I stepped toward him. “Mind telling me what the fuck my girlfriend is doing shooting heroin in the back room of this dump?”
“I’m sorry, did you say ‘girlfriend’?” He laughed. “Get the fuck out of my bar.”
“I’m taking her with me.”
He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. I was about to spin around and slug him when Melanie mumbled, “Viktor, where are you? I want you . . .”
He looked at me smugly and shrugged. “Hey. The lady has spoken.”
I gritted my teeth and nodded. Kept nodding as I backed away from him. Continued to nod as I walked back into the bar. Nodded at the people in the crowd with their drinks in their hands and their parents’ money in their pockets. Nodded at the band, at the bartender, at the bouncer by the door. Nodded at the dead grizzly on the wall as I wound up and shattered the half-drunk pint glasses on the table in the corner.
The music stopped. Everyone looked at me.
I took a swing at the banner and ripped it in half. I smashed table lamps and dinner plates, beer taps and bottles of wine. I would’ve smashed all the pictures off the wall if the bouncer hadn’t chased me out of there. He couldn’t run for shit. I lost him at the first turn off Dormant Street, even with my twisted ankle.
When I heard the sirens I knew they’d called the cops. I took a series of shortcuts through alleyways to my mother’s place, and slept on her couch with Red Hot nestled in my arms.
13
Morning light came through the blinds and smacked my aching eyelids, daring me to open them and face what I’d done. I half-expected my mother to be home from the hospital, frying up some bacon and eggs for her dear son, the most recent initiate into the funhouse of the disturbed. The thought was almost comforting.
Red Hot had rolled off me in the night. It lay on the carpet looking small, bashful, and ashamed, like a limp dick. The orgy of violence was over.
I peeled the bandages off my head and turned on the shower. Bits of glass fell out of my hair. The water was like acid on my skin. The thought of getting the hell out of town crossed my mind, but where was I going to go? The streets of Toronto? The ice caps of Baffin Island?
No. I had no choice but to go home, stick out my chin, and eat my demons alive.
When I saw Detective Darvish on the bench outside the laundromat, it was too late to make a run for it. He sat with his legs crossed and a tiny cup of espresso in his gigantic hand. His suit was old, his tie was pink; his loafers were about to fall apart. He looked at me with his bulbous eyes and offered a big smile.
“Mr. Galloway.” He stood up. “Welcome home.”
“Do you mind if I get changed first? I’ve been wearing these clothes for two days.”
He wrinkled his brow. “First?”
“I’m not resisting arrest. I trashed the bar and I’ll accept responsibility for it. But if I’m going to be put in a cell I want to at least be comfortable.”
“Why would you be put in a cell?”
“I told you. For trashing The Bloody Paw. Disturbing the peace or whatever.”
“I wasn’t aware of any bar being trashed. But thanks for letting me know.”
“Huh?”
He moved toward me. I could smell his cologne and his rank coffee breath. “I came here to investigate another matter, Mr. Galloway. We’ll have to discuss the bar another time. Can I see your apartment?”
“What do you mean, another matter?”
“Let’s go upstairs.”
I fumbled with my keys and led him up the staircase. He walked right behind me. Stepped on my heel at one point. I opened the door at the top.
“I still don’t —”
He brushed past me and went inside. “Is this it? There’s no bedroom?”
“Nope. I sleep on a pull-out. Just a bathroom here and a closet over there. Sorry about the mess in the kitchen.”
He looked around. Opened the closet and looked upwards, downwards. Picked up my vial of antibiotics and read the label. Went into the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain.
“There’s no storage room in this building that you’d have access to?”
“This is all I got. Do you mind telling me what this is about?”
“A girl has been reported missing. Your friend Melanie Blaxley.”
“What?” I felt around for somewhere to sit.
“I received the call about . . .” He checked his watch. “About fourteen hours ago. It’s not officially a missing persons case yet, but I thought I’d get a jump on things.”
“What do you mean, she’s missing?”
“I mean just that, sir.”
“Who reported it?”
“Your other pal. Darcy Sands.”
I felt a huge sense of relief. “With all due respect, Detective,” I said, laughing, “I think you’re being messed with. Melanie and Darcy are a couple of con artists.”
“That’s possible,” he said. “But I’m prone to gut feelings.”
“You thought I was hiding her here?”
“I’ve got to rule out everything.”
“I’m telling you, Detective. Melanie’s not missing. It’s probably some sick prank. I’ll give you her cell phone number if you want.”
“That would be helpful, thank you.”
I wrote it down and gave it to him. On his way out the door he turned to me and said, “I think I’ll head over to that bar you mentioned earlier. Maybe they know something. Goodbye.”
I tried Melanie’s cell as soon as Darvish was gone. It rang twice, then a voice told me the customer was not available. I tried her apartment and Darcy picked up.
“Where the fuck is she?” he said, as soon as he heard my voice.
“Stop trying to land me in jail, all right? The joke’s over, and it’s not all that funny.”
“I’m serious, Brandon. You honestly don’t know where she is?”
It was the first time I’d actually heard fear in his voice. It was also, I believe, the first time he’d used my name instead of calling me buddy or Bug Man. Did he know we shared a father? I swallowed and it stung my throat.
“You there?” he said.
“I don’t understand why you’re worried. You know Melanie better than I do. She’s probably naked and out cold in some dude’s bed right now. You know I saw her shooting up last night? She’s probably with Viktor. She was all over him at the bar.”
“You’re kidding me.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at how unlike himself he seemed. “What’s wrong, man? This is Melanie we’re talking about, isn’t it? Come on.”
“You don’t understand. We were supposed to take off for the Dominican this morning. Our plane tickets were waiting for us at the airport in Toronto. Our flight left at six a.m. I knew she was going out last night, but she promised she’d be home by three. When she didn’t show, I went looking for her. The Bloody Paw looked like it had been firebombed. I snuck in through the back door and looked around, but the place was empty. I went to her work, called all of her friends. I even called her parents, man. Nobody knows where she is. Some people saw her at the bar but said she disappeared around midnight. I figured she was with you, even though she promised she was done with your ass. I went to your apartment but she wasn’t there, and neither were you.”
“Wait. You broke into my place again?”
“What would you have done?”
He had me there. I didn’t know what I would have done. What did I know about what I was capable of anymore?
“I didn’t even think of Viktor,” Darcy went on. “I’m an idiot. She probably is with that necromancer. I better call that cop back.”
“What cop?”
“That Paki who arrested us the other night. When I called the station to report Melanie missing, he’s the one who showed up at my door fifteen minutes later. He probab
ly thought it was a scam. Anyway, I gotta go.” He hung up.
It seemed I had two options: wait around for Darvish to come back and arrest me for trashing the bar, or get out there, find Melanie, and figure out what the fuck was going on. What did I have to lose but everything? Which, in my case, wasn’t much at all.
The teenager behind the counter at Darryl’s Doughnuts said Melanie had taken the week off to go on vacation, she couldn’t remember where. I didn’t have a key to Melanie’s apartment, and there was no way I could show my face at The Bloody Paw. I tried to find Viktor Lozowsky in the phone book but he wasn’t listed. Was I out of options already?
I went to a pay phone and tried Melanie’s cell again. This time it didn’t even ring. All I got was a fast busy signal. Maybe she didn’t want to be found.
I hung up and dialled the number for The Bloody Paw without a plan of any sort. It rang fourteen times — I counted — before someone picked up. Whoever it was didn’t say anything. There was dead air between us for a good ten seconds. Who was I not talking to? Who was I to them?
Finally, a voice said, slowly, “Is something wrong?”
I flexed my throat muscles and said, “I was just wondering what time you’ll be opening tonight.”
“Who is this?” was the reply. “Where are you calling from?”
I fumbled with the receiver and hung up. I was pretty sure I’d just spoken to Viktor, but it was hard to tell. What did he mean, “Is something wrong?” Had Darvish been to see him? If so, I was probably being hunted. I had to be on the move. No doubt there were a couple of tough cops waiting to arrest me if I went back home. I considered going to my mother’s place, but that seemed risky too. I almost dialled Chad, then checked myself. Darvish could’ve gotten to him through Farah.
There was no doubt about it — I was totally alone. So I did what all loners do in desperate circumstances: I sought out another loner.
Bill lived in a square building on a street that was more like an alleyway, just off Dormant Street, where the string of campus bars ended and the row of fabric shops and greasy breakfast diners began. I’d dropped him off a few times after work, when it was my turn to have the truck, but he’d never invited me in. Bill wasn’t the inviting type.
There was a skinny bald guy with a red goatee leaning against the side of the building. He had a handkerchief tied around his neck and his shirt was unbuttoned.
“BBBJ?” he mumbled, as I walked past.
I pretended I didn’t hear him and went inside. The tenants’ names and apartment numbers were scribbled on a sheet that was tacked to a chewed-up corkboard on the wall. There were no buzzers. Anyone could just walk in off the street, find your number, and break down your door.
I looked at the sheet of tenants. Bill Barber — 210. I thought, Beer-guzzling Bill Barber, the Bug guy, with the Big gut, Bad gas, and Boring life. His name suited him just fine.
I didn’t trust the elevator so I took the stairs. 210 was at the end of the hall. As I approached the door, I heard some music coming from inside that sounded like Britney Spears. Maybe the apartment numbers on the sheet were wrong. I knocked anyway.
Nobody came, so I knocked a little louder. “Hey Bill, you there? It’s Brandon.”
The music shut off. There was some shuffling around, the screech of duct tape, and then a door slammed. Whoever was in there was panting so loudly I could hear their breath from my side of the door. It was a familiar wheeze. Bill opened the door.
He tried to smile, but he couldn’t hide his surprise. His face was purple as an eggplant, and there was an expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck.
“Brandon, what are you doing here?”
“You okay, Bill? You look a little flushed.”
“I’m fine. What’s the matter?”
“Can I come in? I’m in a bit of a jam.”
He moved to block more of the doorway. “Now’s not a good time.”
I laughed. “Why? You too busy dancing to Britney Spears or something? Taking pictures of yourself? Don’t worry Bill, I won’t tell anyone.”
“Seriously, Brandon. You can’t come in.”
“Come on, Bill. Why not? I need you to do me this favour.”
He turned his head, looked back into his apartment, then turned to face me again. “I’ve got a girl in here, okay? A hooker. You get me?”
Embarrassed, I looked down at the collection of boots and shoes inside Bill’s door. “Sorry, Bill. I didn’t realize. Sorry.”
“Take it easy, Brandon,” he said, and shut the door.
I walked out of the building, ignoring the gigolo outside for a second time, and hurried straight for home. Hopefully Darvish was there waiting for me, so I could tell him I’d seen Melanie’s pink pumps inside Bill’s apartment.
14
The cops were waiting for me, just like I knew they’d be — two mustachioed bruisers who looked like they’d tasted blood before and liked it.
They were too busy imagining who had the bigger dick to notice me coming.
“Officers,” I called as I hustled toward them.
One of them hit the other on the shoulder and nodded at me.
I put my hands in the air. “I need to talk to Detective Darvish.”
“Stop,” said the thicker of the two. “Don’t fuckin’ move another step.”
I stopped. “Where’s Darvish? I need to —”
They threw me against the window of the laundromat. There was an old lady inside who went on folding her clothes despite the commotion.
“Spread ’em!”
The side of my face was pressed so hard against the glass it was hard to speak. I tried to say, “I know where the girl is,” but it came out like slurred German. They frisked me, cuffed me, read me my rights. Threw me head first into the back of their squad car. I said, “I’m telling you, I need to talk to Darvish now!” They slammed the door in my face.
One of them pulled out a walkie-talkie and spoke into it. I tried to read his lips but couldn’t. Who else would they be calling but Darvish?
I knocked on the window with my forehead. “Hey! Tell him I know where Melanie is!”
The idiot without the walkie-talkie pointed at me. I read his lips: “Shut. Up.”
What did I expect from a couple of Frayne cops? I tried to calm down. I could explain everything to Darvish when he showed up. I sat and wondered how Melanie could have ended up at Bill’s. Did a pair of pink pumps even mean anything? Maybe Bill liked to cross-dress. But no, they were way too small for him.
I started second-guessing myself. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was all an elaborate prank. Was everyone conspiring against me, even the cops? My mother always said that law enforcement was blasphemous, a rebellion against Divine Law. My father just said cops were nothing but crooked criminals. Maybe I should have listened.
The two officers sat down on the bench. I made eye contact with one of them and gave him a pleading look. He spat and turned away.
Where the fuck was Darvish?
Ten minutes later, he pulled up in a busted old Chrysler. He shook his thugs’ hands, got into the squad car’s passenger seat, and looked at me through the rear-view mirror.
“Nice work at the bar,” he said. “You could have been a pro ballplayer.”
“I know where Melanie is,” I said. “She’s at a man named Bill Barber’s place on Falk, just off Dormant. I don’t know if she’s being held against her will. You have to go there.”
“I don’t have to do anything but take you to the station.”
“What? What about Melanie? I thought she was your priority. Let those guys take me in, I don’t care. Just go to Bill Barber’s, I’m telling you.”
“And what makes you think that, Mr. Galloway?”
“I saw her shoes. I saw her pink pumps in his doorway.”
“When was th
is?”
“I don’t know. About half an hour ago.”
“And who is Bill Barber?”
“I work with him. He’s my supervisor.”
He wrote something down on a little notepad and stuck it in his pocket. “Mr. Lozowsky told me a different story. He says Miss Blaxley’s on her way to see her parents in Stittsville. Said he drove her to the bus depot this morning.”
“What?”
“How do you know the shoes you saw were Miss Blaxley’s?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure.”
He pulled a napkin out of his pocket and blew his nose. “I’m going to have my men bring you to the station. I’m sure you’ll cooperate. I apologize if they were a little rough.”
I said, “Wait!” but he got out of the car and slammed the door. Said something to his apes, got back into his own car, and drove off.
As I was being escorted to the station, one of the bruisers farted. I held my breath and looked out the window. The sky was grey as smoke, and my stomach was starting to turn.
I managed to swallow down the first rush of bile, but the taste was too much. The second retch was a projectile, aimed straight at the back of Tweedle Dee’s fat neck.
“What the fuck?” he said, my puke dripping down his collar.
Tweedle Dum, the driver, craned to look at me. “Fuck,” he said. “He’s white as a goddamn sheet.”
My groan was drowned out by the horn of another car. Tweedle Dum, still looking back at me, had veered onto the wrong side of the road. He was headed straight for a parked car. I ducked, the only one prepared for impact.
I didn’t see what happened up front, but I definitely heard it. Metal on metal, shattered glass, ribcages thumping against dashboard, the bang and hiss of airbags and exhaust. The two cops groaning as they struggled to suck in air. And then, the miracle: the back door popped open with the quietest of clicks. A real life deus ex machina.
I peeked up front. The driver was out behind the steering wheel, facing away from me. His partner was slumped awkwardly toward the passenger-side floor, dazed, wincing, and holding his chest. Neither of them had been wearing a seatbelt.
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