The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  Dan crept quietly out of bed and went to the bathroom. Taped to the mirror was a handwritten note from Nick: Left a little present in your study. Best viewed on an empty stomach. N

  He padded softly down the hall. It was still deep night, no incursion of day yet. The hour of gamblers, insomniacs, witches, and suicides. An envelope lay on the far side of his desk, a divide between him and whatever it contained. He slit open the flap and shook it. A pile of photos bundled together with an elastic band slid out. On top lay a single sheet of paper, folded in three. It proved to be a copy of the coroner’s report on the death of John Badger Wilkens III.

  Dan glanced over the findings. The verdict was suicide by hanging, just as he remembered from the papers at the time. Someone had written the word Inconclusive above Suicide then scratched it out again, initialling the corner before scratching over those initials to obscure them. Why the doubt and then the change of mind? The report stated that the rope Wilkens hanged himself with had come from the garage of his family home. A photocopied receipt showed he’d purchased it the week before Christmas. A planned death then. It also showed that Wilkens had had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.34 percent when he died. That was close to acute intoxication, even for a practised drinker. Maybe he’d been trying to drink himself to death before he realized there was an easier way.

  Dan slipped off the elastic and went through the photos one by one. Here was the disgraced MPP in his final pose on a gurney in the city morgue, where he’d been photographed for the last time, still under the glare of public scrutiny.

  It wasn’t the way anyone would want to be remembered. The lighting was harsh, highlighting flaws and physical imperfections. He hadn’t been arranged in any way to make him look better for what he’d undergone. The opposite, in fact: his eyes bulged, his tongue protruded between his teeth, with more than a hint of blue in its coloration. He looked like a man who had just had a fright or who was trying hard to give one. Like a Halloween gruesome or something out of a zombie flick.

  The next shot showed the mark of the ligature encircling his neck, a raw, red burn where the rope had abraded the skin. Dan knew exactly how that rope would feel, the sharp bristling of the cord as it snapped taut and stiffened around his windpipe. The insistent pressure closing off his air, the unforgiving tension as he tried to free himself. At first the surprise would be sharper than the pain, with the sensation of oxygen being cut off from the lungs. Then would come the brain’s realization it was shutting down, gravity combining with the body’s weight to tighten the noose around the trachea, blocking the blood flow via the carotid artery and the jugular vein.

  A sudden drop would have resulted in a neck fracture — quick and painless — but according to the report John Wilkens had died slowly, over the course of ten to twenty minutes. He’d been semi-conscious for a good part of it. Even if he’d fought to relieve the pressure temporarily, the end would have been the same. Only once he’d lost consciousness would his struggles finally have ceased and the restricted air flow resulted in strangulation. Self-slaughter was a grisly business if you didn’t manage it right.

  It was hard to say why people chose to die the way they did. Sometimes it depended on how and when they wanted to be found. A gun was quick, but left a mess for others to clean up. Poison could be fast or slow, but the mystery would remain: was it intentional or accidental? Could it have been prevented? He’d seen the bodies of crash victims he suspected of having purposely run their cars off the road, creating a nightmarish barrage of blood and carnage, though it had never been proved. Others he’d heard of had died in even more mysterious circumstances: the athlete who took a midnight swim from which she never returned, the experienced climber dying from an unlikely fall. But hanging yourself required effort and planning. It seemed to be a statement, but of what? And how had Wilkens managed it in his inebriated condition? It was useless to speculate. Unless there was a note, so much always went unanswered.

  The next photograph showed a close-up of the neck. The flecks and fibres of nylon embedded in his flesh had been highlighted for greater clarity, like grain stubble in a field of uneven furrows. Someone had unnecessarily drawn arrows in magic marker, pointing out the fibres, as though you might miss the intent of the photograph.

  The final two shots were of Wilkens’s hands. Both showed the same yellow threads beneath fingernails torn and bloodied. The thumb nail on the right hand had been ripped right off. Dan sat back and stared at the photos. The word Inconclusive flashed before his eyes. There was nothing inconclusive here. These were the hands of a man who was grasping at life, not reaching out for death.

  He turned back to the first shot, staring at the sightless eyes and protruding tongue, the words stilled forever. Speak no more! For just an instant, Dan could hear John Wilkens’s last croaking gasp.

  Thirteen

  Posse

  Dan stood before the full-length mirror in boots, a black T, and jeans. The effect hadn’t come off quite right, looking more rodeo than urban ghetto.

  “I have no idea how to dress for this,” he confided to Nick.

  “I’d give you tips if I had a clue myself.”

  “Surely you’ve had to break up fights at rap concerts before.”

  Nick tried not to smile. “Sure, but I was busy watching out for knives, not studying fashion trends. Just a guess, but I’d say you need more bling. Take off those boots and put on a pair of Ked’s sneakers.”

  The doorbell chimed. Downstairs, Donny called out a greeting.

  “I’ll get it. You get ready,” Nick told Dan.

  Donny and Prabin were seated on the couch when Dan came downstairs. Nick had brought out a tray of coffee.

  “Are we doing this for real?” Dan asked.

  Donny held up an admonitory finger. “Gentlemen, this is the new culture. Do not mock. I’ve sent the boy on ahead. He is so pumped that we are all coming to see him perform, so let’s make it real for him. Our generation was nurtured on The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Madonna. These kids have Eminem and Puff Daddy. Not for us to wonder.”

  “But will we get it?” Nick asked.

  “Get it? What’s to get?” Donny shrugged. “Rap isn’t a mystery. It’s cultural empowerment. It’s a protest against racism, poverty, oppression.”

  “It’s also anti-gay,” Prabin groused.

  “Not all. They’ve got a few girl rappers and gay rappers to round out the diversity factor,” Donny said.

  “But queer is definitely a minority.”

  “Sure there’s misogyny and homophobia.” Donny shrugged. “There’s even racism in rap. It’s just racism with a black face. But that’s not all rap is. Much of it’s about self-esteem, which is what these kids need most. Nobody else gives that to them, so they give it to themselves.”

  “Then maybe they don’t need an audience,” Prabin said, ducking when Donny threw a pillow.

  A cab arrived. The driver seemed a little fazed when they told him the address, as if he wondered why four well-dressed gay men would want to head into the battle zone. He took them to their destination, dropped them off, then turned around and zipped away as though he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  The club was in a ghetto, but Canadian style, meaning it was still relatively clean and orderly looking, despite having the city’s highest murder rate. It was nothing Dan hadn’t seen before, although in a neighbourhood like this he would normally be investigating a case, looking for one of the city’s disappeared, not arriving in search of entertainment.

  The giant at the door looked over the unlikely foursome with a foreboding smirk until Donny announced that they were guests of Lester Philips. Suddenly, his face lit up. He ushered them inside a cavernous space reverberating with the quickened pulses of restless teenagers.

  Hip hop. Rap. Urban beat. It invoked fear in the hearts of the timid and the uninitiated, but clearly imbued a sense of excitement in th
e kids who were enjoying the scene unfolding around them.

  The foursome did their best to blend in with the surroundings, feeling like outsiders stumbling on a strange new world. For the most part they were ignored by the crowd. The din was loud, eardrum-damage territory. Anger and aggression postured onstage as the performers proclaimed their message, seemingly just a step dividing reality from fantasy, the songs suggesting weapons could be props or lethal forces depending on the hands wielding them.

  “I’m just glad I have my own police escort,” Dan joked.

  “I could probably arrest most of these kids right now if their stories are even half true,” Nick said. “Everyone’s got a posse and everyone’s killed someone who dissed them.”

  Prabin shook his head. “I’d hate to be a kid these days trying to compete with this macho bullshit.”

  “It may be bullshit to us,” Donny reminded him, “but just remember, it’s real to them. Anyone with talent sees it as a ticket out of here.”

  There was a momentary lull as a well-groomed white kid took the stage. This was followed by scattered cheers as he, too, was accepted as one of the crowd. Tall and muscular, his torso framed by a sleeveless T-shirt, he towered over his bandmates. He shared the bling and the attitude with the other performers, but even from a distance his eyes flashed blue around the room. Boy-band material at its most nubile.

  Dan could barely make out the words, which were intoned in a surprisingly soft voice. The boy’s hands gesticulated in a way that seemed to refer variously to himself, to the crowd, and to his various body parts. It was a full-frontal come-on to the audience.

  “Does the white guy qualify here?”

  Donny shot him a baleful look. “Try not to make racist comments. If he’s cool, the crowd will like him. If not, he won’t be invited back.”

  “He looks like a baseball player.”

  “He was a baseball player. That’s Mike Stud. Now he’s a rapper.”

  Dan almost laughed. “He calls himself ‘Stud’?”

  “It means ‘badass.’ It means everyone wants to join his posse and get with him ’cause he’s cool.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Not to mention his biceps and those baby blues.”

  “Dude can’t help it if he’s pretty.”

  The boy finished his set and headed offstage as the sound ramped up again. Lights blazed and swivelled over the audience. In another era, they might have been searchlights scanning for signs of revolt among prison-camp detainees.

  “Keep it real! Keep it real!” the MC shouted out, as though an insurrection of phoniness threatened to break out.

  The next performer picked up the mic and leered over the crowd. “Money, money … where my dolla at?” he shouted, as the band broke into a frenzied rhythm. “Money, money … Ain’t in my pocket. Whatchoo tryin’ to dockit?”

  Dan looked around and saw half the crowd mouthing the words along with the rapper. Others raised fists in support of his credo.

  “They understand this song?” he asked.

  Donny rolled his eyes. “Obviously they understand it. It’s not about proper grammar. It’s about communicating to the masses. It’s about keeping it out of the hands of the government.”

  “Well, that certainly explains a lot about the world.”

  “Okay, smart guy. This is the beat of the street. These kids understand one another. You and me and Nick and Prabin are just a bunch of privileged gay men with voyeuristic intentions. If we don’t get it, it’s because it’s not about us. It’s the poor talking to the poor.”

  “Poor I understand. Where I come from, dude.”

  “Yeah, apart from that.”

  Dan smiled. “So, you’re saying what we’re doing is cultural appropriation. Slumming it. Crossing 110th Street for the night.”

  “No, what we’re doing is supporting a good cause. We are art patrons.”

  The money-obsessed rapper left and the MC returned. “Special night, we got M-Power,” he called out, as the crowd livened up. “Y’all know M-Power!”

  The crowd cheered as a young man ambled onstage with a horn.

  “There he is!” Donny shouted, the very picture of a proud father.

  Along with Lester, the band members were a tall, thin bass player and a tiny keyboardist who looked prepubescent but played like a professional. The group’s message was a mix of love and anger, more flowers than revolt. The anger was focused on self-empowerment and lending a hand to the less fortunate. Nothing about burning down the city or killing people, Dan noted with relief.

  The sound was tight, the lyrics thoughtful. It was far more than just slogans and anthems, with a nod to making the world a better place, starting with “the man,” which Dan took to mean one’s self. A little Ghandi never hurt, even in ghetto slang.

  The set lasted for three songs. M-Power retired as the final group took the stage. Within minutes, Lester was heading through the crowd toward them, high-fiving everyone. He gave Donny and Prabin a hug.

  When he came to Dan, he leaned in and said, “Got someone for you to meet, Uncle Dan.”

  Dan’s curiosity was piqued.

  Lester turned to the young man at his side. Dan recognized the band’s diminutive keyboardist. Up close, he looked like he might be in his twenties, if just.

  “This is Taejon. He writes most of our tunes. Taejon, this is Dan Sharp, the guy I told you about.”

  Taejon took Dan’s hand and shook. “Good to meet you.”

  “I like your music,” Dan said. “Smart lyrics. Tight sound.”

  Taejon nodded. “Thanks, man. Appreciated. So listen. Why I asked Lester about you? I saw this story on TV about these government dudes. He said it’s you, yeah? Trying to find some guy?”

  “It’s possible. I am looking for someone whose husband is in government.”

  “So, maybe I know something, yeah? My cousin, Sam the Brother, he was another rapper. Sam sold to them badass dudes at city hall. The mayor and them, yeah? I told him to leave that shit alone, but he got his sorry self killed. Nigga didn’t learn fast enough.”

  “Sorry to hear,” Dan said, thinking of the notorious mayor and his rampage across public morality and decorum. Outspoken, racist, and maverick, yet his popularity scored highest among the lower-class kids and immigrants he abused verbally. It took all kinds.

  “My cousin’s friend, he called himself D-Rap. D-Rap knew these guys. Only he ducked from the scene before he got nabbed. Then he got righteous.”

  “D-Rap was a badass rapper before he got religion,” Lester butted in. “He was an awesome performer.”

  “He’s still awesome,” Taejon corrected. “But now all this God stuff come out of him, like he’s possessed. Now he don’t perform. Be like, ‘I just sit at home and wait for messages from God.’ Whatever, dude.”

  The concert ended and the crowd began breaking up. Taejon continued the tale of his dead cousin out on the street.

  “When my cousin got iced, D-Rap said he might like to talk to someone about it. He told me. So now I’m telling you.”

  Taejon looked at Dan dead on: message delivered.

  “Where can I find D-Rap?” Dan asked.

  “I can put you in touch.”

  “Tell him I’d like to meet him.”

  “Then you will.” Taejon nodded and left.

  Nick and Prabin went to the corner to hail a taxi. Donny waited till they were out of earshot.

  “You’re going after the Ford brothers now?”

  Dan shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Stirring up the wasp’s nest.”

  “I am a WASP, after all.”

  “In case I’ve never said it before? Stay out of this one. You’ll get hurt.”

  “Oh. I see. Like I couldn’t figure that out.”

  “I’m serious,” Donny said. “You need
someone to protect you.”

  Dan shrugged. “That’s why I’m marrying a cop.”

  Fourteen

  The Other Mrs. Wilkens

  The phone was insistent: Unknown Number. Wary client or potential stalker? It was hard to tell. Dan was busy typing up some notes. He ignored it twice, then picked up on the third time around.

  “Mr. Sharp?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Anne Wilkens. I’d like to speak with you. In private. It’s — it’s about John. It’s important. I promise.”

  Her voice was hesitant, vaguely insistent, pleading with him to come to her home.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Dan thought of the tottering widow he’d met at the Wilkens home two days earlier. She sounded different today. Maybe she wasn’t drunk yet. It was still a bit early in the day.

  “All right. I’m at my Leslieville office. You’ll have to give me time to get there. Say, twenty minutes?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll be waiting. And …”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I’ll explain when you get here.”

  He hung up and looked out the window. The sky threatened rain, promising a dismal day ahead.

  For once, traffic was good. He sped up Jarvis to Mount Pleasant and, after a few short turns, pulled into the circular drive in Rosedale. It had taken only seventeen minutes.

  Standing on the stoop, he heard voices within. There was nothing he could make out distinctly, but they were animated. He raised his knuckles and rapped. The voices stopped and the door opened. There stood Mrs. Wilkens and her sister, both with guilty looks on their faces.

  He’d interrupted something private. Family matters, a heated conversation. Clearly it was something too discreet for outside ears. Dan looked past the stern face of the school mistress who had barred his way on his first visit, addressing himself to the other sister.