Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(41)

There are factions, like I say.

I’m not in any of them.





Chapter 37

Stella




Silverman said, “She’ll be at church.”

I checked my watch. It was nearly noon. Tuesday.

“Devout,” I said.

“Just hungry. They run a soup kitchen.”

Michigan had been warm. Indiana too. But here, the air was thick and hot, and simply stepping from the car, I felt the sweat oozing from my skin. The town was Lexington, Kentucky: “old money and no money,” as somebody described it to me.

Well, we were about to meet one half of that equation.

The church hall offered shade and cool air. Silverman got quite a welcome. It surprised me. Some guy high-fived him. Others nodded, waved, said hi. Then someone shouted from across the room, “Hey! Paulie!”

She didn’t look homeless. Not till you realized it was pushing 90 outside and she wore layer upon layer, a sweater tied around her waist, another draped over her shoulders, a backpack hanging from one hand. She wore a New York Yankees cap pushed up on her head. Her face was dark, no makeup, and the hair that stuck out from beneath the cap had a brittle look from spending too long in the sun. She threw her arms round Silverman and hugged him like a brother. She was tiny—about five-two—but I think she half crushed him to death.

He introduced us.

“Angel, Chris.”

“Stella Douglas.” She grabbed my hand, and shook it firmly. Then to Angel, another handshake: “Stella Douglas.”

“They’re two good friends of mine,” said Silverman. “They want to talk to you. If you’ve got time . . . ?”

“Gimme a ride cross town? That’ll free me up.” To us, she said, “I tell you: this gig, you got all the time in the world, an’ ain’t none of it your own.”

“Ride and a meal?” said Silverman.

“Deal.” She shook his hand. Then she yelled to the guy behind the lunch counter, “Hey, Jamal! Give my lunch to Pat, OK? You do that?” She threw him a grin. “I,” she said, “am dining out!”



She and Silverman sat in the backseat, talking up a storm. It was gossip, mostly, but listening in, I got a sense of how her life worked: a string of journeys back and forth across the city, most of them on foot, one free meal to the next, to the promise of a job, or the homeless shelter where she spent the night. It wasn’t just the miles; she carried her possessions with her, all the time. Even to a seasoned traveler like me, that seemed almost unimaginable. But she kept on talking, laughing, on and on.

Then Silverman asked her about div.

And she shut up.

“Stell . . . ?” he said.

She shuffled in her seat. “We ain’t seen that shit in, like, forever.”

She leaned forward, speaking more to Angel than to me, and said, “Paulie’ll tell you. I don’t do drugs, ’cept a little pot sometimes, when I gotta chill, yeah? Don’t do no drugs, ’cause I seen how fast you go down that way on the street. Don’t do no drugs, don’t fly no sign. Work when I can. That’s me. I been a waitress, beautician, short-order cook, receptionist, made shower-fittings in a factory. I don’t do no drugs . . .”

“Except . . . was it the one time? Stella?”

“—was in Seattle for a while, worked as a cook, I mean a real cook, made up my own recipes, should never’a left that job. Never’a come back here. But whadya gonna do, hey? Whadya gonna do ?”

We trekked around with her an hour or so. There were a couple of places with work going, she’d heard. Neither of them led to anything. Each time, she was quiet when she got back in the car. Then she and Silverman debated for a while, until they hit a deal: we’d take her to McDonald’s. After that, she’d talk.



She ate quickly. Delicately. She ate in tiny little pieces, picking at the meal with her fingers. Like a mouse, with fast, nibbling movements. But it didn’t stop her chatter even then.

“Hey, this is great, guys. Paulie here’s my best bud.” She clapped his shoulder. He put his head down, modestly. “Like I say, I never flown no sign. You gotta have respect for yourself, y’know? Else how’s anyone else gonna respect you, right? I see these guys—I’m homeless, help me out. Well, that ain’t me. But if my best bud Paulie wants to buy me lunch…?”

“Flying a sign—” said Silverman.

But she jumped in, quick to explain.

“See ’em in the doorway, or at the roadside, with a big card, off of a box lid, you know? Gimme dollars. Or, veteran. Yeah! Veteran, my ass! Sure, there’s veterans on the street, sure there is, I know ’em, Hollis and Limber-Up, but this ain’t those guys. I see ’em, I say, ‘Aw, hey! Get a job!’ That’s kinda like a joke,” she said.

I asked, “How long have you been homeless, Ms. Douglas?”

“Stella, it’s Stella. You’re with Paulie, you call me by my first name. Comin’ up on three years.” She took a bite, jaws working quickly. “Home’s a thing, easy to lose an’ hard to find. I’ll get there. Big thing, on the streets, you gotta keep yourself together. You gotta keep yourself goaled, see? All I want now, all I’m lookin’ for is steady money, like a paycheck every coupla weeks. Oh, honey,” to Angel, “I love the way you got your hair. That is way cool. No, once you’re down, pickin’ yourself up ain’t easy, even when you work.”