The Dragon Mist
by Taz (aka Quisp)
Watson registered the fact that Holmes had come downstairs—the emphatic pounding of his boots on the treads was a statement of fact—when he didn't follow that up with a request to be released from the new handcuffs, or to inquire if she'd like a cup of tea, she looked up from the file she was reading and saw, with a sinking sensation, that he was buttoning his pea coat. "Isn't it a little late to be going out?"
"It is, but I am, nonetheless, going." He scooped up the grey watch cap and paused in the act of extracting his gloves from its folds. "If you'd care to accompany me, you're welcome to do so." He said it exactly as if the thought had only that moment occurred to him. Test or invitation? It didn't matter. Whatever imp of perversity had pricked him into activity at this hour; it was a flashing danger signal. Watson bounced to her feet before inertia could glue her to the sofa. "I'd be happy to go with you."
The furling of Holmes' lips expressed his comprehensive disbelief. At this hour, nothing imaginable could have made the prospect of going out on a night like this remotely pleasurable. Already, regretting the comfy sofa, and the cozy throw, she changed into something appropriate to the weather. When she came down, Holmes was rocking impatiently on his heels; the better it seemed, to admire the tin work on the ceiling. "You'll want your baton," he said.
"Oh, great." She slipped it into her pocket. "Do you want to tell me where we're going?"
"To see an old friend." He pulled the watch cap over his ears, and ushered her out the door.
They walked in muffled silence toward the river. A heavy mist had settled in. It wasn't opaque enough to be called fog, but was dense and invasive, the kissing-cousin of a freezing drizzle, yet it had the facility of refracting and scattering the streetlights so that everything they passed appeared soft and enigmatically beautiful. Even in in the blocks between the bridges, where gentrification was only beginning to take hold of the old factories, a Budweiser sign high in the window of a workingman's bar shed a radiant pink halo over its corner. They passed two giant pupas, homeless men cocooned in sleeping bags, huddling on a steam vent. The smell coming off of them, in that localized sauna, was rank and skunkish. Sounds carried strangely; the crash of surf in the distance resolved itself as the rush of cars on the bridge, as they started up the foot path.
"If we're going into Manhattan, wouldn't it have been quicker to…?"
"We're almost there."
There was a park, sloping downhill from the path. There had been a whole village of the homeless—cardboard shanties, lean-tos of scavenged plywood, and tents made of repurposed plastic sheeting—concealed in its scrubby bushes. It had been cleaned out recently, and the only remnants of the festering eyesore were a burned out barrel and scattered bits of cardboard caught in the grass. Nonetheless, the shadows where it had been hidden provoked a shiver from Watson; she fingered the baton in her pocket, wishing she'd worn a different pair of boots.
They stopped when they out over the water, protected from, or—depending on your perspective—secured for mischance by a chain-like fence. The cars speeding by just above their heads stirred the wind to bluster. "Tooley!" Holmes called up into the girders. "You at home?"
There was no answer.
A ferry was passing under the bridge and Watson suddenly caught a glimpse of a sheet of plywood and a bit of blue tarp between two of the girders. "Is there somebody living up there?"
"Yes." Holmes called, "Tooley!" again, but there was still no answer. "I'm coming up!"
He hooked his fingers into the links in the fence, and was feeling for a toe-hold when, to Watson's relief, a man's voice floated down. "Stay where you are, asshole."
A few moments later, a pair legs appeared. Feet, in tennis shoes, felt for the top of the fence and found it. Then, so quickly Joan wasn't quite sure how it happened, a man had dropped onto the asphalt. He stood up, yawning. "I'm going kick your ass, Holmes! I was sleep…"
The blast of a ship's horn below drowned out the last part of what he was trying to say, but that didn't stop him. He kept talking, and talking, with the passing cars whipping his words away down the river. The subject seemed to be Holmes unspeakable rudeness in stopping by without calling first. Whenever Holmes tried to get in a word edgewise, the man—Tooley—would point to his ears and shake his head, implying he couldn't hear a word of it.
Finally, much to her relief, Holmes pointed the way they had come up the path. This time whatever he shouted made Tooley nod in agreement. When they were off the bridge, and far enough down the path to speak in a normal voice, he said, "You're buying, you rat-bastard!"
Their new destination was two blocks from the park. The Sip-N-Bite, a 24-hour joint, wasn't old-fashioned, or retro, it was old. Its windows were permanently cloudy and its stools were more duct tape than vinyl. Decades of rancid grease, coffee, bacon, eggs, home fries, and disinfectant had tainted its atmosphere, yet the smell sent Tooley into raptures; he spread his arms and scooped it into his face, intoning, "Oh, ambrosial perfume! Thrice blessed to the gods…"
As New Yorkers will, the man at the counter, putting away a hot beef sandwich, ignored his whole performance, as did the couple nodding in a back booth. The waitress looked up from her Sudoku, checked out Holmes and Watson and decided they were harmless.
"Coffee, Tooley?" she said. "No funny business."
"No funny business. Drinks all around." Tolley pointed at Holmes. "Drinks on the house! You'll find me in my private car, entertaining a few business associates. We're planning the launch party."
The waitress rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
Leading them to the third booth from the back, Tooley plopped himself in the middle of the side facing the door. Holmes allowed Watson the more desirable inside place on the other bench and once they were seated, said, "Tooley…"
"Shut up, Holmes. This is paradise. Not too close to the toilets. Not too far from the back door. Enjoy it; you never know when an angel with a flaming sword may appear." He leaned toward Watson. "Are you an angel?"
"No."
"Tooley…"
"Holmes." Tooley waved an admonishing finger. "As my guest, you will observe the canons of propriety."
The waitress set down three mugs the color of dried mustard and a dish of creamers, and took out her pad. "You guys need a minute…?" Definitely a hint that it would be an inconvenience if they did.
"Holmes was born knowing, and I'll have the number 7," Tooley said. "Western omelet, sausage, home fries, and a double order of whole wheat toast and jelly. Bring extra jelly. Lots of jelly. " He winked at Watson. "Go for it."
"Number 2," said Holmes. "Over easy, bacon, and whole wheat."
"Home fries?"
"No."
"Yes," said Tooley. "And the lady will have…?"
The waitress looked to Watson.
"Just coffee," she said.
"Just coffee?" Tooley said when the waitress had gone. "Beauty should have its heart's desire. Holmes is buying. Indulge yourself. Tell me your name? I ask, because he's been too rude to introduce us."
"It's Joan." She offered her hand. He took it.
Intense was the word for Tooley. Compact and muscular, with snub features, bright black eyes and close cropped black curls; electricity seemed to crackled around him. It was impossible to guess how old he was. The corners of his eyes crinkled into deep crow's feet when he smiled, but that could have been the result of working outdoors.
"Are you a member of our merry little band?" he said.
"Merry band?"
"Of drug addicts," Holmes said. "No, she's not."
"At least you're not a mime. Are you a mime? Tell me you're not a mime."
"I'm not a mime."
"I'm a poet. But you knew that." Tooley leaned closer and breathed on the back of her hand. "'There were ghostly veils and laces, in the shadowy bowery places, with lovers' ardent faces, bending to one another…'"
"Did you write that?"
"I did," said Tooley.
"Liar," said Holmes.
"Spoil sport," said Tooley. "But I'm reading at the Salty Dog on the 20th. Tell me you'll come. I'll write an ode to you, Joan, and you will be own, my very own Chinese nightingale."
He had been holding her hand a little too long. She freed it on the pretense of adding creamer to her coffee.
"Tooley," Holmes said. "The police are going to tear your nest out tomorrow."
Tooley fixed his regard on Holmes. "You know this for a fact how…?"
"Someone saw you climbing up into the girders this evening and thought you meant to committ suicide. The only reason, the police aren't there right now, is that a friend recognized your description."
Tooley wrapped his hands around his shoulders, and began muttering, "Fucking do-gooders! Fucking do-gooders. Fucking do-gooders."
"How long have you been living under the bridge?" Joan said.
"Three years. On and off. More on than off." Tooley broke into laughter. "I was a steeplejack by trade in another life. Heights don't bother me. It's rent free. And the view is spectacular."
"But…" She felt as if she'd been punched.
"My little house is lined with Styrofoam, so it's warm and relatively sound proof. Ah…" He held up his hands, and smiled at Watson. "Must wash my hands or mama spank…" He got out of the booth, and headed for the restrooms.
Watson looked at Holmes, and whispered. "Maybe we could…"
"No." He pressed his palms against his eyes. "We couldn't. Trust me."
"Then why?"
"Another time."
To have something to do with her hands, Joan picked up the menu. She could still feel the warmth of Tooley's breath against her skin.
"Change your mind?" The waitress was there with the food, and a fresh pot of coffee. As the plates were distributed, Watson discovered that she had changed her mind. "I'd like a scrambled egg on wheat toast."
Holmes requested two hot beef sandwiches, with French fries and coleslaw to go. The waitress noted the orders, and left. Tooley slid back into the booth.
"Do you like poetry, Joan?" he said.
"I like poetry very much."
"Pass the hot sauce," Holmes said.
Tooley's black eyes glittered. "You're asking for a fat lip, you know." He leaned towards Watson. "Ignore him.
At that moment a bell chimed, as the door opened to admit two policemen. They gave the room a thorough onceover, before straddling stools and ordering coffee at the counter.
"You see," Tooley said to Watson. "Devils appear at call. Are you sure you're not an angel?"
"Yes, I'm sure," Watson said, looking down. "I'm not an angel."
Her sandwich arrived. They ate. Tooley finished both his orders of toast, and all of the jelly, and asked for more. He ate the potatoes on Holmes's plate. When the waitress brought the check, there was a white paper bag.
"What's this?" Tooley said.
"Something for you," Holmes said. "You'll want it tomorrow."
"Don't expect me to thank you."
"I don't."
Out once more on the misty sidewalk. Tooley said to Holmes, "This is goodbye, you bird of ill-omen. Never cross my path again."
Then he reached into the voluminous folds of his hoody and produced a grubby black and white booklet. "Joan, I do believe you are an angel. Allow me to present you with this slim volume. A poor thing, but mine own."
He handed her the book, and by the yellow light from the Sip-N-Bite's windows she read 'The Manhattan Bridge Poems.' The author's name: Michael O'Toole Johns.
"This isn't your only copy is it?"
"Keep it as a token of my esteem."
"I'll keep it for you," she promised. "Come get it, when you've settled."
"No. I want you to have it," Tooley said. Then he was gone.
As they walked back toward the brownstone, Watson said, "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"He said that he had an epiphany the first time he saw the bridges of New York He…understood the human need to reach out, throw one's self across the gap that divides us. Seeing the concept expressed with such beauty, in iron and stone, changed him. He'll move a few of the things he'll want to keep. The police will throw the rest away. A few months, later he'll move back."
"I meant…"
"I know. But it's late, I'm tired, and' While the monster shadows glower and creep, what can be better for man than sleep?' Let's go home Watson.
Finis
5/19/2014
The lines of poetry that Tooley and Holmes quote are from 'The Chinese Nightingale' by Vachel Lindsey (1879-1931): .