Read Online By Blood Written by Steven Womack - Free Book Online Page B

him.
    “Just like me, baby!” he yelled. “Hot and black!”
    Greenwood assumed that was a yes, but truth was, you could never be sure with Pops. She entered the store, nodded to the clerk, made small talk, and walked around the store a couple of times. She was close enough to the end of her shift that if she killed a few more minutes, it would be time to head in and sign out. Just another day at the office.
    Greenwood poured two Styrofoam cups full of coffee, added a packet each of sugar and artificial creamer to hers, then capped them both. The clerk—a pretty, young African-American woman—offered her the coffee for free, but Greenwood smiled and made her take a five. The woman made change, thanked Greenwood for coming in, and smiled pleasantly back at her. It felt good that the girl was glad to see her.
    Out on the sidewalk, Greenwood dodged the few icy patches left on the concrete and walked around the front of the store to the corner. Pops’s grocery cart was pushed up against the cinder-block wall next to a large Dumpster. Hanging out of the Dumpster, she saw the baggy seat of the old man’s pants, followed by his bony legs dangling from his two-sizes-too-large trousers and wondered how the hell he ever managed to stay warm.
    “Gotcha coffee, Pops,” Greenwood announced.
    The old man pushed himself out of the Dumpster, his feet sliding as they hit the frozen ground. Suddenly the old man let out a whooping sound as he struggled to regain his balance.
    “Man, dey’s some nasty shit in deah!” he yelled.
    Greenwood held out the cup of coffee toward him. “Be careful, it’s slippery out here.”
    “You gots to see dis,” the old man said.
    “I don’t gots to see nothing,” Greenwood said. “It’s a Dumpster, Pops. Of course there’s some nasty shit in it.”
    The old man ignored her outstretched hand. “No, lady, you gots to see dis. I ain’t seen nothing like dis since dey had da riots in ‘76.”
    Her curiosity piqued, Greenwood took a couple of steps closer to the grime-and filth-encrusted Dumpster, thankful that at least with the brutal cold, there was no smell.
    “Pops, what the hell are you—”
    Greenwood stopped as the old man backed out of the Dumpster gate again, this time unraveling an ice-encrusted, stiff pair of green coveralls splattered with dark, nearly black, coppery stains.
    “Look at dis,” the old man shouted. “Somebody done got stuck dis time! Whooo-whee! “
    “Pops,” Greenwood said slowly, cautiously, every instinct telling her that this was not your usual convenience-store garbage. “Listen, buddy, I need you to put that back where you got it and move over here away from that thing. You hear me, Pops?”
    “But I can wear dese and dey’s some cans and shit in deah, too,” the old man whined. “I git me some money …”
    “We’ll get the cans out later,” Greenwood said. “Come on over here and get your coffee, Pops. C’mon, it’s cold out here. You need to drink your coffee.”
    Pops smiled at her, stepped over and took the coffee out of her hand, and licked his lips.
    “Stay close by, Pops. I’m just going to take a look in there, okay?”
    Greenwood pulled the Maglite off her utility belt and walked carefully toward the Dumpster. The late-afternoon sun was setting just off the horizon; dusk was barely ninety minutes away, and already this side of the building was heavily in shadow. Greenwood approached the Dumpster carefully, not knowing what to expect, and then sidled up to the door and peeked in, the Maglite’s sharp, focused beam playing over the surface of the garbage.
    Most of the contents of the Dumpster was the usual rub-bish: broken-down cardboard boxes, plastic soda containers, cans, a couple of discarded whiskey bottles, and piles of amber beer bottles. And on top of the trash—a heap of rags, crumpled up, frozen with something that looked enough like dried, frozen blood for Greenwood to realize her shift wasn’t as close to being over as