Death at the Black Bull by Frank Hayes Page B

his body, but like so many others like him, he never had a chance. Life was never on their side from the get-go. In Harry’s case, he’d spent most of his early life in foster care, no family to speak of, and when he aged out, worked at odd jobs and day labor, then drank any money he made. Once in a while, he’d get in some trouble and spend a couple of days inside. In the winter, Virgil usually let him clean up, shovel snow, and then gave him a bed so he wouldn’t freeze to death on the streets. He used to do the same for Harry’s partner in crime, Squint. He got the nickname because of a facial tic and how he was always blinking. Squint had died six months before after being kicked in the head by a horse down at the livestock auction in Redbud. He and Harry had been working mucking out stalls and doing general cleanup. Luther, who owns the auction, said Squint blinked at the wrong time. In any event, Harry had been a sad figure ever since.
    â€œOkay, Harry, what have you been up to?”
    Harry stumbled to his feet, steadying himself by holding on to the upper bunk. Virgil realized for the first time that Harry was an old man. It came as kind of an epiphany. He’d been part of the landscape, like Cesar, for almost as long as Virgil could remember, but Virgil never really looked at him. He was bent in a kind of permanent way. His wrist bones stood out at the end of his shirtsleeves, looking like they could pop out of the shiny thin skin that covered them. His cheeks were sunken under eyes that seemed clouded and he wore an almost perpetual squint. The stubble on his face was gray and his lips were almost blue.
    â€œHey, Virgil. Heared you was in the hospital. Was worried about you.” Harry took a few slow steps until he was face-to-face with Virgil through the bars that separated them. “You all right now? Was surely worried. Someone said you might die. Was really worried. Don’t know what I would do if that was to happen. You ’bout the only friend I got left.”
    Virgil started to respond but a sudden catch in his throat stopped him. He swung open the door to the cell. It was never locked when Harry was inside.
    â€œI’m fine, Harry. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere just yet.” He had stepped inside Harry’s cell and grabbed the solitary chair that stood in the corner. “Here, Harry, but what about you? How come you ended up in here in this nice warm weather?”
    Virgil could see Harry working his mostly toothless gums between his thin lips, trying for an answer.
    â€œI remember, Virgil. I remember. It was Margie. She wouldn’t let me in. Wanted some food and Margie wouldn’t let me in. I was mad, Virgil.”
    â€œNow hold on, Harry. Margie wouldn’t give you food? Doesn’t sound like Margie. She’s been feeding you for years.”
    Harry’s eyes widened. Virgil could see a spark amid the yellow-tinted pupils. Harry waved one hand and accidentally hit the bars of the cell.
    â€œNo, no. Wouldn’t let me in the front door like the other people.”
    â€œBut, Harry, Margie always gives you food around back.” An image of Harry sitting on the bottom step at the back of Margie’s restaurant popped into Virgil’s head. “Those people going in the front door, Harry . . . they’re Margie’s paying customers.” Virgil could see Harry was getting more agitated. “Take it easy, Harry, you’re getting yourself all worked up.”
    â€œBut, Virgil, I had money.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Harry stood up from the chair unsteadily and started fishing through his pockets.
    â€œSee?” He held up a twenty-dollar bill in front of Virgil. “I had money just like those other people. Wanted to give it to Margie, for all them other times, but that kid that works there wouldn’t let me in. He pushed me down the stairs, Virgil. Wouldn’t listen. Tried