"Fight tuberculosis, folks." Christmas Eve, an old
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junkie selling Christmas seals on North Park Street.
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The "Priest," they called him. "Fight tuberculosis, folks."
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People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall.
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It was getting late and no money to score.
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He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife.
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Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight.
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Boy got out with a suitcase. Thin kid in prep school clothes,
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familiar face, the Priest told himself, watching from the doorway.
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"Remindsme of something a long time ago." The boy, there, with his overcoat
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unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare.
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The cab drove away and turned the corner. The boy went inside
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a building. "Hmm, yes, maybe" - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
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The boy nowhere in sight. Gone to get the keys, most likely,
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have to move fast. He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner.
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Made it. Glanced down at the case. It didn't look like the case the boy had,
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or any boy would have. The Priest couldn't put his finger on what was so
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old about the case. Old and dirty, poor quality leather, and heavy.
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Better see what's inside. He turned into Lincoln Park, found an
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empty place and opened the case. Two severed human legs that belonged to
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a young man with dark skin. Shiny black leg hairs glittered in the
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dim streetlight. The legs had been forced into the case and he had to use
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his knee on the back of the case to shove them out. "Legs, yet,"
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he said, and walked quickly away with the case.
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Might bring a few dollars to score. The buyer sniffed suspiciously.
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"Kind of a funny smell about it." "It's just Mexican leather."
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"Well, some joker didn't cure it."
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The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor.
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"Not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is.
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Three is the best I can do and it hurts. But since this is Christmas
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and you're the Priest..." he slipped three bills under the table into the
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Priest's dirty hand. The Priest faded into the street shadows, seedy
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and furtive. Three cents didn't buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel.
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Say, remember that old Addie croaker told me not to come back unless
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I paid him the three cents I owe him. Yeah, isn't that a fruit for ya,
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blow your stack about three lousy cents.
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The doctor was not pleased to see him.
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"Now, what do you WANT? I TOLD you!"
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The Priest laid three bills on the table. The doctor put the
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money in his pocket and started to scream.
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"I've had TROUBLES! PEOPLE have been around!
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I may lose my LICENSE!" The Priest just sat there, eyes, old and heavy with
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years of junk, on the doctor's face.
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"I can't write you a prescription." The doctor jerked open a drawer
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and slid an ampule across the table. "That's all I have in the OFFICE!"
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The doctor stood up. "Take it and GET OUT!" he screamed, hysterical.
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The Priest's expression did not change.
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The doctor added in quieter tones, "After all, I'm a professional man,
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and I shouldn't be bothered by people like you."
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"Is that all you have for me? One lousy quarter G? Couldn't you lend
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me a nickel...?" "Get out, get out, I'll call the police I tell you."
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"All right, doctor, I'm going." Of course it was cold and far to walk,
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rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor.
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"These stairs," coughed the Priest there, pulling himself up along the
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bannister. He went into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
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toilet dripping, and got his works from under the washbasin.
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Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room, get every drop in the dropper.
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He rolled up his sleeve. Then he heard a groan from next door,
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room eighteen. The Mexican kid lived there, the Priest had passed him on
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the stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never spoke, because he
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didn't want any juvenile connections, bad news in any language.
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The Priest had had enough bad news in his life.
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He heard t |