The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

Leon and the Bear Man lived together--that is, they shared an alley near Chinatown--and survived on bottle deposits and handouts and a little harmless petty larceny.

"He dying, man," Leon said.

"Naw, bad dream's what it is," Bear Man responded, rocking his shopping cart as if trying to put the bears to sleep.

"Oughta spenda dime, get a ambulance here."

Leon and the Bear Man were looking across the street, into an alley. There lay another homeless man, black and sick looking, with a twitchy and mean--though currently unconscious--face. His clothes were in tatters.

"Oughta call somebody."

"Les take a look."

They crossed the street, skittish as mice.

The man was skinny--AIDS, probably, which told them he probably used smack--and filthy. Even Leon and Bear Man bathed occasionally in the Washington Square Park fountain or the lagoon in Central Park, despite the turtles. He wore ragged jeans, caked socks, no shoes, and a torn, filthy jacket that said Cats . . . The Musical on it.

They stared at him for a moment. When Leon tentatively touched Cats's leg the man jerked awake and sat up, freezing them with a weird glare. "The fuck're you? The fuck're you?"

"Hey, man, you okay?" They backed away a few feet.

Cats shivered, clutching his abdomen. He coughed long and Leon whispered, "Looks too fucking mean to be sick, you know?"

"He's scary. Les go." Bear Man wanted to get back to his A&P baby carriage.

"I need help," Cats muttered. "I hurt, man."

"There's a clinic over on--"

"Can't go to no clinic," Cats snapped, as if they'd insulted him.

So he had a record, and on the street refusing to go to a clinic when you were this sick meant you had a serious record. Felony warrants outstanding. Yeah, this mutt was trouble.

"I need medicine. You got some? I pay you. I got money."

Which they normally wouldn't've believed except that Cats was a can picker. And fucking good at it, they could see. Beside him was a huge bag of soda and beer cans he'd culled from the trash. Leon eyed it enviously. Must've taken two days to get that many. Worth thirty bucks, forty.

"We don't got nothing. We don't do that. Stuff, I mean."

"Pills, he means."

"You wanna bottle? T-bird. I got some nice T-bird, yessir. Trade you a bottle fo' them cans . . . "

Cats struggled up on one arm. "I don't want no fuckin' bottle. I got beat up. Some kids, they beat me up. They busted something in me. It don't feel right. I need medicine. Not crack or smack or fucking T-bird. I need something stop me hurtin'. I need pills!" He climbed to his feet and teetered, swaying toward Bear Man.

"Nothing, man. We don't got nothing."

"I'ma ask you a las' time, you gonna give me somethin'?" He groaned and held his side. They knew how crazy strong some crackheads were. And this guy was big. He could easily break both of them in half.

Leon whispered to Bear Man, "That guy, th'other day?"

Bear Man was nodding avidly though it was a fear reflex. He didn't know who the hell Leon was talking about.

Leon continued, "There's this guy, okay? Was trying to sell us some shit yesterday. Pills. Pleased as could be."

"Yeah, pleased as could be," Bear Man said quickly, as if confirming the story might calm Cats down.

"Didn't care who saw him. Just selling pills. No crack, no smack, no Jane. But uppers, downers, you name it."