Authors: Curt Weeden,Richard Marek
I forced myself to look away from the photograph and turned
to Doc. Then I motioned to the Gateway house rules posted outside the office
entrance. “So, what’s going on?” I asked, checking my watch. Two o’clock.
Doc knew the drill: all residents were to be out the door by
nine in the morning with no reentry until after five in the afternoon. Exceptions:
illness or special projects designated by the director. Doc wasn’t sick, and I
didn’t need another pair of hands helping Zeus.
“I’m freeing up one of your beds,” Doc explained. “Got a
textbook publisher to hire me on as a fact checker.”
I scrambled out of my chair and shook Doc’s hand like he had
just received another graduate degree. This had to be the perfect job for a man
with a Wikipedia brain.
“More good news,” the professor continued. “There’s this
lady I met who lives in Milltown. She has a spare room she’s willing to rent
out.”
“That’s fantastic,” I said.
“Yeah, it is,” Doc answered quietly. I wondered if his mixed
feelings matched mine. I couldn’t be happier that the professor was leaving the
Gateway—but at the same time, I wasn’t looking forward to the void when he was
gone. “Can’t recall if I told you before,” Doc went on. “Most everybody who’s
been at the Gateway knows what a tough job you have.”
“Hard work, but somebody has to do it,” I laughed and put my
hand on Doc’s shoulder. The professor looked more at ease than I had ever seen
him. Difficult to tell whether he was more pumped up by employment and a place
to live or by the news I had passed along days ago—that Manny Maglio had erased
his name from the mob’s hit list
“No—it’s not work somebody has
to do,” Doc said. “Truth is, you do
your job because you want
to
do it. You belong to a very small club, Bullet.”
I shrugged off the compliment. Seeing Doc walk out the
Gateway door for the last time was thanks enough for me.
“Question is—will you keep doing what you’re doing?” Doc
asked. “Or are you on to bigger and better things?” Doc nodded to a Post-It
note near my phone. I recognized his handwriting.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A call from FEMA at Homeland Security in Washington. I took
the message just before you got back to the office.”
I was constantly fielding calls from different private and
public agencies around the country, usually about homeless policies and
strategies. This could have been more of the same. Except Doc’s demeanor made
it apparent that it wasn’t.
“The guy from FEMA thought I was your assistant,” Doc said.
“Told me he wanted to talk to you about a job in DC. Seems the Kurios case has
turned you into a star.”
The three-by-three-inch note suddenly took on the
proportions of a billboard.
“Washington’s looking for a celebrity,” Doc went on. “The
feds think they need a tsar who can link up government and nonprofit programs
so they’re more efficient. Somebody who can kick ass when things have to get
done.”
I stared at the 202 area code and phone number.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” asked Doc. “You could be a
big-picture honcho. Like Kurios, Silverstein, Arcontius, and Russet. People who
fight at the top of the pile where it’s about ideas and ideals. No more trench
work where things get messy and bloody. No more saving the world one man at a
time.”
Doc hoisted the duffel bag to his shoulder and walked to the
Gateway front door. “So what’s it going to be, Bullet?”
I glanced at the note another time, then looked up. Doc
Waters was gone.