Like many people, Geraldo Blanco thought being homeless was akin to being criminal. He was artistic, but that didn’t make him a humanitarian. He’d vowed to rout Drum before the exhibition opened if council wouldn’t, by fronting the media. No one wanted that—a dispute with a public figure of some fame, and untoward attention directed towards Drum that would compromise public safety—least of all a mayor trying to keep his head down in the face of a potential council amalgamation, where he could lose his job.
Drum grunted again. “But it would be okay for me to lie in an alleyway, doss down in a covered car park, or an abandoned building with the other homeless people.” He swept a hand in front of him. “Look at these views. Can’t have me getting above my station.”
Foley frowned and her sunburned forehead protested. “No, that’s not what I mean.” Drum wasn’t scaring her physically, but his softly delivered verbal jousts were formidable. “People don’t think you should be allowed to live on public land like this—”
“Because they’d rather give up their fine homes and live here instead?”
She shook her head. She wished he’d look at her. There was no anger in his voice, but without being able to see his face properly she couldn’t get an accurate read on him.
“Because for one reason or another, they’re frightened of you.”
He looked down at his legs, the sparse hair bleached white blond. “No one is frightened of me now, unless you are?”
She noted the now. “I’m not.” Common sense said she should be, but she didn’t feel anything menacing from him. “Should I be?” He’d hardly say yes.
“It would be smarter than arriving with breakfast. I could be off my trolley for all you know.”
Which was yes in a whole other way, but with wry humour instead of any implication of a threat. “But you’re not, are you?”
He flicked the quickest glance at her over his shoulder. “I’m living in a cave.” He turned back to the panorama. “Would you have that as entirely sane?”
She sighed. Of all the situations she’d thought she might walk into here, verbal sparring wasn’t one of them. She had a whistle, a phone and pepper spray—useless. She needed a dictionary and a first in debating.
“My mother lives in a nice house and she’s not entirely reasonable. I’m not sure that a known address is the determiner of sanity.” She’d hoped he might smile at that, look at her and laugh, or ask about her mother, anything to connect better with him.
He never shifted his gaze. “Most people would argue with you on that. Cave equals psycho with various attached descriptors: Jesus freak, headcase, psycho, nut job.”
“Are you ill? Did something bad happen to you?”
“I think you’re smarter than your questions.”
She laughed. “I wish. If you’d seen me yesterday, you’d think I had seriously compromised brain function, and this is not going how I planned it.”
“How did you plan it?”
“I thought you probably needed help and I wanted to help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He was one of the least vulnerable people she’d ever met. Except he still wouldn’t do more than glance at her, he thought he could be clean by living here and he’d once frightened people.
“You live in a cave.”
“Historically, a reasonable choice.”
“But not today. Not when there are other safer, more comfortable options.”
“I am perfectly safe and have adequate comfort.”
Today he was safe. If Geraldo started making a noise about him, not so much. “You have no basic sanitation.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the beach. “Like in your average homeless shelter, it’s not an ensuite. It’s a shared facility down the hall.”
That accounted for his neat appearance. She’d guessed he was using the council-maintained shower and bathroom facilities on the beach.
“You have no heating or proper shelter against the elements.”
“No homeless person does. Many would be happy for your help. As you can see, I’m not one of them.”