T he night Falcon returned to the street was the coldest of the year.

It was well after dark before his lawyer finally posted the ten-thousand-dollar bail. Swyteck wanted to have a full and frank discussion with his client before springing him loose. Falcon wanted out of there immediately. Predictably, Swyteck turned on the social-worker speech, the deep concern for his downtrodden fellow man. Get yourself an apartment, Falcon. Get some warm clothes, get a life-for Pete’s sake, do something with all that money you have squirreled away in a safe deposit box. As if any lawyer really cared about his poor, homeless client. Falcon was no fool. He didn’t need to sit around and wait for Swyteck to work his way up to the obvious burning question. The guy was a lawyer, and he wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if he didn’t worry about where the money had come from. Not that those bastards didn’t take dirty money. Lawyers just knew well enough to take precautions before taking their take. Take, take, take.

“Back off, Swyteck!” he said aloud, speaking to no one. “You can’t have it.”

The Miami River was an inky black belt in the moonlight. It was quiet along the riverfront tonight, except for the cars whirring across the drawbridge. Rubber tires on metal always seemed louder in the cold, dry air. Falcon wasn’t sure why, and he didn’t care. He had to take a piss. He stopped beneath the bridge, unzipped, and waited. Nothing. The traffic noise from above was bothering him. Vehicles passing at the speed of light, one after another, quick little bursts that sounded like laser guns. It was breaking his concentration. His stream of water wasn’t what it used to be. It took a clear head and determination just to empty his bladder. He gritted his teeth and pushed. One squirt, dribble. Another squirt, more dribble. To think, this used to be fun. What the hell ever happened to the mighty swordsman who could hose down a park bench from ten feet away? Falcon hadn’t completely finished his business, but it was way too cold to keep your pecker hanging out all night. Especially when you were well compensated, right, Swyteck?

He buttoned up and prepared himself for the final leg of the journey. He was almost home. The bend in the river told him so. He loved living on the river. In fact, seventy-degree river water would feel mighty good on a night like tonight. A regular poor man’s hot tub-except that Falcon wasn’t poor. Ha! The rich are different. “Yeah, I’m good and different, all right,” he said to no one.

His breath nearly steamed in the crisp night air. It just kept getting colder. How was that possible? This was Miami, not Rochester. Swyteck had offered to drive him to a shelter, but Falcon was going home. Yeah, it was an abandoned car, but it still had all the comforts. Had himself a TV, a stereo, a toaster. He was sure they would still work, too, if only he had electricity. He could even have laid claim to a dishwasher, had he been able to lift the damn thing. The stuff people threw out was just amazing. Most trash wasn’t really trash at all, just things people got tired of having around the house. It wasn’t broken, wasn’t worn out, and sometimes it wasn’t even dirty. Out with the old, in with the new. Lawn mowers, radios, blenders, the Bushman. Especially the Bushman. That’s right, you heard me. You’re trash, Bushman! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT STINKING, SMELLING TRASH!

“Who you calling trash, mon?”

Falcon turned around. He was still standing under the bridge. His friend the Bushman was lying on the ground and glaring up at him. That crazy Jamaican was sucking the thoughts out of Falcon’s head again. Or maybe Falcon had been talking out loud without realizing it.

“Sorry,” said Falcon. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, buddy.”

The Bushman grumbled as he pulled himself up to the seated position. A tattered old blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He had the thickest, longest dreadlocks of anyone outside of the Australian Bush, which was the reason Falcon called him the Bushman. Normally, those dreadlocks would hang down loose, all dirty and gnarly, like the tufted fleece of a yak. Tonight, however, they were wrapped around his head like a turban, held in place by an old metal colander that made a pretty nice helmet. His jeans were filthy, as usual, but the sweatshirt looked to be clean and in good shape.

“New sweatshirt?” said Falcon.

“Folks from the shelter came by an hour or so ago. Passed out some goodies.” He held up his hands to show off a pair of socks that he was wearing like gloves. “You missed out, mon.”

“They take anybody back with them?”

“Nope. Not a one of us.”

Just ahead, barely visible in the moonlight, a heap of cardboard started to stir. It was Uhm-Kate. Whenever anyone asked her name, the response was always, “Uhm, Kate.” She looked twice her normal size. It was a trick Falcon had taught her: stuff your clothes with old newspapers on cold nights. There were other ways to keep off the chill, but they usually came in a bottle.

“Hey, Falcon’s back,” she said.

More moving cardboard. The underbelly of the old drawbridge was like one big homeless slumber party. There was the Bushman, Uhm-Kate, half a dozen more. Eager as he was to get home, Falcon thought he might just stay here tonight, until he saw Johnny the Thief. He didn’t actually see him-just the glinting eyes in the darkness. It was the cough that revealed his identity. Johnny had one of those deep, lung-shredding coughs that hurt your ears just to hear it. He denied having AIDS, but everybody knew. When he first came to the street, he was Johnny the Pretty Boy. He wasn’t so pretty anymore. Now he was Johnny the Thief, always stealing everybody’s dope.

“Got any shit, Falcon?”

“Nothing for you, Johnny.”

“Come on, man. You’re a celebrity now. One of the beautiful people. Beautiful people always got the shit.”

“I’m not a celebrity.”

“Yes, you is,” he said, and then he started coughing. “You was on TV. I saw you. I watched in the emergency room over at Jackson. I told everyone in the joint: Hey, that’s my friend, Falcon!”

Falcon could no longer feel the cold air. Hot blood was coursing through his veins. “I’m not your friend, Johnny.”

The Bushman rose and came to him. “Take it easy, mon. Don’t pay Johnny no never mind.”

“What you mean you ain’t my friend?” said Johnny.

“I don’t have any friends,” said Falcon.

The Bushman seemed genuinely hurt. “Aw, now dat can’t be true, mon.”

“Bushman’s right,” said Johnny. “That’s not true at all. I know it, you know it, everybody who was watching you on the TV knows it. You gots a friend, all right. You gots a girlfriend.”

“You shut your ugly face, Johnny.”

“It’s true. That’s why you ended up in jail. You wanted to talk to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not-”

“Falcon gots a girlfriend, Falcon gots a-”

Before the taunting could even build up a rhythm, Falcon lunged straight at Johnny’s throat and took him to the ground. Johnny landed on his back. Falcon was kneeling on his chest. He had both hands around Johnny’s neck and was squeezing with blind fury.

“Stop!” the Bushman shouted.

Falcon kept squeezing. Johnny’s face was turning blue. He clawed and scratched at his attacker, but Falcon did not let up. Johnny’s eyes looked ready to pop from his head.

“Let him go!” shouted Bushman. But Falcon didn’t need anyone telling him what to do. He knew what Johnny deserved. He knew how much suffering a human being could take. He gave one last squeeze, pushing it to the limit, then released.

Johnny rolled onto his side and gasped for air. Falcon watched him for a minute, saying nothing, displaying no emotion of any kind. Johnny kept coughing, trying to catch his breath. The Bushman started toward him slowly, concerned. “Johnny, you want some water?”