The Dells

by Michael Blair

  Marty found room for the Triumph in a space occupied by a big gleaming Harley-Davidson with a teardropshaped sidecar, and a small, hot pink Honda scooter, stowing the helmet in a saddlebag. Shoe circled the lot until he finally gave up and was forced to squeeze the Taurus into a space on the access road only slightly longer than the car itself. He and Marty then set out through the crowd and across the field toward the bandstand. They made their way to the edge of the crowd gathered close to the front of the stage, and worked their way round to the rear of the bandstand.

  “That’s him,” Marty said. “Sitting by that big electrical cabinet.”

  Shoe wouldn’t have recognized him if Marty hadn’t pointed him out. His face was lean, deeply etched by wind and sun and time, and his thinning grey-blond hair fell straight to his shoulders. Noseworthy evidently recognized Shoe, however; as they made eye contact, his face tightened and his mouth compressed into a grim line. He stood, clutching a green canvas backpack. For a moment, Shoe thought he was going to bolt, but he waited as Shoe and Marty walked toward him. Although he was still quite a bit shorter than Shoe, he was taller than he’d been the last time Shoe had seen him — the result of a late growth spurt, perhaps — and slightly thick through the middle. He was wearing black jeans and an old, naturally distressed jean jacket.

  “What’s this shit?” Noseworthy said to Marty, anger making his voice shrill. “What the fuck’d you bring him for?”

  “Hello, Joey,” Shoe said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Ignoring Shoe, Noseworthy grabbed Marty’s arm and pulled her into the deeper shadows between the tall electrical cabinet and the underside of the bandstand.

  “Goddamnit, Marty. He’s a fucking cop.”

  “No, he’s not, Joey,” Marty said. “Shoe, tell him.”

  “I’m not a cop,” Shoe said. “I haven’t been one in a very long time.”

  “Once a cop, always a cop, far as I’m concerned,” Noseworthy said.

  “Sorry, Marty,” Shoe said. “I guess this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Good luck, Joey.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Marty said. “Shoe. Please. Joey, talk to him,” Marty pleaded.

  “We got nothing to talk about,” Noseworthy said. “How about Marvin Cartwright’s murder?” Shoe said.

  “What about it?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Get to the point, will you?” Noseworthy said. “I got a busy schedule.”

  “Did you?”

  “Like I said, once a cop,” Noseworthy said. He looked around. “Where are they? I don’t see ’em. My allergies must be acting up. Usually I can smell ’em a mile away.”

  “We didn’t bring the police,” Marty said.

  “So what’re you doing here?” Noseworthy asked, looking at Shoe.

  “Trying to help a friend,” Shoe said.

  “All things considered,” Noseworthy replied, “I’d rather be poked in the eye with a stick.”

  “I get it,” Shoe said. “You’re still angry with me. But it’s a long time to carry a grudge, Joey. What could I do? I wasn’t going to let them get away with what they did to you.”

  “What the fuck do you know about what they did to me? Nothing like that ever happened to you. No one ever bullied you in the school yard, stole your lunch or the money you collected for UNICEF at Halloween. You ever wonder why I never had a bike? Because every time I had one, it got stolen or smashed and my parents couldn’t afford to keep buying me a new one. Anyone ever pull down your shorts in front of the girls’ gym class, piss in your gym shoes, or glue the pages of your math book together? You ever get beat up by a girl? No? Well, that kind of thing happened to me all the time.”

  “What can I say, Joey?” Shoe said. “I did what I thought was right. You were my best friend. I had to do something.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe what Dougie Hallam and that shit-for-brains brother of yours did was worse than most times, but you didn’t make it any better. Okay, so it was a lose-lose situation. I’d’ve been pissed at you if you hadn’t done anything and was pissed at you when you did. That’s life, though, right? One thing I’ve learned, you gotta carry your own water.” He shrugged and some of the anger left his face. “Who knows? Maybe what you did helped me learn it.”

  “Can we put it behind us, Joey?”

  “I ain’t that guy anymore, so I guess it’s behind me. I don’t know about you.”

  “I’ll let you carry your own water,” Shoe said. “But does it make sense to carry more than you have to?”

  He shrugged again. “You carry what you got.”

  Shoe changed tack. “Have you been on the road since you left?”

  “I move around a lot. My driver’s licence says Canmore, Alberta, but I don’t really live there. My sister’s place, an address of convenience, like, so I can register the bike, that sort of thing.”

  “What do you do for money?”

  “This and that. Taught shop in the Northwest Territories one summer and worked for the phone company in Louisiana the next winter. My folks would be proud.” Joey’s father had worked for Bell, Shoe recalled, as he saw a brief flash of regret beneath Joey’s mask. According to Rachel, he’d missed both his parents’ funerals. “I visited their graves the other day,” he said, as if reading Shoe’s thoughts.

  “How well did you know Marvin Cartwright when we were kids?”

  “I visited his house once or twice. I didn’t hang out, like your sister and Marty did, if that’s what you mean. His old lady gave me the creeps, the way she was always calling to him from her room in the back in that whiney voice of hers. Marvin do this and Marvin do that, Marvin bring me this and Marvin bring me that. It was pathetic. He was pathetic, how he never stood up to her. And the place stank of medicine. We either met at the school or in the park and all we ever did was play chess and talk a little.”

  “Did you keep in touch with him after he moved away?”

  “I ran into him about fifteen years ago when I was working in Sandbanks Provincial Park in Prince Edward County. He moved to Picton after his old lady died. I think he grew up around there. I’d stop by his place every couple o’ years, whenever I was in the area. He was always good for a hot and a cot. And a few bucks if I was short.”

  “The police found your fingerprints in his car, and when they went through the stuff you left at Marty’s, they found a signed book and an engraved chess set that belonged to him.”

  “He gave me those things.”

  “When?”

  “The day they say he was killed. We met in the Dells in the afternoon, in the parking lot on the other side of the old flood control dam. We sat in his car because he said the sun bothered him, played a couple of games — tried to, anyway. He couldn’t concentrate, kept forgetting whose move it was. That’s when he gave me the chess set and the book. And, well, some money. A lot more than usual. Later we walked up to the dam and talked for a bit more. He talked, anyway. If I was gonna kill him, I’d’ve done it there and buried him in all the old tires and shit that’s washed up against the back side of the dam.”

  “The police didn’t find any money at Marty’s apartment.”

  Noseworthy patted his stomach. “I keep my money and ID in a money belt and the essentials in my rucksack. You never know when you’re gonna need to move on in a hurry.”

  “What did you and Cartwright talk about?” Shoe asked.

  “Like I said, he mostly did all the talking. He rambled on about all sorts of stuff. Rachel and Marty and the other kids he used to invite into his house. His mother, how hard he tried to be a good son to her, but how he was always a disappointment to her. The kids — Dougie Hallam, your brother, Tim Dutton — that used to play practical jokes on him. Some weird shit about making amends to someone, atoning for his sins before it was too late. I asked him what sins, but he wouldn’t tell me. Most of the time he didn’t make a lot of sense, like he couldn’t finish his thoughts or they were all jumbled and mixed up inside his head. Ever
y so often, he’d sort of drift off and stare into space. It was the meds, he said. He looked like shit.”

  “Did he tell you what was wrong with him, what the meds were for?”

  “No.”

  “Do you remember the sexual assaults that occurred in the woods that summer?”

  “Sure,” Noseworthy said.

  “Marvin Cartwright was a suspect.”

  “Yeah,” he said again, dragging the word out warily.

  “Do you think he was guilty?”

  “Why ask me? How would I know?”

  “Do you remember a cop named Ron Mackie? He would’ve been in uniform, about twenty-five.”

  “I talked to a lot of cops that summer,” Noseworthy said. “I didn’t ask their names. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “There may have been a witness to one or more of the rapes or the park worker’s murder,” Shoe said.

  “Well, it wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’d’ve told the cops, man. Anyway, I never went back into those damned woods.” He turned to Marty. “You bring the bike?”

  Before Marty could reply, Shoe said, “If you didn’t kill Cartwright, why run?”

  “Force of habit. I don’t trust cops. Ex-cops either, for that matter. They don’t care if you’re guilty or innocent, they just want to make an arrest so they can go on TV and say they’re winning the war on crime.”

  “Some are like that,” Shoe said. “Most aren’t. The detective in charge of Cartwright’s murder, she’s one of the good ones.”

  “Ain’t no such thing as a good cop. Not in my experience.”

  “She’s a friend of Shoe’s,” Marty said.

  “Bully for her.”

  “Where were you when Cartwright was killed?” Shoe asked.

  “When was that?”

  “Say between eleven Thursday night and one Friday morning.”

  “I ain’t got any idea, man. I remember bein’ thrown out of a bar sometime between eleven and midnight. Next thing I know I’m wakin’ up on Marty’s couch. Don’t remember anything in between. Hate it when that happens,” he added casually.

  “Does it happen often?”

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘often.’”

  “Do you remember the name of the bar?”

  “I think it was Hallam’s.”

  “As in Dougie Hallam?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shoe was about to ask in what sense Joey meant ‘Hallam’s bar,’ was he the owner or just a regular, but Joey turned to Marty again and said, “Did you bring the bike or didn’t you?”

  “It’s in the parking lot,” she said. “But it isn’t running so good, Joey.”

  “It’s a good bike. You just don’t take care of it like you should.”

  “It needs a valve job, maybe new rings.”

  “But it’s running?”

  “Yeah, but … ”

  “Gimme the keys.”

  “Joey … ”

  “What?”

  “Nothin’,” she said miserably, and handed him the key to her motorcycle. She shrugged out of the leather jacket and give it to him as well.

  Shoe said, “Joey, this is what I meant about carrying more weight than you have to. If you didn’t kill Cartwright, all you’re going to accomplish by running is convince the police that you’re guilty. They’ll focus their efforts on apprehending you, not finding the real killer. If you turn yourself in and proclaim your innocence, they’ll be more likely to pursue other avenues.”

  “You got a lot more faith in them than I do,” Noseworthy said. He shook his head. “I’d rather take my chances on the road. If your lady cop friend is as good as you say she is, maybe she’ll ‘pursue other avenues’ anyway, find out who really killed Marvin, and take the heat off me.”

  “And if she’s not … ”

  He shrugged. “It’s all about karma, man. Things have a way of workin’ out.”

  “If that’s the way you feel, why run?”

  “I ain’t too keen on the idea of sittin’ in jail while they do. What if they don’t?” He put Marty’s motorcycle jacket on over his jean jacket and shouldered his backpack. “I gotta get going.” He looked at Marty. “I’ll send you some money for the bike as soon as I can. Meantime, take care of yourself, kid.”

  Tears spilled from her eyes. “Take me with you.”

  “You bring another helmet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there you go, then.” He started around the bandstand, then paused. “If you don’t mind waitin’ here while I make my getaway … ”

  Shoe and Marty watched Joey walk away, merging with the crowd, then they followed a dozen or so metres behind. They watched him cross the parking lot to where Marty had parked her Triumph. He stood looking at the Harley-Davidson with the sidecar for a moment, shaking his head, then he settled his backpack more comfortably on his shoulders, took the helmet from the saddlebag, and threw his leg over the Triumph. Donning the helmet, he turned on the ignition and the fuel cock, and kicked the starter. It took him three tries before the bike started. He popped the throttle a couple of times. Oily smoke belched from the exhaust. He rocked the bike off the kick stand, walked it backwards out of the parking space, toed it into gear, and drove away.

  “Shit,” Marty said quietly.

  chapter twenty-six

  In the car, on the way out of the park, Marty’s voice was thick as she asked, “Are you going to tell the police you talked to him?”

  Shoe glanced at her. Sadness was deeply stamped on her face. Her sleeveless T-shirt was grey and sweat-dampened, and she exuded a musty, not unpleasant odour of perspiration and soap, spiced with the residual scent of leather. “I think I should, don’t you?”

  “I s’pose,” she said miserably. “But, well, maybe you could give him some time to get away?”

  “You don’t really believe he’s going to make it, do you, Marty?”

  “No, I guess I don’t, not really, but would it hurt to give him a couple of hours’ head start?”

  Against his better judgement, he said, “I’ll wait till tomorrow morning, how’s that?”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Joey called the bar he was thrown out of Hallam’s. How did he mean it? Does Dougie own it? Or just drink there?”

  “He owns it. Well, him and the bank. Not many people know about it. I do because Tim helped him get his liquor licence and, well, I hung out there for a while when I first came back. Till Dougie bought it.”

  “What about Joey’s bike?” Shoe said. “If he was as drunk as you say, surely he didn’t ride it to your place from the bar?”

  “I’ve seen him ride his bike when he was too drunk to walk,” she said. “He says he doesn’t drink and drive because you need both hands to drive a motorcycle, so he drinks before he drives. He might’ve dumped it in my garage while I was at work on Thursday, before going to the bar. But … ” She lifted her shoulders slightly as she scrunched up her face.

  “Where is the bar?” Shoe asked.

  “Jane, north of Finch. Not far from the cop shop. It’s called the Jane Street Bar and Grill. Imaginative, eh?”

  For the second time that day, Shoe dropped Marty off in front of the bank on the ground floor of her apartment building. It was nine-thirty when he got back to his parents’ place. Hal’s Lexus was in the driveway, so he parked on the street. Steeling himself, he joined his family in the backyard. The evening was still and warm and muggy. Moths fluttered and swooped around the flickering flames of the smoky citronella mosquito torches planted at the top of the slope, many of them perishing in their mindless attraction to the light. An electric bug zapper in the yard next door hissed and popped. Rachel, Harvey Wiseman, and Maureen were playing cards at the picnic table, by the light of a portable fluorescent lantern that was attracting its share of bugs. Hal was slumped in an aluminum lawn chair that looked on the verge of collapse under his weight, three empty beer bottles on the ground beside him. He cradled a fourth i
n his ample lap. Shoe’s parents’ lawn chairs stood at the top of the yard, unoccupied; they retired early.

  Maureen stood when she saw Shoe. She glanced at her husband, who appeared to be asleep, then said to Shoe, “Is everything all right? Can I get you something to eat? We managed to save you a couple of burgers.”

  “Thanks,” Shoe said. “One will do fine.”

  “What did Marty want?” Rachel asked.

  “Company,” Shoe said.

  Hal, who wasn’t asleep after all, snorted and saluted Shoe with his beer bottle. “Here’s to those who boldly go where many men have gone before.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth, only to find that it was empty. Dropping it onto the grass with the others, he said, “While you’re up, hon.”

  Maureen’s face was like stone as she went into the house.

  “Where did you go?” Rachel asked.

  “Downsview Park,” Shoe said. Rachel raised her eyebrows. “To meet Joey,” Shoe added. Rachel’s eyebrows went up even more as her eyes widened in astonishment. “She wanted me to try to talk him into turning himself in.”

  “Were you successful?” Wiseman asked.

  “No.”

  “God, he didn’t kill Marvin Cartwright, did he?” Rachel said.

  “I don’t think so,” Shoe said. “But I could be wrong. He doesn’t remember anything between being thrown out of a bar around midnight and waking up on Marty’s couch the following morning. He may be prone to alcoholic blackouts. Marty asked me to look into his alibi, even tried to hire me, but … ”

  Maureen came out of the house, carrying a plate and three bottles of beer. She passed Shoe the plate, on which there was a thick hamburger and a small pile of salad. “The hamburger may be a little dry, I’m afraid,” she said. “And there wasn’t much salad left.”