“It’s more like an administrative fee. It was in their paperwork. We stupidly overlooked it.”
“What are you getting at?”
Hornsmith wrung his hands, ever the grovelling supplicant. He said, “Plainly put, the deal’s going to be more expensive.”
Courtney flushed. His shoulders contracted. “I don’t know if I like this.”
“No, I understand,” said Hornsmith. “There’s nothing to like about these sorts of surprises. But, there’s good news, too. A private Vietnamese investor wants in.”
“How’s that good news?” said Courtney.
“It means,” Hornsmith said, “your financial burden can be shared.”
“What sort of overage are we talking about?”
Hornsmith let him have it between the eyes. “Four hundred and fifty thousand.”
“That’s a lot of money,” said Courtney. He jutted his hairless jaw. “Is that shared or each?”
Hornsmith’s mouth twitched like something was stuck in his teeth. For a moment, I feared he might go too far.
“Shared,” he said, finally.
“I don’t like it,” Courtney said. “My lawyer will have to examine the details before I’ll agree to this.” Courtney squished up his eyes. Courtney scrunched up his fists. Courtney sucked it up and held it in. “Send me the documents.”
Hornsmith shook his head as if in disbelief at his own error and then resumed his seat.
“My apologies,” he said.
He put the reading glasses back on and returned his attention to the document in hand. After studying the text, he looked up.
“If I understand this properly, once I sign, I waive all rights to any claim against the clinic in relation to the death of my mother-in-law.”
“That’s what we agreed.” Courtney’s voice sounded tight, like someone had a foot on his throat. “You sign this. We go ahead with the land deal. And we drop the book.”
“Exactly right,” Hornsmith said, “but to be fair, I should discuss this with my wife, now that we have a document to review. It was her mother, after all.”
Courtney’s jugular throbbed. “I see. And when do you hope to do that?”
“Perhaps after you sign the revised real estate deal, with the additional fee.”
“Gentlemen, this is most unsettling. I need to consider where this is all leading.” Courtney’s face had transformed into a mottled purple blotch.
Hornsmith folded the unsigned agreement into his pocket.
“I assure you,” he said, “we’re as distressed by the sequence of events as you. And you have our word that we’ll do everything in our power to ensure this business is concluded honourably.”
Even high up in a cloud of dope and booze and cancer pain, Hornsmith could still do the deal. He whirled and he twirled; he twisted and he danced. He put the mojo on. He did the ooga booga. Courtney didn’t stand a chance, never saw what hit him. We couldn’t gauge then how mad he’d become. That came later.
At the elevator, we shook Courtney’s hand.
I said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say we look forward to moving past this to a profitable co-venture.”
“A profitable co-venture,” Hornsmith said once we were back in the lobby downstairs, “is always only best for one side.”
We walked across the marble lobby and into the street.
He took my arm, half for support and half to make sure I listened.
He said, “The Pig and the Chicken decide to get into business together. A co-venture. Chicken suggests the restaurant business. Pig thinks that’s great. When he asks what kind of place, the Chicken says it’s an all-day breakfast place. Pig likes this because people always want breakfast. And pigs like to eat. Okay, says the Chicken, agreed. I’ll provide the eggs and you provide the bacon.”
We laughed, giddy with renewed confidence. We were in business. We brought the rain. We had the world by the tail. Hornsmith did the headlock on Courtney. Courtney would pay. Oink, oink.
We flagged a taxi at the curb. Hornsmith gave the driver the address to the Business. When the cab pulled into the traffic, we drove by the guy and his dog, still hustling passersby. Hornsmith got it right: the dog was a bullshitter, too.
When Hornsmith saw them, he pointed over the seat through the front window and ordered the taxi to pull over.
“Stop. Right here. Keep the meter running.”
The cab pulled up on the sidewalk to get out of traffic. Pedestrians scattered like jumpy sparrows. Hornsmith bolted from the car before it stopped. He pushed people aside.
“Hey, you,” he said to the guy and the dog, “I want to talk to you.”
He grabbed the guy by the arm and leaned into him to speak. The dog barked. Hornsmith kicked it hard enough to get its tail between its legs. He pointed to me in the taxi. The guy glanced my way. The guy’s shoulders slumped. He reached into his pocket, and I saw him give Hornsmith a twenty-dollar bill. Hornsmith pocketed the money, shoved the guy once more for good measure, and returned to the taxi.
He grinned and sank into the seat, trembling from the effort. A thin film of sweat broke across his forehead. I said nothing. I expected him to crown the moment by returning me my money. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned back his head and closed his eyes.
TEN
The Heart of the Matter
HORNSMITH STRUGGLED out of the cab into the street. He didn’t speak. Tentative, as if blind, he groped his way over the curb to the foot of the stairs before he stumbled. His eyes snapped wide. Surprised. He doubled over. The briefcase clattered to the ground. His arms clutched his abdomen. Mouth pulled sharp across his teeth. A yowl erupted from his bowels. He fell backwards into my arms, almost weightless. Skeletal and flimsy. I eased him onto the bottom step. A couple of shudders coursed through his arms and legs before he went limp. It was pointless to ask if he was okay. Everything was clearly not okay. Me blubbering in his ear wasn’t going to help. I was certain he’d rally, given a moment alone. There was nothing to do but wait. I propped him against the wall and went to pay the cab.
After a while, he came to and sat up under his own strength. He said, “I thought I was at the airport. I wanted to get on a plane, but I had to wait for you.”
“I was paying the cab,” I said.
“Yes, you still had something to do.” He grimaced. “It feels like there’s a basketball wanting to burst out of my guts.”
I said, “We’ll sit here till you feel better. We don’t have to go anywhere.”
“No, we don’t. But I want to lie down. This will pass. It always does. Help me up the stairs.”
With his briefcase under one arm and the other arm around his waist, I helped him up, and together we mounted the steep stairs one step at a time. Periodically he paused to gather his strength.
“In the end,” he said between gasps, “the body betrays us in such an undignified manner. We feed it. We clothe it. We wash it and protect it from harm. It wears out just the same in a fury of pain and blood and confusion. I’m not afraid of what’s coming, Latour. I only wish it didn’t hurt so much.”
Once inside, I laid him on the couch, wrapped in a Navajo blanket from the closet because he complained he was cold. The shades were drawn. Mozart played a violin concerto on the stereo. I brewed a pot of green tea for his revival. Hornsmith fell asleep before it was ready.
I plunked myself into an armchair across the dim room. I needed to reorganize. The tsunami was still far off, but like an elephant that can sense disaster long before it strikes, my instinct for self-preservation stirred. It whispered: Head for higher ground. Get out while there’s still time.
The music ended. In the kitchen, water drops clanked in the metal sink. Hornsmith’s gaunt, hairy face had marbled. A small glint of light reflected off his manicured hands crossed over his heart. Motionless, wrapped in the blanket, obscured by shadows, he looked like a medieval stone-sculpted knight. You could practically see the sword by his side and a teary angel at his feet.
A violent spasm rattled through his chest. He gasped and resumed his wheezy sleep. Hornsmith was still in the game. Hornsmith seemed to be mustering his forces for the next round. His will to live was relentless. It was oppressive. It was ridiculous.
Dark thoughts fogged my mind. The urge to smother him with a pillow enveloped me. Do him a favour. End it. How long would it take? How hard would I have to press? I studied his cracked lips for a spot to place the pillow. If it didn’t break his skin or bruise anything, they’d say he suffocated in his sleep. It wasn’t murder. It was compassionate homicide.
The phone rang twice before the answering service kicked in. Hornsmith’s eyes popped open. I hovered nearby, the pillow in my hand, killing on my mind. It was already after six. The hour was late. He cleared his throat.
“My father once told me, when I stole a quarter from his night table, ‘You’re a naughty little boy. Don’t get caught again.’”
“That’s an odd thing to say.” I pretended to fluff the pillow. “Don’t get caught again.”
“Yes, it was. But I learned. And I didn’t get caught again. You could do worse than to work that into your act. It’s a good lesson to learn.”
“You feel better now?”
“For the moment. But it’s hard to know when it’ll return,” he said. “It comes in waves. Some more violent than others. One of these days, it’s going to carry me off.”
“Tomorrow we need to get the papers over to Courtney,” I said.
At this cry of the bugle, Hornsmith raised himself up on an elbow, bloodied but undefeated.
“Tomorrow may have something else in store for us, Latour,” he said. “We need to get organized now, while we still can. I’m feeling much better after my nap. I’m going to use the toilet, and then we’re going through our sample contracts for something to satisfy Dr. Courtney.”
He planted his feet on the Persian carpet and chuckled at some private joke as he shuffled across the floor. Moments later, behind the closed bathroom door, came a howl of pain followed by the sound of his body thumping against the wall.
I found him on the floor, his pants around his ankles. Pungent copper urine filled the toilet and spilled across the floor.
“Latour,” he said, but couldn’t finish the sentence. He motioned his hands over his stomach. His eyes filled with tears.
“We’ve got to get help,” I said. “This is out of control.”
“No,” he managed, “I’m fine.”
He let out another guttural moan and covered both eyes with shaky hands. I helped him onto his feet and led him back to the couch. Trang’s heroin was still wedged in my pocket. Now seemed as good a time as any. I pulled the armchair next to where he lay. We were nose to nose.
“I’ve got something I’ve been saving for you.” I produced the packet from my pocket. “Let’s see if this will help.”
Hornsmith grinned when he saw it. He seemed to know exactly what was at hand.
“Latour, you are the Angel of Mercy.”
“We’ll see about that,” I said.
I lay the packet on the coffee table, and with a flick of my lock knife, widened the hole previously opened by Trang to sample the wares.
“This is the finest uncut heroin Afghanistan has to offer,” I said. “It should be savoured like an old Burgundy.”
“How did you get it?”
“A friend gave it to us, to help you through.”
“We have such kind friends.”
I held up the glass pipe for Hornsmith’s inspection.
“We’re going to smoke it?” he said.
I nodded. A bit of powder on the tip of the blade filled the pipe’s bowl. When Hornsmith saw the pipe was loaded, he clawed into his pocket and produced his butane lighter.
“We need to cook it slowly, without burning it,” he said. He reached for the pipe. “It goes like this.”
He held the flame under the glass bowl and waved it gently from side to side as the powder boiled up. A thick vapour curled and swirled about, trapped inside the glass. When the bowl was filled with a noxious cloud, he took away the flame and sucked the smoke into his lungs.
“I did that in Thailand once,” he said. He exhaled a thick dragon’s tail of smoke that coiled around his head. “It’s like riding a bike.”
He placed the empty pipe on the table and rested his head on the couch. Slow grin. “Oh, yes. Come on in. The water’s fine.”
Hesitation kicked in for a moment. This was beyond my experience. I usually self-medicated with lighter fare. Briefly, an image of me as a soon-to-be shirtless, bearded junkie came to mind. Vomit. Dragon tattoo. Slavery. Death. My throat tightened. My heart paced up. Uncertain though I was at these crossroads, and though my thoughts of flight remained unresolved, in the end I figured, let’s jump in. Just this once. How bad could it be? I heated the bowl the way Hornsmith had.
When it was done, the pipe rested on the table. We sat peacefully, sealed in our dope world. Leaden limbs. There was no need to do anything. This was the best place to be. Me, Hornsmith, the Persian rugs, the chair, and the couch, all wrapped in a single membrane. Safe. Hornsmith floated on the couch while my arms dissolved into the leather of the armchair. I wouldn’t kill him after all. Couldn’t do it. I felt good about that.
Dusky pinks and sapphires bled together behind my eyes. A new light spilled across my darkness. No rush to alter the course anymore. No urgency to find another way. All that crap from before with O’Malley was over. I’d switched lanes. Changed the rules. Gotten a fresh stamp in my passport. Most days I could breathe. Sure, Hornsmith was a madman. His murky schemes were like muddy water, thick with slippery reeds. His words like so much noise from an ice machine. But I would endure his didactic assaults to trudge alongside him for as long as it suited me, keen to stay out of the grimy lower realm from which I’d emerged of late. This was a new footing. It was time to stake my claim. Carve it out. Shore it up. Mine it. For a while. I felt good about that, too. Funny, feeling safe and good in the offices of the Business. At work. Work had never been like that before, a place of sanctuary instead of indentured drudgery.
Back when, my grandfather had shown me work could be okay. It had never measured up after that. Still, the first time was marvellous. A game. We’d dug two deep pits in the earth ten feet apart. As deep as a man standing with his hands above his head. We built wooden ladders to get down into them. When Grandfather said the pits were ready, we tunnelled from one over to the other. It took days. We built a wooden frame to keep the tunnel from caving in. My grandmother came out with tuna melt sandwiches and lemonade while we worked.
Grandfather never talked. He dug like his life depended on it. Occasionally, one of his old pale pals came by to marvel at our enterprise. Grandfather, dressed only in his shorts, all covered in dirt, wouldn’t get out of the hole. I never understood the purpose of it all but that was the last time I’d felt good about work.
Through the cool morning mist of Grandfather’s farm, Hornsmith whispered, “That’s it.” He grinned at the ceiling.
After a while, I leaked out of my ears beside myself into the room. Pressed my foot. The top of my head popped up like a hinged garbage can. I reached in and extracted a small plastic bag of rubbish, then let the top drop closed.
“I’m going to throw this out,” I said.
Hornsmith nodded.
“It’s about time,” he said. “While you’re up, you could do something about the tea we never had.”
I said, “I’ll make a fresh start.”
That sounded good. A fresh start. We should do that. Make a fresh start. Drink tea. Drive to the mountains. Swim in the river deep and wide. Have our spirits cleansed. Milk and honey on the other side. Hallelujah. Never come back to this over-heated city with its overheated problems.
In time, the kettle boiled. The kettle. Inside the membrane with us. It could come along and be with us. I flipped the stereo on again. Mozart came back. The boy genius. The performing monkey. He was als
o part of the membrane. We’d bring him along, too.
“I won’t be interfered with,” Hornsmith said, his voice slow and low. “No quack’s going open me up and write about it in a peer-reviewed medical journal.”
I pressed a mug of green tea into his bony hands.
“No, he won’t. You can decide it all,” I said.
He smiled. We didn’t have to talk about it any further. Particles of music sat on the furniture with us. We were all secured together.
Back into the chaired position, my eyes swivelled to the door. Focused. A form took shape. Something was there inside a membrane of its own. Light from the hallway glowed over its shoulders like wings. For how long, it was impossible to say. In time, the creature held up a box.
“Is this the office of The International Business Review?” The figure didn’t come any closer.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” I said, unsure if the words were spoken aloud.
“I have a parcel delivery.”
Hornsmith levitated almost back to form and floated toward the figure. “I’ll take that, young man.”
“Wait,” I said, “we’re not expecting anything here.”
“Latour, someone has sent us a package. A surprise to end our day.”
“I don’t want a surprise.”
“Come, young friend, where’s your gratitude for being allowed to swim in the soup of life’s primeval mystery?”
Hornsmith took hold of the package as the door clicked closed. We were alone again.
“Bring over that knife of yours. Let’s have a look at what the universe has brought to our doorstep.”
Together at the kitchen counter, we opened the box. At first, there was only wrinkled newspaper. Then, deeper inside was a white cotton dishcloth. Hornsmith pulled it out and laid it on the counter. It was wet. Blood soaked.
Hornsmith unwrapped the cloth. He sucked in his breath. And there it was, laid bare on the marble counter: a bloody, raw heart. Purple ventricles dripped like it’d been ripped from the chest of a live animal. A bloody bit of paper, neatly folded, was pinned on top.
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