Ambrose Bierce - San Francisco Noir 2 - The Classics

From the corner of her eye, Greta saw something move, a skinny form in a T-shirt that resolved itself into another store employee, this one a young man with white hair. Trap, she thought. They wouldn’t be able to come in here again. If they ever got out.

“Invisible time,” she said with a hiss.

She grabbed Hank’s arm and ran straight at the young woman, who held out her arms as though to catch them. Greta shoved her hard and the young woman fell back against a bin full of CDs. The young man who’d come to her assistance looked startled as the children darted past him. As they ran toward the down escalator, Greta heard voices behind her, all jumbled as the two sales clerks spoke together.

“... Almost had them.”

“... Told you... bad idea. Shoulda called the cops.”

“Poor little things... back tomorrow night... try again.”

Won’t be back, Greta told herself as she and Hank hurried down the escalator, heedless of bumping the customers who stood still on the moving stairs. Not safe anymore. Too bad. She hated to lose any shelter, however temporary.

It had started to rain while they were inside the store. Hand-in-hand, Greta and Hank rushed along the wet pavement, until they found themselves heading up Market Street, pushed along with a tide of people. At Sixth they crossed Market, wet and cold, and headed farther away from the bright holiday glitter of the city’s main shopping area and into the dingy, neon-pierced blocks where the Tenderloin collided with the area south of Market. Here were lots of people sitting in doorways, bundled up against the rain. Music blared from bars. Hookers, some of them barely older than Greta, called to the passing cars.

These grown-ups scared Greta, and she quickly detoured down a side street where it was much quieter. She found a wide doorway, recessed from the street. It looked like a good place to spend the night. She set the nylon bag down to use as a pillow. But then she spotted the man in green coveralls, back the way they’d come and moving toward them. He was close enough so that she was sure she could hear the clink and clatter of the bottles and cans in his garbage bag, the squeaking wheels of his shopping cart.

They kept moving, Hank stumbling along sleepily at her side. The nylon bag seemed as heavy as lead, and Greta was so tired she thought she couldn’t put another foot in front of her. Still she thought she could hear the shopping cart following them, squeaking and rattling as they fled through the wet curtain of rain.

Then she saw something flicker. Was she imagining it? No, it came from inside a big, dark two-story building with broken glass windows. Greta crept closer and peered through the nearest window. But she couldn’t see much, just something red and gold glowing farther back in the dark building. She squinted and could just make out some figures nearby.

A fire, she thought. Just the word sounded like a sanctuary, warm and inviting. But there were people, and they could be bad people.

She heard a squeaking noise somewhere back the way they had come, and made her choice. Quickly she boosted Hank up to the window, then followed him through, dragging the nylon bag with her. She held her finger to her mouth and tiptoed forward, trying not to make any noise as she moved closer to the fire.

She saw three grown-ups, two men and a woman. They’d spread big pieces of cardboard on the concrete floor of the empty warehouse to cut the chill. On top of these the grownups had constructed their nests of sleeping bags and blankets. In the center they’d built a fire with whatever fuel they could find. Now it danced, red and gold, crackling and popping and hissing. The grown-ups talked in low voices, occasionally laughing as they drank from a bottle, its neck visible at the top of its brown paper bag wrapping. They passed it among themselves, and one of them leaned toward the fire to stir something that was bubbling in a big, shiny kettle, something that smelled rich and savory like the soup Mom used to make.

Greta’s foot encountered a piece of broken glass and sent it skittering across the concrete. The resulting tinkle heralded their arrival. The grown-ups grouped around the fire turned, seeking the source of the noise.

“Well, what have we here?” a voice boomed at them. It belonged to a big man with a white beard, bundled up in several layers of clothing, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “A couple of little angels with very dirty faces?”

“More like a couple of pups looking for a teat and a warm place to sleep.” The woman who spoke had a hard face and hard eyes, but she reached for a tin mug and the ladle that protruded from the kettle on the fire. She spooned some of the hot liquid into the mug.

“Don’t be feeding strays,” complained the second man, a pale, skinny fellow dressed in a dirty gray sweater. He reclined on a gray duffel bag and folded his arms in front of him.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped. Then she held out the mug and beckoned at the children. “Come here. It’s vegetable soup. We made it ourselves and it’s damned good, if I do say so myself.”

Hank and Greta stared, mesmerized by the smell and the sight. Then they moved into the warm circle around the fire and sat at the foot of the woman’s sleeping bag. Greta reached for the mug, felt the warmth on her hands, smelled the broth. Then she held the mug out to Hank. He drank noisily, hungrily. Yet he was careful to leave half the soup for his sister. He handed her the mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“You take care of him, don’t you,” the woman said, as Greta sipped warm soup from the mug. “Bet you do a good job, too. My name’s Elva. This here’s Wally.” She pointed at the big man with the beard. “And this bag of bones is Jake.”

Jake snorted, and sank farther into the folds of his sleeping bag. He took a long pull from the bottle, then passed the libation to Wally. “What the hell you kids doing out here all by yourselves?”

“What are any of us doing out here?” Wally boomed, his voice echoing in the dark recesses of the warehouse. “Trying to stay warm, dry, and fed.” He tipped back the bottle and grinned at the two children across the glowing heat of the fire. “Look how skinny these little angels are. Stick with us, kids. We’ll fatten you up.”

Wary as she was after weeks of living on the streets, Greta was also tired. She felt exhaustion creep over her as the warmth of the soup and fire crept over her body. Already Hank was asleep, his little body burrowed into her side, like a puppy pillowed on its mother’s belly.

“Look at ’em,” Elva said. “Just babies. What you got in that bag, girl?”

“Clothes.” Greta’s tongue was getting tangled up in the word.

“Not even a sleeping bag, and winter coming on.” Elva shook her head. She pulled a raggedy square of cloth that looked like a piece of an old blanket from the depths of her sleeping bag. Then she scooted forward and used it to cover Hank, fussing with the edge as she tucked it around his neck, just the way Mom used to. “Where’s your folks?”

“Gone,” Greta said, and the word seemed to echo around the warehouse.

Elva frowned and looked at her companions. “All alone? How long you been out here, girl?”

Greta found that she didn’t have strength enough to answer. She felt all her caution fall to the onslaught of sleep.

“We can’t be baby-sitting a couple of kids.”

Greta’s eyes were shut, but she identified the voice. It belonged to Jake, the skinny one.

“No one’s asking you to look after ’em. They can go with me.”

That was Elva, the woman. Greta opened her eyes just a little bit. It was morning, cold gray light filtering into the warehouse. The fire was out, cold gray ashes swirling along the concrete floor. Greta felt warm, though. The children were tucked into Elva’s sleeping bag. Hank was next to Greta, curled up in a ball and still asleep.