Business

by J. P. Meyboom

  “We haven’t taken anyone anywhere, sir. It’s a new shift. We haven’t gotten to him yet. Besides,” the nurse said, her tone bitchier, “visiting hours are this afternoon. You shouldn’t be here.”

  Hornsmith clutched the edges of the dresser. Wobbly. For a moment, I feared he’d fall over.

  He said, “Surely, you’re familiar with the special circumstances when a family member summons you because death is in the air.”

  The nurse looked at her clipboard again. “He’s not dying. He’s due for surgery.”

  Hornsmith clenched his jaw. “Emergency surgery to remove a tumour the size of a grapefruit. He might not pull through. His insides are aflame. He needs a priest, not a doctor, if you ask me.”

  I opened the closet. “What have you done with his clothes?”

  The nurse’s cheeks flushed. She looked around the room once again.

  “I assure you,” she said, “we’ve done nothing with Mr. Hornsmith.”

  “I’ll wager he’s making a run for it,” said Hornsmith. “Taking advantage of the shift change. He always was a slippery fellow. Hated doctors. Afraid to die.”

  “You should alert security,” I said to the nurse.

  “Yes, I suppose we should,” she said.

  “Tell them they’re looking for an older bald man who walks with a limp in his right leg. Korean War injury. It’s obvious,” I said.

  The nurse picked up the telephone on the bedside table and started to dial. Hornsmith nudged me out the door.

  “We’re going to see if we can catch him downstairs in the lobby,” he said to the nurse, who acknowledged us with a brief wave.

  Hornsmith planned to navigate his own transition into the Beyond. He had a solid grasp of his prognosis thanks to the doctor who had sent him unauthorized evaluations of his condition. I’d seen the letters in Hornsmith’s desk. He knew what ailed him, and he planned to manage it himself. Right to the end. My pointless attempt to force him into the medical system had only confirmed where he stood: his death was on schedule.

  I manoeuvred the car out of the hospital garage. So far, so good. No pursuers in the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m not afraid of what becomes of me,” Hornsmith said. “I’m not so committed to this earthly flesh that I can’t bear to leave it. I’m at peace with the idea that I’ll go where we all go. When the time comes, what that means will be revealed. In the meanwhile, the wretched pain that precedes the departure is taking all the fun out of dying.”

  “Why not let a doctor help you with that?”

  “Because those bastards can’t resist poking and cutting. It’s their sacred duty. Prolong this business of life at any cost. They will not aid and abet in a dignified end, certainly not if it stands in the way of some viable manner of postponement.”

  “What about the doctor who sent you those files?”

  I concentrated on the road while he fumbled in the glove compartment for his flask. Hornsmith needed fuelling up. Hornsmith needed calming down. He tipped the flask to his lips, looked through the tinted window at the people on the street, swallowed, and sighed.

  He said, “That doctor isn’t going to be of any more help.”

  “What if you explained?”

  “There’s only so far I can push him.” He had another pull on the flask. Morose. “I should seek the help of a veterinarian. Say I’m an Alsatian. Vets are hip to the notion of a humane death.”

  “You could go to Amsterdam. Get the injection.”

  “I’m not so certain I’d pass the sound mind requirement. No, Latour, I will face this journey alone. Here.”

  Outside his house, I parked the car. He didn’t invite me in. He still needed to explain his circumstances to his wife.

  After our goodbyes, Hornsmith held me back by the arm. Flecks of red and blue swirled in his pupils. Beyond them, I saw mountains. Beyond them, an ocean. Beyond that, white light.

  “You’re a good man, Latour. Thank you for trying to help me through this portal.”

  I couldn’t reply. I didn’t have the words. We were in unfamiliar territory. I’d once seen a dog hit by a car on a reserve. It twitched by the side of the road in the grass with a broken back. An Indigenous guy helped it out of its misery with a couple of blows from a two-by-four. That was it for Death and me.

  I understood his words, of course. Their gravity eluded me. I dodged them so I wouldn’t feel their impact. Death’s pall wasn’t a weight I wanted to carry around.

  “Bring me the rest of the heroin,” he said, “so I’m prepared for the next wave.”

  The deeper I looked into his eyes, the farther I travelled. There were caves and fires. There were turbo trains and desert flowers. I feared he’d take me with him. I feared I’d die, too.

  TWELVE

  Bobby Fischer Said

  THE STENCH OF rotten fruit off the androgynous form wrapped in ripped overcoats, asleep on a stack of newspapers at the back of the Queen streetcar, didn’t seem so bad. Normally, the idiot with the studded collar around his throat leading a mastiff on a matching leash would’ve earned a silent sneer. Today, there was no time for that. Equally, I had no interest in smirking at the besuited sad sack who fiddled with his BlackBerry like he was onto spectacular stock trades every few seconds instead of playing Candy Crush. No, I had other considerations. Had a plan to formulate. I’d escaped the workaday world and now faced a return to that cage if I didn’t sort myself out. Soon the Business would fold in on itself, and I’d be on the curb. Soon I’d need a new way to cover bar tabs, dope scores, and rent at the Ellington. When Hornsmith died, the Business would go with him. I had neither the experience nor the inclination to pursue it on my own. That much was certain. The rest was unclear.

  Then, I remembered the agreement we’d signed. It said the Business would be mine after twenty years or upon his death. Whichever came first. He’d said that. That was our deal. At the time, it had meant nothing, because Hornsmith had seemed death-proof. I hadn’t understood. Back then he was already planning his departure. There was a chance the Business would be useful to me after all. If it had money stashed somewhere. If I could break it loose. If Hornsmith’s contract was legal.

  A big score could lead to a new start. The farther the Queen car ploughed through the city, the better my chances became. My bags were already packed for a move to Panama or Belize or Madagascar. Or Goa. I’d live in a beach hut. Sand and salt in my hair. Eat mangoes and fried fish. Grow a beard. Find a nice island girl and devote myself to a life of domestic bliss. By the time the Ellington came into view, the plan was clear: give Hornsmith the dope and see him off. Then clean out the Business and go lie low somewhere far away. The details needed work.

  The front door of the Ellington flew open. A knobby rubber bicycle wheel bounced off my leg. I was so busy with the plan that I walked right into Rachel with her bike in the dim vestibule.

  “You look worse every time I see you,” she said. “There seem to be new cuts and bruises on your face.” She scrutinized my wounds. “Are you one of those guys who do, like, street fighting? For money?”

  “No, I’m one of those guys who get the shit kicked out of them by rejects from the Russian mob.”

  “Sounds like an exciting story.”

  “It’s not. It ends with me getting pummelled and left for dead.”

  “I’m not sure I’d like to be around you.”

  “I don’t like it much myself.”

  “And how’s your friend? The one who says I’m a witch?”

  “Akinwole? His confidence seems to be back. Are you still with the pots or jugs or whatever it was?”

  I was preoccupied with Hornsmith’s contract. Should’ve looked at it closer. What if it wasn’t written with real words, but gibberish like the certificates on his wall? I tried to picture it. All I saw was static.

  “Ceramics.”

  “Ceramics. Right. I was teasing. Sorry. And the witchcraft? You after someone new these days?”

  “Don’t tease me.�
� She didn’t seem to mind. “I could be coming for you.”

  “Be warned,” I said, “I’m a danger to those around me. I channel havoc and heartbreak.”

  “Huh. You look more like the bourgeois kind. Slumming it. Soft and white. What possible threat could you be to a street-smart witch girl like me?”

  My hands went clammy. Her bright-orange mane radiated defiance. She had perfect full lips. When she spoke, they blossomed, bold and fearless. Chewable. I felt intimidated and spellbound at the same time. I should’ve kissed her. Maybe things would’ve turned out different for me.

  “None whatsoever,” I said.

  I held back. Afraid of the possibilities that lay beyond. What if she protested? What if she accepted? She sensed my discomfort and grinned. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said.

  She slipped her sunglasses over her eyes and wheeled the bike out into the sun. I wiped my damp palms on the back of my jeans and watched her disappear into the street. She didn’t look back.

  Upstairs in the dresser drawer, amongst the remains of Trang’s heroin and the unpaid bills, seemed the most likely place to look for the contract. I rummaged around the mess and in the process, shook loose the photo of Shirley Rose from Detroit and the Dipshit Kid. Fruit of my impulsive theft of Hornsmith’s desk. They stared up at me. Hornsmith’s other life.

  She nodded. Look after yourself, because he won’t, she seemed to say. He forgot about us. Why should he treat you any different? The Dipshit Kid stared into the mid-distance, oblivious. She was right: I needed protection. The packet of heroin went into the front pocket of my jeans, and on an impulse, the stolen cheques were folded into my wallet. There was no sign of the contract. It could still be in the office.

  I pulled up my socks and tied my shoes, preparing to leave the apartment when the phone rang. Marla.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry what happened last weekend,” she said. “I never meant it to be like that for us. He stayed longer than I expected. I had no way of warning you. Will you ever forgive me?”

  Her voice threw me off balance. She made me queasy.

  “It wasn’t good for me, Marla, that’s for sure.”

  “I know. I’ve been feeling bad for days.”

  “You could’ve called.”

  “I was afraid you’d reject me.”

  “I’m not going to reject you, Marla. Sometimes I think I should. I should but I won’t. Seems like I’m always getting hurt when you’re around.”

  “The band’s playing at the Kool Haus tonight. Come with me. I’ll be alone. I promise. I’ll make it up. You’ll see, lover. Please come. We’ll go somewhere after the show.”

  “I have something to take care of tonight. A sick friend.”

  “Come after. The show goes late.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “No, Marla, I’m tired.” I flashed on her in Lover Man’s lap. Then Eagle Creek after the trailer. Blood glistened on his silver rings under the dashboard lights. Marla moved in dangerous circles.

  She chortled, harlot-like. “Come see me tonight. I’ll show you why God made you a man.”

  Hornsmith’s wife, Katherine, answered the door in a blue yoga outfit. Her salt and pepper hair pinned back in a stark bun. Her naked face exposed. Her eyes red-rimmed, swollen.

  “Why you didn’t tell me?” she said. Her voice cracked under the weight of what she wrestled with. “I don’t think I can forgive you. It’s true we hardly know each other, but on this, you should’ve called.”

  “It wasn’t my place to say anything.” I stayed by the open door. “What goes on between you two isn’t my business.”

  She was tight, tense, and terse.

  “You’re a cold man whose moral compass needs realignment,” she said. “I’ll let you in because it’ll comfort him. Not because I trust you. He did me wrong for so long, I’m worn out by it. Still, I love him. I’d do anything to ease his pain.”

  I was part of his other world, the world that took him away from her. The world that made him do the ugly deeds he did. She believed we kept secrets from her. Made plans without her. Never considered her. She was right.

  She stepped aside to let me in. “He’s in the living room,” she indicated with a vague wave of her clenched hand.

  Washed and wrapped in a red silk smoking jacket over crisp blue cotton pyjamas and brown leather slippers, Hornsmith sat in a club chair with his pipe. He studied a chessboard on the coffee table in front of him. The wooden bookshelves by the bay windows glowed in the last of the golden afternoon sun. Blue caramel-scented smoke swirled around his head like clouds trapped on a mountaintop.

  “Latour, you have arrived in time to help me with a complicated play.” He waved the burning pipe over the chessboard. “It seems I’m in a bit of a bind against a most cunning adversary.”

  “I’m not much of a chess player.” I drew in the other armchair to sit across from him.

  “We’re playing shuffle chess. You can’t play with memorized opening moves. You play on talent alone. Bobby Fischer played like that.” He looked at me to see if I was with him. “Bobby Fischer famously claimed once you start distrusting your mind, you’re done. Finished.”

  “He went insane.”

  “Indeed.” Hornsmith nodded, pipe in his mouth.

  I said, “I’ve brought what you asked for.”

  I placed the packet of heroin next to the chessboard and gazed over the battlefield. With the random placement of pieces, it was hard to grasp the situation. Where a mortal saw chaos, he saw a conflict in progress. He gauged his next move.

  “That’s kind of you,” he said. His mind seemed more on the game than on my delivery.

  “What’re we doing about Courtney?” I said, to get onto practical matters.

  “Courtney?” He looked surprised. “Whatever for?”

  “Courtney’s declared war,” I said. “He sent us an animal heart. He had thugs beat me up. We have a week to square it. After that, they’re going to hand us our heads.”

  “Latour, don’t concern yourself with this.”

  I thought, easy for you to say, about to leap into the Great Beyond.

  “We do nothing,” he said. “Something will happen. Courtney is new to this type of contest. He doesn’t know what to do.”

  I said, “His opening gambit has been shock and awe. I have wounds to prove it.”

  “Yes, he opened strong,” Hornsmith said. “He’s made a tactical choice to use violence because he thinks he’ll reap the benefits. Remember, it’s not his world. He hasn’t experienced the hazards of violence. It’ll turn against him. You’ll see.”

  He moved a white bishop. He looked at the board for a counter. When there was no apparent fallout, he grunted with satisfaction.

  He said, “Courtney’s already in disarray. On the actions of the enemy, recall Sun Tzu: when speech is threatening and forward actions are taken, this indicates a retreat.”

  “Sun Tzu? Retreat? Are you kidding me?”

  “Latour, he’s out of his depth. His downfall is around the corner. Victory is ours.”

  “And what will that look like?”

  “He will stop trying to get out of the Washington business and start making us rich.” Hornsmith stood up. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

  I resisted the urge to knock over his chessboard. Take him by the throat. Bash in his head. He’d become nothing more than a self-absorbed, solipsistic old man who couldn’t engage. Who wouldn’t acknowledge what a world of shit he’d dragged me into. Instead, he left the room on a trail of scented smoke. It was pointless. Hornsmith was in a different movie.

  Outside the window in the garden, a miniature water wheel turned endlessly under a stand of old Japanese maples. The more difficult events became, the more alone I felt. A retreat of my own looked inviting. Find a place to dig in. Hide out. Hole up. Hunker down.

  Wh
en Hornsmith returned, he’d changed into a black suit over an open starched white shirt with large silver cufflinks. The pipe was gone. When he sat down, he removed a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and extracted an unfiltered cigarette, which he idly tapped on the case. He studied the chessboard for only a moment before he swept away the white bishop with a black knight. He lit the cigarette.

  “The best strategy is to crush their plans.” He coughed smoke. His voice was raspier than before. His movements more precise. He picked up the packet.

  “Did you bring this?”

  “Yes,” I said, “we talked about that.”

  “Indeed?” Hornsmith slipped it in his pocket. He studied me through the smoke and jerked his thumb in the direction he’d gone to change outfits. “You know the fellow who left?”

  “I’m not sure I do.”

  “Well, he’s a good chap. Wants to do the right thing. Doesn’t always manage it.”

  “Doing the right thing is tricky business,” I said, unsure what Hornsmith meant.

  “Yes, he doesn’t have enough experience. I have to be patient with him. He has much to learn about the Business.”

  “He seems to manage all right,” I improvised.

  Hornsmith looked in my direction, his gaze unfocused.

  “I’m trying to get him interested in the Business,” he said. “Sometimes I fear he might be out to sabotage our efforts. You need to keep an eye on him.”

  I felt an urgent call to save myself. I leaned across the table. Touched his arm and looked around. I whispered like I feared there were others in the room listening. Like I had a secret to impart.

  “There’s something we need to do.”

  Hornsmith focused. Hornsmith looked around. Hornsmith checked that no one overheard us.

  “Yes?” he said.

  I fumbled in my pocket for the blank cheques.

  “In case something happens, and the Business has to pay some bills when you’re away, I need you to sign these.”

  Hornsmith extinguished his cigarette.

  “I see,” he said. He put on his reading glasses to examine the blank cheques. “There are no amounts here. And they’re not payable to anyone.”