Yard Dog

by A. G. Pasquella

  My eyes flipped open. I tried to banish the thought, but it was too late. It was like the old impossible exercise: “Do not think of a white horse.” The memory of Cassandra swept unbidden into the room.

  Suzanne looked up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I mean … it’s just … this couch.”

  “Is it broken? Is there a spring poking you?”

  It would be easy to say yes. “It’s not that. It’s … too many bad memories.”

  Suzanne stood up, arched her eyebrow, and appraised the couch. “So throw it out. Shitcan it, Jack, straight to the curb.”

  “Yeah. I should.”

  Suzanne plopped down next to me with a sigh and reached for my damaged shirt. “You want some safety pins?”

  “I’ve got another shirt.” My hand brushed her bare leg. “We could go to your place …”

  “I don’t think so.” Suzanne stood up. “The moment has passed.”

  “We can get it back. I know we can.”

  Suzanne smiled sadly. “Another time, all right? I’m going home.”

  Drunk and horny, I watched her leave.

  There was a bottle of vodka in my desk. I walked over and fished it out. “Well, plant — looks like it’s just you and me.” My shoes thumped onto the desktop. The vodka seared my throat. For a brief second I thought about going downstairs to see if Eddie could set me up with a girl. A girl with pale skin and jet black hair. A girl like … Cassandra.

  “Fuck it,” I said to the plant. “We’ll sit right here and wait for morning.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I woke with a start to the sound of jackhammers pounding the pavement right below my window. The red digital numbers on my clock radio told me I’d been asleep for almost five hours. It was 10:45 a.m.

  Downstairs I found Eddie in the restaurant, eating bacon and eggs and reading the Globe and Mail. I sat down at the table and the server poured me a steaming cup of hot black coffee.

  Eddie grinned. “So … your new gal. What was her name again?”

  “Suzanne.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “She is nice.” I sipped my coffee and looked away. Eddie took the hint and dropped it. The newspaper rustled as he turned the page.

  “Eddie. I need another phone.”

  “You throw the old one in the lake?”

  “That can’t be good for the environment.”

  “What?”

  “Throwing phones in the lake. All those electronics can’t be good for the fish.”

  Eddie speared a bite of egg. “I never really thought about it.”

  “Yeah, well … there’s got to be a better way to get rid of those things. Sledgehammer, maybe. Reduce them to dust.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “In any case, I need a new phone.”

  Eddie grinned, reached into his pocket, and slid a fresh cellphone across the plastic-topped table. “You want some breakfast, Jack? This bacon is freakin’ fantastic. Heirloom. The pig got shoulder massages while watching Masterpiece Theatre. You know. Fancy.”

  The floorboards cracked as I stood up. Or was that my knees? “Another time. I’ve got to go. I’ll grab something on the way.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “You really want to know?”

  Eddie snorted. “Maybe not. You need any help? My guys are still itching for action.”

  “You tell your guys to be careful what they wish for.”

  Eddie laughed. “Too true. Be careful out there, Jack.”

  “Always.”

  Down by the lake it was a beautiful day. Sunlight danced across the water. Gulls circled and dove. Grover’s boat rocked gently beneath my feet. Grover, glowing in his white suit, grinned and shook my hand.

  “Nice of you to drop by, Jack. It gets a little lonesome out here on this tub all by myself.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’s on vacation. Down in the Florida Keys visiting her mother. I’m supposed to be retired, remember? I didn’t want her to see this.”

  Grover strode across the deck and threw open the door to The War Room. Inside, corkboards covered the walls. Pinned to the cork were pictures of houses, cars, people. Black arrows slashed across the photos. In the middle was a blurry black and white picture of Joey Machine. Beneath that was a picture of a sunken ship with a big black question mark drawn over it.

  I glanced over at Grover. “You’ve been busy.”

  Grover grinned. “Joey Machine was good at covering his tracks but I’m a tracker from way back. You see this? That’s Joey Machine’s brother. Some nobody living in Kansas. That’s his wife and kids. This is their dog, Sparky.”

  The golden retriever stared stupidly at the camera.

  “Grover … these people, they didn’t know The Chief.”

  “So?”

  “So they didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

  “Jack, Jack … you can be so naive. You see this?” Grover stabbed his finger at a photo of a splashy, expensive McMansion. “That’s where Joey Machine’s brother lives. Do you know what his job is? He sits on the school board. How did he afford a house like this? I’ll tell you how: his brother’s dirty money.”

  Beneath my feet the boat shifted and groaned. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know more about Joey Machine and his family than you’ll ever know. They’re all weeds, Jack. Poisonous plants choking the dirt.”

  Grover had a mad gleam in his eye. He unlatched a polished wooden box and pulled out a huge silver .357 Magnum. “You and me, Jack. It’s up to us.”

  “Grover.”

  “The Chief was a good man. A good, good man.”

  “Grover.”

  “Yes?”

  “What can you tell me about Tommy’s dad’s house?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the vault.”

  Grover grinned. “Adding to your nest egg, eh? Good for you. I tell you, Jack, retirement will add years to your life. I’m looking forward to getting back to it. Now let’s see … the vault, the vault. That would be the Wychwood house. Near Bathurst and Davenport. Up near Casa Loma.”

  “Tommy’s dad lived in Wychwood Park?”

  “He had a house there. He liked the quiet. That was his enclave, his Fortress of Solitude. Did you know Marshall McLuhan lived just up the street?”

  “What about the house?”

  “I don’t have blueprints for it, if that’s what you’re asking. Standard two-storey with a few alterations. Bulletproof glass in the windows. Security system updated every few years. It’s a very solid stone house.”

  Grover walked me through the floor plan. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize. Overhead, gulls circled and cried. The boat heaved beneath my feet.

  “The vault is on the ground floor near the kitchen. It’s a converted pantry. Do you have the combination?”

  I shook my head. “No.” Tommy’s old man didn’t even trust him with that.

  “It’s going to be tough.”

  My face stretched into a smile. “That’s why I came to you.”

  “I would love to help you out, my boy. You know that. But …” Grover’s gaze fell on the photos pinned to his wall. “I’ve got to catch a flight to Kansas City.”

  “The Chief’s dead. Joey Machine is dead. An eye for an eye. It’s over.”

  Grover sprung forward, hissing like a cobra. “It’s … not … over. It’s not over until my foot is on his brother’s throat.”

  “For all you know, Joey Machine and his brother weren’t even close.”

  “’For all I know?’ You don’t know what I know. You think I don’t know?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just — look at you. You’ve got it made. You got out of The Life at the right time. You’ve got money in the bank and a roof over your head. You’ve got a beautiful wife. Just let it go.”

  For a minute the cabin went silent. Waves slapped the boat. Grover stared at me with his i
ce-blue eyes. Then he smiled and shook my hand. “Thanks again for dropping by, Jack. I’ll give you a call when I get back from Kansas. The wife and I are planning a dinner party. Bring your gal around — I’d love to meet her.”

  ________

  Sirens rose into the air as I walked along the lakefront. Dirty water and rusted tubs and goose shit. My hands trembled and my neck was stiff. Too much tension — time to unwind. There was an all-night gym not far from here. I passed beneath an overpass. Swirls of electric-blue graffiti on the cracked concrete. Dead squirrels and dog shit. A sad old shopping cart piled high with the contents of a human being’s life.

  Inside the gym I shoved a ten dollar bill through the cage. The bored attendant had two different-coloured eyes. He gave me a locker key and a more-or-less clean towel, then went back to watching his tiny black-and- white TV.

  A huge man with greased-up muscles was bouncing around the ring. I watched for a while. His right hook was all right but his jab was lousy. He wasn’t as fast as he thought he was. You could tell by the smug look on his face that he’d never been knocked out.

  “Hey,” I called out to him. “You looking for a sparring partner?”

  “Yeah, right.” Muscleman turned his back to me and kept throwing phantom punches.

  I turned to the ring man and held out my hands. “Lace me up.”

  The ring man was a little hunched-over dude. He looked like he had always been here, like the gym had been built around him decades ago. He started to fumble with the laces on my boxing gloves. “You don’ wan’ to fight him, mister. That’s Carlos. He kill you, man.”

  “You let me worry about Carlos. Tie those gloves tighter. Tight!”

  I stood below the ring and held out my hands. “Hey, Carlos! What’s the matter? You chickenshit?”

  Carlos reeled back like he just smelled something rotten. “You crazy, old man?”

  “Yeah, maybe. It’s just that I was watching you, and frankly, you suck. I could give you a few pointers.”

  Carlos grinned and turned to the ring man. “This dude IS crazy.” He turned back toward me. “Look, old man, I don’t need you in here acting all crazy and biting my ear off and shit. You dig?”

  I shrugged. “So you’re scared. I understand.”

  A dark cloud settled over Carlos’s face. “Man, fuck you! I’m not scared of anything. You think I’m stupid, old man? I know you. I know your type. You’re a pervert, man. A stone cold freak. You want a big beautiful man like me to fuck up your shit. Well, I’ll fuck you up good, but it’ll cost you. A hundred bucks.”

  “Tell you what. You win, I’ll pay you five hundred.”

  “Oh, I’m gonna win. Get in the ring, motherfucker!”

  Ding went the bell. Carlos pranced from his corner like a fucking matador. I stepped back and his fists sailed past me. I laughed. This pissed him off to no end. He came in swinging. I stood there and took it.

  His first punch hit my jaw and pushed my teeth through my cheek. Blood flooded my mouth. I grinned as red rivulets trickled down my chin. The copper taste of blood. Took me right back to the days of my sunny childhood. Mom’s boyfriend winding up again as I crawled backward across the dusty floor. Two nickels and a bottlecap under the couch. I stood up and Mom’s boyfriend knocked me down. Which one was he? The ugly one. They were all ugly. Snaggletooth. Raccoon Mullet. That dude with one arm shorter than the other. That didn’t make him ugly, but the drinking sure did. He threw a beer bottle at me from across the room and I laughed right in his fucking face. Push those buttons. Send them over the edge. Red-faced screaming, face all twisted. Turn them into monsters. Watch as they rip off their human faces and their true selves scream into the air. I stood there, human, grinning through the blood. I’m no masochist. The pain was like a river and the river carried me away. They tried to hurt me but they couldn’t. Fuck them. I’m still standing.

  Drops of sweat and blood hit the ring. Someone shouting — clapping — feet pounding the floor. Mob frenzy, out for blood. Carlos wound up his Sunday Punch. It might impress the ladies, but I ducked it with ease. Carlos was pissed off. His red face was bunched up like a rubber Halloween mask. I grinned and dropped my guard. The blows rained down.

  Apartments that smelled like dead mice and stale beer. Moving at midnight to Beat The Clock. Landlords shrieking as the truck pulled out. Mom and Boyfriend (faceless now, just big hands and hair) cackling like evil geniuses, thinking they’d just pulled off The Crime Of The Century. Siphoning gas in shopping centre parking lots. Off to another city, another province. Leaving trails of fast-food wrappers flapping in our wake. The Deadbeat Parade. A new apartment, a new school. Another drop-down drag-out fight in the high noon schoolyard. A Problem Child. “I don’t have a problem,” I spat at the guidance counsellor with a frilly white shirt and hands that crawled across my legs like ants. “You’re the one with the fucking problem.” Suspended. Expelled. What the fuck did it matter? Pack up your shit, it’s time to go. Hustling across a frozen motel parking lot at midnight, clutching all my clothes stuffed inside a garbage bag, moonlight glancing off the truck’s broken bumper. Weaving drunk all over the road. I would fix my eyes on an obstacle ahead and bear down hard with my mind and think, “Crash. Crash.” In my mind Mom and Boyfriend would be dead, their bodies crumpled up like paper, their faces wiped clean by the windshield. I would walk across their bodies and emerge from the upside-down truck (one wheel still spinning) and I would be free.

  Blows rained down onto my face, my chest, my back. Did I feel it? Oh yeah, I felt the fucking burn. I was in The Zone. I was ready.

  My first real punch sent Carlos plummeting to the mat like a fucking anvil dropped from a Zeppelin. The KABOOM when he hit shocked the crowd into silence.

  “Get up. Come on, get up.”

  “Lucky punch, old man.” Carlos still didn’t get it. Good. He bounced back up and I waded in close.

  Head wounds bleed plenty. I worked a spot above Carlos’s left eye until blood covered his face like a curtain. His other eye puffed up nice and purple. Out of the goodness of my heart I decided to give Carlos’s dentist some work. His teeth skittered across the canvas like cockroaches exposed to sunlight.

  The kidneys. Hit the right spot and pain shoots up your back. A deep-down ache that cannot be denied. I could rupture something if I hit hard enough, but fuck it, he knew the risks. If you get in the ring, you could die in the ring. That’s the risk you take.

  My fists tingled inside the gloves. They streaked forward as fast as lightning. The Avenging Hammer of Thor.

  I could have killed this guy, but I didn’t. I wanted to taste blood, but I’m no killer. They call this “The Sweet Science,” but there’s too many rules. Regulations. Referees. Bells. Corner men. Gloves. It’s not fighting. The Chief taught me that. It’s too abstract. That was always my problem with sports. Too much ritual, not enough warfare.

  Two more punches and Carlos sprawled out backward on the mat. I stepped back to see if he would do anything, but the kid was done. I spit out my mouth guard and a mouthful of blood splattered the canvas. I stood over the fallen kid, waiting for that old thrill of victory to come flooding through my body. All I felt was sick.

  Silence in the cheap seats. One old man shook his head, dumbfounded. I swung down from the ring and thrust my bloody gloves toward the ring man. “Unlace ’em.”

  My hands throbbed. I grabbed my towel and hit the showers.

  In the shower my blood washed pale pink across the tiles. Steam gathered. I wanted this water as hot as it would get. Hotter. I wanted scalding fucking lava pouring down my back. Throw me into the volcano and I will climb out laughing. Do you hear me? You cannot stop me. My hands were already swelling as I laced up my shoes. No one looked at me in the locker room, but I could feel it: the air was heavy and sullen. Shadowy shapes hung back, waiting to follow me outside.

  Outside the gym I turned the corner and stepped into the alley to wait.

  I didn’t have to wait long. They moved i
n a pack, like wolves. Six of them. Shaved heads, tank tops, and tattoos. Their leader was a long, lanky lad with a goatee and a scar slashed across his left cheek. He stepped toward me as his followers closed the circle.

  “You think you’re tough, old man? I think you’re lucky.”

  A short and squat man with a blue bandana over his head stepped forward. “Yeah! If Carlos wasn’t hungover, man, he would’ve killed you.”

  Scarface grinned. “We’re not hungover.” There’s a metal flash in Scarface’s hand. His switchblade sprung open. Man, that sound took me back. Scarface bobbed from side to side, fixing me with his cold fish eyes. “Come on, old man. Let’s see how tough you really are.”

  Scarface lunged. Silently, the wolves moved in for the kill. I grinned. In a split-second I was holding a knife in both hands. Scarface blinked, but it was too late. His own momentum carried him straight into my waiting blade. The gang leader gurgled as my knife sank deep into his throat. I twisted the handle and then yanked it out. Scarface tumbled back, painting the alley with his red arterial spray.

  I stood in the alley with my feet firmly planted, my knives at the ready. “Who’s next?”

  The gangsters hesitated. Fear flickered on their faces. Then two of them charged forward, their knives swinging wildly. The hilt of my knife slammed into one of the gangsters’ noses with a satisfying crunch. A tall, skinny gangster with huge black pants tried to get behind me to slit my throat. I slammed my knife right into his eye and gave it a twist. His scream set dogs barking up and down the block. Three down. Three left.

  Blue bandana hesitated, blinking down at his fallen comrades. Then he turned tail and ran, his switchblade clattering onto the concrete, his buddy, Hairnet, pounding the pavement right behind him.

  In the alley, I rose from my fighter’s crouch, blood dripping from my knives. There was one gangster left: A young kid, sixteen, maybe seventeen. Shaved head and a bad teenage moustache. There was an angry-gangster Mickey Mouse airbrushed onto the front of the kid’s black T-shirt. The kid stood frozen in the alley, staring at me while his buddies bled around his feet.