The Dragon's Doctor. Ch. 1: 156 Washout Street

It was growing late in the evening. The shadows stretched long behind the misfit and crooked backs of the city buildings. Babies cried, cats yowled, dogs barked, and men coughed. Somewhere among the alleyways a woman was berating her husband about something. The words were hard to make out but anyone listening knew exactly what she was saying.

Louis Samuels listened to the woman with a feeling of pity for whatever poor scoundrel was married to her. A cool breeze passed, and roused with it a certain cruel stench from the open manhole near to him. He gagged, and pressed a crisp white handkerchief to his nose. The stench reminded him exactly where he was, and the crisis he was in: evening in Down Town. He eyed the shadows as they crawled, and the strange, coughing, slumping people as they stirred from their homes.

A scruffy old woman crossed his path.

Instinctively Louis touched the brim of his hat, nodding respectfully towards her. She stared at him, as though beholding a three headed bird. He smiled, trying to look genuinely kinda, and straightened his spectacles out of nervous habit.

“What ar’ ya? A tax collectar?” Her voice was raspy and harsh, like a rusty door swung on its hinges.

“What? Not at all,” he said with a sniff, then turned his gaze away, hoping the strange old woman would waddle along.

“Then what you doing smilin’ n bowin’ at people you don’t ken? eh?” She drew closer squinting in order to get a better look at him. He was dressed in a burgundy overcoat, under which was a vest, over a crisp white undershirt. She shook her head; the more clothing, the more trouble… at least in her long list of experiences.

He squirmed under her crow-ish gaze, “I was just trying to be polite,” he offered. Then shrugged and looked away again, wishing he had just ignored her. She gave him one last appraising gaze, then shuffled off, glad to be away from such a strange man. He sighed with relief and dried his slightly apprehensive forehead with his handkerchief, then took out a small scrap of paper from his jacket pocket.

“156 Washout lane” it read.

He looked about, trying to get his bearings, and sighed. Downtown was not his sort of town.

For one, everything was cluttered and strewn about. Old broken wagon wheels, cigar boxes, liquor bottles, dog droppings… at least, he did hope they were only dog droppings. There were no street signs. Which would mean he would have to ask directions, something he had been avoiding since he got there earlier that day.

A small child scurried past him, children had always liked him… or at least he liked to think they did.

“Pardon me?” he asked.

“Lay a hand on me and I’ll gut you!” the child yelled, then brandished a small metal object that was meant to be a knife.

“ I was only asking for directions,”

The child hurled an expletive at him, kicked his shins, and ran off down the street.

Louis hadn’t been kicked in the shins since he was a boy, but it felt about the same as he remembered. He resisted the urge to pull up his trouser leg and inspect the injury. Instead he put his hand in his pockets and looked within himself for answers. These people baffled him. All his life polite behavior had served him well, in fact it was what had gotten him where he was in life, but here it seemed to scare people.

Now, Louis may have been many things, but he was no fool… at least, not in the classical sense. He decided to change tactics.

He bent his back a bit, and dug his hands into his pockets. He frowned a heavy frown, and lowered his brow, he picked up an empty wine bottle, then shuffled the best he could around the street corner, swaggering a bit for emphasis. He smiled a bit, feeling very crafty and even a bit theatrical. Perhaps he ought to have been an actor, instead of a doctor.

He stumbled over to a pair of men standing outside of what must have been a bar. Both also held mostly empty liquor bottles.

“Howzz it go’in?” he asked, trying to copy what little he knew of drunken downtown slang. 

One man looked as though he wanted to kill him, the other merrily smiled.

“Who ar’ ya?” the surly one asked.

“None yer business,” Louise scowled, “Hey, what street is this’n?”

The surly one smiled, “None yer business.”

The merry one laughed, then collapsed on the ground.

“Iz he okay?” Louis asked, wondering just how close to alcohol poisoning the man was.

“Hez fine,” the surely one said.

“Yer sure?”

The surly man’s face turned red, “Well heck yeah I’m sure! Been drinking with this man since childhood! I know whether he’s okay or not! What do ya’ think I am? An idiot?  Just who do ya think you are? Eyyy? Strutin’ around in them fancy clothes, asking stupid questions like, where am I, and I'z he okay? Yer on Washout, where else would ya be? And course hez okay! Who the heck cares if'n hez not? Ey? You gonna care? You gonna feed ‘em, and give ‘em a decent job, and a wife that loves ‘em and don’t yell hiz ear off every time he comes home, eeyyyy?”

The man had turned crimson to purple, then he too collapsed on the ground next to his inebriated friend.

Louis had turned his own shade of red, and was beginning to think he should just go home when a chubby homey looking woman shuffled over and checked the two men over. 

“Don’t you worry none, they’ll be fine.” she smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back. She frowned.

“You aren’t foolin’ nobody, not even these drunks. You look like a daft fool. Who are ya’? And what mischief are you up to?”

He straightened and dropped the bottle, smiling sheepishly he said,

“My name is Dr. Louis. I’m looking for my brother, he told me to meet him at 156 Washout, but there aren’t any street signs, and I’m not from around here.”

The woman spat out a laugh, her smile folding her eyes behind heavy brows and plump cheeks. “You ain’t kiddin there. You stick out like a sore thumb, you know that right?”

He blushed deeper, “ I just want to find my brother, can you help me or not?“

She nodded, “156 Washout, That’ll be my inn.” she motioned to the decrepit bar behind her. Your brother’ll be Sam then."

It was a statement, not a question.

“Follow me. ”