“I can’t decide,” said Lover Man. “This girlfriend who travels a lot, what does she do?”
“She’s a tour guide,” I said. “She takes old folks on bird-watching bus tours.”
“Like owls and osprey and stuff?” Eagle Creek seemed interested.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Eagle Creek nodded like that made sense. “We have lots of interesting birds up here.”
“She’s likely held up somewhere with them,” I said while Marla played with a spoon. “Or maybe I got the dates wrong.”
“Maybe you did,” she said, her eyes on the table. “Lucky you found us. We’re heading back to the city this afternoon.”
“You can go back with the band if you need a ride,” Lover Man said.
“No,” I said, “I guess I’ll hang around a bit longer. Maybe she’ll show.”
I wanted out of their orbit at any cost. The longer this continued, the more likely it would lead to some tragedy. Mine. Hers. Ours.
“Love is never tired of waiting,” said Eagle Creek.
Lover Man frowned a confused look.
“First Corinthians,” Eagle Creek said. “The Fathers drilled this Indian. Some things just stay in your mind.”
“Maybe something happened,” said Marla. “Wouldn’t it be better to come back with us?”
“It’s like he says about love and waiting.” I struggled out of the booth. “Thanks for the offer. I’m going to hang around a while.” I wanted to get away from them as fast as I could. I also wanted her to worry. I wanted her to care. I wanted her to wonder what I’d do and where I’d go and I relished that she couldn’t ask. “It was a big surprise seeing you, Marla. Maybe I’ll meet you back in the city, then.”
Lover Man smiled. For him, matters were settled. He returned to his breakfast with gusto.
Unable to say more, Marla stirred some sugar into her tea. “I guess I’ll see you next time,” she said.
Eagle Creek followed me to the door. Outside, he grabbed my arm, not roughly, but firm enough that I thought he could probably snap it.
“I remember you now. You were upstairs last night. You stood beside us at the bar and had a beer.” There was no emotional content to his tone.
“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“That’s not a mistake I’d make.”
I shook my arm loose. “Well, maybe you just did.”
He looked at me and said, “You act like someone rattled your cage. Forget about it. Your love’s in vain, brother. She has another plan. Go back where you came from. Forget about this.”
I looked back into his flat black eyes, so dark they had no pupils, and found no relief.
EIGHT
The Real Dope
THE GREYHOUND rolled south through the night. Slumped in the back, suspended in a semi-conscious state, my back ached. I felt cold and empty like a sacked tomb. Outside the window, in the black emptiness of the northern woods, Marla floated by in a pointed hat, an iron chain clamped around her throat. Eagle Creek waved his giant serrated knife while flames shot from his mouth. Lover Man laughed and pissed on a headless body. I twitched. My head bumped against the glass. Sleep never came.
After the excruciating bus ride, I arrived back in the city without enough cash for a cab. A hard rain made the dark walk through the abandoned streets homeward all the more miserable. It was after three in the morning when I climbed the stairs to my apartment in the Ellington, soaked. The light in the hall was broken. I tripped on a piece of torn carpet in the dark. An inglorious accent to end a thoroughly depressing weekend. The noise prompted Akinwole’s door to creak open from across the way. His lights were off, too.
“Paul, is that you?”
His glasses glinted in the dark.
“Yes,” I whispered, “sorry to wake you.”
“I have been waiting for you. Someone is in your apartment. He let himself in last night. He said you were expecting him and then he told me to mind my own business.”
“Was it Bernstein?” Bernstein had a key and sometimes slept on the couch when his roommate had a girl over or he was too drunk to make it home.
“No,” Akinwole said, “I do not know this person.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
For a second, Lover Man loomed. Maybe he’d figured it out about Marla and me and sent Eagle Creek over to crucify the neutered writer. Marla, why was nothing simple with you?
“I will come in with you,” Akinwole said. That gave me confidence, since he was a big man.
A thousand cockroaches scuttled for cover when the light flipped on. I groped for the bat behind the door. I jangled with apprehension. The heat from Akinwole’s body radiated behind me. He smelled of Vicks VapoRub. Over my shoulder, he gestured toward the next room with a gold-ringed finger. I nodded. We moved on. In the dark living room, I flipped another light. Akinwole gasped: someone was asleep on the sofa, face covered, one arm dangling to the floor. Unsure of what to do, I took a tentative step forward and poked the figure with the bat. A groan. He removed his elbow from his face and blinked into the bright light. Simon Trang.
Before I could stop him, Akinwole stepped around me. He grabbed Trang by the collar.
“Who are you?” Akinwole shook Trang. “Why are you here?” He cocked his fist.
Sleepily, Trang eyed his attacker, then came to his senses. Without warning, a blizzard of hands and arms exploded in fluid kung fu motion. Akinwole flew through the air, crashed into the wall, and slid to the floor. Trang rubbed his face while Akinwole struggled to his feet, fists ready to continue.
“Stop,” I said, “you’re going to knock down the walls.” My arms kept the combatants apart. “This is Simon Trang. He’s a client of the Business. Simon Trang, meet Akinwole Mulumba.”
“Yes, Mr. Mulumba,” Trang said as he resumed his place on the couch, calm and smooth like nothing had happened. “The Nigerian accountant here by way of Kinshasa, Congo. Two wives. Seven children. Permanent resident status. Private asset management consultant. Specialized knowledge of coltan and tungsten. Contract position at Kramer Investments.”
“Why does he know me?” Akinwole frowned.
“Your neighbour Mr. Wint is a person of interest to us. By extension, we know a little about you,” Trang said. “We like to make connections.”
“He’s a cop,” I said. “Like a secret agent type.”
Akinwole processed. His frown grew deeper. In Akinwole’s former world, men like Trang were the harbingers of bad news. Extortionists. Torturers. Murderers. Men to stay away from. Akinwole concluded this was not to his liking.
“Your business acquaintances are not for me. If you are in no danger, I will return to my own apartment now.” He limped toward the door. The force of Trang’s defence still visibly resonated through his body.
Trang watched Akinwole go. I followed him out.
At the threshold, he said, “I do not know what kind of trouble you are in, but you had best be careful.”
“Don’t concern yourself.” I held the door open for him.
“Paul, men like that are like snails. There is always a slimy trail of shit behind them.” He raised his index finger as if he meant to release lightning from it.
“Thanks,” I said before he could deliver the sermon that would surely follow. “You’re a good man to go through a door with.”
Akinwole had things on his mind. He was probably right. Still, I nudged him out.
“You’ve been keeping bad company,” Trang said on my return.
“What do you mean? Akinwole’s a solid citizen,” my confidence shot back. No matter what had brought him here, Trang was still better than who I’d feared.
Trang shook his head. “That’s not who I’m talking about. I don’t care about him.”
He fished two photos out of his shirt pocket and placed them on the cracked coffee table. Mug shots. Lover Man and Eagle Creek. Trang stabbed Lover Man in the forehead with a jade-ringed forefinger.
&nb
sp; “That’s Leon Porter. He poses as a freelance A&R guy who manages new music acts before selling them on. In fact, he’s part of a crew that traffic heroin. They like coffins and airplanes.”
“Coffins? Airplanes?” I knew they were dope dealers. I didn’t know the details. It wasn’t my business.
“That’s right,” said Trang. “Leon did five years in jail down in Florida for his part in a big Air France haul. Lately, we think they’ve been moving stuff on military planes from Kandahar.”
“Who’s the other guy?” I pointed to Eagle Creek, sure Trang had made this up to scare me.
“That’s Joseph Mathew Two Feathers. Joey was with the Canadian Special Ops Regiment until he became a nutcase. He came home from Kandahar a few years ago under a cloud. Supposedly, he sawed off a Taliban commander’s head and left it on a pole in a village. No one could prove he did it. So, they tried to get him on a dope charge. There was a load lined into the coffin of one of the soldiers shipped home. He spent six months in the brig, but in the end, they couldn’t pin anything on him.”
“What’s this got to do with me?”
“Did you imagine my family would simply invest a million dollars into this business scheme your Mr. Hornsmith has developed? That we’d just write a cheque? No, sir. I’m obliged to discover who you are. Who you know. What you’re up to. I have my family’s interests to protect. It’s my duty. Naturally, I use my professional network. And I find you in unsavoury company.”
“I don’t know those people,” I said. “I’m just following a girl around. Marla. She knows them. She’s a singer.”
“You were seen getting in a car with Joey Two Feathers on Saturday night in Kirkland Lake. Then, you were seen with him and Leon Porter early the next morning in conversation at a motel diner. That’s not chasing a girl.”
This was unexpected: framed in Lover Man’s racket. Trang wanted answers. Trang worked the case. Trang was onto something. Trang had me pegged to things I had no hand in. He waited like he expected me to say more.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” I said. “I thought she’d be alone.”
He gave me a hard stare like he wanted to waterboard me. “All right, let’s go with that for now,” he said after a while. “You’re on your own if you’re bullshitting me.”
Trang scooped up the photos and returned them to his breast pocket. “Your Mr. Hornsmith checks out better,” he said, his mood lighter now. “He leads a layered series of lies and loves. But he’s essentially harmless. I enjoyed our little meeting.”
Trang hadn’t figured out Hornsmith’s latest blackmail scheme to keep Courtney committed to the Business. Trang hunted another class of criminal. Hornsmith eluded him. Hornsmith was a secretive loon, not a murdering dope dealer.
“Actually, I come in peace,” Trang said. “I have a gift for my new business partner.”
He produced a small packet wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and Cellophane. He slid it across the table toward me.
“I sympathize with a man who doesn’t want to get into the medical system,” he said.
The package dared me to pick it up. Maybe this was a trick. Trang watched me like a lizard watches a fly.
“I was kind of kidding,” I said.
He shrugged. Too late for that now.
“This is what they call a finger of Mortal Combat. From Kabul. Confiscated from one of the best heroin dealers in the country. We couldn’t meet in public with this. That’s why I came here.”
“I really didn’t think you’d come up with anything,” I said, still not prepared to touch it. “Hornsmith’s not ready for this.”
“But he will be,” Trang said, “and if he’s terminal, addiction isn’t going to be a worry, I’d say.”
He cracked open a small corner of the packet, licked his index finger, and took a taste. My curiosity got the better of me. I’d never seen anything like it. I followed his example and took a taste, too. Bitter.
“Shooting’s hard and technical if you’re not used to it,” Trang said. “Blood squirts about. Takes time and practice. And snorting’s painful. His nose membranes will burn, and snot will run everywhere. Use a pipe. That’s his best bet.”
With that, he presented a small glass pipe.
“I hope he keeps his dignity to the end. We will talk more about the plans for Washington. There are many interesting opportunities to be had inside a facility like that, so close to the world’s political centre.” Trang stood up to straighten his pants. “And if you’re really just chasing a girl, be very careful. She runs with dangerous assholes.”
NINE
The Hustle
ON A BALMY September morning, Hornsmith led the way out of Fran’s on College Street. We had mint-flavoured toothpicks in our mouths and western omelettes and hot coffee in our bellies. Trang’s finger of heroin filled my front pocket. I hadn’t yet decided to surrender it to Hornsmith. Part of me was greedy to keep it. The weight of the packet felt thick, solid, and round. It felt dangerous. It felt good.
Hornsmith wore a rust-coloured herringbone suit and a newsboy cap pulled over his ears. The red and grey hairs of his beard stood at fierce attention. His skin had become translucent over the past weeks. Its thin yellow hue gave him a ghostly quality.
We pushed against the crush of people on the sidewalk. Fed, we were off to see Dr. Courtney. He’d lived up to his end of the deal. During my weekend misadventure with Marla in Kirkland Lake, Hornsmith had attended Grandmother Mathews’s cremation. Now, Hornsmith had to sign the waiver agreeing not to sue the clinic for additional claims.
“Before I sign anything,” he said, “we’re going to stick him with a higher price for the new clinic’s land purchase. There’s a play to be made. Today’s the day.”
At a red light, a guy appeared beside us. A green and blue bruise bloomed across his cheek. Broken red capillaries in his eyes spoke of late nights and bad choices. He wore a formless white T-shirt and dusty construction boots. He had a ragged mutt on a chewed yellow rope in tow. They had a hapless air about them.
“Can you help me?” he said. “My truck broke down. I got to find a way back home.”
The dog looked up at me, too. He followed his master’s cue. Yeah, yeah, we wanna fix the truck. Fix the truck. I wanna stick my nose out the window, yeah, yeah.
“Where’s home?” I said.
“Truro,” he said. “I haven’t been home since April. My mom’s sick and I need to go home.”
“So, where’s your truck?” I felt a twinge of pity for them. This city had no sympathy for anyone down on their luck. Truro was a long way off, far away and unappealing. No one cared about that here.
“It’s at a garage on Shuter and Parliament. Needs a fan belt. I can’t go back till I got money for the repair.”
We started across with the green light. The guy and his dog dodged oncoming pedestrians to keep up. Hornsmith didn’t care. Hornsmith ploughed on. Hornsmith was preoccupied.
The guy said, “I’m twenty bucks short, and then I can do it.”
The dog licked his leathery lips and smiled. Yeah, yeah, like he says, we gotta go home. We gotta go home to Truro.
Usually, this kind of thing left me cold, but the dog looked so enthusiastic with his hopeful brown eyes, certain I held the key to turning around their misfortune, that I fell for their act and gave them a twenty. The dog panted, all pink tongue, black gums, and yellow teeth. Grateful eyes rolled up at me. Yeah, that’s it. Now we can go.
Hornsmith had pulled ahead. He liked to walk fast, despite his faded condition. I jogged a few steps to catch up.
“What did you do that for?” he said when we were back in lockstep.
“The guy was in trouble.”
“He was lying.”
I said, “His truck needed a new fan belt. He had a dog. Guys with dogs don’t bullshit about stuff like that.”
“You trusted him because of a dog?”
“The dog had a good disposition. You can tell a lot about a pe
rson by his dog. You know, like master, like dog sort of thing.”
Hornsmith snorted and rubbed his nose.
“The dog was a bullshitter, too,” he said. “They’re a team. The guy’s already in the liquor store and the dog’s tied up to the bike rack outside.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “Sometimes things are exactly as they seem. He had an honest face.”
“Conclusions about another person’s state based on the face are naive and improbable,” Hornsmith said. “But, if you want to go that way, you failed to see the obvious. He had a bruise on his face because he’d been in a fight. And he’d been in a fight because he’s an idiot. So, if like master, like dog, ipso facto, the dog’s an idiot, too.”
He laughed and shook his head. He slipped his arm through mine as if to drag me on.
“Never mind, young friend,” he said. “We have our own business to attend to.”
High above the grind of the street, Dr. Courtney waited in his boardroom over Lake Ontario. This time, the oil portraits seemed hostile. The meeting was short on pleasantries.
“Let’s get this matter behind us,” said Courtney, “and see if we can return to the project at hand without further setbacks.”
Courtney was all business. The agreement lay ready on the table for Hornsmith’s signature. Hornsmith had other ideas. With deliberate ceremony, he produced reading glasses from his breast pocket and perched them on his nose. He studied the document. He sighed. He removed the glasses. He stood up. He paced along the massive windows overlooking over the water.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m distracted. As we left the office a small detail came to light that has me concerned.”
He addressed the lake, as if too embarrassed to look Courtney in the eye. This was my favourite part of Hornsmith’s act — the inspired improvisation, like a jazz player who’s stepped up to the microphone for a trumpet solo. On the first few notes, you always hold your breath and wait for it to sail.
“The real estate lawyer in Washington reminded me there’s a fee we’ve not taken into account.”
“Like a, what? A land transfer tax?” Courtney’s fingers trembled as if poised over an invisible piano, in search of a note of his own.
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