked a good time to go, Don.
Laird crosses the street to a convenience store. This speed freak we all call Big Pete hits Laird up for money, but Laird shrugs him off. Laird’s not into speed freaks. He likes to make out like he helps the Martins of the world. They’re more sympathetic than speed freaks jonesing on the sidewalk. He likes to act high and mighty with speed freaks. Get all NA in their face.
As soon as Laird walks into the store, I hurry back to Fresh Start without coffee. Raymond’s sitting at his desk, back to the door, staring out a window at a boarded-up building, his Bible open on his lap. In the alley separating a vacant building from the shelter, pigeons fly past, flapping loudly in the dim light.
Laird knows, I tell Raymond.
Raymond ignores me, reads aloud from the Bible: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident.
Put the Bible up, Raymond. Laird knows your buddy walked with Martin’s money.
Raymond raises his head and without turning around says, Laird was just up here.
What did he say?
That Martin told him I lost his money.
And what did you say?
I told him what happened.
Why?
It was the truth, Raymond says.
I watch a pigeon strutting back and forth on the ledge of a broken window puffing its chest at another pigeon.
The truth? Jesus, Raymond, fuck the truth. We’re talking about our jobs here.
Goddamn Laird. He’s one of these formerly homeless guys who get off the street, rent a room somewhere, and spend all their time around places like Fresh Start pretending to help other homeless guys when really, they’re just living off Social Security and doing nothing more than what they did when they were homeless: hanging out on the street.
Laird said that before he was homeless, he used to be a manager for an AT&T office in the Financial District until his marriage went south and he went all to hell. I don’t know. The guy can’t spell worth a lick, and his teeth are as crooked as a boxer’s nose. Small, red, blotchy mushroom clouds dot his face like something exploded beneath his skin. The result of a childhood allergy, he tells anyone who asks.
I don’t ask questions, but I wonder: Wouldn’t an AT&T office manager know how to spell and have dental insurance and maybe see a doctor for his face? It seems to me more must have happened than a loused-up marriage to go from the Financial District to the street just like that. If he ever worked in the Financial District.
What I do know is that every time Laird sees one of my staff fuck up, he runs in and rats them out to their supervisor. He used to rat them out to me until he realized I didn’t really care one way or the other that so-and-so was late one day, or that so-and-so had cussed out a client, or that so-and-so took a longer than usual lunch break. This would never be allowed at AT&T, Laird would say.
Well, motherfucker, I told him one time, you’re not at A fucking T and T anymore, are you? You’re in the Tenderloin. We hire the goddamn homeless and a lot of them have done nothing but drink from nine to five since whenever and now they got a lot to learn. With all your office management experience, Laird, do you want to teach them the fine art of working for a living? And by the way, Laird, what exactly do you do now?
That put the brakes on Laird knocking on my door ragging about my staff. At least I thought it had.
There’s nothing I can do now but go see McGraw, I tell Raymond. For both our sakes.
Raymond nods.
An uneasy quiet settles between us, interrupted by the cooing of the pigeons. I look around the empty shelter. Not much to it. A meal and an army cot for the night. Open seven at night, kick everyone out the next morning by six, and send them over to the drop-in and the jobs counselor. A lot of the guys just sit around all day until the shelter opens again. Pretty simple. But then Raymond helped Martin and it got all kinds of complicated.
Raymond told me he had it all worked out. The bank teller was a good friend and would handle Martin’s money so Martin wouldn’t get ripped off. Then a week ago he told me his buddy had walked with Martin’s money. Raymond said he would find the guy and get it back. I should have fired Raymond then and saved my ass, but I didn’t. I just wanted Raymond to do what had to be done and for the whole thing to go away.
I screwed up. Listen to your gut. I listened to Raymond instead. I knew we should have stayed away from Martin’s money. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. But for a moment I thought we could actually help Martin. Martin, whom we’d all given up on. That this time we’d actually get him off the street, like we had tried to do so many times before. Raymond had a plan. Something none of us had thought of before. It made a lot of sense.
So I guess I did listen to my gut.
Before you see McGraw, Raymond says, you should know that Laird said he was going to file a complaint.
What kind of complaint?
A complaint about us to the grievance committee of the board of directors. About how we handled Martin’s money.
We?
You and me.
Shit. I knew about the bank, but I didn’t know your friend would walk with Martin’s money.
I think knowing about the bank is the same as handling his money, Raymond says.
We got to stick together, I say, ignoring the sour look Raymond’s giving me. I’m going to McGraw. What I’ll do is tell him you’re going to pay Martin back. I’ll say: Raymond will set it right. I’ll tell him how good your work has been and maybe I can convince him to suspend you and no more. Suspension without pay for a week or something. That’s a pinch but it beats being fired.
The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in men who are truthful, Raymond says. The poorest of the poor will find pasture, and the needy will lie down in safety. But your root I will destroy by famine; it will slay your survivors.
I don’t know what you mean by that, Raymond. I really don’t. I’m trying to save your job and mine. Whatever happens, you got to leave my name out of it. If I’m caught up in this, I can’t back you. Then it’s the old every-man-for-himself routine.
