While rubbing his sore head he stretched out his legs and kicked down the makeshift wall. Slowly he worked to erase any evidence that he had been there. He piled the cardboard back into the massive green recycle container and grabbed his morning supplies out of his pack. He pulled a wet wipe out of the container and wiped down his hands and face. This one can be used again. The faucet by the dumpster was another luxury he enjoyed. After he rinsed it off he neatly folded it back to the position he had found it and slipped it back into the package. Making supplies last was critical to avoid flying the sign. Standing by the traffic light past the highway off ramp with a sign always brought enough cash to sustain, but it was also risky. Chicago was working hard to help the homeless and the first act was to ticket anyone panhandling. How this helped, Malcolm wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to be messed with so he stretched every penny.

After everything was reset, Malcolm pulled out his breakfast. A whole box of mini banana muffins a week past expiration was his big find last night. With the box set up as a lap tray, he opened 4 muffins, setting them in a perfect line and folding each wrapper. Having things in order gave Malcolm comfort. After he finished the first he reached for the one at the end of the line to keep the other two balanced in the middle.

“Are you Malcolm Morgan? Also know as M&M?”

The voice appeared out of thin air and caught Malcolm by surprise. His entire frame reacted by knocking his breakfast over and spilling his water. He jumped out from under the mess and stood face to face with a clean-cut man wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. His young face was pale and severe under his short neat black haircut.

“Who the hell are you? Whaddya doing sneakin’ up on me like that?” Malcolm spit out the words as he scrambled to clean up his breakfast mess.

“Are you Malcolm Morgan?” He repeated.

“How do you know my name?” Malcolm asked as he tucked the last of his breakfast back in the box and zipped it into his bag.

“So, you are Malcolm Morgan?”

“Jesus! Yes. Answer my damn question.”

“I have a delivery for you.” He knelt down and used his knee to balance the briefcase as he opened it. Malcolm couldn’t see all the way inside, but from his quick glance it appeared to be empty except for one envelope. The kid looked like an over-achieving college student or an under-developed stockbroker. He pulled the envelope out and stood back up as he held it toward Malcolm.

“Am I being sued? No one said I couldn’t stay here. I haven’t been a bother and I clean up after myself. I don’t want it, I don’t want that notice.” Malcolm folded his arms across his chest.

“I was instructed to bring this to you. I can’t make you take it.” The man leaned down and placed the envelope on the stoop where Malcolm had been eating just moments before. Malcolm turned his head sideways to read the front of the card. This was obviously not from the city. The beige envelope was the shape of an oversized Christmas card and the brown print was in a beautiful handwriting:

Mr. Malcolm Morgan
AKA: M&M
Powder Books rear entry
5700 Harper Ave.
Chicago, IL 60637

“What the hell?” Malcolm snapped around to interrogate the man, but he was gone. He looked both directions and saw no sign of the young stranger. His headache began to throb again. Did I just imagine that? He turned back to the envelope, surprised that it was still there and then he sat on the stoop and rubbed his temples.

Traffic was picking up on the street, reminding Malcolm that it was time to move on to the park. Glancing over at the envelope, he cringed. He didn’t want to leave a trace of his presence at the bookstore. Damn it! Damn it! He stood up and hiked the pack to his shoulders then he picked up the envelope and folded muffin wrappers to head for the dumpster. He opened the lid and threw in the wrappers, but he couldn’t throw the envelope in. What the hell is it? After stuffing it in his pack, he heaved it back on and headed for the park.

Usually once Malcolm reached Olive Park, he claimed a spot in the shade and read a book that he had pulled from the bookstore trash. The covers were torn off, but the story was intact. Today his routine had been broken and he couldn’t get settled, instead he walked the perimeter slowly trying to make a plan. Who sent this letter? Malcolm had no relatives left. Ginny had left him and taken their son across the country to live with her folks months before their accident. He had tried to set up life as a bachelor in a respectable way in hopes that she would allow Jonathon to visit him after they got settled. He called a few times and made some head way. He convinced Ginny that he really had stopped drinking (which was a lie) and she finally agreed to come back for a visit. It was the trip back that killed them. When they were well past due he called her parents house and Ginny’s mother answered.

“You killed them. They’re gone. Crashed. Dead. I told her not to go, that you were just a lousy, lying, drunk, but she went anyways and it’s your fault. You killed them, you bastard.” He remembered every word and he knew she was right. He was lying and it was his fault. That night Malcolm drank everything he could get his hands on and was told he fell down the stairs trying to leave his apartment and was rushed to the hospital. When he finally woke up, ten days later, the doctor told him that he would likely have died from alcohol poisoning if he hadn’t been treated when he was. He never told anyone that he couldn’t remember any of it, but he was sure the fall was not accident. Even though he broke his leg the fall had saved his life. And for what?

He lost his job and only weeks later he lost his apartment. That was four years ago when he packed the one bag and a few things that would fit in the Jeep and left everything else behind including the cast he had smashed into pieces in order to bathe one last time in the privacy of his home. Malcolm lived in his Jeep for the first year. Eventually he had to give that up too when he didn’t have any money for gas and began receiving tickets for not moving it. Then after a few days he needed some money for food, so he sold it to the guy with the little used car lot on Hyde Street for $300. That money lasted a long time on the streets. Since then it had been a new place every few weeks. He tried the tent city where some of the other destitute people of the city ended up, but there were too many fights.

There was no one else. He lost his mother to cancer at seventeen and he never met his Dad. There was no one left who knew his name. Why would I get a letter addressed to an alley stoop? Who does that? Finally he veered off to the nearest bench and pulled out the letter and his pocketknife. He slid the blade into a tiny opening on the side and made a perfect clean slice across the top.

Inside was a one sided card that was the same color as the envelope with a simple message printed in the middle:

Mr. Malcolm Morgan (aka: M&M):

Please meet with me regarding your future. There
 is an opportunity for you that will benefit us both.
 I will be expecting you at the Fieldstone Tower at
3pm Wednesday August 21st.

Fieldstone Tower
40th Floor
663 N Michigan Ave
Chicago, IL 60611

Malcolm checked his watch, noting the bizarre invitation was for tomorrow and the address was less than a mile from the park. Why would I go? He carefully placed the invitation back in the envelope then into his bag and pulled out a book. Reading usually took his mind off things and it worked for at least an hour until the thoughts broke through. What is the Fieldstone Tower? I know all the big buildings in that area. Why don’t I remember this one?

The day drug on much longer than most. When nightfall hit, Malcolm decided to make dinner of the remaining muffins and to avoid his bookstore alleyway home. He considered staying in the park, but didn’t want to get kicked out by some bored night cop after the park curfew, so he hoofed it to the bridge. There were bridges all along the Chicago River and he knew of a few premium spots that would work short term. After passing up the first two because of other squatters, he decided that he better deal with the next one, occupied or not.

There were a group of five people huddled around the edge of the bridge. They didn’t seem to notice him, so he found a spot under a cypress tree and got comfortable. It didn’t take long for the usual bullshit to begin once they noticed him. “What’s up, brutha? You need to rent a room for the night? I don’t charge much, just a fiver.” Malcolm didn’t respond and the voice separated itself from the group and headed his direction. “What? You don’t wanna talk to me?” When he got close enough Malcolm sat back up and looked directly at him. He recognized him right away from tent city, but didn’t know his name. He was wearing a black t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and camouflage pants. Like most street people, he was dirty and scruffy. His long brown hair was in a ponytail except the short pieces that escaped and formed a frizzy halo around his head making the beginning of his beard indistinguishable.

“Oh, shit! M&M! I didn’t know it was you. Sorry, man.” Malcolm didn’t answer as he repositioned himself back on the ground, using his bag as a pillow and turning his back to the group. He had started to drift off when he heard his name among the murmurs of the group. “You don’t wanna fuck with that guy. You don’t know about M&M? He used to live in tent city. Man freaked out! No one fucks with him anymore. Almost never talks, but when he does, SHIT! I remember someone tried to take his spot and dude went on for 20 minutes straight rambling about rights and respect. He was going so fast it sounded like dude was rapping. Name’s really Mark Morgan or something, so after that everyone started calling him M&M. He disappeared for a few days after that, I heard he got locked up in some crazy house.” Then the murmurs turned to whispers and Malcolm tuned them out.

Why do I live like this? I haven’t had a drink in over three years. I’m almost 40 years old. I can’t stand these people, but I’m no better than them. For months, or possibly years, Malcolm had been numb to asking himself these questions and now they wouldn’t stop all because of the letter. I will go. I have nothing to lose.

After he made the decision sleep came and went quickly and before he realized it the time had come to head toward the Michigan Avenue tower that he wasn’t sure existed. The sun was a spotlight shining directly on Malcolm each step of the way. Usually he avoided walking around during this time, he liked to be invisible. Malcolm passed all the familiar buildings along the way and the closer to the address, the more sure he was that this was some kind of prank as he never noticed a building that could have 40 floors or more named the Fieldstone Tower and surely he would remember that. One last glance at the address, 663 N Michigan Ave, and as he looked up there it was.

How could he have missed this glorious building? The entire structure was made of steel and glass. Sunshine seemed to pierce through the building that was easily 50 floors high and a peak formed at the top like a castle in the middle of downtown Chicago. Malcolm approached the building cautiously, gripping his invitation and hoping he wouldn’t become a spectacle trying to get past security. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window and he barely recognized himself. Usually his view was limited to the compact mirror he used to trim his beard each morning with scissors. He was thinner than he had been even as a teenager and bits of his dark hair were poking out the edges of his beanie. The belt he was wearing was synched to the tightest notch and his dirty shirt and pants were at least two sizes too big, further demonstrating his emaciation. He was just close enough to see the hollow darkness around his eyes. He couldn’t look any longer, so he moved on.

Security was no issue as there was no one and he opened the door and walked right in. The lobby was magnificent. It took up the first three floors and despite the fact that the room was completely empty aside from the elevator and stair entrance it was beautiful. Everything was glass including the elevator that he stepped on and pressed the glass button with a 40 engraved on to it.

As the elevator lifted, Malcolm turned slowly full circle absorbing the amazing views of glass within glass. Even the staircase which ran right next to the elevator appeared to be glass or at least acrylic. Amazing. Everything halted and the doors opened which sent Malcolm’s heart racing. Now what? He stepped into the landing and realized his direction was obvious as there was only one door. This lobby was not transparent; instead it was the opposite. The large opaque door had no numbers and no writing. He decided not to knock and confidently stepped inside the large black room with no windows. The carpet and a few items within the room had a red velvet look, but almost everything was black and expensive. The man behind the desk looked like he could be the father of the young messenger that sat in the chair before him. The same man that Malcolm had faced the day before on his alley stoop.

“Ah. Mr. Morgan. You’re early.” He said this as the younger version of himself stood and walked past Malcolm exiting and shutting the door behind him. “Please. Have a seat over at my table. I have prepared a meal in case you could use it. One should never make decisions on an empty stomach.”

Malcolm headed toward the table and for the first time inhaled a scent he immediately recognized; chicken fried steak. This was his favorite meal and he had not eaten it in 2 years. He remembered the last time clearly as it took him a week to collect enough change to justify stepping into a restaurant and ordering it. He took an entire hour eating and enjoyed it more than any meal in his life. Often when food was scarce, Malcolm thought of that meal. There were plenty of additional treats on the table including a cheesecake, another luxury that he missed. Malcolm had not eaten since the night before and any thoughts he might have about refusing the meal immediately left his mind and he sat to eat without a word. If nothing else comes of this bizarre day, he would have this feast.

He moved the plate to the other side of the table to avoid having his back to the room and then sat and began eating. Malcolm had learned to cope in uncomfortable circumstances over the years and it was easy to enjoy this meal in such a strange situation. After a few moments, his host moved to the table and cut himself a slice of cheesecake. Only eyeing Malcolm enough to show he was not ignoring him, yet never interrupting the meal. He was in no way familiar to Malcolm. He was dressed richly in a fine suit and polished shoes and the same short black hairstyle as his messenger. “Please. Have some dessert.” He motioned to the selection and Malcolm didn’t have to be asked twice. When he had served himself a piece the stranger stepped to the side and filled a coffee cup then methodically measured out one and a half teaspoons of sugar and a small drop of creamer. Strange. That’s how I used to make my coffee. He thought as the gentleman turned and handed it to Malcolm. “Enjoy.”

“Who are you? Why did you send for me and how did you know where I was?”

“No rush, enjoy your meal.”

“I am. I’m enjoying it and I appreciate it. Really. Thank you. It’s been a long time since I have eaten this much good food or even warm food. But, I think the time has come to explain this to me. It’s messed up and I’m confused. Confused by this whole thing.” Malcolm scooped another bite of cheesecake and waited for an answer.

“I need your help and you need mine. What I need from you is pretty simple. I want to hire you to help me help the homeless people of Chicago. I want you to remain homeless for one year, helping me to gather . . . or really convince others to come to me. They seem to trust you and respect you. I can help these people, but they won’t come to me.” He waited for Malcolm to absorb the information.

“What are you going to do? Set up a shelter? Who are you? Some rich do-gooder?”

“There is no need for games, M&M. I want their souls and I want you to collect them for me. You know that you have nothing to lose, but if you sign a contract with me you will have everything to gain. After you fulfill one year, I’ll give you more money than you could ever dream of and you can live your remaining days in peace.”

Malcolm jumped from the table and walked toward the stranger, “I knew this was fucked up. I knew I was dealing with a crazy. How do you know about me? Who are you? Answer me.”

“You know who I am Malcolm. You have begged me to come and take you many nights. You know you belong with me, you told me yourself. Just sign this contract and begin your job. It will be easy for you – you don’t even like these people – you despise them.” He was motioning to his desk where a formal looking document lay with a golden fountain pen on top of it.

The situation had passed so far beyond bizarre that Malcolm didn’t care about anything except getting out of this room, and this crazy man with his contract was standing between him and the door. “Fine, whatever, I’ll sign. Then I gotta go. OK? We can, um, meet up on the details later.”

“Fine, I understand. This is a lot to digest. Here you go, sign at the bottom.” He had marched to the desk and was pushing the pen toward Malcolm.

He glanced at the document and was surprised to see that his name was actually on it. He didn’t read it, but scanned through it noticing things like ‘soul collection’ and a dollar amount of 1.2 million dollars. This was insane. Placating this man and getting out of there as calmly as possible was his only option before he ended up locked in a loony bin again. He signed the bottom and headed for the door.

“Your life will be quite wonderful after this, M&M, and then you will join me as well.” These words followed him out to the corridor where he ran straight for the staircase in order to avoid waiting for the elevator. After blasting down a couple flights, he sat on the see-through stoop to catch his breath. Malcolm rubbed his hands through his hair and stared through the elevator shaft at the sunset in the distance pondering what had happened. He had in fact wished for death many times; people who killed their family belonged in hell. Then he realized this was real. He turned and raced back up the stairs to the 40th floor, but when he walked through the door everything had changed. There was a lobby full of busy suits racing around the room of a typical office-building floor. A couple of which were glancing at him, noticing that he was out of place. Turning back to the stairwell, he noticed this too was different: concrete steps and a piss stain smell. He entered the stairwell and noticed the number on the wall had changed from the engraved 40 to a grimy 4 painted on a dirty white wall.

He walked the four levels in a trance and pushed through the exit door to a street full of people rushing in downtown Chicago. The building was familiar to him now, as he had worked here when he first started drinking, before things got bad. Before the alcohol was necessary. He wandered to a concrete edging of a flowerbed and sat down to dig through his bag. There it was. The invitation. He ran his fingers over the print and read it again then gripped it in his fist. What have I done? What have I agreed to? I can’t send people to hell just because I’m going. Malcolm wondered if there was a way to get out of the contract. If he didn’t fulfill his obligation bad things might happen and he would be tempted to drink again.

The street was busy in both directions, but Malcolm noticed that standing on the concrete median was the young messenger who had first gotten him into this mess. The young man was standing and staring directly at Malcolm. He did this to me. He created this problem. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he was going to kick the kid’s ass or convince him to tear up the contract, but he got up and charged in his direction running directly into the furious action of five o’clock downtown traffic. The first car missed him and swerved a little while honking and smacking into the SUV in the next lane, which in an attempt to also swerve flipped over and landed directly on top of Malcolm. For a few moments, downtown Chicago was silent. Then the cries of a baby erupted from inside the SUV and the crowd immediately worked to getting the passengers out.

Once they had been checked over a crowd began to form around the half of Malcolm’s lifeless body that was protruding from underneath.

A man in a brown suit with newspaper and a brown satchel spoke up, “I think I know that guy. I think he used to work in my building until he got sick.”

“Let me through please, I’m a nurse.” A pale-faced young man wearing black scrubs that matched his black hair weaved his way between the people and kneeled down by Malcolm. “Oh no. It’s Mr. Morgan. I thought I recognized him.” He reached down to check Malcolm’s pulse but there was none and while holding his wrist he noticed a piece of paper clutched in his hand. Slowly the nurse pulled it out and recognized it immediately and a look of defeat took over the young man’s face. “I brought this to him yesterday! Pointless!”

He let go of the prescription and it fell to the ground next to Malcolm’s body, sticking to the ground as it soaked up blood from the street.

————————-

“We’ll page you when we get another table going,” said the kid working the poker room desk, without even glancing up. This meant it was going to be an even longer night for Charlie. He hated waiting for a table; it could be 10 minutes or 2 hours. He couldn’t risk lingering since the goal was to go unnoticed and it was hard to be inconspicuous sitting by himself in a poker room. He also didn’t want to waste any money at the table games. Wandering around the casino to stall for time and dropping a little money into some slots was pretty much his only option.

Once he was situated in front of a mindless penny slot machine, he pulled out a ten and took his time. He ordered vodka and seven and let his thoughts wander in between pulls trying to avoid blowing through the money too quick. Right now, blending in was all he wanted. It was easy money for Charlie once he got to the tables. He made a steady living by taking a small pile of money from a different casino every week. Not too much, enough to pay his bills and keep him out of a nine to five job that would suck the little bit of life he had left away. As long as he didn’t visit the same place too often, no one seemed to notice. Which is why he had to spread it across as many different locations as he could. If it wasn’t for that, Charlie would never come to this particular casino again.