Panhandler

by Walt Staples -

The man picked up his pace; it wouldn’t do to be late. They would be expecting him. He sighed with relief as the door pinged to announce his arrival. Maria smiled at him as he passed her counter. “They’re upstairs with the ladies.”

He flashed her a three-toothed smile and nodded. The escalator bore him up to the Knitting Room. Corinne greeted his entrance by singing out, “Here’s our Mr. Tegar. Your fan club awaits, sir.” The other ladies glanced up, smiled greetings, then turned their attention back to their constructions of yarn.

Tegar returned the smiles and sat down at the table. As he pulled the notebook and mechanical pencils from his shoulder bag, a large tiger tabby hopped up on the table and rubbed the side of his wrist. Tegar rewarded him with several strokes and a scritch of that magic sweet-spot cats have on their cheek. His purr dieseled. Tegar opened the note book. A smaller Siamese jumped onto his lap and curled up. He began to write. The tabby settled to watch the pencil make its progress across the paper.

It was nearing the noon hour when Tegar ceased writing. He ushered the Siamese gently to the floor and stroked the tabby once or twice. Then he stood and replaced his tools in the shoulder bag. He nodded again to the ladies and took his departure.

Once Tegar was out of earshot, Mirabel, the newest student, asked, “Corinne, who was that?”

The knitting instructor smiled. “That’s our Mr. Tegar. He comes and pets Miz Ritz and Jangles and writes each day.”

“What’s he do for a living?”

Joan spoke up, “Nothing.”

Cindy, the bubbly one, laughed. “That’s not totally true. He does work after a fashion. If you pass the intersection of Corridor Godard and Corridor Yamura when everyone is heading to the food court for lunch, you see him at work. He‘s standing there with a credit charger and a sign reading, “Alms for literacy?”

Mirabel’s jaw dropped. “He’s a beggar? But he’s so clean and quiet and nice-seeming.”

Corinne nodded. “He’s all of that.”

“But where does he live?”

Corinne reached up and ran a hand over her pink bouffant. “Well, Father Emil told me that he sleeps at St. Dymphna’s Bachelor’s Hall. And eats breakfast there. His other meals he has at Temple Beth Salem and at 1st Pentecostal.”

Mirabel squinted at her work. “Was I supposed to knit or purl on the third row? What’s he do the rest of the time?”

“I’ve seen him at the library any number of afternoons. I guess that’s where he goes,” Joan supplied.

Corinne leaned across and inspected Mirabel’s project. “Um. Purl, dear. And mornings we have him. The cats love him and he keeps them too occupied to help us with our yarn.”

Nancy, the usually quiet one, broke her silence, “What’s he write?”

There was an audible crack as Corinne lifted her right shoulder to ease a crick. “Fiction--all kinds. I’m no judge, but I think it’s rather good.”

Cindy asked sympathetically, “Shoulder playing up again, dear? Does he sell any of it?”

Corinne grinned lopsidedly, “Control panels and sudden high-G boost do not mix, ladies. I think he tried at first, but he gave up. I think his stuff is too happy.” She pulled a face and deepened her voice. “It’s not literary enough, don’t you know?” She reached over to stroke the tabby as he sauntered to that end of the table. “But you cats love him, don’t you, Jangles?”

Red Light (FLASHBACK)

by Walt Staples -

Beach Ranks sneered at the old priest. “Why don’t you go rattle yer beads over my dinners? Maybe you kin resurrect their sorry butts. After all, there were only six of ‘em. It oughta be easy for you, sky pilot.”

Father Emil paid no attention and continued to whisper the Office for the Dead. He didn’t worry about its efficacy with a creature such as Beach. His job was to do the best he could. Final judgment was Someone Else’s prerogative.

Onslow, the young power engineer, grunted as he pulled tight the straps that held the reaction unit, transponder, and red and blue strobe that marked Beach as a Peacekeeper matter. He was still disgruntled that he’d been the engineer with the short straw.

Gunther, the investigating peacekeeper, stood to one side holding a piece of plastisheet. Following the procedure for execution, the charges and death sentence were burned into the sheet rather than read from a reader. Clearing his throat, he began to read the second part, “Beach Ranks, it is the order of the Tribunal that having found you guilty of six murders having aggravating circumstance, that you be taken this day at zero-hundred hours and removed permanently from contact with your fellow man. And may your god have mercy on you.”

Beach cackled, “They was good! You oughta try the other white meat sometime, Peacekeeper. Better than the cafeteria.”

Gunther remarked mildly, “I’ll accept that those are your last words,” and put the gag in place.

The peacekeeper asked Onslow, “Is the strobe and transponder armed?” When the other nodded, he turned to the assembled people—priest, engineer, and witnesses—and gestured toward the inner airlock hatch. “If you will…?”

They filed out, Onslow glancing back and Father Emil, still whispering, preceding the peacekeeper. Gunther pushed the button to close the inner hatch. He removed a lanyard with an ancient metal key from around his neck. He pushed the key into a slot on the airlock’s failsafe and looked away from the hatch window as he turned it. There was an explosive “whoof” and the safety light over the hatch turned from green directly to red without going through yellow.

As he turned the key back, the peacekeeper said in a barely audible voice, “Dear God, forgive us,” and crossed himself.