His ears ringing, his brain stunned, his throat constricted from gagging, Tyron turns and looks back at his men. “Clear,” he says.
* * *
Tyron’s phone chimes to life. His eyelids open and he pushes his torso up from the couch. He squints at the phone and remembers the alarm he set last night, a distant memory now. He swings his legs off the couch, turns off the alarm. He still feels drunk. For now at least, it’s imbuing him with a kind of giddy energy, though he knows a crash is coming.
Looking at the phone, he sees two missed calls from Keenan. Why would Keenan be calling him at such a late hour? He cannot remember if he ignored the calls when they came in or never noticed them.
Still jacked up from his dream, he heads to the bathroom, strips off his clothes, and gets in the shower. He leaves the water cold and lets the icy blast hit him full in the face. Already, last night feels like a long time ago. Those dreams: he was reliving that battle. His survival instincts kicked into high gear over a dream? He dips his head and lets the cold water splash the back of his neck. He was calmer when he was actually in the fight than he is now.
I need to get away, he thinks. Somewhere wet, cold, green. Where people don’t know me. Where I can start fresh. From scratch.
Those calls from Keenan aren’t helping him slow his heartbeat either. Naomi must have told him about their kiss.
What a mistake. Dishonourable. Disloyal. Not the man Tyron has tried to be. And yet, despite the guilt, he can’t help thinking about the kiss. God, he is happy around Naomi.
He tries to remember what possessed him to leave her to join the Corps. Those days return to him: the loss, uncertainty, and isolation in the wake of his parents’ deaths. Even five years later he was adrift, and the thought of not being in university anymore, not being on the track team, to lose that structure and support terrified him. He couldn’t put all his needs on her, but he couldn’t deny how great his needs were, and so he gravitated to a world that was entirely structure, support, and community, built on endless goals and objectives to keep his mind occupied.
He needed the Corps. And it needed men like him. It still does, more than ever, so long as America’s wars are endless and forever multiplying. He needed the Corps, but he was only willing to join because deep down he always thought he’d win her back one day. Had he realized that he would be losing her forever, he wonders if he would’ve made the same choice.
It wasn’t exactly like Keenan had moved in on his best friend’s girl — Keenan had dated Naomi first, after all — but Tyron had assumed Keenan would leave her be with him gone, knowing how much she meant to him.
Tyron kills the water. He dresses fast, makes a sandwich, and eats it quick. He brushes his teeth and leaves the apartment, hoping he hasn’t disturbed Tara. He takes the stairs four flights down and exits into the light of dawn.
He can’t blame Keenan. It would’ve been stupid for him to pass on a woman like her once Tyron was out of the picture. And Key never made a move while Tyron and Naomi were together. But you have now, Tyron thinks. You’ve made a move on her while they’re still married. You’ve lost honour because of it.
He dreads the next call from Keenan.
* * *
Tyron passes an empty lot where he has a view of the sun climbing over the shoulder of a mountain to the east. The entire edge of the sandy brown peak is black, with burnished gold behind it. He recalls early morning patrols in the Corps. If there’s one thing the desert has — here and in the Middle East — it’s breathtaking sunrises.
He keeps walking. The sunrise is blocked by low-rise apartment complexes and small, single-storey houses cut off from the street by chain-link fences. The streets are quiet. No one else is about at this time on a Sunday morning.
He cuts across a main road, void of cars, and sees a coyote in the distance. It glances at him as it pads along the asphalt. It seems almost to nod at him, fellow hunter of the dawn. Then it slips behind a church, and Tyron wonders if he imagined it.
He checks his phone and sees that he is early, so he slows his pace.
Ten minutes later, at precisely six, he is outside Marlon’s door.
7
6:00 a.m.
“Tyron, get in.” Marlon looks left and right down the street, then hurriedly shuts the door once Tyron is inside. “You see anyone suspicious on your way over?”
Tyron is surprised by the question. “I didn’t see a single person. Suspicious or otherwise.”
Marlon flips the door lock and fastens the chain. “This way,” he says.
The small house is heavily shadowed, with no lights on and the curtains drawn. Marlon leads Tyron down a narrow hallway to the back of the house, where a wooden staircase goes down to the basement. The stairs creak as the two men descend. Marlon flicks on a couple of lights, which buzz like a pair of bumblebees and illuminate the cement-floored workshop. There are shelves and cabinets across the walls, and a wide selection of tools hung neatly on pegs. The centre of the space is taken up with worktables and benches, but in one corner there is an old boxy TV with a faded grey couch and a couple of folding chairs sitting before it.
Marlon turns on a power saw, which echoes gratingly off the walls, then he motions for Tyron to sit on the couch while he pulls up a chair. Tyron finds all of this exceedingly strange; he hopes it isn’t visible in his face.
“Sorry for all this, young brother.” Marlon waves vaguely at the saw and the basement in general. He speaks just loud enough for Tyron seated beside him, but any further and his words are lost to the mechanical whirring of the saw. “I’ll explain in a moment. But first, have you heard what happened last night with your friend Antoine Deco?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Tyron says, trying to match the same volume as Marlon. “I watched the fight.”
Marlon’s deep-set eyes tighten, and he peers further into Tyron’s. “You haven’t heard,” he says. “After his fight, Deco killed two people. At least that’s what the police are saying.”
Tyron involuntarily laughs. “You’re not serious?”
Marlon nods. “No one can believe it. It’ll dominate the national news for a while. Sports news too.”
Tyron stares into Marlon’s eyes. He doesn’t distrust him for a moment, yet still he can’t believe it. Marlon turns on the TV as evidence. Tyron doesn’t need the saw turned off to hear the newsfeed: Antoine’s face is plastered across the screen, with the words “Murdered 2 people: Norman Bashinsky, Raymond Monk” beneath. It cuts from a video of Antoine in the ring against Konitsyn to an old mug shot. Marlon turns off the TV.
“When?” Tyron says, almost unable to find his voice.
“In his dressing room after the fight. The casino owner and his head of security went in to congratulate him, and he beat them to death.”
Tyron imagines the scenario. Now that he’s got his head around the idea, he admits it is something Antoine could do. “Why?”
“Everyone is saying that Deco snapped. The police, the media. ‘Culture of violence,’ that’s the phrase they keep using. ‘Culture of poverty’ too. They say his father was a criminal who was murdered, and that Antoine was a criminal too, before he became a boxer. They think the beating he took in the fight was what pushed him over the edge. Turned him psychotic and he killed the first people he was alone with. Bullshit, if I ever heard it.”
Tyron remembers the strange things Antoine said to him yesterday. That they were brothers and Tyron should look out for him if shit went down. He knew what was coming. He planned this.
“What’re you thinking?” Marlon asks.
“I saw him yesterday. Antoine. He was acting strange. Said some cryptic things.”
Marlon senses his reticence and says, “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to. It’s not my business.”
Tyron begins to tell Marlon that Antoine planned the murders, but then remembers Antoine speaking about his paren
ts and decides against it. “Maybe another time.”
Marlon gives a short, sharp nod. “Sorry I asked you to come here so early, but I need to get over to the rally point well before everything begins, and I wanted to speak to you in private first.”
“No problem.”
“Looks like you had a long night.”
“Yeah.”
Marlon’s face sours.
“I never drink, Marlon. Last night was an aberration.”
“That’s good. That’s good.”
“What’s with the saw, Marlon? You think you’re bugged?”
Marlon scans the basement. “I could be. Tyron, I think I’m being followed.”
Marlon pauses for the gravity of these words to sink in. It is a good thing he does, because Tyron needs time. Naomi might be single, Keenan might want to fight him, Antoine is a murderer, and now Marlon is being followed. All this hitting him with his brain stilted and the saw ringing in his ears.
“I don’t know who they are,” Marlon says, pre-empting Tyron’s question. “To be straight with you, there isn’t much to go on. But I can feel it. Cars lingering down the street. Vans pulled up in front of the house. When I’m walking, someone at the edge of my vision. I turn around and it’s too late, they’re gone, but I can feel their eyes on my back. I can feel them watching the house. I don’t want to leave ’cause then they’ll break in and do whatever. Maybe they broke in already.” He juts his chin toward the saw. “Precautions.”
Tyron meets Marlon’s intent gaze and nods, trying to hide his skepticism.
“You got any guns?” Marlon asks.
“Guns?”
“Yeah, I got rid of mine, so they got nothing they can use on me. You know they’ll fabricate something as soon as they see an opening. We have to be perfect, ’cause they’ll vilify us any way they can to delegitimize our cause. That’s why I got rid of my guns. But I know something’s coming, brother, and I need to be prepared when it does.”
Tyron is almost certain now that the man is paranoid. “I don’t have any guns, Marlon. All mine were Marine-issued. I turned them in when I was discharged.”
Marlon’s expression turns grim. “It’s cool. I’ll be all right.”
“If I can help in any other way . . .”
“I know, young brother.”
Marlon curls his shovel-sized hand into a fist and pounds Tyron’s with it.
“There’s one more thing. The rally in a few hours. I know you’re concerned about betraying your boy. But I want to be clear that this is not a protest against Keenan Quinn. It’s not about justice for just one or two people. It’s not about blaming or punishing specific individuals for the systemic oppression that we face. You with me? This is about fighting institutionalized racism. It starts with exposing and ending police terrorism in Black communities, but the movement has the potential to tackle much more than that. Housing, education, employment — the things we’ve been fighting for, over such a long time, now we can pursue them again. Black Lives Matter has tapped into a level of participation and energy that we haven’t seen for decades. Its sharp focus on police violence has given us a single issue to rally around, but from there we can expand to a broader range of issues — even challenge the fundamental inequalities at the heart of capitalism itself — for all people, not just our community. We take this far enough and we could see things happen. Not lip service, not the pretense of a colour-blind society to justify stripping away our rights, but change. Real change. Social welfare–oriented change. The time is now, young brother, and we need everyone.”
Marlon’s words remind Tyron of the conversations his parents used to have when he was young. They weren’t nearly as forceful as Marlon is now, but their discussions often ran along similar lines. When they saw Tyron listening, they would include him in the discussion, asking his opinion. And they did the same for Antoine once he was living with them. At first the boys were shy, intimidated by the level of discourse. But the Shaws would coax and encourage them, and the boys would eventually deliver simple responses drawn from things they had heard others say — better schools, less drugs, less guns — and the adults would commend them for their answers. Then Viola Shaw might ask the boys how they would bring about such change, and the boys would awkwardly look at each other and stammer. Viola would laugh and say, “Don’t worry, your father and I don’t have an answer for that one either. It’s what we’ve been working toward. The question of how hasn’t been answered. Not yet, at least. But maybe one day, you two will be part of the answer.”
Tyron’s eyes clear from his memories and he says, “You’re right, Marlon. I’ll be at the rally.”
8
7:19 a.m.
Keenan rings the doorbell of Sergeant Brian Fitzgerald, a friend since their days in the academy, and a reliable one at that. More reliable than Keenan ever was to him, Keenan thinks with regret. No one comes to the door and he rings the bell again. It is warm out already. And bright. A sweltering day is coming.
The blinds in the window part, a pair of eyes stare out. Seeing Keenan, the eyes narrow. The door swings open. Fitz, in a T-shirt, track pants, and bare feet, steps outside and closes the door behind him.
“Keenan, what are you doing here? Kind of early for a pop-in, dude.”
“I’m sorry. You weren’t answering your phone.”
“That’s because it’s Sunday morning. My wife’s losing her shit.”
“Fitz, I need a favour.”
“Now?”
“It can’t wait.”
Fitz’s stocky build has grown thicker along the waistline since Keenan saw him last. He has a trim beard and an open, affable face that can harden when it needs to. It does so now, but then, after a moment’s appraisal of Keenan’s ragged appearance, he opens the door behind him. With a stern yet empathetic expression, he motions with his head for Keenan to follow him inside.
After the heat of outdoors, the house feels frigid, the air conditioning turned up too high for Keenan’s liking. Fitz’s wife, Jessica, is hovering halfway down the stairs, arms crossed. With glossy black hair and pouty lips, she too has put on weight since their child was born fifteen months ago, yet it suits her, adding to what was already a voluptuous figure. Jess and Keenan have had a few awkward moments when they were all out drinking together. And a few not-so-awkward moments in this house while Fitz was on shift. Fitz never knew.
“Keenan,” she says, arms still folded. “It’s early.”
“I’m sorry, Jess. I’m in a bit of a crisis.”
“For a change,” she says with a raised eyebrow and an ironic smile.
Keenan smiles tiredly. “It’s becoming a habit.”
She descends the rest of the stairs. “Coffee?”
“Please. Black.”
“And you?” she asks of her husband.
Fitz looks at Keenan, estimating the level of hassle his friend is about to dump on him. “The same, hon.” Apparently it’s a high estimate.
She heads off to the kitchen, and Fitz again looks Keenan up and down. “Shit, dude, did you sleep at all last night?”
“Maybe an hour.”
Fitz leads Keenan into the living room where they can speak in private.
“I need the file on a murder from twenty years ago: victim’s name, Raul Deco.”
“I can’t get you a file, Keenan. You’re retired.”
“Then you look at the file and tell me what’s in it.”
“What’s this about?”
“I can’t get into it now. Just trust me when I say that I have to find out who killed Raul Deco.”
Fitz stares up at Keenan, holding his gaze as he assesses the situation. Then he looks around him, seeming to grow uncomfortable about having a conversation like this inside his own home. He ushers Keenan through the sliding glass doors into the backyard. The moment he is out on the red-t
iled patio, Fitz seems less of a family man and more of a cop.
“Keenan, if I’m going to stick my neck out for you, you’ve got to give me something.”
“Do you know who Antoine Deco is?”
Fitz shakes his head. “Should I?”
“You’re not a boxing fan, are you?”
“No.”
Keenan decides that expediency is more important than secrecy. He has to trust someone in Metro if he is going to find answers, and there is no one he’s going to trust more than Brian Fitzgerald. He gives him a quick rundown of all the important points, with the exception of the Shaws being assassinated.
“Where’s your father now?” Fitz asks.
“Naomi’s with him and my mom. They’re looking for a hotel with an available room.”
“So he should be all right, for at least a couple of days, even if Antoine is after him.”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
A stabbing headache hits Keenan behind the eyes. He grimaces and shuts his eyes against the sudden pain. It leaves as abruptly as it came; he breathes deep and rubs his eyes. Fitz looks at him with concern.
“I think you’re too close to this thing. Join your wife and parents at the hotel. Get some rest. Let me look into it.”
Hearing those words, recognizing how earnestly they have been spoken, Keenan almost collapses in relief, gratitude, and exhaustion. He puts a hand on Fitz’s shoulder, half to thank him, half to keep standing. He experiences such a release of emotion to at last have an ally that he shares everything, as there is no point in half measures anymore. He has already divulged too much to condemn him if Fitz is with Bashinsky’s people; he might as well offer him all the ammo there is and hope Fitz aims it somewhere else. “There’s another murder to look into. A double homicide from sixteen years ago.”
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