Almost Criminal

by E. R. Brown

  A pair of rough hands tugged at me and lifted, and one of them said, “Who is this little twat? You tryin’ to piss me off? It worked, I’m pissed.”

  I was dropped, landing on both feet.

  “Do it. Do some damage,” the other said.

  “No, hold on, stop.” I said. “Seriously.”

  “Oh, I should stop?” The Menzy nearest me smacked me in the face with two open palms. “Seriously?”

  It was just a light, mocking blow, but it knocked me back against a tree. There was one of them on each side.

  In desperation, I hissed, “You know the Bull?”

  “Say what?”

  He struck again, with a fist this time, but he was still playing, holding back any real force. I thought I might piss my pants.

  “Bullard. You work for him.”

  The closer guy smirked. Maybe I’d heard wrong, and they didn’t know Bullard. Or maybe they knew Bullard better than I did, and thought I was lying.

  “I work for him too. Don’t hit me.”

  The face thrust in close, spitting a whispered, “Bullshit. You’re not a Devil, a little twat like you.”

  I shook my head, coughing from the pain in my ribs and struggling to hold my balance.

  “No, I work for him. I’m protected.” I put my hands to my waist and straightened, speaking more clearly. “Talk to Ivan.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  Menzy number one looked in both directions, as if Bullard or the Russian might be on his way, and hit me hard and deep in the soft belly under the ribs. I doubled over, shocked by the deep gut pain.

  “Oops, slipped.” He said with a chuckle. “Twat.”

  My ears rang and my vision was blurred. I couldn’t choke or gag. I couldn’t make any sound that required breath. Someone took me by the shoulder.

  Rachel’s voice said, “Tate, you’re crazy. Don’t move, you’re hurt.”

  My guts churned with the effort of drawing air and I leaned into her, scanning the surroundings for danger. The Menzys had left.

  It felt like minutes before I had the breath to say anything. “Just winded. I’m all right. Bree’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nolan?”

  “Yes.”

  As my head cleared, some of Rachel’s friends said comforting things, while others returned to their drinks and campfires. The entertainment was over.

  I forced myself to straighten up and look confident, not like a victim or a loser. Or a chickenshit who invokes Bullard’s name because he’s afraid of a couple of street punks. I wondered whether Bullard was going to hear about it, and what he’d say.

  “You know those guys?” I asked Rachel.

  “They’re dickwads, this is their turf. You don’t buy shit in this town unless it’s from the Menzys.”

  I tried not to grimace. I hoped there was no damage in my guts, no cracked ribs.

  “I hope Nolan’s grateful.”

  “Nolan’s an idiot. That was for my sister.”

  “You don’t know them, the business you’re in?”

  “I’m not in their business. We grow the shit — we’re farmers, for Christ’s sake.” She didn’t need to know any more than that. “Let’s do that walk now, I’ve got to work this out a bit. Rebecca’s here?”

  Gone home, Rachel explained, and Tanya and Brad had headed into the woods for some private time. I limped alongside her from the park toward the marina. We watched the boats bob in the water, cables clinking rhythmically. Somewhere along the way, our hands found each other. From the park came a squeal of drunken laughter.

  “That’s Kelly,” she said. “I had such a crush on her once.” After a long pause, “She was so mean.”

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.” It didn’t seem a good time to bring up the gay thing again. It’s a hard one for a guy to have an answer to.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I liked her, she knew it, and she gave me hints, you know, little looks and flirty smiles, texted me these sweet little messages that could have meant anything, but meant a lot to me. But it was all a joke to make me feel stupid. All her friends knew.”

  I wrapped my arm around her and stroked her back.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” It seemed a pretty lame comment, even then.

  “How about here?” She said.

  It was a comfortable spot, a gentle mossy slope with a view of the lightening sky, and I was thinking how nice this could be with someone who wasn’t a lesbian.

  “Watch your dress on the grass. Here, lie on my jacket.”

  She laughed, “Don’t worry about the dress, I don’t plan to wear it again. The shawl, maybe.” She rolled the shawl carefully and tucked it aside.

  While I lay on my back, she slid in close, tilting her face to mine with half-closed eyes. The kiss was sudden and unexpected, as was the force she put into it. When our lips touched she pushed hard, pinching my bottom lip against her teeth. I hoped she didn’t feel me twinge or taste the blood — I didn’t want her to stop, even though it hurt. I was surprised and slow to react as her tongue probed, thrusting, seeking mine. At last I reacted. I wrapped my free arm behind her and rolled us both to our sides, gently stroking her back and moving around to the flat of her belly. She reached down and took me by the wrist, halting my progress, and then drew my hand up and placed it on her breast. Not shy, and definitely not the move of a lesbian, I thought. I was sure I could feel a nipple-bump under the bra wire and ruched polyester. I adjusted my weight and heard a noisy rip from somewhere in the tulle.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Can I —”

  From somewhere in the trees behind us, we both heard a cry and the high-pitched rhythm of climax.

  “Tanya,” she said.

  She pulled her belly away from mine and held my eyes while she slipped exploring fingers inside my shirt, tracing circles in the curly hair they found. She should stop now, I thought, but I couldn’t say no when her fingers slid in and down, probing inside my pants. My breathing stopped. Clumsy, sharp fingernails found me and I let out a cry of frustration as I exploded in a helpless orgasm. It was over in seconds.

  She pulled away and sat up. I heard her wipe her fingers on the grass.

  “Sorry.” What a failure, like she wasn’t already unimpressed enough with guys. I felt the cold sticky wetness and wanted to explain, make excuses, but there wasn’t anything I could say that she didn’t understand.

  “The sun’s coming up,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I should go home.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We made it to sunrise.”

  Chapter 13

  Even in the Craigslist ads, Randle couldn’t help himself.

  97 Harley Fatboy black & gre3n, lots of chrome. $12000 or trade for minivan, built-in baby seats preferred. Call 604-555-6728.

  14 foot trampoline, gre3n, used once, minor bloodstains, $350 OBO. Pick it up today, noon or after, 3685 Terrace Court.

  I admit it, it was fun. I enjoyed sitting in a camp chair up in my tree house, searching on my laptop for Randle’s code name and deciphering his instructions. I got a buzz out of carrying truckloads of weed, or thousands of dollars in cash, or both. Driving past a police cruiser, I’d break into a sweat over the bogus licence in my wallet, and the vehicle I was in, with its fake insurance papers. When I was carrying a full load, you could smell the ganja blowing in my wake, I was certain of it. The thrill was addictive.

  The jobs were coming nearly every day. I’d check Craigslist and then call Christine, who was always glad to pick up my shift.

  As for Rachel, I kept trying to get together with her, but my deliveries were so unpredictable it was hard to make plans. She wasn’t getting enough work from the video store, where business seemed to get worse every month. Whenever she got a shift, it seemed to be an evening or a weekend when I was finally free.

  There’d only been one, awkward, cocktail hour in the t
en days since grad. Our status was kind of unclear—we’d worked out the lesbian thing, I guessed, but I waited for her to bring it up and she didn’t. We just walked from the marina to the hotel and back while she sipped at her bottle. We talked about driving mostly, not the Menzys or how Bree was doing (Bree was giving me the silent treatment these days). I mentioned that I had to get home soon because I didn’t want Bree to be alone, Beth being in Vancouver again dealing with the gallery. I was keeping a bit more of an eye on her now.

  We kissed goodbye at least, just a little smack. As soon as we stopped moving, the mosquitoes found us and drove us away.

  I had fantasies about a real date, but hadn’t worked up the courage to ask her. Maybe we’d end up in my tree house. I was making it my own. I’d strung a long extension cord uphill from Pop’s and my computer picked up the Wi-Fi from the house below. I had bought a Sally Ann love seat for the living room. As long as the hot, dry summer weather held out, I was fine.

  Up in the tree house I counted my money, and thought about Rachel and me at university, far away from Wallace. I had a year’s tuition tucked away in the wall, in neat five-hundred-dollar rolls. The university was taking its sweet time letting me know whether they’d let me in, but if I was going to be at school in the fall, that meant I had six weeks left in Wallace. Six more weeks with Randle and I’d have enough to cover dorm fees and some spending money too.

  I’d driven past Anzac Engine Works twice before I realized it was the address I was after. It was a small garage that fixed anything with a motor, from lawnmowers to boats, but they specialized in motorbikes. A row of bikes always lined the front, some for sale, and some belonging to customers. Most were big American highway bikes, customized Harleys, choppers and bobbers and whatever other names bikers have for those things. I pulled a U-turn and spotted tall, skinny Ivan bent over a long, low cruiser that was all brushed aluminum and flat black, no chrome at all. He saw me and gestured that I should stay in the truck as he put down a socket wrench and stood, wiping his hands on a rag.

  He pulled an envelope from the bike’s saddlebag. “Which one you like?” he said nodding at his bike and long-forked chopper with flowing purple flames over the gas tank. He clearly felt that his bike was far more tasteful, but I shrugged. I didn’t like the guy — I was certain he was reporting back to Bullard — and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Loud, macho bikes didn’t interest me any more than loud macho bikers.

  “Not your style?” He spat on the sidewalk. “You’re not big enough to ride one anyway.” He reached a grease-streaked arm into the truck and tossed in a backpack. “End of the month. Time to take the money to the cleaners.”

  He explained the job. Randle and Bullard did their transactions in cash or by trading one kind of goods for another. But they still had a need for legitimate money, money from a bank. For rent and taxes, he said with a curl of the lip, and people who need cheques. For that, the cash had to be put into a bank, which was not as simple as you’d think. You couldn’t just walk into a bank with a roll of money, they’d report you. No, you had to clean the money first — pass it through an intermediary, legitimate business.

  Randle operated a company, a tax-paying business named Kaya Property Management. He had customers all over town — a network of stores, restaurants, and other businesses that handled a lot of cash. Randle’s courier — which had been Ivan for the past couple of months and would now be me — handed “dirty” cash to these businesses, and received, in return, a “clean” cheque for unspecified services rendered made out to Kaya Property Management. The clean cheque could be deposited anywhere.

  Ivan didn’t like the job, but to me it seemed a lot less risky than picking up truckloads of weed from remote grows with electrified fences and guard dogs that frothed at the mouth when I approached.

  The backpack was fat with cash. I had regained Randle’s trust.

  The first business on the list was a laundromat. Too appropriate, I thought. And a perfect business: cash-only, no receipts. The most successful laundry in town, Ivan muttered grumpily when he saw my grin. I knew it well — Beth and I had done our washing here when we first arrived in Wallace.

  I walked in like a regular customer and told the chubby manager that I had “a package from Mr. Blunt.” With a smile of recognition, she swapped my thick envelope for a skinny one, containing a check to Kaya Property Management. Easy-peasy, as Skip would say.

  Next on my list was a pizza joint, then a bar. I flipped through the envelopes — I couldn’t believe how many businesses were in on this. I felt like I was going door-to-door collecting for a charity.

  The Sleepy Scone bakery was the most popular muffin takeout joint in Soowahlie’s tourist strip, and there was always a lineup out front. I looked for another entrance, but saw none, so I got in line and waited. When it was my turn, I smiled at the friendly, fifty-ish Chinese woman at the counter. She smiled back and waited. I leaned over, extending the envelope with the subdued words, Delivery from Mr. Blunt.

  Her face frosted over and she crossed her arms. “There is no Mr. Blunt here. Do you have an order?”

  “No, this is from Mr. Blunt. Understand?”

  She fiddled with the cash register and waited. This wasn’t working. I was handling this wrong. Someone in line muttered about the delay.

  After a moment she said. “I don’t know you. Are you going to order something or not?”

  Someone jostled my elbow, and I nearly dropped the envelope.

  “Is there somewhere else we could talk? Is Mrs. Yu Fei here?”

  “I am Yu Fei. Do you want to order?”

  Time to cut and run. “Thanks, no.”

  Within thirty minutes I was back with Ivan, riding shotgun in his black offroad pickup, feeling like a little kid who’d run to his big brother for help. He rolled into the lane behind the bakery and left the truck with its motor rumbling, blocking the entire service entrance.

  “This kind of business, you do in the back.” he said, reinforcing my feeling of ineptitude.

  When I’d found him tinkering on his bike, he’d rolled his eyes, spat, and then refused to be seen riding in my Japanese pickup. His bike did not fit two riders.

  He took the loading dock steps two at a time, and pushed into the hot, crowded bakery. Grabbing the arm of a white-aproned girl, he demanded to see the owner.

  Mrs. Yu Fei appeared. She nodded to Ivan, unsurprised and unrepentant.

  “What is this problem?” Ivan said. “Look at the trouble you cause.”

  “No, it was my fault —” I said.

  “Where is Ramon?” She spoke as if I was invisible, crossing her flour-dusted arms at Ivan.

  “You deal with this one now. Tate.” He plucked the envelope from my hands and handed it to her.

  “I don’t know him.” She tucked it into her waistband. “Nobody said. I only know Ramon.” She turned her back to us. “I am being careful.”

  I put a hand to Ivan’s sleeve. “She’s right, I should have —”

  “Shut up.” To her he said, “You apologize to Tate. You embarrass him. And make me come all way down here.”

  She said nothing. Her shoulders lifted slightly, and then she nodded and reached into the envelope and pulled out a twenty for me. Her face was expressionless.

  “And you have a cheque.” Ivan said.

  On the way back to the bike shop to pick up my truck, I said, “No one told me there was a rear entrance.”

  “Front door, back door is no difference. You want respect, be strong.” Ivan said. “Make her listen and don’t leave until you get what you need. And grow up. You are what, fifteen? What does Randle expect, using children?”

  “I’m seventeen,” I said, then instantly felt immature and defensive, which was exactly what he was accusing me of.

  Ivan whistled. “You don’t look it.” He stopped outside the engine shop to let me out. When I opened the door he grabbed my wrist. “Young offenders, you know the law?”

  “Wha
t are you talking about?” I knew, but I wanted to hear it from him.

  He let me go and looked away, seeming to debate whether to answer. “You are stupid. Under eighteen, you are in and out of jail, boom.” He snapped his fingers. “No record. But, over eighteen —” he shrugged.

  His reminder was only a reinforcement of what I’d already decided — that I was getting out of the business, and soon. Then something clicked. The missing Ramon. He’d turned eighteen.

  “Randle hires a lot of under eighteens?”

  Ivan pursed his lips. “One at a time, usually.”

  “Luke!”

  Lucas didn’t hear me over Anarchy in the UK, which sounded like it was tearing the cones off the shop’s pathetic ceiling speakers. To get his attention I thumped the counter in time with the Sex Pistols. I’d just arrived for my noon-through-supper shift—my first shift in over a week. Human Beans was empty, which was unusual. Quiet, yes, but not empty, not just before lunchtime.

  “Dude?” Lucas had a cordless drill in one hand and looked confused.

  “What’s new?” I asked. Christine had been covering all my shifts recently.

  “No, no and no,” Jeannie said, barely missing me as she swooped past, orange hair flying, a vacuum flask in each arm. “We’ll have none of that music and you know it. Nice to see you again, Tate darling.” She placed the flasks on the counter.

  As James Taylor took over from Johnny Rotten, I looked at what she’d deposited on the counter: parts for an office-style self-serve coffee stand.

  “Wow, flat-bottomed filters. Did a hospital cafeteria have a garage sale?”

  “Don’t be smart,” Jeannie said. “They’re brand-new, Lucas feels we should upgrade our service. These are far more energy efficient than running a heater all day.”