Running on Empty

by Don Aker

  Ethan wondered at the weirdness of their exchange, surprised at how long his old man had been talking without launching into a lecture. “I’m home for the night anyway,” Ethan said.

  “Good.” His father drained his glass and put the empty into the dishwasher.

  Ethan thought about Raye and wondered if she’d told their old man about her eyes yet. It had been a few days since the last time he’d mentioned it to her, and he’d warned her he wasn’t going to wait much longer. “Has Raye said anything to you about—”

  “How do I look?”

  They both turned to see Jillian standing in the doorway, gorgeous in a low-cut red dress that would stop traffic—and, more to the point, would open wallets. His father gave an appreciative whistle. Ethan just shrugged.

  Jack looked at his watch. “We need to get a move on, sweetheart.”

  “We have plenty of time,” said Jillian.

  But Ethan knew his old man, knew he had to arrive at least a half-hour early for any function. Watching his father reach for his keys, Ethan said, “Look, I wanted to ask you if—”

  “Can this wait?” asked Jack.

  Ethan blinked. “Huh?”

  “We can talk about whatever it is you want when I get back.”

  “I don’t want anythi—”

  “Ethan, a lot of important people will be at this event tonight. It wouldn’t look good for the guest of honour to be late, now would it?”

  Ethan felt his face grow warm. “Look, I just wondered if—”

  But his father was already holding the door open for Jillian. “I said we’ll discuss it when I get home, okay?” and there was no mistaking his Final Word On The Matter tone. Then, just before he shut the door, “This is Sunday night. You must have schoolwork to do.”

  Ethan stood staring at the closed door, surprised at himself for thinking his old man might actually have spent five seconds listening to what he had to say. But in a contest between himself and “important people,” there was no contest.

  He reached for the fridge door. As usual, it didn’t open easily, its ultra-strong magnetic seal requiring him to brace his feet against the porcelain tiles before he gave it a yank. It reminded him of the physics test he’d studied for and barely passed a month ago: The maximum possible friction force between two surfaces before sliding begins is the product of the coefficient of static friction and the normal force. He sure as hell didn’t know what “normal” was, but there always seemed to be maximum friction between him and his old man, some unseen force that kept them grinding against each other at every turn. He wondered idly if Beaker had a coefficient for that.

  The fridge door opened on his second pull and, surveying the various fruit and health drinks inside—Jillian’s contribution to the family’s dietary needs—he shut it in disgust. Then he grinned. A moment later, he was in his father’s study opening the beer and wine cooler built into the floor-to-ceiling cabinet that lined the far wall and contained, along with his father’s law library, several bottles of spirits. Although his father never touched alcohol, he always kept it on hand for guests, which Ethan knew had everything to do with appearances. The perfect lawyer couldn’t be anything less than the perfect host.

  As he’d expected, Heineken bottles filled several shelves of the cooler. His old man would never miss one—or two or three, for that matter. Ethan reached in and grabbed one, twisted off the cap, and brought the bottle to his lips, taking long swallows as he thought again about how his father had just brushed him off. For the hell of it, he stood there estimating the amount of time he and his old man had spent talking during the weeks since he’d clipped the side of the garage with the Volvo. Christ, he could add the month before that and still come up with less time than he’d spent talking with Link Hornsby in his Echo. Not that Link Hornsby would ever snag a Father of the Year award, but at least he took the time to listen to what Ethan had to say, showed him how he could get the money he needed, explained the Martingale system that guaranteed he’d come out a winner. Lil had warned him to steer clear of the guy but, hey, at least he was accessible, hadn’t shut him down with You must have schoolwork to do.

  Ethan drained the Heineken, took two more, then headed down the hallway and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. What had his father asked him? Can this wait? No, he’d waited long enough. Now was the time to do.

  Ethan’s cell rang and he saw it was Pete again. This time he answered it. “Hey,” he said.

  There was dead air for a moment. “You surprised me,” said Pete. “I was expecting your voice mail again.”

  “I can hang up if you want.” Ethan could have made his voice lighter, made it sound like he was joking, but he didn’t.

  “Right.” There was a sound—a kind of huff—on the other end of the line, and Ethan recognized Pete’s fake laugh, the one he used for parents and teachers whose lame attempts at humour fell flat.

  Ethan waited.

  “You get my messages?”

  “No,” Ethan lied.

  “Figured you didn’t,” but there was a hesitation in Pete’s voice that suggested otherwise. “There’s a fight on pay-per-view tonight. You want to come over and watch it, maybe raid some of my dad’s brew?” A few months ago, Pete’s old man had begun making his own beer, and he’d filled several shelves in their basement with malt that wasn’t half bad. According to Pete’s dad, anyway. Ethan doubted it was half as good as the three Heinekens he’d downed.

  Raye had just gotten home from babysitting so there was no reason why he couldn’t go, except for the beer-buzz he was already enjoying. And his laptop open on the bed beside him, all but one of the fields completed on the application that was now running.

  “Sounds great, but I can’t. Got stuff to do tonight.”

  There was another pause. Then, “Look, man,” said Pete. “Can we talk?”

  “Aren’t we talking now?”

  “No. We aren’t.”

  Ethan sighed. Things had been awkward between them since that day at school when Pete learned he’d lied to Allie about Boots McLaughlin. Not that the awkwardness had been much of a problem—they’d spent little time together since then anyway. When Pete and Allie weren’t working together on Moore-or-Less’s profile project, Ethan was working at The Chow Down—or hanging with Link Hornsby.

  “Ethan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s going on, man?”

  Ethan looked at his laptop, wondered what Pete would say about this project. It used to be he could tell Pete anything, but things had changed. He wasn’t exactly sure how, but they had. Was it the gay thing? Maybe. After Ethan’s big I’m there for you, man speech by their lockers, he’d been waiting for Pete to open up about it, but he hadn’t. Now there seemed to be a distance between them. “What do you mean?” asked Ethan, tapping his touchpad to keep the window active.

  There was another sound on the line. Not the huff Ethan had heard earlier, though. A wordless murmur. Or maybe a sigh. Then, “You avoiding me, buddy? We haven’t hung out in a while.”

  “I’ve been busy. So have you and Allie.” Ethan had meant to keep the edge out of his voice, but it was there anyway.

  “Look, I asked you if me working with Allie would be a problem. Is that what all this is about?”

  “All what?”

  This time there was no hesitation in Pete’s voice. “Christ, Ethan! You’ve been acting weird for days. No, it’s been weeks now. Ever since you started that job of yours. Allie’s noticed it, too.”

  There was no denying the edge in his voice now. “So you and Allie spend a lot of time talking about me, do you?”

  “I knew it. This is about the project, isn’t it. You’re jealous of me working with her.”

  Like I need to be jealous of a fag, Ethan thought. “You’re crazy,” he said, his fingers tightening around his phone.

  “Good, ‘cause you shouldn’t be,” said Pete. “Allie loves you, man. Although, to tell you the truth, Ethan? Lately I’ve been wondering
why.”

  “Go to hell.” He hadn’t meant to say the words. He’d thought them, but he hadn’t realized his mouth was in sync with his brain until he heard them out loud. A result of the Heinekens, probably. He half expected to hear a click and a dial tone, but Pete surprised him.

  “Guess I had that coming,” he said, and Ethan heard him take a long breath. “Sorry, man, but you got such a good thing with Allie I don’t know why you’d want to risk it.”

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “Lying to her, for one thing. She’s still so proud of you for giving that old guy the cash. How do you think she’ll feel when she finds out the truth?”

  “How would she find out?”

  “I’m not going to tell her, if that’s what you think. But lies have a way of catching up with a guy, you know?”

  Ethan rolled his eyes. “You’ve been spending way too much time researching my old man. You sound just like him, life lessons and all.”

  “It’s not just the lie, man. Seth told me you saw Filthy.”

  “It’s no secret.”

  “Yeah, well, Allie doesn’t know.”

  Ethan sensed the unspoken Something else before Allie doesn’t know, and he fought the urge to tell Pete to go to hell again. “Maybe I want to surprise her when I get the Cobra.”

  “It’d be cool, man, if that was the reason.”

  “What makes you think it isn’t?” Ethan snarled.

  Pete continued, unaware of—or perhaps because of—the anger in Ethan’s voice. “You forget I know what the Cobra means to you, man.”

  Ethan had been preparing to ream Pete out, but he paused. It was true—Pete did know why that particular car was so important. He was the only person Ethan had ever told about his mother’s Cobra SVT. How his mother had helped him write down the year and the model, how she had gone online with him to find out as much as they could, the two of them scrolling through sites together, talking, planning, laughing. It was the last thing he and his mother had shared.

  “It’s like you want that car no matter what,” continued Pete. “Including taking the money you promised that Boots guy.”

  “I didn’t promise him.”

  “You promised Allie. And now Seth says you gave Filthy five hundred bucks. Where’s the rest coming from? Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

  Ethan snorted. “Do you hear yourself?” he asked. His next words were laced with scorn. “Money doesn’t grow on trees. That’s one of my old man’s top twenty favourites. You know, I think maybe Kyle was right. The hospital switched us at birth. You’re the son Jack Palmer was hoping for.”

  There was a moment of silence on the other end before Pete spoke again. When he did, his voice was strangely even despite the obvious intensity in his words. “You think I sound like your old man? You need to take a hard look at yourself, buddy. You sing the same song over and over. At least your dad says what he does to teach you something. All you think about is yourself. You’re so wrapped up in what you want, what you think you need, that you don’t give a damn about anyone else. An old guy lives on soup and you can’t even give him back the cost of the ticket he bought you. That’s cold.”

  Ethan felt as though a hand had reached through the phone and slapped him. His head reeling from Pete’s comments, he opened his mouth to defend himself, but Pete launched in again.

  “And the thing is, it’s all pointless anyway. No way can you pull together all the cash you need in time. Seth says Filthy needs all of it by Christmas. You can’t make what you need before then. Not waiting tables at a diner.”

  “Maybe you don’t know everything. Maybe I’ve got other options.”

  “Yeah? Options like that sound a little too good to be true.”

  “What would you know about options?” growled Ethan. “What’ve you got lined up after graduation, Pete?” Everyone knew that Pete was headed to community college next fall, probably into a plumbing program. Some of his marks this year were too low to get him into university. More to the point, if he didn’t pass physics, he wouldn’t have enough credits to graduate in June, not without carrying an extra course in their last semester. Why’d he taken that damn physics course in the first place?

  “Thanks, man,” said Pete, his voice a raspy mutter on the line. “That’s real great. Maybe you should think about going into counselling. You’ve got a real gift for helping people see their potential.”

  Ethan’s anger dissolved, but before he could say anything else, Pete continued, “Sorry I bothered you, man. You do whatever you want. But, hey, that’s pretty much your motto anyway, isn’t it? To hell with anybody else.” The line went dead.

  Ethan stared at the cell, wondering if more than just the call had ended. He and Pete had never really argued about anything before. Sure, they’d disagreed about things, taunted each other on the basketball court or in the pool, poked fun at each other’s blunders—but nothing like this. Allie was right when she’d joked about them being joined at the hip. Pete was more than his best friend. He was like the brother Ethan never had.

  Which pissed Ethan off even more. Hell, of all people, Pete understood what the Mustang meant to him. Hadn’t he said so himself? The Cobra was more than just a car to Ethan. It was a connection. So why couldn’t Pete just accept whatever Ethan might have to do to get it?

  He looked at his cell again, debated for a moment whether he should call Pete back and apologize, then remembered what his mother had told him all those years ago: Nothing stays the same, Ethan. The one thing you can count on is that everything changes.

  Ethan reached for his laptop, hoping the page hadn’t timed out.

  It turned out that Hornsby was right. Gambling online was, in fact, a lot like surfing porn, but not only in the way anybody could access restricted sites. It was also how the urge to click took over, pulling you deeper into that digital vortex, five minutes collapsing into fifty until you suddenly found yourself wondering where in hell the hours could have gone.

  Clicking.

  Continually clicking.

  To hell with the consequences.

  Chapter 23

  “I thought you said it was foolproof.”

  Hornsby’s face was expressionless, but Ethan thought he saw something behind his dark eyes. Laughter? “What’d you do,” Hornsby asked. “Lose it all?”

  The early December breeze sweeping up from the harbour drove a shiver through Ethan, but he was barely aware of it. As he stood in his shirtsleeves in the alley behind the diner, all he felt was anger. And betrayal. “A thousand. The other five hundred I already spent.”

  “Tough break,” said Hornsby.

  Ethan wanted to smash something. Or at least throw something. Looking around the alley, though, the only thing he saw was an empty Tim Hortons coffee cup, probably dropped there by one of the workers doing the construction next door. Ethan kicked it savagely, but it skidded only a few feet before coming to rest, rocking back and forth in the breeze. “Tough break,” he echoed, his sarcasm like audible acid. “Maybe for you. Me, I don’t have a cent left. And I need that money.”

  “We all need money, kid,” said Hornsby, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth bobbing as he spoke.

  “You said the Martingale system was a sure thing.”

  “I said it was a sure thing as long as you follow it to the letter.”

  “I did everything you said.”

  “Everything?”

  Ethan cast his mind back over the past three days.

  He takes it slowly at first. Decides he’s going to play with only a hundred his first time online. See how it goes.

  Wonders how much he should bet. Go big or go home. Wants to start with ten, decides on five. Better to start small.

  Gets his first card—an 8. Dealer’s up card is a jack. Clicks the Hit Me button. A king. Decides to hold at 18. Dealer gets a 3 for 13. Then an ace for 14. Then an 8 for 22. Bust.

  Just five bucks, but it took him only five seconds to make it. And he didn’t h
ave to carry a tray of All Day Breakfasts or Philly Steaks With Fries, either.

  Your Total Winnings: $5. Bets five. First card is an ace. Hit Me. A 10.

  Blackjack!

  Your Total Winnings: $10. Bets five. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $5. Thinks about the Martingale system. Bets ten. Wins.

  Your Total Winnings: $15. Bets five. Wins.

  Your Total Winnings: $20. Bets five. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $15. No sweat. Martingale again. Bets ten. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $5. Law of averages, right? Bets twenty. Loses.

  Okay. Down fifteen bucks. Thinks. Thinks again. Martingale calls for a forty-buck bet. Down fifteen, but he still has eighty-five bucks. Balls and bankrolls.

  Your Total Winnings: $0. Bets forty. Wins. Yes! Leaps around the room, pumping the air with his fist. Hornsby, you are the man!

  Your Total Winnings: $40. Which means he’s up twenty-five. Maybe he should bet ten this time. No. Martingale says stay the course. Bets five. Wins.

  Your Total Winnings: $45. Which means he’s up twenty-five. Bets five. Wins.

  Your Total Winnings: $50. Up thirty. Bets five. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $45. Up twenty-five. Bets ten. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $35. Up fifteen. Bets twenty. Loses.

  Your Total Winnings: $15.

  After fourteen bets, he has eighty-five of his original hundreddollar stake and fifteen in winnings. He’s broken even.

  He’s kept track of his bets. Won seven, lost seven. Law of averages. Classic Martingale.

  Balls and bankrolls. Still has the second, but he wonders about the first.

  After school the next day, he goes to the public library, dodging Allie and Pete, who are heading to the media room. As they pass the bookcase he’s standing behind, he hears them laughing together about something and his fingers curl into his palms. Allie loves you, man. He knows this. But still his nails dig into the heels of his hands.

  When they’re gone, he signs out the book he found on the library’s website—Beating Blackjack: A Winner’s Primer.