Five Points: Eugene Leftkowicz, Private Eye

Street people live in a world unknown to pedestrian passers-by. When sitting on the sidewalk one's view of the world is mostly seen below other people’s belt level. A panhandler friend of mine named Scarlet described such a situation, “Yeah, I see it all. Some men have their flies undone with their willies flapping in the breeze. If I mention it to them, they say, ‘Well look somewhere else.’ I say, ‘Hey, man, it’s right in my face, and it’s not a pretty sight. Where am I supposed to look?”“Sometimes, I see guys with their shoelaces undone. Sometimes I tell them, but if it’s one of the crusty ones, I just wait to see if they fall.”I strolled the half mile to my office at West 20th Street, three blocks from the Tenderloin (or Satan’s Circus as the clergy call it). Before reaching my building, I stop by a narrow alley, its shadows hiding secrets in plain sight. And there, nestled amidst the darkness, lay the familiar cardboard haven of a down-and-out soul, a man called Weasel. A name that fits him well, as he could slip through the tightest spots unnoticed, like a shadow in the night. "Weasel, you in there, pal? Got a cup of joe for you just how you like it – two creams, six sugars."The homeless man's head poked out from the makeshift shelter; his face worn by the struggles of life on the streets. Following him was a woman, a do-rag on her head, her eyes blackened and a gash across the bridge of her nose.“Eugene, this is a street sister of mine. Her name today is Joy.”“So, Joy, for today, do you use a lot of names?”“It depends on who’s asking. One time I was standing on the corner of Mott Street and Cross. A police car pulled up and the cop said, ‘Tamara, come over here!’ I said, ‘Oh, you’ve mistaken me for my twin sister. My name is Tabitha. I just came here to tell my Tamara that our mom is sick. We have to go visit her.’ They’d believe it every time.”My office, a dingy hole-in-the-wall on the wrong side of town, is a magnet for trouble. Took the rickety, creaky elevator to the third floor. On the frosted glass of the door is painted Eugene Leftkowicz, Daniel Fitzpatrick and Padraig Murphy, Private Investigators. Dan Fitzpatrick was killed but keeping his name on the sign is a memorial to our lost friend.I can smell years of cigarette smoke and see a light, meaning that Molly, my secretary, is already there. I knew she’d be there; she is one of the few constants in my life.