can’t be bonded.’
It is Wheelock’s turn to stop breathing. When he starts again, the puffs of breath in Blind Willie’s ear have become a hurricane; the cop’s moving mouth is almost on his skin. ‘What do you mean?’ he whispers. A hand settles on the arm of Blind Willie’s field jacket. ‘You just tell me what the fuck you mean.’
But Blind Willie is silent, hands at his sides, head slightly raised, looking attentively into the darkness that will not clear until daylight is almost gone, and on his face is that lack of expression which so many passersby read as ruined pride, bruised grace, courage brought low but still somehow intact. It is that, not the sign or the dark glasses, which has allowed him to do so well over the years … and Wheelock is wrong: he is blind. They both are blind.
The hand on his arm shakes him slightly. It is almost a claw now. ‘You got a friend? Is that it, you son of a bitch? Is that why you hold the envelope out that way half the damned time? You got a friend taking my picture? Is that it?’
Blind Willie says nothing, has to say nothing. People like Jasper Wheelock will always think the worst if you let them. You only have to give them time to do it.
‘You don’t want to fuck with me, pal’ Wheelock says viciously, but there is a subtle undertone of worry in his voice, and the hand on Blind Willie’s jacket loosens. ‘We’re going up to four hundred a month starting next week, and if you try playing any games with me, I’m going to show you where the real playground is. You understand me?’
Blind Willie says nothing. The puffs of air stop hitting his ear, and he knows Wheelock is going. But not yet; the nasty little puffs come back.
‘You’ll burn in hell for what you’re doing,’ Wheelock tells him. He speaks with great, almost fervent, sincerity. ‘What I’m doing when I take your dirty money is a venial sin - I asked the priest, so I’m sure - but yours is mortal. You’re going to hell, see how many handouts you get down there.’
He walks away then, an Willie’s thought - that he is glad to see him go - causes a rare smile to touch his face. It comes and goes like an errant ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
1:40 P.M.
Three times he has banded the bills into rolls and dumped the change into the bottom of the case (this is really a storage function, and not an effort at concealment), now working completely by touch. He can no longer see the money, doesn’t know a one from a hundred, but he senses he is having a very good day, indeed. There is no pleasure in the knowledge, however. There’s never very much, pleasure is not what Blind Willie is about, but even the sense of accomplishment he might have felt on another day has been muted by his conversation with Officer Wheelock.
At quarter to twelve, a young woman with a pretty voice - to Blind Willie she sounds like Whitney Houston - comes out of Saks and gives him a cup of hot coffee, as she does most days at this time. At quarter past, another woman - this one not so young, and probably white - brings him a cup of steaming chicken noodle soup. He thanks them both. The white lady kisses his cheek, calls him Will instead of Willie, and wishes him the merriest of merry Christmases.
There is a counterbalancing side to the day, though; there almost always is. Around one o’clock a teenage kid with his unseen posse laughing and joking and skylarking all around him speaks out of the darkness to Blind Willie’s left, says he is one ugly motherfuck, then asks if he wears those gloves because he burned his fingers off trying to read the waffle iron. He and his friends charge off, howling with laughter at this ancient jape. Fifteen minutes or so later, someone kicks him, although that might have been an accident. Every time he bends over to the case, however, the case is right there. It is a city of hustlers, muggers, and thieves, but the case is right there, just as it has always been right there.
And
It is Wheelock’s turn to stop breathing. When he starts again, the puffs of breath in Blind Willie’s ear have become a hurricane; the cop’s moving mouth is almost on his skin. ‘What do you mean?’ he whispers. A hand settles on the arm of Blind Willie’s field jacket. ‘You just tell me what the fuck you mean.’
But Blind Willie is silent, hands at his sides, head slightly raised, looking attentively into the darkness that will not clear until daylight is almost gone, and on his face is that lack of expression which so many passersby read as ruined pride, bruised grace, courage brought low but still somehow intact. It is that, not the sign or the dark glasses, which has allowed him to do so well over the years … and Wheelock is wrong: he is blind. They both are blind.
The hand on his arm shakes him slightly. It is almost a claw now. ‘You got a friend? Is that it, you son of a bitch? Is that why you hold the envelope out that way half the damned time? You got a friend taking my picture? Is that it?’
Blind Willie says nothing, has to say nothing. People like Jasper Wheelock will always think the worst if you let them. You only have to give them time to do it.
‘You don’t want to fuck with me, pal’ Wheelock says viciously, but there is a subtle undertone of worry in his voice, and the hand on Blind Willie’s jacket loosens. ‘We’re going up to four hundred a month starting next week, and if you try playing any games with me, I’m going to show you where the real playground is. You understand me?’
Blind Willie says nothing. The puffs of air stop hitting his ear, and he knows Wheelock is going. But not yet; the nasty little puffs come back.
‘You’ll burn in hell for what you’re doing,’ Wheelock tells him. He speaks with great, almost fervent, sincerity. ‘What I’m doing when I take your dirty money is a venial sin - I asked the priest, so I’m sure - but yours is mortal. You’re going to hell, see how many handouts you get down there.’
He walks away then, an Willie’s thought - that he is glad to see him go - causes a rare smile to touch his face. It comes and goes like an errant ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
1:40 P.M.
Three times he has banded the bills into rolls and dumped the change into the bottom of the case (this is really a storage function, and not an effort at concealment), now working completely by touch. He can no longer see the money, doesn’t know a one from a hundred, but he senses he is having a very good day, indeed. There is no pleasure in the knowledge, however. There’s never very much, pleasure is not what Blind Willie is about, but even the sense of accomplishment he might have felt on another day has been muted by his conversation with Officer Wheelock.
At quarter to twelve, a young woman with a pretty voice - to Blind Willie she sounds like Whitney Houston - comes out of Saks and gives him a cup of hot coffee, as she does most days at this time. At quarter past, another woman - this one not so young, and probably white - brings him a cup of steaming chicken noodle soup. He thanks them both. The white lady kisses his cheek, calls him Will instead of Willie, and wishes him the merriest of merry Christmases.
There is a counterbalancing side to the day, though; there almost always is. Around one o’clock a teenage kid with his unseen posse laughing and joking and skylarking all around him speaks out of the darkness to Blind Willie’s left, says he is one ugly motherfuck, then asks if he wears those gloves because he burned his fingers off trying to read the waffle iron. He and his friends charge off, howling with laughter at this ancient jape. Fifteen minutes or so later, someone kicks him, although that might have been an accident. Every time he bends over to the case, however, the case is right there. It is a city of hustlers, muggers, and thieves, but the case is right there, just as it has always been right there.
And
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