The barn door opened with a creak. Shafts of sunlight were filtering through the cracks between the boards. The heavy bag was there, just as I remembered it. A little more rust on the chain and a little more duct tape on the bag, but other than that it was the same. The Chief had kicked my ass up and down this whole barn, but in the end, I learned.
I turned and walked back to the trailer. Once again, I stared at the front door. I didn’t want to go in there and see The Chief’s old stuff. His old blue couch, sagging in the middle; the tiny TV sitting on the TV stand he built himself; the papers and letters and books and bottles. The lemon-shaped soap dish sitting next to the kitchen sink. His clothes lined up and hanging in the closet. The remains of his life left behind, like a snakeskin after the snake moves on.
There were places and people I could call. Junk removal folks, estate sale folks. Not that The Chief had any antique spoons or anything like that. There were weapons stashed in the trailer and in the barn and all over the perimeter. There might be a bit of money stashed somewhere, too. Banded bills rolled up and tucked inside old mason jars and buried next to rocks and trees. Not a lot, just enough cash to help The Chief sleep at night. Some of the old tripwires might still be up in the woods, too.
I wasn’t going to call anyone.
I went back to the car and popped the trunk. I pulled out a bottle of Jameson and walked back to the porch. I sat down on the white plastic chair and looked down to see The Chief’s old ashtray on the weathered grey boards of the deck. The ashtray was still full, a heap of soggy rotten cigarette butts. I could almost see The Chief’s nicotine-yellowed fingers rolling another smoke with his Zig-Zags and his Drum tobacco. I could hear his gravelly voice: “Well, Jack — whatcha gonna do?”
The wind whipped the grass. I opened up the bottle of Jameson and took a long pull. I sat there with the key in my hand and I drank.
I woke up in the morning and groaned. My back was stiff from sleeping on The Chief’s porch. No — it was my porch now. I sat there on the porch for a minute listening to the birds. Then I stood up and drove back to the city.
CHAPTER 32
The casino was a hive of activity as people made preparations for Aunt Cecilia’s funeral. Eddie came out of his office, followed by Vin. I blinked. Their heads were completely shaved. “For the funeral,” Eddie said.
“Should I do that?”
Eddie smiled. “That’s sweet, Jack. But no.”
I slapped the car keys into Eddie’s hand. We stood looking at each other for a minute, then Eddie adjusted his tie. “All right,” he said, “here we go.”
We drove out to a church in Scarborough. It was all dark wood and flowers. There was a man in the crowd with a too-small suit and a white walrus moustache. I knew who he was: Charlie the Vice Cop who had been trying to bust Cecilia for years. Looks like the reaper beat you to it, I thought.
The pallbearers lined up. We left the church and helped carry the coffin to the gravesite, then stood there in our dark suits with our hands folded respectfully. At the gravesite, the minister said a few words. He said Aunt Cecilia was in a better place. Maybe it was true. There was no way to know. It’s not like Aunt Cecilia was going to come back and tell us about it. The dead only come back in dreams.
I didn’t go to my mother’s funeral. Would I have gotten closure, seeing a shovelful of dirt hit the coffin? Most of the funerals I’ve been to, they don’t start throwing dirt until all the mourners make their way back to the church or the funeral home for cookies and coffee and little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And then it’s the gravedigger’s time to shine.
Closure. What’s closure? That shit was for the movies. Get everything all wrapped up in a nice little package. In real life, trauma doesn’t work like that. Trauma changes you forever. You can survive, you can even thrive, but you’re different now. Seeing my mother get buried wouldn’t have changed a goddamn thing.
I didn’t even know she was dead until three months after the funeral. Some collections agency tracked me down, trying to get me to cough up the cash to pay her bills. I told them to get fucked. How many goddamn times had we moved in the middle of the night as she tried to skip out on her bills? All our money went to booze. Or our cash was hoovered up by yet another shiftless asshole who was pretending to give a shit about us — all those faceless “uncles.” I split that scene when I was seventeen and I never looked back.
Back at the church, I stuffed a tuna sandwich into my mouth and headed for the door. On my way out, Eddie shook my hand. “Thanks for everything, Jack.”
“She was a good woman, Eddie.” Aunt Cecilia had been a vicious mobster, but that’s not the kind of shit you say at a funeral.
“Where you headed?”
“There’s something I gotta do.” I frowned. “Can’t put it off any longer.”
I met Melody at her house. She was bustling around in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes, spreading mayo. “You want a sandwich?”
“I ate at the funeral.”
“You sure? You know I’m famous for my club sandwiches.” Melody smiled. “The secret is mayo. Lots of mayo.”
She put her sandwich on a plate and carried it into the dining room. She sat down.
I remained standing. “It was you.”
Melody looked over at me, her mouth full of club sandwich. “What?”
“You and Marcus, you boosted your dad’s coke.”
“Come on, man. That’s crazy talk.”
“You and Marcus went to your dad’s house, ripped up his basement, and stole his cocaine.”
Melody frowned. “It sounds so bad when you say it like that.”
“How would you say it?”
“I was doing dear old Dad a favour. Bringing back Satan’s Blood? He was going to get killed behind that shit. Yeah, I took the coke. No coke, no money, no Satan’s Blood.”
“Your dad could’ve been killed.”
“You think I’m a fucking idiot? My dad was so drunk he could barely stand.” Melody put her hands on the table. “Think about it, Jack. This could work out well for you, too. We sell that coke, we raise some cash. You take some of that cash — a loan, you understand — and you pay off Anton. He goes away happy. Cassandra’s happy, which makes you happy. You pay me back and I’m happy.” Melody’s fingertips drummed against the table. “You see? Everybody’s happy.”
“Except Fisher and your dad.”
“They get to live, man. They don’t have to go to war with the Angels over a fucking pipe dream. So what do you say? You in?”
CHAPTER 33
Cowboy sat in the driver’s seat of his Escalade with the AC blasting. Icicles were practically forming on the roof. I rubbed my arms. “You smuggling penguins, Cowboy? Got ’em locked in the trunk or something?”
Cowboy leaned forward and turned down the AC. “I like the cold. Keeps me sharp. This time of year it gets too hot, man, I can’t even think. I’m like a robot winding down.” Cowboy made a dying electronics sound and swung his arms around, pantomiming a robot losing power. Then he looked at me and winked.
“The math checks out. Four kilos isn’t all that much in the grand scheme of things, but folks have had their heads chopped off for less. And we’re talking four kilos of uncut. Once that shit’s been stepped on, it’s gonna be eight kilos at least. A key of uncut will run you about twenty-five grand if you’re buying in bulk. Each gram can be sold for about a hundred bucks. See what I’m saying? Sell that shit by the rock and the price doubles. Twenty bones for a tenth of a gram means now each gram is worth two hundred bucks. A thousand grams in a kilogram … so at street level, if you’re selling by the rock, your twenty-five-thousand-dollar kilo now is worth two hundred thousand dollars. But don’t forget, that original key’s been doubled because you’ve stepped on it with lactose and creatine and who the fuck knows what else. Some people use levamisole. You know what that shit is? It’s used to deworm cattle. Mmm-mmm, delicious. Point is, doubled-up, your original kilo that cost twenty-five grand is
now two kilos of crack worth four hundred thousand dollars on the street. The original four kilos that cost a hundred grand total are now eight kilos of crack worth one million, six hundred thousand dollars.”
I blinked. “Goddamn.”
Cowboy nodded. “That’s a nice profit margin right there.” He slapped the steering wheel. “Thanks for coming to me with this, Jack. Reminds me of the good ol’ days.”
The math checked out. I closed my eyes and I could smell Melody, that coconut and sunshine smell. “How much would you pay for the four kilos?”
Cowboy shook his head. “You got it wrong, Jack. I don’t fuck with that shit anymore.”
“Right. You’re in the music biz now.”
“That’s, like, you know, a hobby.” Cowboy laughed. “Thanks again, Jack. Good luck.” Cowboy held out his hand and I shook it.
“Goodbye, Cowboy.” I climbed out of the Escalade and stood in the parking lot while he drove away.
Maybe the math checked out, but Melody’s coke scheme was still insane. Melody and Marcus couldn’t retail 1.6 million dollars worth of crack all by themselves. As Marcus said, they didn’t have the customers. He was also right on the money when he said that moving that much product a rock at a time would take forever. And as much as I enjoyed Melody’s company, I wasn’t exactly relishing the prospect of playing the heavy in Melody’s imaginary drug empire. Plus, as Whitney Houston said, crack is wack.
As I saw it, there were only a few possible solutions.
One: Melody had to come clean. Admit everything and give Walter back his coke. Maybe he’d sell the shit and get his violent biker gang back in business. Or maybe he’d get stomped to death in the process. Hallmark didn’t make a card for any of that. “Sorry I ripped off your coke, Dad.” Right next to the lilac-covered cards for Grandma’s birthday. If Melody came clean, that would make for decades of awkward family get-togethers, glaring at each other over the bones of the Thanksgiving turkey. Worse, that might be the final nail in the coffin when it came to their relationship. I didn’t know if Walter would disown his daughter for stealing his four keys of uncut cocaine, but people have stopped speaking to each other for less.
Solution Two: wholesale that shit. Cowboy wasn’t the only game in town. Sell the coke quick and be done with it. Melody wouldn’t be happy with the smaller payday, but it would be a lot safer than standing on the corner with a vial of crack in your fist.
That was the missing part of Cowboy’s equation. There were other dealers out there who wouldn’t be happy with some brand-new competition. In that scenario, Melody and Marcus’s baseball bats wouldn’t mean shit. Maybe the bats intimidated suburban dads looking to toot a few lines on a Saturday night, but there were dealers out there with full-on, honest-to-God machine guns who were more than willing to protect their turf.
I took a cab to Fisher’s place and climbed up the crumbling porch steps. The red warning sign greeted me at the door: OXYGEN IN USE. I thought about Daisy wasting away upstairs.
When Fisher opened the door, his eyes were red and puffy. At first I thought he was high. Then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Not a good time, Jack.”
“I’ve got a line on your missing coke. Walter didn’t take it. He was ripped off.”
“You working for him now?”
“No, I’m not working for him.”
“You tell that sonofabitch to give me back my shit.”
“I’m telling you, he doesn’t have it.”
“Then who does?”
“Someone who’s interested in giving it back.”
Fisher glared at me and then his face softened. He left the door open and walked over to his tree trunk coffee table and picked up a pack of smokes. He tapped one out and lit it up, then collapsed back onto his old yellow floral couch. “You want me to wholesale that shit myself? I don’t have time for that shit. I’m going to be busy over the next few days.” Fisher exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “A few years back, when Daisy could still travel, we went down to Vegas for a cancer convention. It was for patients, you know, like one giant support group, but I went down there with her to keep her company.” Fisher chuckled. “Not that she needed it. Sometimes you need to be with people who really get where you’re coming from, you know? People that are going through the same shit you are. It didn’t take her long at all to make friends. They all went off together, and that was great, you know, fine with me. I walked around the strip, I made a little money playing blackjack, I checked out a few shoe shows. You know why they call ’em shoe shows?” Fisher grinned. “’Cause that’s all those gals end up wearing — up on stage naked as jaybirds except for those sparkly high-heeled shoes.
“Anyway, one night I weave and wander back to our room and stagger through the door and there’s Daisy, right in the middle of her room with her friends, these two old gals and this real pale red-haired gal who was young, Jack, like in her twenties … folks that young shouldn’t get sick like that. Hell, no one should get sick like that. But anyway, these gals are sitting in the room with Daisy and I stomp on in and just stand there blinking and they all start laughing, this high-pitched laughter just rolling right over everything. Turns out they’re all high as balls. They’ve been sharing their pain meds around and washing them down with good old-fashioned American bourbon. That pale red-haired gal was grinning like a cat, sitting all splayed out on an armchair by the window. The two old gals — turns out they were together, you know, a couple … Doris and, uh, I can’t remember the other one’s name. Gail? Anyway, they’re all lolled back in the bed and Daisy is in the other bed and the sliding glass doors to the balcony are open and the sound from The Strip is coming in, bass bumping from cars and one man just flat-out howling, bringing up some deep-down despair from inside his body, gone primal from drinking and losing money all day. I stumbled over and shut the door and these gals are still laughing, tears rolling down their cheeks.”
Fisher ground out his cigarette. “That was the last time I can remember Daisy being happy.” Fisher stared up at me. “She always wanted to go back, but I guess it ain’t happening now. She’s gone, Jack.” Fisher looked away. “No more pain.”
“I’m sorry, Fisher.”
“I’m going to sell this place. Cash out of this whole damn city and go south. Or London, maybe, or Sault Ste. Marie. Maybe find a little gal somewhere to share my bed.” Fisher chuckled. “I’m not too old to start a family. Big ol’ backyard with a swing set and everything. I can stand out there grilling up some steaks while the sun goes down.” Fisher nodded. “Sounds pretty sweet, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it does.”
We sat there in the dark while the clocks tick-tocked.
CHAPTER 34
I took the bus down Vaughan Road to St. Clair West station and then I hopped on the subway. There was a woman sitting a few seats away who was obviously in some kind of mental distress. She was rooting around inside her filthy sweater, catching tiny bugs and then smearing them on the seat next to her. I couldn’t tell if the bugs were real or imaginary. If they were real, they were probably bedbugs. The shelters were riddled with them. I got up and walked off the subway at the next stop. I didn’t get on the next subway car. I waited for an entirely different train. Bedbugs, man. The bug woman needed help, but I couldn’t help her. You can’t help everyone, but if you try, you can still help some.
I made it back to my office and sat down behind the desk. I should go legit, I thought. Clean the joint up, get a couple of landlines, maybe a brass nameplate for my desk and a sign for the door: PALACE SECURITY. That had a nice ring to it.
I poured myself some bourbon and then I poured my plant some water. “Palace Security. What do you think, plant?”
It was probably just a breeze, but the plant bobbed its leaves yes.
There was a knock at the door. I shuffled over and peered through the peephole. Eddie was alone, standing there in the hallway in his black suit and skinny tie. The peephole gave a fisheye effect, making him look
like an album cover from the early ’90s. I fumbled with the locks and swung open the door.
“There’s a guy downstairs to see you, Jack. Says his name is Marcus.”
I followed Eddie down the stairs. Marcus was pacing at the front of the restaurant. He was agitated as all hell.
“You were right, man. Someone trashed my apartment. They were looking for the shit, the coke. Gotta be.”
A family of diners was giving us the eye. “Let’s go upstairs,” I suggested.
Inside my office, Marcus was noticeably calmer. He stopped pacing but was still tugging on his shirtsleeve.
“You want something to drink?” I asked.
“No, no. No thanks.”
“Your place was trashed, huh? You think it was Fisher or Walter?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s not like they left a calling card.”
“Do you have any security cameras?”
“No.” Marcus shook his head. “Nothing like that.” He shuddered. “If I had been there …” Marcus looked at me, his eyes wide. “Man, I gotta get out of here.”
I nodded. “I know a place.”
Marcus and I sat on the porch of The Chief’s old trailer, kicking back on the crappy plastic chairs, watching the wind ripple through the fields. Three dark shadows were moving in slow lazy circles above us.
Marcus tilted his head back. “What kind of birds are those?”
“Turkey vultures.”
Marcus looked worried.
I smiled. “Don’t worry, they won’t eat us. They’re just checking us out, making sure we’re not dead.”
Marcus smiled. “Not dead yet.” He leaned back and turned his face to the sun. “Man, it’s nice out here. You live here?”
I shook my head. “I live in the city. But I’ve been thinking more and more about making a change.” I squinted. “Maybe I’ll open up my own security shop.”
Marcus nodded. “I hear that. I got family in Halifax. I might move out there someday, buy my own place. Cheaper than Toronto, that’s for sure.”
Carve the Heart Page 13