She let her words hang in the air, pulled her hair back from her face, and leaned over and kissed me, her tongue snaking deep into my mouth. Then she pulled back and kissed me on my forehead. “I have to get going before that fucker wakes up. Maybe we can do this again sometime.”
She pulled on her T-shirt and left.
I lay there, anger beating in my chest. I thought I had lost that anger long ago.
Once, when I was a teenager, I met my dad on his drunken walk home. Every night he drank at the Bar Saint-Vincent on Ontario Street before staggering home through the alley. He was always angry, drunk or sober, but he was violent when he was drunk. He had stopped hitting me when I grew big enough to fight back, but he never stopped beating Mum.
I remember waiting for him in an alleyway called Sansregret. I always thought that was funny. He didn’t see the baseball bat swing out from behind the dumpster and into his face; he didn’t feel the dozen or so home runs I smashed into his disintegrating skull. Mum didn’t cry when she heard he’d been killed.
Four months after Dad blocked the swings with his face, Mum had another shithead living in our apartment. When her bruises became regular, I realized there was nothing I could do. I gave up on the emotional stuff.
When I whack someone, it’s business. I’m good at it, and you can’t be emotional. If you want to make a career out of it, you have to treat it as a business.
* * *
Maude didn’t come back. After a couple of days, I decided to pay a visit to the crap magnet. I knocked on the door. Eleven in the morning, and Ace was already hitting the booze.
“Just passing by,” I said.
He wasn’t so friendly this time. He told me that Maude had left him. She took the dog. He loaded his sob story with details—about his brother coming to help look for her, about the bus schedule he found in the house. Liars love details. They think the more details, the better the story. Honest people tell the facts, and don’t dress their stories up like whores.
Walking back to the cottage, I thought about Maude. Ace didn’t deserve her. She deserved some Henry Constant to take care of her, someone who wouldn’t punch her in the stomach or slap her face with flat fists. She didn’t deserve to leave without a goodbye.
* * *
It took me awhile, but I found the fresh earth covered with leaves and branches. I didn’t have a shovel, but just kicking the dirt a few inches down was enough to expose Hoagy’s back. Ace hadn’t even dug a grave deep enough for respect. Kicking up some more dirt, I uncovered her hand, the one with the purple flower ring. I moved her pathetic burial back into place, spread some more leaves and branches on top of it, and went back to the cottage.
It was none of my business. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen people turn up dead for no good reason. No point taking sides. There’s no mileage in supporting the dead.
I should have walked away. But maybe I had too much time on my hands.
I went back to visit Ace first thing the next morning. He came to the door looking like shit, in boxers and a mangy vest, his greasy hair sticking up in odd places. I told him I wanted to go to Montreal for booze and food, and asked to borrow his boat.
“Sure, no problem, man. Long as we share some of the booze.” He went back into his pigsty and returned with the keys.
Five hours later, I brought the boat keys back. I had a bag full of booze and a case of beer. His eyes lit up.
I let him outpace me—he didn’t notice. After two hours he was feeling it. He rigged up a radio outside using an orange extension cord that ran through the kitchen window. He tuned the radio to a country music station that broadcasted from Kahnawake. After three hours he started talking about Maude, the heartbreak and lonesome country songs fueling his imagination.
“I loved her, man, I really did. Sure, we used to fight, but she was the best thing I ever had. And taking my dog too? What kind of woman does that?”
“Hoagy was your dog?”
“Strictly speaking, she came with the dog. But I loved that dog, man.”
“I understand, buddy.”
I walked off into the trees to take a leak. When I came back, I leaned over Ace and said, “Isn’t it always the case? The ones you love are the ones who break your heart.” I had just heard something like that in a song on the radio—it seemed appropriate. Ace looked up at me like I’d said something profound, his mouth open in awe. That’s when I put all my weight into a punch I sent into his slack jaw. His head folded down onto his chest and he dropped the glass. He didn’t even look surprised.
* * *
When he woke up he was sitting in the kitchen, strips of duct tape holding him to the chair. I knew he was awake when his breathing changed, but he kept his eyes closed. I waited on the couch while he tried to figure things out. The place stank of stale beer, cigarettes, and dog piss. I had a shovel across my lap, its shiny silver blade still sporting its new label. When Ace finally decided to open his eyes, he looked at me but said nothing.
“I’ll be back in a bit, Ace.” I smiled at him and left.
I came back with Hoagy in my arms, and dropped him at Ace’s feet. Dirt and dried blood made the dog look like he was wearing a bad wig. Ace remained quiet, so I left again. I was back in thirty minutes carrying Maude over my shoulder. I sat her down in an armchair opposite him.
“Look who I found, Ace. Maude came back to see you.”
“Listen, I can explain.”
“Go ahead.”
“It was an accident. I didn’t kill her. She tripped and fell. I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t any point calling an ambulance, she was dead. I knew they’d blame me.”
“How’d it happen?”
“We’d been drinking. Maude liked to drink. It was one of those freak accidents, you know, like on America’s Funniest Home Videos. But it wasn’t funny. She was walking past Hoagy and he jumped up like she’d stepped on his tail. She tripped and went flying.”
He was talking as though every word was a step toward escape; all he had to do was fill the room with words and he’d be okay.
“She hit her head on the corner of the stove. When she got up, she seemed fine. We went to bed, and she fell asleep right away. She’d had a lot to drink. Later, maybe three in the morning, she woke up and started vomiting. She was vomiting like crazy for about an hour, then she came back to bed and fell asleep. But in the morning she didn’t wake up.”
“Good story,” I said.
“Yeah, a horrible accident.”
I would have done the same thing in his situation: deny everything.
“I don’t believe you, Ace. I saw the bruises on Maude. She was scared of you. You used to beat her pretty good, didn’t you? What was it, recreational?”
“No way, man.”
“So it got out of hand, and now she’s dead. That’s an accident. You didn’t mean to kill her, did you? Just rough her up a little, right?”
“It was a fucking accident. It happened the way I said it. That’s the truth.”
“And what about Hoagy? I thought you loved that animal.” I nodded toward the dog. The top of his skull was caved in, the hair around it matted with mud and congealed blood. “You must have done that with a hammer.”
“Yeah. It hurt me to do it. But I didn’t have a choice. Every time I let him off the leash, he scratched at the place Maude was, like he was trying to dig her up. He wanted to be with her, so I gave him his wish.” He looked up at me with pleading eyes. “Listen, I know I’ve done wrong, but this ain’t the way to deal with it. Why don’t we just call the police? I’ll tell them everything.”
“I can’t do that. It wouldn’t really make things right for Maude, would it? You’d just repeat your sad little story, and get a few months for interfering with a dead body. But Maude’s gone forever. So is Hoagy.”
“But I didn’t mean to kill her. You know how it is. We had a fight—pushing and shoving. But then she fell. It was an accident, I swear.”
Fear makes people run off a
t the mouth. When talk’s the only thing left, they’ll say anything to unlock the leg-hole trap they’re in.
“So why don’t we ask Maude?” I said. “Look at her.”
He did; she didn’t look good. A worm was climbing out of her T-shirt. Under the dirt, insect bites covered her skin, which was washed out and ready to start peeling. Ace was sobering up.
I opened a bottle of vodka and poured half of it down his throat. He chugged it like he was proving something at a frat party. Then I went over to the counter, took a large pot from under the sink, and filled it with canola oil. I set it on the stove top, but didn’t put the heat on. I started peeling some potatoes I had brought over. Ace had his back to me, but I could hear him straining to see what I was doing.
“Don’t look at me, Ace, look at Maude,” I said as I peeled. “Why don’t you guys chat a bit while I prepare dinner?”
“Please don’t do this. I admit it. It was my fault. I killed her. Please, for the love of God.”
“Talk to Maude, Ace. I’m busy with dinner. You like french fries, don’t you?”
He was quiet for a while, then I heard him say, “Maude, you wouldn’t want this, would you? Not like this. Maude, tell him.”
Maude didn’t say a word. After an hour in the small cabin, she was beginning to smell pretty bad.
“I’m sorry, Maude. We had some good times together, didn’t we?”
I chopped the potatoes into thick wedges and left them on the counter. “Another drink, Ace?” I asked.
He didn’t say anything. I picked up the vodka bottle and slowly poured the rest of it into his mouth. I held his chin to make sure it all went down the right way. I poured myself a Scotch and sat on the couch.
Ace was crying now, sobbing like a child.
“What’s the matter, pal?”
He didn’t answer.
Some people would say I was toying with him, and maybe I was. It takes time for alcohol to get into your bloodstream. I had to fill the time. What’s wrong with being polite? What’s wrong with trying to make someone’s last experience civilized? I was doing what felt right.
Ace hadn’t given up hope, and I didn’t need to take that away from him. There’s a point when people finally understand the inevitable, when they realize there’s no way out. Most people never get there—they refuse to cross the line. They keep pleading, hoping and praying for a miracle to happen. And it never does. Like most people, Ace believed what he hoped for.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to kill her, honestly. It was an accident. It ain’t right to do this.”
“Oh. I thought that you were crying for Maude.”
“I’m crying for her too. If I could do things over, I would.”
“Another drink would help you, Ace.” I opened the second bottle of vodka and began pouring it down his throat. He struggled against it. It took a long time for the second bottle to go down.
He was stronger than I thought, but eventually his head lolled around and his eyes lost focus. Then he passed out. He was lucky he wouldn’t have to deal with the hangover in the morning.
I went to the stove and put the heat under the oil. I left the potatoes on the counter. The cottage was a scene of domesticity ruined by tragedy, both Ace and Maude asleep while waiting for the oil to heat up. I took the duct tape off Ace and carried him to the couch. I left the cabin and waited at the edge of the woods.
Through the window, I could see the pot sitting on the stove. After a few minutes there were small whiffs of smoke, and there was no detector to wake them up. I had the battery in my pocket. The smoke darkened, and then an explosion of flames erupted out of the pot. In seconds, the flames took hold of the wall behind the stove and moved through the kitchen like something alive. A little while later I saw little puffs of smoke escape from under the roof. I watched the couch burst into flames, and with it, Ace disappeared into the smoke and fire. His face was the last thing I saw, the skin blistered and peeling. He didn’t suffer. The fumes would have gotten him before the flames.
I stood watching at the edge of the trees, feeling better than I had in a long time. I realized then that I had a future. Maude was dead because I held back, didn’t get involved. Well, that was going to change. I’ve got skills. I just need to use them properly.
Poppa
by Robert Pobi
Little Burgundy
It was a shouldn’t-be-there kind of noise that took Jimmy from a dead sleep to the edge of his mattress with a pistol in his fist—all in a single beat of his heart. He froze in the dark and cocked his head to one side, pointing his attention to the world beyond the bedroom. After a few breaths he heard it again—a chair sliding on the floor in the kitchen. Followed by a cupboard door closing. A drawer sliding open. The tap coming on.
Jimmy checked the clock—a little past three a.m. It wasn’t a hit; hit men didn’t drag chairs around and wash their hands in the middle of the night. Which narrowed the possibilities to a home invasion or Iggy. And since Iggy at this time of night meant bad news, Jimmy would have preferred a home invasion; he hadn’t shot anyone in a while.
Christie woke up as the lights went on out in the apartment. “Jesus, Jimmy. Don’t you ever get any privacy?”
He put his hand on her ass, gave it a squeeze, and smiled into the dark. “Easter’s usually pretty quiet.” He got up, put on a robe, and left the bedroom with the big automatic still in his hand. Just in case, like Poppa would say.
Iggy was at the other side of the apartment, at the kitchen counter. He was going through the preflight operation of adjusting knobs and wiping down stainless steel on the espresso machine. Iggy was a clumsy-looking motherfucker, but he was a surgeon when it came to making coffee. And hurting people. The chrome contraption was burping and coughing and farting.
Jimmy flipped on the rest of the light switches, bathing the two-thousand-square-foot living room in incandescent whites. He crossed the space and Iggy stopped fiddling with the machine and dried his hands on a towel. “Sorry for showing up like this, Jim.”
Jimmy waved it away. “I can sleep because I pay you not to.” He stepped up out of the living room and put the big autoloader down on the granite. He cinched the belt on his silk robe a little tighter and dropped onto one of the barstools flanking the island. “What’s going on?”
Iggy picked up two tiny espresso demitasses and put them under the filter. There was something tentative, almost nervous about the gesture—two characteristics foreign to Iggy. He turned a knob on the machine then looked up. “Tiny Rockatansky crossed the border at Champlain an hour ago.”
Jimmy reached for the phone: the boys needed to know that Satan was coming to town.
* * *
Jimmy faced the big window, hands in pockets, head tilted to one side. On a good day he could see Upstate New York from here. Maybe even Vermont. Now the world stopped somewhere in the flickering image of Westmount below, an intermittent signal pulsing in the blizzard. The snow crippling the city looked like a Christmas movie effect, thick fist-sized clumps dropping from the sky that stuck to everything like baby shit to Russian sable. CNN was on the tube in flat-panel silence, the chryon stating that the whole East Coast was shut down. Wolf Blitzer was shaking his head as if driving over speed bumps, soundlessly professing doom and gloom and loss of life. Jimmy often wondered when—specifically—the pussification of society had started. People were afraid of a little fucking snow. It wasn’t like this was Aruba. And it was February. What did the sports fans expect?
It was all shut down, from New York up through Quebec, and it looked like the city of the dead. Chimneys burped pollution into the sky and a few cars did their best to thread their way through drifts and accidents. The handful of people who were out looked like astronauts, bundled up in coats that could be stuffed with pink fiberglass insulation. But for the most part, it looked as if a sniper warning had been issued.
The abandoned bliz
zard-painted cityscape held very little of his available attention; like the ticking of a clock, it was relegated to the status of background noise. Jimmy was too immersed in his regular function: outthinking the rest of the motherfuckers in the room. He had an almost preternatural ability in solving problems—it was this core competency, not nepotism, that had earned him his place in the ecosystem of his father’s business.
Jimmy turned away from the window, back to the men scattered around the living room. Iggy stood back in the kitchen, brewing coffee, where he could see everyone. Jimmy brought his focus to Harold in the chair by the fireplace. Harold saw the world through the single prism of legality. He was not good at creative thinking unless it involved fancy legal footwork. And a huge fucking invoice. He had been on retainer for Poppa for the better part of half a century. Very much one of the pillars of the old regime.
Harold sat perfectly poised in his suit—no doubt Brioni—balancing the delicate demitasse and saucer on the arm of the chair. “Through a friend in the DHS south of the border, we know that ten mil just went into a Caribbean account owned by Rockatansky.”
Jimmy nodded. Rockatansky’s contractual requirements were well known: half on signing, half on completion. Boilerplate and nonnegotiable. Which left him crossing the border to do a hit for twenty million dollars. A big pile of money. Poppa kind of money.
Marcus—one of his old-school captains—unfolded from the sofa and walked over to the window. “I got guys on every hotel in the city, from the Ritz-Carlton down to the Colibri. I have people checking out every apartment, loft, and room that has been rented out on the Internet in the past six weeks. Unless the guy’s sleeping on a bench, he has to turn up.”
Jimmy took his hands out of his pockets for this part. “Except nobody knows what he looks like. He drives through a border checkpoint and we don’t have a photograph. How is that even possible? This isn’t Keyser fucking Söze.” Jimmy looked around the room. Half a dozen men in here and not a single one he trusted. Including Harold.
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