C. Lawrence - Silent Screams

Lee must have glanced down at Eddie's wrists involuntarily, because Eddie looked at him sharply.

"Somethin' wrong, Boss?"

"No, I was just thinking."

"Yeah? About what?"

"About how circumstances bring people together. I mean, if you hadn't been my roommate at St. Vincent's, we wouldn't both be sitting here."

It was only after Lee played his words back in his head that he realized the implication of what he had just said: one or both of them might be dead.

"Coupla nut cases, that's what we are. I'll have the vindaloo, extra spicy," Eddie said to the approaching waiter without missing a beat.

The waiter wrote on his notepad and turned to Lee. "And you, sir?" He was a slim, handsome Indian man with very dark skin and a thatch of glistening black hair.

"I can never resist a good chicken kurma," Lee said, closing the menu. "Thanks."

"Very good, sir," the waiter replied. He picked up the menus and withdrew into the kitchen. Indian waiters were always so courteous they made Lee think of the days of the British Raj, when exaggerated manners and politeness covered a desire to murder the occupying white regime.

After the waiter had gone, Eddie leaned into Lee, his voice quieter.

"You, uh, been having them again?"

"What?"

"You know-urges." Eddie meant suicidal thoughts, but he never used those words, as if saying them would make it too real.

"No, not lately-thank God," Lee answered. He looked at Eddie. "How about you?"

"Naw…I'm fit as a fiddle!" Eddie responded a little too vigorously. "Strong as an ox, this boy."

As if to prove it, he gave a sharp smack to his stomach with his open hand. His belly, while thick, did look hard. Lee didn't believe him, though, and sensed an even greater restlessness in Eddie today-a disquieting, reckless energy.

"Are you taking your lithium?"

"Sure I am!" Eddie shot back, a little too fast. Lee was concerned, but didn't want to press his luck. Something told him that if he lingered on Eddie's mental health, his friend would shut down completely. Eddie was a great listener, and they had shared many things during that bleak week in St. Vincent's. Eddie was comfortable playing the role of confidant, but getting him to talk about his own problems was another thing. He liked being in control-in fact, he had let his bipolar disorder deteriorate because he enjoyed the manic phases too much. During that week in St. Vincent's, Eddie had talked about the feeling of freedom, energy, and power, the sweet illusion of omnipotence. It was seductive, and it wasn't hard to see how someone like Eddie could get used to weathering the depressive phases of his disease just so he could get back to the heady whirlwind of the manic state.

"Look, I think I got somethin' for you," Eddie said as he wolfed down the last of the pappadam.

"So you said."

"Oh, not that thing I called about the other day-that turned out to be nothin'. But this I think is really something."

"What is it?"

"A guy. A guy who may have seen somethin'."

"Yeah? This guy-who is he?"

Eddie looked around the restaurant as though checking for spies, but the only other customers at this hour were a young couple holding hands at the far side of the room. They whispered in the low, intimate tones of lovers, heads bent over the table, their hair shiny in the reflected glow of a thousand tiny lightbulbs.

"This guy is homeless, okay? Hangs out mostly in Prospect Park. Wouldn't make a great witness in court, but-well, you talk to him. See what you think."

"How did you find him?"

Eddie leaned forward. "Remember Diesel and Rhino?"

Lee laughed. "Remember them? You're kidding, right?"

Eddie grinned, displaying his crooked, yellowing teeth. "Okay, I guess you don't forget them too easily."

"No, you don't. They found him?"

Eddie shoved an entire samosa into his mouth. He chewed once, then swallowed. Lee was reminded of a crocodile-a smiling, yellow-toothed crocodile. "Yeah. They been sort of stakin' out the church, you know? Watchin' it to see who comes, who goes. And this guy's been there a couple a nights in a row. Goes to the soup kitchen on weekends."

"Okay," he said. "Let me know when and where." Eddie's homely face spread into another broad grin. "Okay, Boss-you got it."

They found him sitting on a bench not far from the Prospect Park Boathouse. That part of the park was usually busy, but today few people gathered near the marshy pond at the back of the boathouse. The man was long and thin as the reeds lining the banks of the lake. His stringy gray hair was tied back with a red sock, and he wore the matching sock on his left hand, with holes cut in it so that his fingers poked out. His bony right hand was bare, and the fingers twitched spasmodically from time to time.

His clothes were decent: a sturdy pair of brown corduroy trousers fastened with a leather belt, tied in a knot because the buckle was missing. Blue and green flannel shirt, also in good shape, over a long red undershirt, clumsily tucked into the pants, bits of it still poking out. A forest green down parka in good condition, wool socks, and leather Docksiders with thick soles completed his outfit. Either someone was taking care of him or he had hit a thrift store jackpot, Lee thought-either way, he was glad the man was warmly dressed. Being homeless wasn't any picnic even in the best weather, but it could be especially brutal in February.

He watched Lee and Eddie approach with a wary frown.

"Hiya," said Eddie. "Remember me?"

"Sure I remember you. You were here with your two bodyguards." The man scrutinized Lee. "This guy doesn't look so impressive. What happened to the other two?"

Eddie laughed. "This is my weekend bodyguard."

The man's frown deepened. "No offense," he said to Lee, "but you don't look very scary."

"I'm not."

"My friend's name is Lee," Eddie said. "And I'm-"

"No, don't tell me," the man interrupted. "Larry. Elmer. Pete. Elijah."

"Eddie."

"Right, right-Eddie. I remember now. My friends call me Willow," he said to Lee. Then, with a chuckle that was more like a hiccough, he added, "My enemies don't call me. You won't tell them you saw me, will you?" he asked, his eyes searching Lee's face. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, but radiated a sharp intelligence.

His face was as long and thin as his body, with cheeks so sunken that they made his protruding buckteeth look even more prominent. His eyes were dark and deeply recessed in their sockets, and Lee didn't know if they were red-rimmed from booze, lack of sleep, disease, or just general ill health.

"Hey, don't worry," Eddie said. "We won't tell anyone. Here-we brought you somethin'." He dug a carton of Marlboros out from under his jacket. Willow leapt up from the bench and snatched them up eagerly, his eyes gleaming.

"Thanks! How d'you know my brand?" he asked as he tore away the cellophane wrapping and dug out a pack. He ripped it open and extracted a cigarette, examining it, peering at both ends. "Gotta check for microchips," he said, placing the cigarette in his mouth. He pulled a stainless-steel lighter from his pants pocket and lit the cigarette, sucking on it so deeply that Lee imagined his cheeks touching inside his mouth. He exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke and smiled blissfully. The expression sat oddly on his lean features, making his face even more grotesque.

"Oh, that's better," he said, taking another deep drag before settling back down on the bench. The hand holding the cigarette was still, resting on his bony knee, but the other one danced about nervously. He picked at the green chipped paint on the bench, and that seemed to calm him somewhat. His eyes roamed the park, as if trying to spot potential spies and saboteurs. The only people in sight, though, were a young mother rolling a baby in a stroller, and an old man walking a decrepit Boston terrier. Owner and dog shuffled along, both of them arthritic, the dog's bulbous eyes cloudy with age. The man was wrapped in a red wool scarf under his parka, and the dog wore a little red wool coat made from the same material.