by Adam Knight
A brief movement caught my eye. It was Tamara. She was waving at me and smiling wide as she and two of her friends attempted to breach the perimeter of the dance floor, drinks held high over their heads. They had less trouble with that then I would have. Being a small attractive girl goes way further than being a massive man in some crowds.
Okay. Fine. She’s hot.
I shook my head, trying to clear it of cobwebs. Fatigue from the day was finally sinking in.
Everything seemed in order.
But I still couldn’t settle down.
And I couldn’t figure out why.
Something about the crowd was making me twitchy. No one thing was standing out and flagging itself to me as a trouble spot. Just everything in general was feeling ….
Off.
Best I can explain it.
Mercifully I heard the band announce “We’re gonna take a break after this song, folks!” I turned away from the dance floor when I noticed Aaron leading people my way from the VIP section. I was about to make another pass through the basement before heading back to the main stage to my preferred perch but I froze.
I recognized both people.
I shot a glance over my shoulder. No way I was going to be able to sneak off without shoving people bodily aside.
Shit.
Please don’t recognize me.
Aaron and his guests stopped in front of me. “Joe!” Aaron shouted genially, clapping me hard on the arm with a martini glass in his other hand. “Have you met, Max?”
Max Poulin. The man who wore number seventeen and the Captain’s “C” for the Winnipeg Jets let loose with a million dollar smile and extended his hand to me. A shade over six feet and as fit as you’d expect a professional hockey player in the second year of his twenty-seven million dollar contract to be. Dressed to the nines in a silk collared shirt, jeans that cost more than my van with his hair cut short and his green eyes twinkling in the lights. Poulin was a local hero these days. A perpetual leading scorer and always the first guy to volunteer for public events on behalf of the team. Not to mention he was now a full time resident of Winnipeg.
“Joe, is it?”
I shook his hand firmly but carefully. I didn’t want this guy ending up on the disabled list unless he earned it on the ice. “Yeah. Heard you potted the game winner?”
Poulin’s smile was perfect. Just humble enough to appear genuine (hell, he might have been genuinely humble) but proud enough to show he appreciated the attention. “I got a lucky rebound. Fluery was way out of position. Easiest goal of my year.”
“But a big one!” Aaron chimed in, grabbing Poulin’s arm. “That one’s gonna be all over the highlights for a while.”
“So long as the team’s winning. Playoffs are the goal this season.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Aaron motioned to the penthouse region. “I was just about to take Max and Cathy upstairs to get away from the crush of people. He won’t be able to stay for the after party given tomorrow’s practice.”
“Of course,” I replied, stepping aside and motioning for them to pass. Also managing to avoid making eye contact with Poulin’s raven haired date for the evening despite her attempts to the contrary. “Go right …”
Commotion. At the Main Street entrance. I could see it happening over Poulin’s shoulder even as Aaron’s hand snapped up to the earpiece he was wearing.
Adrenaline surged again. Addictive in it’s pure sensory enhancing rush as another shock of cold tingled down my spine. The gooseflesh returned, raising the hairs on my neck and down my arms as I stepped into motion. I pushed past the hopes and dreams of the Winnipeg hockey faithful and rushed towards the street.
It was colder than before. Or maybe it just felt that way. I’d been inside a human sauna for the last several hours so the brisk air hit me like a wall. The lineup of people were pressed back from the street and staring at the scene I was bursting onto.
At least a half dozen members of the Native Posse (wearing full patches and colors) were engaged in action with Big Mike, Danny and another young doorman; trying to force their way inside. Mike had his frying pan sized hands on the chests of two of the gang members holding them back. Danny and his partner stood on either side, blocking the club entrance and minimizing access.
“Let us the fuck in!” one of the younger members shouted, his finger pointing past us. His face screwed up in rage. “We want to talk with the boss!”
The others were all shouting and gesturing as well.
Mike held his ground, trying to be reasonable. Wanting this to end peaceably. “Come on guys, you know the rules. Your colors aren’t on the Dress Code.”
“So this is some kinda racist club? Is that it?”
“No man, your gang colors!”
“Fuck you, whitey. You think you can just take our women and keep us outside?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you cannot come in!”
“You had no trouble letting my sister in though did you?” yelled the guy from the back. A younger man, maybe eighteen years old. A dream catcher tattooed under his right eye. “It’s okay for them to come in, but not us is that it?
“You guys need to calm down!”
I could feel Aaron crowding in behind me. A quick glance over my shoulder showed me that Mark had recruited two other doormen on his way up front. The gang members were starting to back away as the numbers game slowly caught up with them. Seething hatred in the tattooed kids’ eyes.
More insults were tossed our way for a few minutes. Racist this. You white fucks, that.
Aaron leaned in close to me. His voice precise. No nonsense. “Push these guys away. We don’t need this abuse and our guests don’t need to see it. Show of force, Joe.”
I glanced back at Aaron. His overly tanned face was calm but severe. He wasn’t joking at all. In the lineup I saw the people talking amongst themselves, whispering back and forth. In my opinion few of those people would let anything these punks said change their opinion about partying at Cowboy Shotz tonight or any night.
But when the boss puts it plainly, it ain’t really up for debate.
I nodded my head and tapped Big Mike on the shoulder. He looked back at me, and then at Aaron. His perfectly groomed face turned grim before he nodded as well.
We stepped forward onto the sidewalk in a two man wave, pushing the gang members back with our presence and then physically when they refused to move.
“You just gonna push us into the streets? You think we’re garbage?” yelled the one closest to Danny giving a shove of his own. Danny stumbled back off his feet. So I stepped up and pushed the Posse member hard, hurling him off balance and into the feet of one of his friends.
Another one rushed at me, the tattooed kid. “Where’s my sister?” he bellowed looking and pointing past me. With ease I hooked his lead arms with one of my own, slipped a leg behind his and dropped him to the concrete high on his back. The wind rushed clean out of him on impact. He rolled away, gasping for breath.
That’s when things started to get hairy. All remaining gang members charged in at myself and Mike in a rush. Given the way we were positioned it was hard for our backup to get past us in a hurry to take some of the brunt.
Grabbing one charging guy tight and tying him up left me open to a second guy who threw a sloppy punch that bounced off my forehead. I heard a crack from his knuckles and a yelp of pain as a few stars flashed behind my eyes. The punch thrower was immediately tackled by a recovered Danny. They disappeared out of sight.
I could feel more than see Big Mike moving to my right, occupying at least two of the offenders with his sheer mass. Mark squeezed past me and slammed into a fourth gang member, driving him away and off to my left.
The guy in my arms thrashed and flailed. Trying to free himself by throwing head butts that were inches too short and kicking at my shins and knees. I adjusted my grip until I could grab the back of his belt. With a lurch I heaved with my legs and back, launching the now
screaming thug into the air and driving him hard to the sidewalk. He got his hands out to break his fall, but it wasn’t a fun one.
That’s when I saw the gun.
Sound dropped away save for the rushing in my ears.
Eight feet away from me was the young kid with the dream catcher tattoo on his cheek. In his hands was a snub nosed revolver. I’m not a gun guy. I don’t know makes or models or anything like that. I know pistol in hands aimed into a crowd where the bouncers and I were brawling with his crew.
He was shouting something. I know this ‘cause his mouth was moving and his eyes were wild. I couldn’t hear anything. The blood in my ears was roaring louder than ever before in my life.
Somehow I was moving towards him. I don’t remember making the decision to do so. But there I was rushing the armed street gang member. Swiping my big left hand at his outstretched gun.
I got punched in the chest hard.
Twice.
Three times.
It took me another two steps before my legs buckled under me. Knees hitting the sidewalk before I finally started to keel over.
Faces. I saw faces.
The kid with the gun. Shock now, mixed with fear as he stood over me. He disappeared from sight as bodies smashed into him.
Big Mike and Mark. Kneeling over me. Yelling and shouting.
Mom. Smiling. Not sick. Making ginger snap cookies.
Dad. Donald. Dressed for softball. Waving me forward.
Chapter 7
“Come on, Joe!” Dad called out to me. Donald smiled, holding his aluminum bat over his shoulder. “We’re gonna be late for the game.”
I was slow, sluggish. Couldn’t seem to get in gear. Something was hurting in my chest.
Donald laughed at me. “What’s keeping you, little guy? We need our scorekeeper.”
He was so tall. Everyone was so much taller than me. Mom kept saying I was gonna be big and strong one day. Just like my big brother. I just had to be patient.
Dad checked his watch, and lit a cigarette.
WHAM.
A lurch.
Pain.
Everything hurt.
Sounds.
“Oh my, God!”
“Everybody get back!”
“Someone take over CPR, I need a break.”
WHAM.
More pain.
Air.
Minty.
Faces.
Tamara.
Parise.
Mom.
“Joseph Alan Donovan you get in here this instant!”
I was halfway out the door. My friends were outside on their bikes, waiting. We were heading to the monkey trails along the Seine River.
Mom’s face was a thunder cloud. My report card in her hand. Brandishing it like a weapon, her eyes wide. “You are not going anywhere until you explain these grades.”
Grade nine hadn’t been my best. Computer science had killed my average. I just couldn’t make the damned things work for me.
“How am I supposed to be the head of the PTA if my own son can’t keep above a C average?”
“Linda, lay off the boy.” Dad came to my rescue. Same as always. He looked over the sheet, grimacing around his pipe. Smoke curling up towards the ceiling. “He has good marks on here. Bunch of A’s. Some high B’s.”
“That is precisely why a C is completely unacceptable. If he is capable of better marks then he should … “
WHAM.
“Where is that ambulance?”
“Stay down you piece of shit!”
“Fuck you, pig! I know what you are …”
“Jesus, Miller!”
“What? He shot this guy!”
“Joe! Joe, can you hear me?”
“Keep breathing for him. I can’t find a pulse!”
WHAM.
Donald looked at me sadly. I stood in front of him with both hands jammed in my pants pockets and my face aflame. A massive black eye swelling my left eye shut in a huge purpling mess.
“Why didn’t you fight back?”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned back against the sink. We were in the basement washroom. A cold face cloth in his hand. It stung painfully against my face when he pressed it there, wiping at the welt.
“Have you figured out what to tell Mom?” he asked.
I shook my head.
Donald grimaced. “You know how Mom is, Joe. She’s gonna freak. After all the hell I put her through in school she’s hoping you’ll be the smart kid.” He sighed, eyeing me critically, reapplying the facecloth with a sad smile. “I suppose we could tell her you fell.”
WHAM
“Keep back everyone! Give the paramedics room!”
“Back the fuck up!’
“The blood, so much blood….”
“We can take it from here, ma’am. Let us do our jobs.”
Sirens.
More faces.
WHAM.
Caskets.
Matching caskets. Up in front of the altar.
The pastor at the pulpit. Droning. The passage of life. How God welcomes all to his bosom. The transition from life into death is a challenge to the living, though we should not weep.
Mom was weeping.
So was I.
WHAM.
“Okay, head’s secure.”
“On three.”
“Joe!”
“Ma’am you’ve gotta stay back.”
“Three.”
WHAM.
“I am sorry it’s not better news, Mrs. Donovan. I truly am.”
Doctor’s office. Mom with her hand shading her eyes. I was off to one side, staring at the doctor. The x-rays showing an outline of Mom’s heart. Lots of black spaces. Shadows, they’re called.
Stunned.
Unfair.
Mom wasn’t the smoker.
WHAM.
“How far from the hospital?”
“St. B’s two minutes away.”
“Take over compressions, I’ll fire up the AED.”
“He’s going tacky. Blood loss is slowing to a trickle.”
WHAM.
Banker’s office. More long faces.
Mom sat next to me. Her skin gray. A tissue in her hand, pressing it to her mouth after every hacking cough.
“Thankfully your husband’s insurance was able to cover the majority of your mortgage. Unfortunately, there isn’t much we can do as far as a loan to help with your medications. The stipend you are receiving from disability is already maxed out and given your status we are not able to extend a loan on top.”