by Bruce Geddes
“Well you can see that it’s still not on the menu, so . . .”
Tony removed his ball cap and rubbed his thinning hair. He looked around, fidgeting with his cast. He tugged his sleeve down and then ran it up again, showing the tattoo. Impatient for service, he raised his good hand and snapped his fingers towards the bar.
“Let’s get some quesadillas,” he said.
“This was supposed to be a quick drink.”
“Let’s get some spring rolls, too.”
“I don’t want to talk about my wife leaving me.”
“You don’t want to talk about anything.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Don’t worry,” Tony said. “It’s safe here.”
“I don’t really want to get into that again.”
“Yes you do. That’s why you came down here instead of going back to Toronto. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have put together some documents from my file. I’ve got too much to be portable and I don’t want to risk taking it outside, you know? He leaned forward, lowered his voice and said, I have some things that’ll really open your eyes. I didn’t know you were coming, though so . . .”
“I don’t even understand why you’re launching this, Tony.”
“He was my uncle. The man meant a lot to me.”
“He meant a lot to me, too. He still does. I don’t think you understand that.”
“Then listen to what I’m telling you. You need to read the transcripts from the coroner’s inquest.”
“What would I learn?”
“A lot. Like that the bus driver I was telling you about? The one who they shot in Australia? He claimed at first that his brakes failed. Later he changed his testimony.”
“A lot of people would say the same.”
“But there was another driver.”
“What other driver?”
“A driver behind the bus who told the police that the bus slowed down before it ran the red light. But that guy never appeared at the inquest.”
“You have the name of the other driver?”
“Not yet. But I was thinking you could get the police records. A subpoena. And here’s another thing. The bus driver was way off schedule. Twelve minutes behind.”
“So?”
“So there was no way a driver could be twelve minutes behind schedule when he was only four blocks from the depot.”
“So you think the bus was waiting for Gord to come through?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“Maybe he was on the phone, eating lunch, taking a dump for all we know.”
“Someone must have given him a signal.”
“It was an accident, Tony. An accident.”
“They must have had guys on the road. Two or three at least. Look-outs. We have to find those guys, too. Because they have to be punished. Or maybe we get one of them to testify against Forzante.”
“Jesus, man, I have enough to think about.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me you are a hundred percent sure. Tell me you are sure it was an accident. Tell me who gave you all that work for Newsys. Tell me about that?”
I drank the foam from a new pint, avoiding Tony’s stare. God, I hated this! I wanted to yell, to break glass. I hated being here. I hated that I couldn’t answer him with any conviction. I felt violence inside. I felt like punching myself in the balls. A double-fister, right to the nuts. Painful enough to collapse on the floor, to pass right out. Instead I drank a giant gulp from my beer and read a poster tracking a season-long darts tournament where someone called Prince Motherswell was closing in on the lead. Was I one hundred percent certain? What a question! What does anyone know for certain? I don’t even know if my head is attached half the time.
“Haven’t you even thought about what you’re doing?” I said, chopping my hand in the air. “Have you considered the consequences? Say I stand up and accuse Allistair Forzante of killing Gord. Just say. What happens?”
“We get a search warrant. We find the evidence.”
“Idiot. That won’t happen. This is what happens: First, Forzante denies your charges. And right away he goes on the offensive. He’s a dirty fighter, Tony. He’s filthy when he has to be. You know that. If I point a finger at him, he’ll denounce me, call me a deeply troubled soul in need of psychiatric assistance because my wife just left me. He’d invent things and find plenty of people to back him up.”
“So you don’t want to be embarrassed.”
“No! Yes! I don’t want to be embarrassed and I don’t want to embarrass my dead father by accusing the man he called best friend of murder. And on top of that having to explain that Forzante killed him because my father was plotting to take over the union! Look, I know I haven’t exactly built on Gord’s legacy, but I haven’t destroyed it either and I’d like to see it preserved. There are things, Tony. There might be things. Things about Gord, maybe nasty things, that should be left buried.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Tony said. “People will understand. The more important thing is that Forzante’s got to pay.”
“What he does to me, he’ll do worse to you. You, who left your teenage girlfriend to raise your baby alone, he’ll say.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“A troublemaker at Krulls, he’ll call you. Bent on revenge after getting fired. After your entirely justifiable dismissal. A guy who broke his hand and doesn’t remember how. And those are just the things he doesn’t have to make up.”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You should, Tony. In fact, you should care a lot more about yourself.” I wiped my mouth. “We’ll take two more here.”
“I’m fine. I can take care of myself.” Tony shrank a little in his seat, but I didn’t let up.
“You’re still living with your mother, man!”
“My mother needs my help with things.”
“Your mother’s got more energy than a rat. You should be worrying about yourself. Get a girlfriend. Play slo-pitch. When was the last time you talked to Bernie? He’s doing amazing things, you know. You should be enjoying that sort of thing, a proud papa. Instead, you’re toting a flask of Special Old, mixing it with cream soda. Like a teenager. For some old, redundant, overpaid fuck, you get fired from the best job you’ll ever have in this city. Would Wally Del Col have done the same for you?”
“Wally was from the old school.”
“You’re getting revenge on multi-national corporations by calling their help desk three times a week! You want revenge? Throw a bomb through a window and be done with it. What you’re doing is like trying to kill someone with a pin. Prick. Prick. Prick. Maybe it’s annoying but it’s not going to hurt them.”
Then the spring rolls arrived and I chomped half of the first, and felt the sear of hot oil coating and blistering my tongue and roof of my mouth. The weight of my words, delivered with sincere vitriol, was lost entirely when I spit a mouthful of spring roll wrapper, bean sprouts and shredded carrot onto the plate and gulped red-faced from my beer, dousing the pain even as stray streams of lager dampened the front of my button down. When I was calmed, I wiped and dabbed with a wad of napkin ripped from a dispenser, tossed a couple of twenties on the table, and left.
24
Some hours after leaving Tony at TCs, I went back to Tony’s to collect my weekend bag. On the sofa cushions where I had passed the previous night, Louise had dumped a basket of stuff: Old knitting projects, jigsaw puzzles, recipe cards, shoe laces, light bulbs, salad servers, hair ribbons.
“I need to organize all of this,” she said. “Otherwise, you’d be welcome to stay the night.”
I checked into the Ambassador and lay fully dressed on the bed and fell asleep and dreamed about Gord. The details fled quickly from my mind but when I awoke, startled, I was so convinced that he was still alive that I pic
ked up the phone and pushed the first digits of our old home number before coming to the groggy understanding that I had been dreaming.
Awake now and fidgety, I bounced against a wall and into the bathroom and pissed. My urine smelled like popcorn. I glugged several glasses of water, ignoring the bad, earthy taste. I rubbed at the stubble on my cheeks, sending flakes of dry skin to the sink below. I was not a handsome man, I decided, and returned to the bedroom. After a few more minutes, I picked up the phone. Sagipa answered on the first ring.
“It looks like General Motors is going to declare bankruptcy,” he said and, from that, I gathered that Inés had yet to tell him anything.
“There was a time when one of every two cars on the road was a GM,” I said. “They used to say ‘as GM goes, so goes the nation.’”
“Yeah. I’ve heard that.”
“He was talking about America of course, whoever said it.”
“I figured,” Sagipa said. “How’s your cousin anyway?”
“Still crazy,” I said. “How’s the research with Manolo going?”
Sagipa paused before answering, “We had an argument.”
I sat up. “Something about El Che?”
“Not about the book. About Tibet.”
“What did I see about Tibet recently?”
“Sarkozy visited the Dalai Lama.”
I remembered. The French president, his long-limbed wife dutifully stationed behind him, chumming with the world’s most famous, most cuddly exile. Warm handshakes. Big, squinty smiles. Incensed, Beijing shot back with the usual threats of sanctions. I knew where Sagipa stood on the issue: Tibet belonged to China and had benefited immensely from the 1959 takeover, when the repressive lamas were ousted from power, freeing hundreds of thousands from excessive taxation and, let it never be forgotten, a justice system so barbaric and backward that the preferred method of execution saw the accused sealed into a bag sewn from yak skin and hurled into the Kyi River.
“What did Manolo say?” I asked.
“He says that Tibetans have a right to self-determination. That it’s inalienable.”
“Is that so wrong?”
“I have nothing against self-determination. Neither does China. There are fifty-five different ethnic groups in China, all of them celebrated for their distinct cultures and traditions.”
“So what was he on about?” I asked.
“What’s Tibet without China? A theocracy. How can we call for the separation of church and state in our own country and support a nation run by monks? The Free Tibet movement is ethno-nationalism disguised as a human rights issue. Historically, that kind of thinking has led to little good and much bad. Think of Yugoslavia and that whole mess. That wasn’t so long ago,” Sagipa said.
“Well, Manolo’s ideals come from a different era.”
It felt strange to be saying what I was saying but I could tell the rift had upset Sagipa and my instinct was to try and still the waters, even the fetid ones. And so I continued: “He fought against repression and for the rights of others his entire life. A person like that doesn’t let go of his ideologies so easily.”
“He’d be better off abandoning all that,” Sagipa said. “It’s a new world.”
“Not everyone wants this new world.”
“What difference should that make?”
Ugh, I thought. But that wouldn’t do. “Let me tell you something,” I said. “The older we get, the less open we are to change. Sometimes, I see it in myself. Sure, there are lots of things to dislike about the world: Social injustices, the erosion of democracy, bad TV, corporate pizza. But more and more, I find myself unwilling to stand up and oppose these things.”
“Why?”
“Because those things, the good and the bad, they’ve been happening my whole life and I’m used to them and if they were to disappear, I don’t know what would move in to fill the void. Even if it’s wrong, it’s comfortable. So instead of saying ‘Tax the rich!’ I say ‘Why bother? They’ll only figure out ways to get it back.’ Instead of saying ‘Reduce nuclear weapons!’ now I say ‘Why be so hasty?’.
“Take what I just said and apply it to Manolo. He did okay living a rebel’s life. It’s what he knew. Asking him to change now might simply not be worth his effort. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe we both are. In fact, history will probably make us all look like fools. I learned that from you, by the way.”
Sagipa was silent and then I talked some more. I told him some more about Tony and asked him more about his life and as I listened to him tell me how China would soon take over as the global leader in alternative energy, I drew circles with my finger on the side table and realized with a suck of sorrowful breath that the conversation we were having might have been my finest moment as a father.
From under the telephone, I pulled out a directory and, without pausing to reconsider, called Drew Herringer, who agreed to see me.
“Can we meet in an hour?”
“Where are you?”
“At the Ambassador.”
“You have a room?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a bar next door. I don’t remember what it’s called but I’ll meet you there.”
I was in a booth when Drew arrived. I ordered two glasses of white.
“I took a taxi,” Drew said. “We can get a bottle.”
She wore jeans and a tight black sweater with a high turtleneck. Diamond stud earrings sparkled under her hair, which seemed all the more golden against the black of her sweater. Piano music played over buzzing speakers and we were into our second glasses, the bottle sweating a puddle onto the table, when I brought up Tony.
“He’s got this crackpot theory,” I said.
Drew touched the corner of her mouth. “About a certain someone ordering a hit on your father?” She spoke quietly.
“You know about it?”
“Sure.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
“Well,” Drew sipped from her wine. “You can imagine.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Of course not. Never did.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“Absurd.”
“They were best friends.”
“Exactly.”
“And even if it were true,” she said. “You know the guy he’s accusing would be careful not to leave any loose ends that would tie him to it.” Her voice neared a whisper. Her eyes peered into darkened corners.
I topped our wine glasses. “Right,” I said. “Like killing the bus driver in Australia.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
The server passed our table to replace the candle in its glass holder. Drew’s face glowed with this new brightness. She said thank you when the server divided the last of the wine.
“There’s nothing to it, Tricky. It’s just Tony’s theories. You can understand it though.”
“How do you mean?”
“Because of how Tony practically worshipped Gord.”
I said nothing.
“You didn’t know? Oh, Richard, you had to know that. There was no one else more important to him,” Drew said. “I was with him when he heard the news about the accident over the radio. He was so shocked that he threw up and then started crying and didn’t stop for two days. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. Just this horrible, horrible wailing, like a mule with a broken leg. He was just—destroyed.” I looked at Drew, her eyes now heavy with tears.
“I remember him at the funeral. He was okay,” I said.
“For you, he was always okay. He thought he had to show some strength for his cousin. But there were nights, Tricky, there were some really bad nights. If he was drinking? My God. You know that when we started having sex, it was my idea, not his. I was just so desperate to put an end to his sadness. Even then, you know what? There w
ere nights he was so distracted, he couldn’t . . . Can you imagine? He was eighteen!
“I don’t even like remembering this stuff. Let’s have another bottle. I like this one. Is it from California? New Zealand? It’s good, isn’t it?” She spoke haltingly now. “All of that stuff—the no cheating, no lying, no picking fights—those were all lessons from Gord. Tony wanted to live the way Gord would have wanted.”
I told her about Tony’s campaign against Bell.
“It’s like Gord died before Tony could get it right,” Drew said, shaking her head. “You know he was in the hospital a few years back?”
“For what?”
“He had some sort of breakdown. I don’t know what happened, exactly. I didn’t even know about it when he was in there, but Gus’ accountant’s wife is a doc at the Royal Vic and she let slip that she’d seen him. I thought maybe he’d had an accident at the factory. But later I found out that she’s a psychiatrist. Poor Tony. Sometimes I don’t think this changing world is made for him.” Drew shook her head, chasing the threat of more tears.
“Can we talk about something else? How’s Toronto?”
“Toronto’s fine.” I said.
“Yeah? Good. That’s good. How’s Inés?”
25
In my room at the Ambassador, I kissed Drew in a fumbling way, my lips making awkward pecks and nibbles on her chin and her cheeks. We lay parallel on the bed atop the covers, the pillows exposed from my earlier nap. From this close, her eyelashes looked like the ends of tiny ropes, burned black to stop fraying. Her hair touched my face as I kissed a line from the edge of her jaw to the lobe of her ear and smelled her perfume, something sweet and volatile. When I reached her neck I stayed there, my lips resting on her skin. I felt her body squirm, pressing into me, looking for a comfortable spot, settling for something close. She let her hands roam, massaging my back, running the tips of her fingers under my belt. I did not reciprocate. My shirt was still tucked in; I hadn’t even removed my shoes. I was tired and I was confused and, for the moment, I was satisfied to nuzzle in her neck. Drew, searching for a catalyst, made a move to my crotch, missing the mark at first before landing it with the circling palm of her hand. With a weak groan, I pushed my lips into her neck harder. When nothing more than that happened, she let go, took my hand in hers and placed it atop her breast. I gave it a tentative squeeze. It was soft, pillowy even and, as far as I could tell, real.