Four Kinds of Rain (18 page)

When he was all done there was a reverent silence, and then Dave said, “Bob, that was beautiful, man.” And Lori Weisman nodded and said, “Yes, it was. It’s going to play beautifully, too.”

Bob blinked and shrugged a little as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “Play.” What does that mean?

Then he added:

“I hope it didn’t sound pompous or anything. I sort of got caught up in the moment there. Guess it’s my dear old dad’s influence. He was a union man and a hell of a speech giver.”

“Oh, really?” Lori Weisman said. “Tell us about him a little, while we walk around your neighborhood.”

“Really?” Bob said, as he began to walk toward Patterson Park. “You think anyone will care?”

“Oh yeah, they’re going to care,” Lori said. “Trust me, after this piece comes on the air, your whole life is going to undergo such an amazing change. Wow, we may have to do a follow-up piece in a year to see how you handle fame and celebrity.”

Bob made a shrug face and then looked over at Jesse.

“He’ll do just fine,” Jesse said. “Bob knows exactly who he is.”

“We’ll see,” Lori Weisman said. “I just hope I’m not creating a monster here.”

There were laughs all around at that one. Imagine sweet, caring Bob Wells, a monster. What a thought.

That afternoon Lori Weisman and her crew arranged a lunch down at Bertha’s Mussels, the Fells Point bar and grill where Jesse worked. They shot her serving the lunch crowd and interviewed her about her relationship with Bob. She said that Bob was the “realest person she had ever met, and the kindest.” Then a few minutes after Bob arrived, Leslie and Ronnie, the kids whose lives he’d saved, showed up, fully recovered. They tearfully greeted Bob at the bar and all of them hugged and kissed one another, as the cameras rolled.

“We’re not going to try and interview you right now,” Lori told the happy gang. “We want it to be real. Just go for it. Reality, I mean.”

The three of them ate mussels, drank pints of beer, and Leslie said, “They say he’s a man, but I know better. There’s no way he could have jumped over that hole without wings. I say Bob Wells is an angel.”

She cried and Lori Weisman smiled as the camera caught it all.

As Bob, Jessie, Lori, and the cameraman, Danny, left Bertha’s around 7:00 that night, the big moon hung over the little shops on Broadway and Bob really felt like the luckiest man on earth. Here he was surrounded by two charming women, the cameraman recording his every word and gesture. No doubt about it, his fortunes were on the rise, and at home, stashed away in the wall, was a cool five million dollars.

Of course, there was still the specter of Emile Bardan out there somewhere, but maybe he’d never come back. Hey, maybe he’d already died of his wounds. Not that Bob wanted him to die exactly, but if he had, well, wouldn’t it be the result of his own evil intrigues? Of course it would. Any sensible person would say so.

And if he did come back … Bob felt that somehow he would handle him. It was almost as if a lucky star was shining down on him at last. Maybe, Bob thought giddily, it was all due to Utu. The god of vengeance and justice was on his side. Now there was a goofy thought … but when you were riding high like Bob, such thoughts weren’t merely demented. No, when you were famous, celebrated, and rich, such thoughts were poetic, or at the very worst, eccentric.

The three of them chatted happily as they walked home, when suddenly from the alley next to Oriole Liquors, Bob heard a groan.

“Terrorists,” the voice said. “They’re coming ….”

Bob stopped and listened again.

“Terrorists,” the voice said.

“There’s somebody back there,” Lori said.

“Yeah,” Bob said. “And I know who it is. Hang on a minute.”

“Be careful, honey,” Jesse said.

Lori looked at Danny.

“You have to get this,” she said.

Bob headed back into the dark alley, waiting for an attack and 911’s trademark kick in the balls.

“911,” he said. “You back here, Nine?”

“Get away from me,” a drowsy voice said. “I got a knife. You fucking terrorists.”

Bob turned and saw the cameraman behind him.

“Don’t shine the lights yet,” he whispered.

“Don’t come a step closer,” 911 said.

Bob’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. There, in front of him, lying in a heap next to a Dumpster was 911. In his hand was a broken bottle. He thrust it out, but looked more hapless then menacing.

“Nine, it’s me, Bob Wells,” Bob said.

“Dr. Bobby?” 911 said.

“Yeah. How you doing, Nine?”

“I’m fine,” 911 said. “What’s that behind you?”

“That’s a friend of mine. From TV.”

911 squinted past Bob.

“That a terrorist?”

“No, Nine, a cameraman?” Bob said. “He wants to take your picture. Me and you. How about we go get some food somewhere? Like McDonald’s?”

Just then, Danny the cameraman shone the camera light into 911’s face.

“No,” Bob said.

911 let out a terrible shriek, leapt to his feet, and lunged at Bob with the broken bottle. Bob, having been through this a hundred times before, deftly swept his hand aside and watched the bottle go crashing to the ground. Then he turned 911 around and pulled his arms back in a full nelson.

A few seconds later, Bob had kicked the homeless man’s feet out from under him and had him pinned on his stomach on the ground.

The stench from his clothes was terrible, but Bob didn’t notice. He felt a terrific kindness and compassion sweep through him, the way he had felt almost all of his life when he had to tussle with street people.

“Now calm down, Nine,” Bob said. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“Two days ago,” the haggard, desperate man said in a small, helpless voice.

“I see,” Bob said. “Would you come with me now? To McDonald’s?”

“Okay,” 911 said.

“I’m serious, Nine. No kicking people. Okay?”

“Okay,” 911 said. “Can I get supersize fries?”

“Man, this is really good,” 911 said, devouring a Big Mac and revealing two great gaps where his front teeth had fallen out. “Thanks, Dr. Bobby.”

“That’s okay, Nine,” Bob said. “After we finish here, I’d like to get you down to the shelter. And then maybe get you to an AA meeting. What do you say?”

“I don’t know about them AA meetings,” 911 said. “They got terrorists in some of ‘em.”

Lori Weisman shot Bob a quick look. Jesse gripped his hand under the table, as Danny shot the scene.

“Not this one, though,” Bob said. “Lower Broadway kicked all the terrorists out.”

911 looked at Bob with a measure of doubt in his eyes.

“You sure?” he said.

“I’m sure,” Bob said.

Suddenly, 911 gave Bob a sweet smile.

“I love this guy,” he said, looking at Lori.

“Everybody does,” Lori said.

Jesse squeezed his hand and Danny caught it all.

After his Big Mac and his massive amount of fries, 911 was tired and dreamy, and went off with his little entourage to the Broadway men’s shelter with barely a peep of protest.

“Now don’t forget the AA meeting, Nine,” Bob said.

“Okay,” he said, looking just past Bob’s head, at whatever phantoms tortured him. “I been there before, you know?”

“That’s good,” Bob said. “How many days did you have?”

“A whole year once. And I had a job working for the Department of Recreation as a swimming coach over at Patterson Pool. But some of the terrorists over there had me fired.”

“I heard about that,” Bob said, feeling happy inside. “But they’re all gone now. You could do it again, Nine. Hey, what’s your real name anyway?”

911 looked down at the table and cupped his hand around his mouth.

“I don’t want them to hear,” he said.

Bob put his head close to 911’s.

“Barry,” the homeless man said. “Barry Lansing.”

“Cool,” Bob said. “Maybe we should start calling you Barry, huh?”

“You think?”

“Better than a number, Barry. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, okay,” Barry said.

Barry smiled at Bob and then looked at Jesse.

“He don’t give up on nobody,” he said.

Jesse smiled sweetly and took Bob’s hand.

“I know he doesn’t,” she said.

Suddenly Bob felt like he was going to cry. He couldn’t bear Barry’s kindness and gratitude. He had a crazy impulse to fall down on his knees in front of him and confess everything.

“Hey,” Jesse said, looking at her watch. “We have to get moving. We’ve got to play some rock ‘n’ roll tonight.”

“Cool,” said Barry. “But I’m a little tired now. I think I’ll go in there and go to sleep.”

He hugged Bob and then quickly walked up the steps to the shelter. When he reached the top step he turned and saluted.

“I’m sorry for kicking you that time,” he said. “I thought you was a terrorist.”

“That’s okay,” Bob said. “ ‘Bye, Barry. Get to that meeting, okay?”

Barry Lansing nodded and smiled as if he was struck by his name. Then he turned and walked through the old doors into the cavernous shelter.

“It’s amazing,” Lori said. “He sounded completely okay for a minute there.”

“That happens,” Bob said. “I remember when he was lucid for a month last year, but then he went off again.”

“Why?” Jesse said. “What makes him lose it?”

“He’s got some real instability. Drugs and booze don’t help. But the worst thing is nobody giving a shit,” Bob said.

“Except you,” Lori said.

There was a real sincerity in her voice, Bob thought. The first time all day that she hadn’t been speaking like a tough professional but from her heart. What he did, who he really was, had gotten through to her.

But then, Bob noted to himself, as they grabbed a cab to head to the Lodge, if he hadn’t committed a crime against his own patient, Lori Weisman and the
Today
show wouldn’t be here at all.

That night the Lodge opened up for a special performance of Bob Wells, Jesse Reardon, and the rest of the fabulous Rockaholics. Bob Wells rocked and blasted out tasty blues licks on his Les Paul and Miss Jesse Reardon shook her sweet body and sang with every ounce of throaty, dark, purring sensuality that was in her. The cameras pumped everybody up. The Lodge patrons went nuts dancing and showing off for the cameras. Old and Young Finnegan danced on the bar again, with a bunch of biker chicks they’d brought in from redneck Glen Burnie, wild-looking women with bandannas around their heads and safety pins through their ears. Ethel Roop and Perry Swann were there and ended up making a wild dance couple, big Ethel shaking her belly while Perry kept pointing to his crotch, which made Bob a little afraid he might expose himself on the dance floor. But Perry managed to keep control of himself, which Bob took as a good sign. Hell, maybe he was even making some progress. Tommy Morello and Lizzie Littman did a wild dance that ended with them practically having intercourse on the floor, as Jesse blasted out “Hard to Handle.” The television cameras really pumped everybody up, not the least of whom were Dave and Lou Anne, who made sure they were right up front catching lots of airtime. They shook and shimmied and did the electric slide two feet in front of the band.

When it was all over, and Dave was helping pack up the speakers and amps, Lori Weisman hugged Bob Wells and looked at him with something like awe in her expression.

“Seriously,” she said, “working in television you get a little jaded. But meeting a guy like you—well, it really does something for my spirit.”

“Thanks,” Bob said. “But that’s the whole point of what I do. It’s not that I’m some kind of saint. It’s that you feel better when you’re kind. You feed your spirit when you do good.”

Bob heard himself say the last speech with a seeming sincerity and simple honesty that used to be his true nature. Now, however, having given in to temptation, the words seemed to float disembodied from his mouth. They had been true only when
he
was true. Now they were just words, unconnected to any heartfelt part of himself. Words that were no different from a commercial that sold beer or Viagra on television. He had, he realized, gone from being a man of distinction, even though a virtual unknown, to a shill for himself, and the thought made him suddenly dizzy and sick.

“What you just said, that’s fantastic,” Lori said. “I’d like you to say that for the camera. Oh yeah, there is one more thing, Bob. I have to ask you this so the piece just doesn’t seem like one long blow job.”

Everyone laughed at that one, except Jesse, who eyed Lori suspiciously.

Bob put his arm around Jesse’s shoulder and kissed her neck to show her he wasn’t tempted by the sophisticated woman from the big city.

“Well,” Lori said, “a couple of local detectives, guys named Garrett and Geiger, contacted me just tonight and said that you were under suspicion in the bombing. That you’d been seen with one of the dead men, a guy named Ray Wade, only a few days before the explosion took place.”

Bob felt a great rage starting inside of him. What were they doing, screwing up his moment in the sun? The bastards, the sons of bitches. He looked down at the floor and took a deep breath. When he looked back up, he was smiling, in his friendly and humble way.

“It’s true I knew Ray Wade. Years ago, he played in blues bands with me. We live in a funky part of town and you get to know all kinds of people. But the idea that I was involved in some kind of criminal activity with Wade, well, that’s crazy.”

“But isn’t it true,” Lori Weisman said, “that you played poker with Ray Wade and some of his buddies and you lost almost all of your retirement money?”

Bob felt a lump forming in his throat. When he looked at Lori Weisman now she wasn’t the same friendly and openly worshiping person she’d been for the past two days. No, there was a sharp, hard glint in her eyes.

“That’s a lie,” Bob said. “I lost
some
of my money and as a result I quit playing cards.”

Dave was standing right by the two of them and he couldn’t resist chiming in.

“Maybe you ought to ask Detective Garrett why he hassles Bobby all the time.”

Lori Weisman raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know why?” she said.