by Lou Allin
FOURTEEN
The local bar scene was a subject far from Belle’s mind. Only in university, in cozy bierhalls or pizzerias, safe havens for women, had she “gone drinking” with friends. Everyone knew Sudbury’s watering holes by sight and reputation, from the upscale Office to the restaurant-bars like Pat and Mario’s to the outer limits like Eddy’s down the alley from the Salvation Army. Later that night she would give Derek a call to find out the best dives to search for a link between Brooks and the local drug trade. He might have friends in “low places,” as the song went. Of course, she would have to go alone. How else to meet people?
After a salty but satisfying breakfast of English muffins, wicked feta cheese and some tempting dried black olives, she drove downtown to check in with Miriam. Her lieutenant and her PC companion were humming in tandem. “Guess what?” the older woman called, sweeping her arm like a grand duchess. “We got the go to sell that apartment in the Flour Mill. Ten units. Low rent is the polite phrase, but well-maintained. I was over there this morning.” She flashed Belle a few Polaroids. “200K if we’re lucky. And the owner has other properties, too.” She sprayed wildberry deodorizer around her desk. “Sorry. Mr. Balboni smokes a wicked cigar. Didn’t want to be rude and lose the sale. The things you do.” She coughed theatrically.
“Windfall, Miriam. We’ll have to celebrate. Dinner on me at the restaurant of your choice when and if. Oh, the Garbo tape was a definite gem.”
Miriam smiled like a Buddha and started dialing. Pushing aside the clutter on her desk, Belle clicked up her files on a lakefront distress sale. Nowadays lots had to be 150 feet minimum so that tiny places did not overtax the waterfront. This lot was 100 feet by the dubious “irregular”. With the bedrooms a weak shot put from the road, it was like sleeping on the pavement itself. Since there was no land for a conventional septic, the owner had tunnelled creatively to put in an anaerobic bed across the road. Uncut, unruly, Tim Horton cups and other detritus nesting in the high grasses, it doubled as a wildlife sanctuary in clear violation of the code which demanded that a septic bed be green and reasonably clipped. A cement block sauna with a sinister hole by the chimney and a rusting trailer with broken windows crowded the last inches of the site. Even the house roof sagged, weighed down by ice dams and no doubt leaking inside. The elderly owners had become unequal to the upkeep. Bring on a dozer, Belle thought, but there was no accounting for taste. The wretched toenail of dirt might attract someone who just wanted boasting rights to lakefront property, thereby providing a retirement cushion for the old pair.
A few groggy hours later, the coffee pot exhausted, Belle trudged back from a lunch run down the block to fetch submarines, Italian salami for Miriam and for herself, a seafood special (fish masquerading as crab). Turbot maybe? In a recent diplomatic contretemps with Spain, a long-patient Canada had surprised the world by defending its fragile Grand Banks, impounding one boat and displaying the illegal nets at the United Nations building. Whatever its origins, the succulent flesh had Belle licking the last calories of mayo from her fingertips. A cold draft blew through the room as a young woman toting a gigantic leather book bag muscled through the door. Hefty but fit, with baggy jeans slit at the knees, a Metallica sweatshirt glimpsed beneath her parka, and several earrings, the intruder was Miriam’s daughter, Rosanne.
“Bellesy,” she said. “Haven’t seen you since the school year started. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time. Mom said you would let me on the computer.”
Relieved that the clear speech seemed to discount possibilities of a pierced tongue, Belle got up. “Sure, Rosanne. I’m finished. Just don’t access the hard drive or use the mouse as a foot pedal,” she joked, peering at the pencil drafts the girl carried. “Early Christian Burial and the Catacombs?”
It was for a course on the history of education, Rosanne explained. “Our prof, such a cool guy, told us that since the subject was dead meat, all that Dewey and Maritain and Whitehead, that we could do our term paper on anything we wanted. I’m going to be a social studies teacher, but I have a gruesome side.”
“Really?” Belle whispered as she watched the girl log on. Suddenly a neuron twanged across into a distant connection. “You took your degree at Shield, right?”
“Yep, graduated two years ago, but it took me that long to make teacher’s college. The quotas are ruthless.”
“Did you know Eva Schilling?”
“Well, sure. Not too many of us crazy history majors.” She tapped away furiously.
“What happened to her? She dropped out, I heard.”
Rosanne shrugged. “Who knows? You could say she was the new star of the department, scholarships coming out the . . . uh, ears. Some found her stuck-up, but, like, she just didn’t seem to have a life beyond that dumb island and the library. We asked her to parties, but she always had to get a ride with her brother. Can you believe? Then in her second year she did a fade-out at midterms. No sign of the babe again.”
“Pressure?”
“It’s schizy to have straight As going. That’s why I avoid it at all costs.” She flashed an impish smile at Miriam. “Anyway, if she weren’t in school, why would she want to stay on that island? Could be she’s working out of town. In the States, maybe. Wish I could get one of those pretty green cards.”
“Cheap cigarettes and liquor would be your ruin, Rosanne. But don’t panic. Wal-Mart has arrived. Say, could she have married an American? There must be some Yanks at Shield.”
“UN-likely. She was more like a nun or a saint, if you get my drift.” A chime sounded from the courthouse. “Hey, two o’clock. I’d better get my buns in gear. Thanks, Belle. And I won’t save or anything. Just work it up and print.” Unwrapping an entire pack of sugar-free gum and wadding it into her mouth like loading a flexible cannon, she bent to her task. Belle whiffed cinnamon all the way to her van.
Tripping over a rubber taco toy as she entered her house inspired dinner: hamburger fried with chili powder, garlic and tomato juice, topped by Monterey Jack, all nested in crispy corn tortillas. When her charred taste buds had recovered sufficiently to permit clear speech, she called Derek Santanen.
“You gave me a hand when I needed it, Belle. That’s why I’m being dead honest with you. I don’t have nothing more to do with the trade, no old friends, nothing,” he sighed elaborately. “I can’t tell you what’s coming down now, just the action before I was busted. Prob’ly all changed. They don’t do nothing in the same place twice. Security.” He spoke like a proud professional.
“Well, where was a good spot to deal then, pal-o-mine?”
“Hardy har-har. Like I told you last time, my buys use’ to be at the Paramount.” Chomping and slurping sounds followed this information. Belle wrenched the phone from her ear and inspected the receiver. “On Brewster Street?” she asked next. The rotten end of the downtown core. Winos, small fry drug dealers, and those with newspaper in their boots who with the price of a few beers fell into drunken brawls and an occasional murder—if the victim landed in a snowbank at thirty below and couldn’t crawl to a warm place. Every big city and some small ones had their Brewster. The only time the place really stirred into life was the day the welfare cheques arrived.
“You want I should take you down there? Kind of a bodyguard like?” he offered generously.
“That might spoil the effect, Derek, but thanks anyway.”
“Maybe, but lock your car doors. Hey, remember Brooks? He mentioned you last time I did some tune-up work at the Beaverdam. You didn’t go looking after them machines I told you about, did you? Were you bugging him?”
“Why? What did he say?” Belle felt a frisson of warning.
“Nothing much. Just asked if I knew this nosy babe. Described you pretty well.” He snorted a dubious compliment. Then his voice grew serious, nearly brotherly. “Stay away from him, Belle. Guy’s a coward, and that’s the worst. Gimme a crazy anytime. Least you’re allus on your guard.”
Belle thanked him for the crunchy concern an
d headed to her closet, sorting through a collage of clothes she hadn’t worn since Rod Steiger had played a pawnbroker. What outfit would raise the fewest eyebrows at the Paramount? She chose a costume of circulation-cutting wheat jeans, a green silk peasant blouse, short leather jacket too small for her expanded winter body and fake armadillo cowboy boots optimistically purchased for the Calgary Stampede. “Sorry, guys,” she apologized as she shoehorned them onto spreading feet spoiled by years of cushy runners. “You’re not getting any younger.” As an afterthought, she dug out the wig her mother had bought for her unsuccessful rounds of chemo. It was tasteful, neatly short-cut in dark brown curls for a soft, vulnerable look. As a final touch, she unearthed some makeup from vainer days and applied powdery blue eye shadow and a bronze lipstick, tucking them into a small handbag which usually held her coin collection. A final whiff of Chanel 22 followed her shivering body to the van. The boots were cold and stiff. Why did people dress this way in the North?
The van rolled along next to the railroad tracks which bisected the city, past a grim strip of soup kitchens and cheque-cashing places: a pawn shop’s beckoning golden balls, a few greasy spoons with the cheapest breakfast outside Vegas and second-hand furniture stores with shabby rooms upstairs. Too cold for the roaches, though. She flinched as a freight chuffed by. When the transcontinental rail traffic pulled into Sudbury, this lowlife panorama greeted the passengers as they sipped daiquiris inside the insulated windows of the club car, or so a national magazine article had said. The town fathers had rumbled and frothed, countering that Sudbury had just made the top twenty best cities in Canada. But they couldn’t very well drag the tourists from their seats and limo them around to the postcard spots.
Belle hesitated at leaving her precious van in this neighbourhood, relaxing only when she remembered the comprehensive coverage on her insurance policy. With steely determination she clumped to the door of the Paramount, passing three chubby Harleys parked out front. Bluestocking days still left one door reading “Gentlemen” and the other, “Ladie’s and Escorts”. No grammarians need apply, but inside all was one. Beery fumes and raucous country wails greeted her along with smoky drifts of conversation and the occasional click of ivory rounds across a baize table. Large hairy males, tattoos undulating to the music, cigarette packs stuffed into their T-shirt arms, lifted bottles around a video game. Gang members? A few years ago a riot between rival clubs had made the national news.
She plowed through the layers of haze to order a Scotch and soda, although she knew her stomach might rebel. Only bar brands, but hoping a few of Derek’s reliable Paws might quell indigestion, she munched from a large bag, rationing them carefully, treasuring the sensation of perfect crunch, salt and cheese. About twenty feet away, a horseshoe runway with a tape deck featured what the sign outside euphemistically called “Montreal Table Dancers”. Most rare traces of Canadian exotica seemed to emanate from that colourful city. Watching the two women, one young and faintly pretty, the other a stretch-marked pro, called up an ironic comparison: “The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” Pretty snide, Belle, she thought. These women were making a hard-won living shaking their worn gilt tassels instead of collecting welfare. Two pot-bellied men on furlough from their wives tucked bills into the bikini underpants gyrating in their steamy faces, hooting and elbowing each other, making crude gestures, giant rings of keys jingling from their belts like fashion statements. Belle swirled her drink and arranged her junk food snacks in a small design on her serviette. Suddenly a throat cleared.
A Willie Nelson clone smiled at her, his clean-shaven face pleasantly creased. You didn’t come here as Miss Manners’ foreign correspondent, she told herself. Take a deep breath, well, maybe not too deep, and pretend you’re in a 1963 Grade C film. If he’s not in his prime, he’s in your superannuated ballpark, dear old ivied Wrigley Field.
“Buy you whatcher having, little lady?” he offered, and sidled up, nudging a silver-tipped boot onto the footrest. Belle raised an eyebrow like Roz Russell in His Girl Friday and offered him a Paw, in response to which he signalled the waitress for another Red Dog beer and a drink for Belle. Black stove pipe jeans and a red and white checked Western shirt with fringe made him a line dancing natural.
He studied the snack with a mischievous look, pretended to smoke it and raised his beer in a salute. “Some folks call it a six-pack. I call it a support group.” He laughed pleasantly and so did Belle. It wasn’t bad for a beer joke. “Ain’t seen you around. Nick’s my name.” He extended his hand in a warm firm grip. “Nick Nomless.”
“Are you kidding? You mean like in nameless?”
“You got her. Hey, it’s better than no-name. Maybe my grandfather pulled a fast one on Immigration.”
Unprepared with an alias, Belle rifled her MGM Rolodex. “I’m Susan Lenox. Sue.”
“Related to that furnace guy?”
“Wish I, uh . . .” (not ‘were’) “. . . was. Nice to have free repairs in the family.”
“New in town? Or just visiting?”
Improvisation isn’t my forte, thought Belle. Definitely nothing fancy, just with enough money for an apartment, a car and a cheapish good time. “Yeah, moved up from Windsor a week ago. Secretarial work. Dull but reliable these days. Yourself?” With a little inner cringe, she congratulated herself on remembering the local dialect.
“Tolands Automotive. Diesel truck mechanic.” He sighed. “One helluva hot and dirty job. But gotta make the buck, ya know?” When the waitress brought another beer, he poured slowly to avoid a foamy head.
Time stopped as the beer rose, mesmerizing Belle for a moment. She chuckled and he looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, you really spooked me with that glass. The strobe light made it look as if you had only three fingers.”
“Well, I do, honey!” he roared, wiggling the survivors under his chin like Oliver Hardy. “Lost ’em in a transmission overhaul a couple years back. Don’t slow me down none, though.”
Belle brushed her hair back. Talk about tactful! Still, Nick seemed friendly and open. They danced for several numbers, including a Texas two-step which Belle survived by refurbishing her old fox trot from junior high, adding the Watusi, and mixing in a Peppermint Twist for polish. “They have some great line dancing at the Triple R over on Douglas. I go every Wednesday. Or, “he added, proud to offer a choice, “wanta have dinner at Don Cherry’s some night, catch the Leafs on the big screen, and dance up a storm later?”
“I’ve passed the place. How’s the food?”
“Chicago wings beat out Buffalo. Steak’s good, too. Listen,” he added, flashing an eager grin. “This dump is gettin’ to me. Can’t stand smoke since I quit a couple years ago. I got a place where we can be more comfortable,” he said, clearly warming to a familiar line, and at the same time wiping at his eyes convincingly.
Belle touched his arm with a discreet pressure, not too much, but sincere as hell. “Nick, sounds great, but it’s a work night for me. I just wanted to break out of my apartment for an hour or two. First time since I got here. And,” she moved closer and lowered her voice, “I wanted to check out the action. You understand?” She mimed a toke.
He laughed, still in a good humor despite her rebuff. “Tough luck for the old guy, I guess, but maybe later. So, little lady, what’s your preference? Grass? Coke? Pills? It’s not the big city here, but the selection’s good.”
“Coke, I guess. Special occasions only.”
“Sure, I can tell by lookin’ atcha. Gotta watch that poison. Anyways, I find a bit for friends now and then.” He paused and cocked a grizzled eyebrow. “You ever snowmobile?”
“In Windsor? It’s practically the deep south. I’ve always wanted to try it. Is it dangerous?” she asked, playing wide-eyed Sally Field in Gidget. Not that Sally ever did drugs.
“Nah.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Reason I ask’s ’cause I make my buys at a lodge my friend owns. Get my drift?” He chucked her
under the chin. “It’s not far. We can go on my machine some time. I got a major serious mother of a 750.”
Nick gave her a few lessons about snowmobiles, switched to boilermakers, and Belle excused herself to go to the washroom as a prelude to leaving. The older dancer was peering into a tarnished mirror, freshening her makeup. She wore a pink leather sequined bikini sliced wickedly up the thighs with matching pasties covering her nipples, her medical history written in ragged stretch marks, an appendix scar and probable breast enhancement. The pneumatic pair charged out like twin B-58 nose cones. Belle applied a small pat of powder on her nose. She smiled over at the woman in sympathetic sisterhood. “Tough night?”
The other woman mashed on a candy apple red map of lipstick. “You said it. I hate the hours, but it keeps me in shape.”
Belle laughed. “I’ll bet. With my desk job I could use some exercise. But dancing all night would leave me in traction for a week.”
The woman fluffed her hair, a vibrant blond with ruby touches. “You can’t smoke, and I try to eat sensible. Watch the cholesterol and all that new stuff. Stamina’s important. Sort of like an athlete in training. It’s not so bad. We work four days on, three off. And decent breaks every twenty minutes. Better dough farther north, though. Once in the Kap I pulled down a thousand a week. ’Course that was when the paper mills were steamin’. But I can’t follow the business like I used to. Got a little one. Mindy’s ten last week.” For a moment Belle wondered if she were going to haul out pictures from some nether region.
“Yeah, it’s tough to work and raise a kid.” Belle lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, meeting the dancer’s reddened eyes, sore and tired, brightened momentarily by thoughts of her child. “Say, any chance of a score? I just moved here and don’t know anyone.”