Shockwave by Andrew Vachss

Mack, hard. Waiting for him to verify it if I did. So I went on:
    “The permanent homeless, the only real difference between them and anyone else is that they don’t live indoors.”
    Mack nodded.
    “That crew of youngsters, they all come from different kinds of places, but they all … escaped, went AWOL, or whatever they call it.”
    He nodded again.
    “And those two groups, they don’t mix.”
    “No.”
    “And the crazy ones, the ones you see walking around, they don’t get together?”
    “Not like the others. Some of them even say they’re married. But that’s two people, not a whole group. They’re usually in their own world, each of them.”
    “So that’s at least three groups the businesses who make a living off tourists wouldn’t want around.”
    “Wouldn’t want them
visible
. The permanent group, theyknow that song by heart. So do the kids. The kids don’t
want
to be visible, anyway.
    “A tourist sees some of the permanents, he probably figures they’re out on a camping trip. No big deal. But the ones who walk around drooling, talking to themselves, scratching at their faces—
they’re
the ones the businesses don’t want around their places. That’s why they created this job. My job, I mean.”
    “Those circuit riders—”
    “If they’re any good, nobody sees them. For those, it’s always hit-and-run, sometimes for no longer than just between freights.”
    “What about the professional beggars?”
    “The ones you see in wheelchairs with signs—‘Wounded Vet,’ ‘Will Work for Food,’ ‘Out of Work, Out of Luck.’
    Those?”
    “Yeah.”
    “They know what they’re doing. This place is way liberal on just about any issue you could come up with, but if a merchant doesn’t want any pro beggars outside his place, all he has to do is make a call—the cops will move them out. Quick. There’s places where it’s okay for them to set up shop, and they all find out about that, sooner or later.”
    “The cops … You talked to them about Homer?”
    “Talked to one I know. He told me they
had
to hold him. Homer had the dead man’s watch, and, for now, that’s all they got.”
    “He couldn’t be convicted on just that, could he?” Dolly asked.
    “Not by a jury, I don’t think. But any lawyer they give him won’t be thinking about a trial—Homer’s the perfect NGI. No way he could even be competent enough to understand what’s going on. No matter how this plays out, unless they find whoever took out that guy who washed up on the beach, Homer’s going inside.
    “Jail or a mental hospital, it’d be the same to him. The voices would come back, and they’d have to blast him with meds just to stop him screaming. Outside, he can handle it—sleep all day, only go out when it’s dark; that seems to do it for him.”
    “Dell …”
    “I ’m not a detective,” I told Mack, later.
    He gave me a look. “Who said you were?”
    “Sometimes, Dolly thinks I can do things.… You know, women, right?”
    “Me,
I
don’t. I never met a man who actually does. But your wife, she’s not confused, is she?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Whatever she ‘thinks’ you can do, it’s because she knows you can. And not from hearing you talk about it.”
    “W hat’s next?”
    “Waiting,” I said to Mack. “I’m sorry about this Homer guy, but without seeing what cards they’re actually holding, there’s no way to start. What we really want is the dead guy’s rap sheet. The cops wouldn’t have to investigate to get that—they ID’ed him from his prints, so you know they’re holding
some
kind of paper. You wouldn’t happen to have a friend on the force, would you?”
    “No” was all he said.
    “Place like this—this town, it’s not sealed.”
    “Sealed?”
    “Like a prison is sealed. Prison guards find a dead man, them knowing who
couldn’t
have done it narrows it down. Sometimes, way down. Here, people come and go all the time.Take the tourists out