Where the encampment used to be, Jordan finds a lone guy in a filthy Carhartt jacket sitting on the sidewalk next to a bag of cans and bottles. He’s twentysomething, Jordan guesses, with blond locs and a pair of old-school headphones hooked around his neck. The wires dangle down, unconnected to anything.
Nervously, Jordan manages a “Hey,” and the guy looks up at him with bloodshot eyes. Instead of saying “Who the fuck are you,” which is what Jordan was expecting, he says nothing. He puts the headphones over his ears. Lights a cigarette.
Jordan scuffs a toe against the sidewalk. “There used to be tents here, right?”
At first he thinks the guy can’t hear him. Jordan’s about to repeat himself when the guy hocks a loogie down between his legs and says, “Yep.”
“What happened?” Jordan asks, though he already knows the answer.
The guy takes a long drag on his cigarette. “The NYPD and the mayor and the army. The national guard. The president. I don’t know who the fuck they were. They took my tent and my clothes and my radio and put them into a garbage truck. That was my shit!” Then he looks up at Jordan again. “You got money?”
Jordan’s got twenty bucks in his wallet. But giving it to this guy would feel weird, like he’s playing a role in a bad TV movie or something. I’ll give you something to make it worth your while.…
“Well?” the guy says.
“I was hoping you could help me.”
“I can,” he says. “No doubt.”
Jordan almost laughs. “You don’t even know what I want,” he says.
“Drugs.”
“No.”
“If you got cash, I can get us some.” He scratches the side of his face with a dirty hand.
“I’m trying to find someone who knew a friend of mine. She lived around here. Her name’s Hannah. Maybe you know her.” Maybe she lived in the tent next to yours.
The guy shrugs. “Hmmm,” he says.
Jordan figures he’ll pretend to think for a few more minutes and then ask for money again. You know, to jog his memory.
But then the guy starts nodding. “Maybe. Yeah.”
“Maybe?” Jordan repeats. “Or yes?”
“There were like thirty of us, man. I don’t know who the hell they all were. But there was a girl named Hannah or Jana or something.”
“What did she look like?”
“Black hair. Hot.”
Jordan’s neck prickles. “Maybe five four? Really dark eyes?” He thinks about the day she showed up at the hospital. “And combat boots,” he adds.
“Yeah, sure.”
“What was she like? Did she ever tell you anything about herself?”
“Yeah, we sat around and had heart-to-hearts every night,” he says sarcastically.
Jordan crouches down on the sidewalk next to him and holds out the ten he’s taken from his wallet. Because why not? Maybe he’s finally getting somewhere. “What’s your name?”
“Mark.” He takes the money and shoves it deep into the pocket of his jeans. Doesn’t say thanks.
“I’m Jordan. And I’m just trying to help Hannah. So anything you can tell me about her…”
Mark looks around at the empty sidewalk like he’s hoping the tent city will magically reappear. “She’d talk about shit that wasn’t there.”
“What kind of… shit?”
“I don’t know, man, I don’t remember. Look, she was messed up. Everyone here was messed up. Most of it was drugs. Give me some more money and I can get us some.”
“I really don’t want any drugs. What else can you tell me about Hannah? Did she have friends? Family?”
“I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “I think I got lice,” he adds.
Jordan slides a couple inches farther away. “Anything you know could be important.”
Mark stays quiet until his cigarette’s halfway gone. “No parents,” he finally says. “Neither of us had ’em. Well I did, but they wasn’t worth anything. I got taken away from them. Rust Belt fuckin’ misery. She was in some orphanage way uptown. Charles Dickens shit.”
Mark looks over and sees the surprised look on Jordan’s face. He laughs. “That’s just what she told me.”
“Do you know what it was called? What neighborhood it was in?”
“Past Harlem’s all I know. I roll south of 45th exclusive.”
Did Hannah come from a group home in Washington Heights? Or Inwood? If Mark’s telling the truth, then Jordan suddenly knows more about her than anyone else at Belman. He doesn’t feel like a spy anymore—he feels like a goddamn hero.
Mark was still talking. “Whatever it was, she said it looked like some kind of fucked-up fortress or something.”