Kicking Tomorrow

by Daniel Richler

  “Ow come you’re wit im?”

  “He’s got a gentle soul. I just know it. And he loves me. I know it. He hasn’t told me in so many words, I mean spontaneously, but he does whenever I make him repeat it after me, so that must mean something.”

  Sneaking back into bed now, Robbie moving in slow motion, the darkness thick oatmeal in his ears, his belly on fire, his tendons snapping like twigs underfoot. Back in the bedroom, he quietly quietly tears into little pieces the tender drawings he had made of Rosie sleeping. And stuffs them in the wastepaper basket.

  The wind buffeted the apartment windows. The garbage bags swelled up like sails in a storm. Even though he had waited until Rosie and Dolores had left for the evening, and he knew he was alone, he jumped at the smallest sound, guiltily looking over his shoulder. He felt his ears in stereo, one chicken-sized heart pumping inside each of them. He picked out the little fat key on his key chain and inserted it into his Cocaine machine. The door’s rubber lining was sticky from years of grime and syrup, but gave with a yank. The thick, acrid smell of hash and shrooms wafted out. Sealed inside the machine, Ivy’s satchel and the red boxes with the tail-biting dragons on them had accumulated little dust. There were a dozen boxes in all. If each contained an ounce of pure smack, he guessed, each would be worth around twenty thousand bones, twice or three times as much if he stepped on them with Mannitol or baby laxative or crank or dextrose or something. He’d make this deal anonymously, of course – he’d have to find a buyer he didn’t know, a friend of a friend of a friend. For if the Dead Man’s Hands knew the stuff had not been lost in the fire, that he had it, he’d be cold meat by morning. He’d never seriously considered selling them before – he’d been too scared, frankly, and he’d hoped Ivy would show one day – but he was desperate, now. Broke, jobless, friendless, hopeless, and three months rent to pay. What choice did he have any more?

  The eve of Xmas Eve. Arthur’s Hideaway was a fleabag hotel with a bar and a matchbox stage on the ground floor, just a hork away from Boulevard St-Laurent. When Robbie got there, some band was busy spitting its guts through the PA. He leaned against the rear wall of the club, looking around him anxiously for whoever might show. Three punks were dancing up front, friends of the group, probably. Then someone lobbed some beer at the stage, bottle and all, and that really livened things up – in a flash, people were spitting Guinness-Book-of-Records-distances, and the guitarist nearly got beaned with a beer-stein, and Robbie thought, draught dodging, that’s what bad musicians do when the crowd is roused to anger, arf arf.

  The music was so loud he felt his sternum resonate and his bowels weaken, and he could imagine the throbbing gristle of his body. And, once the violence started, the music had definitely improved. Now there was Brat, and Louie Louie a head and a half taller than the rest, wading chin deep in a field of black razor-grass, redolent of hairspray. Rosie and Dolores had saved a table in the corner. Dolores looked gloomy, but Rosie was stunning in a Victorian lace bodice, clamped tight, her bosom squeezing out as white and plump as yeasty dough.

  “Hey, Rob!” Brat shouted in his ear. “ ‘Member I said you had lousy taste in women? I stick to that, but two at once, YOW!”

  “Yipper,” Robbie replied sullenly. “Dog eat dog world, ain’t it?” But he wasn’t really listening. He needed this dope deal especially badly because he had only one more shopping day to buy presents for the family. It hadn’t exactly slipped his mind before this, but it sort of had. It’s hard to concentrate on stuff when you’re skint.

  He went for a quick private pee before the set ended. The can was fairly quiet, empty except for a guy standing a foot back from the urinal, due to his bear-sized beergut. He was a mountain of leather and oil-soiled denim, chaps and studded wristbands, and enough tattoos on his arms and chest for three regular-issue circus freaks. Stitched across his back, a hand of poker: aces and eights, riddled with bullets. Hearing Robbie enter he turned around, all greasy beard and dark glasses. In his hand he held his hog and it was tattooed too – a bright, viridian peecock – F.D.W. That was enough for Robbie’s bashful bladder. He dipped into a cubicle, closed the door with his elbow, kicked the toilet seat up with his sneaker and unzipped. Thought of Niagara Falls. Instantly there was a pounding on the flimsy wall.

  “Hey, FUCKhead, what am I, a faggot?”

  Robbie jumped. Zipped up fast. Too fast, pinched his penis. Saw himself reflected twenty times in the chrome plumbing, each little Robbie as wimped-out as the one before. He looked down and saw the toes of a pair of battered motorcycle boots, BILL in studs on one, BEAST on the other.

  “Hey, FUCKhead, I said, are you callen me a fucken FAGGOT?”

  “Whaddoyoumean, I didn’t say nothen, guy.”

  The guy thumped on the wall again. “Any guy hides his whang’s gotta be scared of sumpen. What’re you, scared I’m a FAGGOT?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. Leave me alone, eh.”

  “There’s room out here for three tuh take a whizz, ya PUSSY. I ain’t gonna molest you. You’re goin roun callen me a faggot, ya TURDBURGLAR.”

  Now the psycho kicked the wall, hard. A bracket rattled loose in the concrete wall. Robbie pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and arranged them between his fingers like a gladiator’s spiked glove. His heart was flapping madly as a bird in a banged cage. His arteries felt too small to accommodate this massive flow of blood. He could feel his teeth pulsing, his temples come alive. This animal was clearly wild with crank and killerweed, and didn’t care if he woke up in the morning with a broken nose, but Robbie did, man, he really did.

  In his panic, he hadn’t heard the concert thump to an end upstairs, but now the can door was thrown open and a clot of people burst in. Bill’s boots stepped back, mingled with others. Robbie yanked wildly at the door of his cubicle, but it wouldn’t open. Then he unlocked it, shouting, “Chrissake!” and plunged into the crowd.

  When he returned to the table, Brat and Louie Louie had taken off somewhere, but Rosie was still there, in a sulk. He wiped his forehead, miming relief, zooming with adrenaline, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the can. He laid a hand on her thigh and let it linger for an ingratiating moment, but Rosie stopped him with a face that could kill cockroaches. She chewed her gum at him, and then she said, “A party for all the girls you’ve slept with.”

  “What what what?” Robbie said. He knew exactly what. He looked her right in the eyes, real earnest.

  But Rosie spat, “Once there was this sensitive guy I thought I knew, but now all I see is a juvenile jerk-off.”

  Then she and Dolores stood up and stormed out, leaving him with a skull like a bowlful of seething brothy guilt. And now, as he looked around, he saw there were maybe half a dozen Dead Man’s Hands lurking in the crowd. What, is there a convention? Robbie thought that under normal circumstances he might have asked them about Olly, and maybe found something out about Ivy, but now he didn’t dare. In the meantime if he could just connect with his man, get a deal done, any deal at all, and go home.

  Now look. Pigs. Great. He froze. What is going on tonight, may he ask. He was a sitting duck, all alone at this table. He got up to mingle. The headlining band walked on stage, a hail of spittle went up, a shriek of feedback, the biker mamas flashed their tits at the band, and the front row pogoed away like the springs in a motel mattress. He leaned behind a pillar, sucking on the dregs of Rosie’s beer. There was Brat, putting the make on some doe-eyed vealcake in a freshly laundered Sex Pistols T-shirt. Robbie dragged him out of the club by the fins and shoved him against the wall by the entrance.

  “Hey, guy,” Brat said. “Don’t crease the suit.”

  “Whydjou say whatchou said to Rosie, fuckface?” Robbie said. “You’ve no business, man.”

  “It was a joke. Whadda you care what she thinks? I was teasing her, that’s all.”

  Robbie had to think for a second. How much did he care? A lot. A whole lot. And he found himself taking pleasure in Brat’s shit
-eating grin; he had his hand on his chest, preparing to push.

  “There you are, you FAGGOT.”

  A 427 Camaro drew up in the parking lot and three more Dead Man’s Hands climbed out (it’s degrading, but neither the Dead Man’s Hands, nor the Popeyes, nor the Hell’s Angels, nor the Outlaws drive hot steaming hogs in winter, in Quebec – the salt’ll get to them long before the cops ever will). They strode over, exhaling in the lamplight, it looked to Robbie, with the quiet menace of the Nazgûl.

  The crunch of gravel underfoot. Robbie panicking immediately. Not waiting for them to open their mouths, even. With his heart in his mouth, he just said, “I know what you’re gonna say. Well, there’s nothing I can do. It’s like this – there was a fire. What a waste, eh. There wasn’t much, anyhow. Small potatoes for guys in your league. K? Like, I been trying to get in touch with you for ages about this. How’s Olly?”

  The bikers looked at one another with smiles in their beards, and then Bill swung a leather fist at his ear. Robbie saw it coming this time. For some reason the guy had chosen to punch him in slow motion. But Robbie’s metabolism turned out to be working even slower. Maybe that’s an explanation for ghosts, he thought: maybe they’ve got an incredibly speedy metabolism and their molecules vibrate so quickly, they become invisible to us. Another clout, square on his nose. At first he felt nothing, then disgustingly queasy. His legs turned to rubber, standing was like trying to tread water. He grabbed for support. There was Brat, watching with the rest of the crowd. Bill the Beast grabbed Robbie by the throat, and squeezed his Adam’s apple. Robbie tried to swing back, but he was held at arm’s length. He couldn’t draw a breath through his windpipe. The world was dancing like it does when the camera jiggles in a warzone newscast. The lurching ground. The trails and pops of light. Thinking, This is no fun, and sort of giving up. Now he’s being dragged into the car. Three guys in the front, two with identical jean and leather uniforms, aces and eights on the back. Hey, here’s a familiar face: John Mills, Ivy’s mad-scientist brother. He’s smiling, but he’s not being friendly; his face is covered in burn scar tissue, he’s holding up a syringe filled with clear liquid, and he’s not troubling to tap it clear of air bubbles, neither. A head turns, and it’s Olly, Ivy’s batik scarf around his neck. At last! Now Robbie can say hi, he can explain. But he gurgles up blood instead. He hears the crunch of leather and vinyl inside the car. John squirts some juice into the air. It lands on Robbie’s leg, eats right through the denim and ouch, Chrissake what is that, battery acid? Olly speaks.

  “Touch Dolores again and you’re history. Get it?”

  Robbie nodded, swallowed blood. Sweet, metallic. Got it.

  “Good. Shake hands with Bill, now.” Through the open window, Bill the Beast thrusts a spiked leather fist. Robbie extends his hand feebly. Should he shake Bill’s in the conventional fashion? Or the cool way, hooking thumbs? Bill squeezes his hard, harder, harder, Chrissake, his hand is numb, but he hears a snap. Like a splintering baseball bat like a polystyrene egg carton like a dropped egg. Here’s what else he hears: Ivy sez hi. Now he hurts all right, like barbed wire’s being dragged through his veins, up to his elbow, and out through the not-so-funny bone. His nerves rise raw to the surface of his flesh. He whimpers, rolls his eyes up, blacks out.

  There were voices. He was sobbing. He covered his face from shame, and dunked his head between his knees. He was a nerd, he couldn’t fight. This was what the end of the world was like. Robbie became aware of sitting on steps, watching his blood blot the snow. A throng of punks stood around his head, all tattered knees and dangling buckles. There were pigs, and a cruiser flashing crisp blue light. Brat was saying to Louie Louie, “I tried to help, eh, but it all went by so fast.”

  Robbie raised his head.

  “Hey,” Brat said, doing a wobbly boxer’s dance. “Don’t look at me. I could of taken him out with a headbutt, but I figured, why have two of us get slaughtered instead of only one. And what about my suit, no just joshing, fuck. Hey, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do nothen.”

  Officer Gaunt crouched down beside Robbie, rubbing his hands together. Robbie opened his mouth to speak, but the cold air sent a stab of pain up the exposed nerve of his front tooth, an icy skewer jabbed right into his nose. He couldn’t feel his hand at all.

  Gaunt winced and said, “Don’t you know those biker boys are out of their skulls. I’m amazed they behaved with such restraint. Often as not, they’d kill you for sneezing in their oxygen.”

  “Bikers’ motto,” Robbie replied. “One for all and all on one. Ouch, fuck.”

  Gaunt helped Robbie to the cruiser. Louie Louie got in, too. Husker was at the wheel. They headed for the Montreal General, speeding along De Maisonneuve. Robbie’s head lolled on the back seat. High above, the searchlight atop Place Ville-Marie stirred the clouds, just like in the opening skyline sequence on the hockey game. His head spun following it. “Guess what,” Gaunt said. “We know who that kid was, eh – the one who perished.”

  “Aw, for Chrissake,” Robbie moaned.

  “No, listen. Did you know a tattoo survives a fire? It’s not as colourful as before the body turns to toast, but you can still make it out. Gaston Goupil wore biker colours, so we just checked him against a list of missing members.”

  “You’re just trying to snow me. When did you find out?”

  “Ohh, close to a year ago, I’d say.”

  “Yeah? Well, I happen to know he got his colours skinned.”

  “Did he indeed?” Husker called out. “Dead Man’s Hands colours maybe, but when he died he was with the Disciples. We’d been watching him as a matter of fact, and the others – Ivy’s big brother included – for quite some time. We figured you’re such a stupid little dickhead we were bound to stumble onto something with your help. What does it take? Do you know now to keep your fucking nose clean?”

  “It’s drug wars these boys are fighting,” Gaunt said. “Or have you already heard? We jumped the gun this summer with Olly, so to speak – we got cocky, too much publicity in advance of the case – and they caught us on a technicality. But, in the long run, all these psychos are on self-destruct. We’re going to just stand by and watch from the sidelines from here on in.”

  “Me, all I was trying to do was take a whizz,” Robbie said.

  From the hospital, Louie Louie and Robbie stopped for one more beer at the Toe Blake. It was the last thing Robbie wanted – his nose was a bloody, tender fruit whose pulsing roots probed painfully about in his head, and his hand throbbed maddeningly inside the fresh cast – but Louie Louie insisted.

  “To tell you de truth, it’s for mon vieux père. I’m quit de chickens, too. I ave save lots of cash. In de New Year, I start a store in Chicoutimi.”

  There were sixteen glasses of draught on the little round table between them. Robbie had asked for a straw.

  “Great,” he said. “Kick a dog when it’s down.”

  “Ayy,” Louie Louie said, slapping his arm. “Ça serait beau, peux-tu l’imaginer? A record store. I could give you great discount.”

  “Louie, you gotta shoot higher than that, man. Hell’s Yells are gonna get more than a fucken discount.”

  “Non non, ç’a pas d’sense. I’m so ugly I coulden get lay in a women’s prison wit a andful of pardon. I’m tirty, right. I fart aroun for ten year wit my ’arley, living off Suzette, you know –”

  “Yeah yeah,” Robbie said. “Giving her great doggies.”

  “C’est ça. An now I gotta get serious. In is honour I call de store, Les Disques Beaulieu. E gonna be proud, mon hostie. Hanyow, check dis.” Louie Louie handed him a piece of important-looking stationery. In French it read, ‘According to Article 58 of Bill 101, regarding the language of commerce and business: all signs, posters, and commercial advertising on the premises shall be solely in the official language.’

  “So?” Robbie said.

  “So dey took my Bosom Buddies calendar down from my hoffice. Some broad squeal on me cause it’s
Hinglish an bring in de Commission de Surveillance. Shit la marde, Robbie, when hi tink of de Québécois fight for hindependence, quand Je Me Souviens, t’sais, dis is not for what hi do it. So now, hi do for me. You wan four more beer?”

  The next morning, it sure felt weird waking up in Queenie’s bed. For one thing, it was a lot softer than Robbie was accustomed to – his back and bum were sunk into a hollow that had been made by big Mr. Graves, and for another, there was a little girl at the foot of it wanting her daddy. And Chrissake! Wasn’t he due back today? Robbie’s arm was trapped under Queenie’s head, and he thought of that sick joke guys make, about being with a broad so ugly that chewing your arm off is preferable to waking her. The little girl was rocking the bed by Queenie’s ankle and making the most outraged face at him, and Queenie was roused. She only glanced at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, stained overnight by the red wine they had shared. She pulled on her dressing-gown and hustled the kid out of the room.

  Robbie’s nose was so plugged with crusty blood he felt he could snap the whole thing off his face, like plaster. He stood up, saw the room black out in a checkerboard pattern, lost his balance, sat down again on the bed. When his vision cleared, he crouched over, gingerly, to the vestibule mirror and took a look. Two glorious shiners stared back, dirty yellow, divided by a blackened bridge. The swelling was massive, in spite of the ice compress that now lay in a bowl of water by his pillow. He pulled on his clothes with his left hand, snuck a $20 bill from the night table, tiptoed down the cabbagey corridor, and slipped out as quietly as he could.