God’s cruel joke. God had built him out of spare parts. Mismatched parts. But he had given Gulliver Dowd a handsome face. A mild breeze blew in off the harbor. It smelled of the salt from the ocean. That’s what got his attention.
He hobbled along Van Brunt. Down Van Dyke. He ran out of street at Valentino Pier. The pier was a finger of concrete that stuck out into New York Harbor. It was named for a hero fireman. A dead hero. There was no shortage of those in New York City.
Gulliver liked it here. The view was amazing. At the end of the pier, the Statue of Liberty stared back at him. To his left, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Staten Island. New Jersey. To his right was Lower Manhattan. The new Freedom Tower rose up above all else. Keisha said she had watched the World Trade Center towers fall from the pier.
It was an odd day. A day to recall sad things. But also a day to take a step back. A day to watch tugboats. Water taxis. Ocean liners. Helicopters. Seagulls. A day to lose yourself in the rush of the harbor. He needed to lose himself. He had been busy lately. He hadn’t slept much. He’d spent weeks in Boston working an art-theft case. He’d gotten the paintings back. And a nice finder’s fee from the insurance company.
Gulliver had once worked almost all missing-children cases. Not anymore. Not in the year since he had found Nina’s daughter, Anka. Nina had lied to Gulliver. She’d told him Anka was his daughter too. He was crushed when he found out it wasn’t true. That Anka was someone else’s girl. After that he couldn’t handle missing-children cases. It hurt too much. The wound was still too fresh. He was thinking about Anka. How pretty she was. How smart she was. How talented. How for a few days she had been his. That’s when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.
“Yo, mister. You seen my dog?”
The boy was maybe ten years old. He was already four inches taller than Gulliver. But he was a skinny kid. A street kid. Gulliver knew the signs. A dirty face. Crooked teeth. Underfed. Untamed Faraway eyes. Nervous like a cat. Ready to pounce or to run. Gulliver had spent a lot of time with kids just like this boy. Runaways ended up on the street sooner or later. Even the ones with money would find out iem;
text-indent: 0em;
Text-align: center;
}
.crtj88, t doesn’t last too long. When the money runs out, there’s only one place to land. The street. Gulliver often started his searches for runaways on the street. This kid was different. He wasn’t a runaway. He didn’t end up on the street. He came from the street.
“What kind of dog is it?” Gulliver asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “A dog dog. I don’t know what kind.”
“Big or little?”
“Kinda little, I guess. He’s this long.” The kid held his hands about a foot apart. “And he’s this tall.” He held one hand a foot above the other. “He got kinda a scrunchy black face. His eyes go this way and that. And he don’t smell too good. He got brown and black fur and some white.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ugly.”
Gulliver laughed. “Your dog’s name is Ugly? I like that.”
The kid smiled. It was a nice smile, in spite of his crooked teeth. But a wary smile, like Keisha’s. Keisha had been in foster care before Gulliver’s parents adopted her. Love and trust didn’t come easy to her. Love and trust didn’t come easy to street kids either.
“How long has Ugly been missing?”
“Two days.”
Gulliver wanted to ask the kid a thousand questions. Where were his parents? Had he ever gone to school? Where did he sleep? When did he last eat? But he only asked simple questions. Ones that wouldn’t spook the kid. He knew that once he started asking hard questions, the kid would take off.
“My name’s Gulliver Dowd. I live at Visitation Place. You can ask people about me. They’ll tell you I’m okay.”
“I know. I seen you around. You’re the little man that finds people.”
“I find lots of
He hobbled along Van Brunt. Down Van Dyke. He ran out of street at Valentino Pier. The pier was a finger of concrete that stuck out into New York Harbor. It was named for a hero fireman. A dead hero. There was no shortage of those in New York City.
Gulliver liked it here. The view was amazing. At the end of the pier, the Statue of Liberty stared back at him. To his left, the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Staten Island. New Jersey. To his right was Lower Manhattan. The new Freedom Tower rose up above all else. Keisha said she had watched the World Trade Center towers fall from the pier.
It was an odd day. A day to recall sad things. But also a day to take a step back. A day to watch tugboats. Water taxis. Ocean liners. Helicopters. Seagulls. A day to lose yourself in the rush of the harbor. He needed to lose himself. He had been busy lately. He hadn’t slept much. He’d spent weeks in Boston working an art-theft case. He’d gotten the paintings back. And a nice finder’s fee from the insurance company.
Gulliver had once worked almost all missing-children cases. Not anymore. Not in the year since he had found Nina’s daughter, Anka. Nina had lied to Gulliver. She’d told him Anka was his daughter too. He was crushed when he found out it wasn’t true. That Anka was someone else’s girl. After that he couldn’t handle missing-children cases. It hurt too much. The wound was still too fresh. He was thinking about Anka. How pretty she was. How smart she was. How talented. How for a few days she had been his. That’s when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.
“Yo, mister. You seen my dog?”
The boy was maybe ten years old. He was already four inches taller than Gulliver. But he was a skinny kid. A street kid. Gulliver knew the signs. A dirty face. Crooked teeth. Underfed. Untamed Faraway eyes. Nervous like a cat. Ready to pounce or to run. Gulliver had spent a lot of time with kids just like this boy. Runaways ended up on the street sooner or later. Even the ones with money would find out iem;
text-indent: 0em;
Text-align: center;
}
.crtj88, t doesn’t last too long. When the money runs out, there’s only one place to land. The street. Gulliver often started his searches for runaways on the street. This kid was different. He wasn’t a runaway. He didn’t end up on the street. He came from the street.
“What kind of dog is it?” Gulliver asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “A dog dog. I don’t know what kind.”
“Big or little?”
“Kinda little, I guess. He’s this long.” The kid held his hands about a foot apart. “And he’s this tall.” He held one hand a foot above the other. “He got kinda a scrunchy black face. His eyes go this way and that. And he don’t smell too good. He got brown and black fur and some white.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ugly.”
Gulliver laughed. “Your dog’s name is Ugly? I like that.”
The kid smiled. It was a nice smile, in spite of his crooked teeth. But a wary smile, like Keisha’s. Keisha had been in foster care before Gulliver’s parents adopted her. Love and trust didn’t come easy to her. Love and trust didn’t come easy to street kids either.
“How long has Ugly been missing?”
“Two days.”
Gulliver wanted to ask the kid a thousand questions. Where were his parents? Had he ever gone to school? Where did he sleep? When did he last eat? But he only asked simple questions. Ones that wouldn’t spook the kid. He knew that once he started asking hard questions, the kid would take off.
“My name’s Gulliver Dowd. I live at Visitation Place. You can ask people about me. They’ll tell you I’m okay.”
“I know. I seen you around. You’re the little man that finds people.”
“I find lots of
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