Down with the Underdogs

by Ian Truman

  “Mandalas,” I replied.

  “Still gay as fuck,” he said and took a sip of Pepsi. “So anyways, man. He paddles away, angry and I don’t give a shit except that if the fucking trend catches on, soon there’s gonna be hipsters making laps down there like it’s a fucking swimming pool.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “I mean, the canal’s been everybody’s body dumping ground for the better part of the century and now, these people, they don’t give a shit, you know? What about the history?”

  “The heritage?” I joked.

  “Yeah! Now they gonna act like they gonna kick me out of my home. I mean fuck that.”

  “So, you’ moving back east?”

  “Yeah, I’m moving back east.” The contradiction of it was lost to us but somehow the whole thing made sense enough.

  “What about you?” I asked Ryan. “Job not killing ya?”

  “I like my job. Being a bouncer’s probably the best gig around, man.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He sat himself straighter. “Cash, beer, women. Maybe I’ve got this one thing worth mentioning.”

  “About women?”

  “Nah, these I keep for myself. No. We had this guy yesterday, total alcoholic. He starts to get drunk but not like a mean drunk, or at least not yet. I mean, I had to kick him out later that night, but for the moment he was just a guy who drank like he came across some money. I wanted to know just how much we could squeeze from him, so I asked, straight up, ‘You came across some money, haven’t you?’ and he looks at me, pig-eyes and drunk and smiling.

  “He leans in and says, ‘I used to be a car thief in Regina.’ I mean, wow! ‘Car thief in Regina?’ I asked. ‘Does that pay well?’ and I’m serious. I can’t imagine much car thieving going on in Regina. Or crime, or anything in fact. I mean, Montreal can be a fucking joke sometimes, but Regina is not even on anyone’s radar.”

  “Apparently it’s the murder capital of Canada,” I said.

  “I’d highly doubt that.”

  “As a ratio, I mean.”

  He was taking a sip and took offence to that. “Oh, as a ratio. Sure, you kill three people and boom there goes your fucking statistics. Anyway, the guy says he used to bring two or three cars a week to the chop shops. ‘We could have done more but nobody was buying. Fucking gas is gone, man,’ he says.”

  “You can’t sell what people won’t buy.”

  “Yeah, something about unemployment spiking,” Ryan added.

  “And they don’t know shit about unemployment out in the Prairies,” I said.

  “Now us,” Phil said, almost proud of it. “We fucking know about unemployment.”

  “Just be grateful we’re not in the Maritimes,” I replied.

  He laughed.

  “That’s pretty much what he was getting at,” Ryan continued. “He tells me his cousin Leonard brought in a car this one time, Mazda 5, he said, and the parts just wouldn’t move. And he says there are a few Mazda 5 around the city, but it wasn’t like a Ford Escort or a pick-up and shit. You don’t make any money if the parts just sit around to pick up dust and rust. You break them, you lose them, you end up with missing screws and shit.”

  “Right,” I said. I took a sip and a bite.

  “So he gets drunk this one night, and he steals another random car, any car. Said he couldn’t remember what kind. The guy was a fucking drunk if I ever seen one. He could drink any fucking Scotsman under the table. He just never sobered up that one. And so, it’s like two in the morning and he starts driving around Regina looking for Mazda 5s to smash. This guy’s got a real fucking plan up in his head, right? A rear bumper here, a back bumper there, you know, trying to maximize the parts he knows he’s got to sell.” He laughed. “So a side door on a car, drives around Taylor Field to find one last car to smash.”

  “What the hell is Taylor Field?” I asked.

  “Never heard of it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Home of the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Beat the Ti-Cats, forty-five to twenty-three, back in 2013 for the Grey Cup.”

  “I don’t follow football.”

  “Your lack of patriotism is disturbing.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the story?” I asked.

  “Not really, but you and I are going to have to have a talk about your knowledge of Canadian history one of these days.”

  “Roughriders is Canadian history?”

  “Stay polite,” he said. I wasn’t going there, so I dipped a fry into what was left of my mayo. I grinned sideways and said, “What happened to the guy?”

  “Well, he says when he’s done and bored, he’s driving this really messed up car he just drove into like seven other cars. He just dumps it under the tracks, walks home, goes to bed, falls asleep like he’s in a coma.”

  “Just like that.”

  “According to him.”

  “Tough neighbourhood?” I asked.

  “Shithole of the fucking earth.”

  “I’d buy it,” Phil said.

  I wasn’t so sure. I’d give the guy the benefit of the doubt. It made a good story no matter.

  “So the next day,” Ryan continued, “he gets up, hung over, turns on the TV and shit. It’s up in the news that some drunk driver went on a spree the night before and caused seven different car accidents in the city. So the guy says to me, ‘I was fucked and I knew it, you know? Fucking RCMP were gonna come after me.’”

  “Did they?”

  “Apparently not. That’s the real beauty on this one. The cops messed it up completely. It turns out the car he stole was a ninety-eight turquoise Saturn. A turquoise fucking Saturn. Absolute worst car in history. And the owner already had several DUIs under the belt and wasn’t supposed to drive. So the cops busted down this other sucker’s door and arrested him.”

  “Nah!”

  “That’s the story I was told.”

  “Charges wouldn’t stick, come on.”

  “That’s the story I was told.”

  “I’d have to Google that.”

  “You can Google that all you want.”

  “You already did, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, there seems to be some truth to it. Found a news article about it. The charges stuck. Believe it or not, the charges fucking stuck. This other guy couldn’t remember what he had been up to the night before and couldn’t tell for the life of him if he took his car around town or not. There was no one to vouch for him ’cause he was a sad fuck living alone. He just pleaded guilty of yet another DUI and that was it. He was shipped to CPS Regina for six months on a fourth offence.”

  “What about your guy, the drunk?”

  “Right,” he sat himself straighter again. “This guy, my drunk, says he’s starts getting phone calls left and right for repairs and parts and paint jobs. You see? Nobody else had any parts for Mazda 5s.”

  “Nah!”

  “He swore to God.”

  “Come on.”

  “He swore to God.”

  “How much did he make?”

  “Man, I wouldn’t know,” Ryan said. He was looking at his Pepsi with a satisfied smile on his face. “It was probably enough. For a guy like that, it was enough. I mean, this guy was spending money around like it was Grand Prix weekend. Booked himself a hooker and was about to fuck her in the bar. That’s when I kicked them both out, told him to find himself a room.”

  “Fancy hotel.”

  His eyes flared up. He took a sip and nodded. “No. Oh, God no. Back alley kinda guy. Straight up.”

  “Yeah.” I said. I could imagine the type. People who were born and raised in the city didn’t hang out in the strip clubs, the sex scene or even most festivals. We worked there, took the money home from the tourist and went to sleep and that was that.

  I needed to get this thing going now so I asked, “Job pays enough?”

  “How much is enough these days?”

&
nbsp; I heard that. Could agree with him.

  “The economy’s going sideways. Just like this place,” Phil said. “Just like Vincent over there and his idiot kid working for him.”

  “We’re just getting squeezed out,” I said.

  “Robots,” Phil replied. Phil was stupid but every now and then, he could hit it right on the head. “We’re all gonna be replaced by robots one day.”

  “Market’s gonna crash,” I added.

  “We’ve been waiting for that to happen for years now. I just don’t know if it’s gonna crash anymore.”

  “Everything falls one day, it’s the natural cycle of life,” I continued.

  “Everything falls, yeah, sure, but I sure as shit would like to be here to see it, you know?”

  He was right and for once, I was in a position to do something about it. I leaned in, hands crossed together with my arms resting against the edge of the table. I was smiling.

  “What about you?” Ryan asked. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Don’t tell me that was just a social call,” Phil said.

  “Yeah, what’s cooking in the back of that head of yours? I know you got something on your mind.”

  “I got things unfolding.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You guys looking to make some money?”

  “Who isn’t,” Phil smirked.

  “I got some debt I’d like to get rid of, sure,” Ryan added.

  “Listen,” I said and I leaned in. “I might be able to help you with that.”

  Chapter 8

  I had gotten a text a few days later. It said to wait at the old port out by Mill Street.

  We stopped for mandatory Montreal bagels and half-decent coffee then crossed Pointe-Saint-Charles on Mill where the street feels like the bottom of a canyon against the towers of the old Five Roses.

  A quick left at the end of that and one short bridge later, the magnificence of Old Montreal quickly opened up before us. It was that sharp and instantaneous. It was actually beautiful when you thought about it.

  That’s when Ryan asked me, “So, what’s the job you mentioned.”

  “I don’t know yet. But it ain’t gonna be about painting my baby’s room.”

  “Who are we working for anyways?” Phil asked.

  “Technically, you’re working for me. If someone’s head gets busted over this, it’ll be mine.”

  “And who are you working for?” Ryan insisted.

  I hesitated but then I said it. There was no reason not to tell them. “Same people who owned the Crackhouse on Pitt Street.”

  “Irish mob.”

  “Who’s really Irish these days?” I replied.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “Same here.”

  “Moé j’men sacre, tant que’l cash y’é bon,” Phil said with a bite. As long as the money’s good.

  “They’re Irish enough to be called the Irish mob?” Ryan asked.

  “Sean Cullens, yeah. He’s Irish enough.” I looked at my phone. “Should be here any minute too.”

  “Sean Cullens?” Ryan said. He seemed surprised.

  “Yeah. He’s my boss, technically. One of them at least. I don’t know. That guy runs a lot of shit.”

  “I was a bouncer on a few of the shows he produced. That guy is the most impressive human being I have ever met.”

  “Sounds cool,” Phil said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “if ‘cool’ would define Sean Cullens.”

  “He’s always been nice to me anyways,” Ryan added.

  “Keeps the South-West in check, minimal violence, manages a bunch of shows, makes a lot of money at the same time, I don’t know how he does it,” I admitted.

  “Don’t step on his toes though.”

  “Hell, no,” I replied. “Never step on Sean Cullens’ toes.”

  “I think that guy’s just ready to die already,” Ryan said. “Simple as that.”

  Sean really was ready to die. I wasn’t ready to die at all. I used to be, that was true, but the birth of Liam changed that. I had too many things on my mind now. The lack of money, the lack of sleep, the job. I figured I was going to be nervous until Liam turned eighteen. After that, he could be on his own if it got to that.

  Sean showed up a few minutes later in a fucking Buick that just couldn’t be his car.

  “You’re not old enough to drive this thing,” Ryan said.

  “It’s not my car,” Sean replied with a smile. He had stolen that thing just for the fun of it. He could afford any fucking car he wanted. Any car at all. He was just doing it for kicks at this point.

  “What’s the job?” I simply asked.

  “Barbershop near the old port, corner of Wellington and Queen. Hipster place. Bunch of pussies cutting each other’s hair and such.”

  “What about it?”

  “Place used to belong to Warwicks.”

  “Warwicks was on Ann,” Phil said.

  Sean looked at Phil with the kind of stare you shut up from.

  “They don’t know that and it doesn’t matter,” Sean said. “You need to get in there, tell them the place used to be Warwicks and Warwicks used to pay us five hundred a month to stay open.”

  “They gonna go for that?” Ryan asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. If they do, they do. If they don’t, you’re gonna bust in later tonight, get out with their gear and shit. If it looks expensive, you take it. Anything custom, you take it. If it looks useful, leave it. We need the place to stay open if we expect to make money off of them.”

  “When do you want that done?” Ryan asked.

  He looked at Ryan the way he had just looked at Phil. Maybe they wouldn’t think Sean Cullens was so cool anymore. He had this hate in his stare, the kind that told you not to fuck up.

  He smiled that hyena smile of his and said. “Now’s as good a time as any, right?”

  The place looked good. No matter what we said about the rich or about hipsters, they would pay insane money for the dumbest shit, but the place looked good all right. Old copper ceiling scrubbed right clean, chandeliers, brick walls, street art, canvased, hung on every available piece of wall. There were at least two Latinos in the place if you were to trust the Puerto Rican and Venezuelan flags in the back.

  There were a few awards in the entrance, things about barbershop competitions and first prizes with photos of what I assumed were the owners. I didn’t even know there were competitions for this shit.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  There was a large white reception desk in the middle of the place. The hottest woman they could find was working as a receptionist. Porn-star look about her and a sleeveless shirt that read “Brooklyn” on it with tight black jeans, manicured nails, dirty blonde hair, full sleeve tattoos, hand tattoos, knuckle tattoos, finger tattoos, face tattoo with a locked heart under key on her throat. She had a big ass, wide smile, big tits, nails and eyelashes, everything these guys ever dreamed of. It was hard not to stare.

  She looked at me, then Ryan and Phil. We looked nothing like clients. Phil was looking outside, scratching his balls. Phil was oblivious to such things as money, art or good-looking women. Phil was just Phil and it made me smile. I looked back to see what he was staring at. Nothing worth mentioning beyond the bunch of tourists walking in the old port.

  I looked to my left. The place reminded me of certain tattoo shops, the new kind of tattoo shops. Comfy seats and workstations, tool kits and chests, custom paintings from the artists. There was one white barber on our left, same kind of over tattooed kid. No one who was broke could afford that much ink. No one working class could afford all of that. Not that young. I hated the guy right away. Hated him.

  “Did you gentlemen have an appointment?” the receptionist asked with a forced, wide smile.

  “We need to talk to the boss,” I said.

  “But did you have an appointment?”

  She wasn’t entirely pickin
g up on what was going on so I just said, “Lady, it’s not that kind of a meeting.”

  Ryan came forward, leaned on the desk and broke it down for her. “Irish,” he said, pointing to me, then to himself, “Scottish,” and then Phil, “idiot.”

  “Yip!” Phil replied, snapping back from his gaze and then he just went right back to it.

  “We’re not cute and we ain’t here for a haircut,” Ryan continued.

  I grinned and sighed. “Be nice and call your boss for me, will ya.”

  She whispered “Okay,” then picked up her phone, got up and walked into the back room. A moment later some Latino guy walked out. He had a tight designer T-shirt on, Armani, a V-neck one. Jesus Christ!

  He looked our way and stopped for one second to collect himself. I saw him take a quick, short breath before walking up to us with his straight razor in his hand.

  I pressed my forearms against the high counter, crossed my fingers together and waited. I wasn’t nervous. Ryan wasn’t nervous. We were ready for the motherfucker.

  “What do you want?” the Latino said straight up. The tone was sharp and threatening. The white barber sent his client home, saying, “This one’s on me, all right?” The client didn’t overstay his welcome. The white barber came to stand a few feet away from Ryan. I looked at his fresh-pressed shirt, the straight crease of his pants and his flawlessly white Nikes and I laughed in my head. As if you could intimidate Ryan.

  “This used to be Warwick’s place,” I said to the owner.

  “So? What about it?” he replied.

  “Warwick used to pay us five hundred bucks a month to stay open.”

  “Well, Warwick ain’t here anymore.”

  “The building still is. And now you’re here. Five hundred bucks.”