by Shilo Jones
Hospital pills? Nice try, nope. Big no thank you.
A prison nurse flings the door open, snorts, stumps in, leaves the door open, a fact I find unsettling. Was she paid to do that? My name on a jailhouse kill list, Helplessly Shanked, sounds like the name of a wicked porn flick, leaves me feeling elevated. So I’m grinning at the prison nurse, daydreaming about a solid prison shanking where the only thing I can feel is my face. The scowling nurse ignores me, goes to a stainless-steel table, fiddles with medical stuff, utensils, tools, probes, esoteric apparatuses swiftly incorporated into my ongoing shanking daydream—
This is a burly workhorse of a woman. A real take-charge type. In my daydream I’m compelled to call her OVERSEER. Compelled to beg, shriek her name while she orchestrates her collared and howling inmate posse across my penitent flesh. OVERSEER is possibly Germanic but way beyond age twenty-five so no longer beautiful. Now OVERSEER glances over her well-muscled shoulder, lifts a gleaming set of pliers, snarls.
The security camera zooms in on me strapped to the bed, writhing.
OVERSEER approaches…
“Pills?” she asks, her voice appropriately baritone.
“Sorry? I’m uncomfortable with your pharmaceutical approach to healthcare.”
OVERSEER brandishes a device made of latex and stainless steel. “You habitually consume substances mixed in bathtubs, Mr. Reed. Did you take your prescription medication?”
“If you ask the right question I’ll say yes.”
OVERSEER glares at me in a not-sexy way. Not getting a potential illicit-encounter vibe. Not getting a carefully-orchestrated-for-my-benefit-inmate-posse-shanking vibe or even a like basic utilitarian nine-to-five hand-job vibe. OVERSEER does offer a tight, humour-less smile that says: Do not fuck around. I deal with your kind all day long.
“Mr. Reed, have you taken your medication?”
“OVERSEER?” I say, raspy, anticipating. “GHB? Ketamine? Crystal meth? Cocaine?”
“No, Mr. Reed. Certainly not.”
“Prison orgy?”
No answer. Could be a yes.
OVERSEER checks the PharmaPoison mind-control water in my paper cup. Checks my blood pressure, harrumphs. Empties a plastic bag of something. Does other routine nursing things I don’t bother paying attention to. I’m trying real hard to hold on to the shanking daydream but the awful squinty-concentrating look on OVERSEER’s face forces it away. One should never have to concentrate during an orgy. Totally ruins it.
“You ruined it,” I tell her. “Could’ve been good.”
“Don’t piss me off,” she whispers, which, all right, makes me freeze up, go silent, bug-eyed, studying her movements, guarded, afraid she’s going to slip me something mass-produced, wondering why we’ve yet to mechanize this process.
“I need for-real drugs,” I say. “ASAP.”
The nurse encourages me to take my medication. Drink some water. Rest.
I nod, thinking if I could feel my body I could walk right out of here. Get up, walk through the pale yellow door, down the hall, out a well-marked exit. Jail break. The nurse touches my forehead, inspects something, takes me a while to realize she’s changing my bandages. I tell her I can’t feel my body. She says that’s probably for the best, clearly doesn’t believe me. She asks if I have any other questions. I consider: Would I like to know what happened? Where I am? What day it is? How long I’ve been here, and how long I am required to stay? I tell her no, thank you, I rather like not knowing. There’s no mystery in the world anymore. Then I say: I will pay you a thousand dollars for real drugs. You already have drugs, she says, not making eye contact. Your pills are on the bedside table. Two thousand, I tell her. Two thousand dollars for not-fucking-around drugs. What kind of drugs? she asks. I already told you, I say. The nurse studies me for a few seconds. Fine, three thousand, I tell her. For a day’s worth of proper drugs. Twenty-five thousand dollars a week for as long as I’m locked in here. But only for drugs that turn my brain into a bush party bonfire. The nurse smiles, touches my big toe with her index finger, says no thank you, Mr. Reed. I smile as well, tell her fine, I didn’t mean it anyway, entrapment, she’s free to go, passed the test, good girl.
Jasminder Bansal
At the Vancouver library, being myself, not wanting to go home. Quiet library sounds, respectfully restrained conversations, books flipping open and closed, carts being wheeled, a child hushed. Sitting at a second-floor desk facing a curving interior promenade, a tobacco shop, pizza joint, and ATM machine staring down the stacks across the courtyard, tense gladiatorial spectacle. Angled glass panes refracting building and sky into one another, folding the hypertrophied Coliseum knock-off into itself.
Pretending to read a hardcover coffee-table book about xeriscapes, endemic grasses, sustainable and water-wise, all the right choices, trying to imagine a life where shit like that matters, like maybe my sister’s. Regrouping after last night at the City Centre Motor Hotel. Remembering how it felt at Langara when I was researching a story, a student enjoying one of her favourite places in the city, the whole world in front of her.
Healthful Vancouverites bustle through the promenade swinging shopping bags and leather briefcases. I’m wary of bumping into anyone I used to know, but secretly hoping I catch sight of them from my superior vantage. Interested in observing a former friend or classmate, studying how they move, what they’re wearing, are they with anyone? Are they enjoying successful careers? Trying to guess the shape and timbre of their lives from a safe distance. What would I say about my life? I’m in real estate, not a dream job but it pays the bills, perfectly reasonable decision, nice to see you too…blue oat grass, prairie dropseed, summer aster.
After a while I pack up, walk to the washroom, seclude myself in a stall, phone Eric against my better judgment and because the shitty truth is there’s no one else to call. Voicemail. I hang up, irritated, about to leave when my phone rings and it’s Eric sounding surprised but not entirely happy saying hey Jaz what’s up he thought I’d be out with that great guy Vincent Peele.
“You’re in a bar? I can’t believe you’re drinking after last night.”
“Is that an apology? Ghosting usually happens online. You vanished. I called.”
I sit on the toilet lid, tell him yeah, I needed to be alone, sorry.
Bar noise drowns out Eric’s reply. He repeats his question about Vincent.
“Seems not that bad? Why?”
“Listen to yourself. Only a few days and you’re all-in? Jasminder…shit! Heads-up? You could’ve come worked with me. Decent company. But not interested? Okay, listen. So you have…a smidge of an inkling what Peele’s about? How he does business?”
Interested now, digging for my notebook. “What about how he—”
“Fuck it, that’s what.” Eric takes a loud swig, yells at the bartender for another. “Know how he got started? Legend! Early twenties, just graduated. Before law school. Bachelor of science something. Anyway, Peele gets an idea…windmills, I dunno, solar, renewables? Patent app, lawyers, whole nine yards. Business plan, airtight. Goes to the gubbermn…federal…what’s it called? Research Council? Anyway, bullshits!”
“Bullshits?”
“Straight up! Hires a bullshit science guy to say it’ll work, straight-up bullshits the gubbermn guys. Talks his way into a sizable grant. For some renewable nonsense? So…big business potential, congrats, everyone’s excited, up-and-comer, green tech. Sure. Vincent Peele…fuck.”
Eric’s voice drops lower. Now I have it on paper and I’m feeling tense, excited, breathing quick, blood pumping like it always does and no, the money’s not better than this feeling, not by a long shot—
“We’re talking a couple million. For a bullshit patent and a decent pitch. Taxpayers! Woo-hoo! Anyway, Peele plays around a few months, sits on the cash. Then he’s like, fuck this. Takes the cash, uses it as seed capital for a big development. Out in…wherever? His first real estate play. Speculative! Ten years ago, different times, bigger risk. Taxpaye
rs! Course he’s in it with other investors. Get me? No, pretty sure you don’t. Hold on—goal!” The bar erupts in cheers. Beer bottles clink. “…shitty goal, but we’ll take it. So no way, right? You’re thinking, no way Peele can get away with it. Sink a bucket of taxpayer money into…not even into anything to do with solar! Into a condo build! But he did. Love the guy. But watch yourself, Jaz. Anyhow, gubbermn beans come along, say how’s the windfarm-thing going? Peele says, oops, sorry, that shit went totally bankrupt. My bad. And ps I’m bankrupt too!”
“He went bankrupt, but the money—”
“He just took the fucking money. Paid guys to write receipts for blah this and whatever that. Y’know? R&D doesn’t come cheap. So we got our team of fake scientist salaries, and our nonexistent management salaries, and our fake warehouse leases, and our fake materials outlay and now that material’s all gone and oops there’s a cool couple million gone in eight months, easy.”
“But he invested in the development. That would’ve been traceable.”
Eric’s ice rattles. “Know what, Jasminder? I wonder what you’re about. Since day one. Anyway how’s it going? You…Marigold Group…you and Peele? Eh?”
Oh my fuck. “Eric? What are you asking? Exactly?”
“You and Peele? Y’know?”
“I’m not with Vincent Peele. If that’s what you mean.”
“You sure?”
Asshole. I let it slide, keep him talking. “I successfully completed my probation period as an entry-level sales associate. I’m now working with Vincent’s team. Is this an issue? And yes, I have you to thank for getting me the job in the first place. And no—”
“Uh-huh, c’mon.”
“C’mon what?” I give him a few seconds to see if he chickens out. He does. “So…Eric? Investing in the development would’ve left a paper trail?”
“Y’think?”
“Legally—”
“That a concern? Really y’think?”
“Peele invested cash straight into the property.”
“Scores! Now let’s say, you or me, average Joe or Jane, walk up, couple million bucks, hey, here you go! Mind if I sink this into your spec build? Nah, I don’t need a contract. Or a receipt. No legal proof at all. I trust you guys! Whad’d happen?”
“Okay.”
“Right. Means there’s another system of checks and balances operating. ’Scuse me…ugh. Fucking kiwi vodka? Another extensive…underground system?”
“And the government—”
“Gonna do what? ’Cept not talk about it because it’s so embarrassing? And that’s ’ssuming…even you know…guy on the Research Council, big mortgage, retirement coming, hundred k kickback, no sweat ol’ buddy? Or even, hey listen, better do the deal Mr. Gubbermn, because if no deal, burn your house? Yeah. That’s Vincent Peele. Case you were wondering.”
“Wow.”
“Telling you, Peele’s an asshole.”
“Then why’d you give me a reference?”
Eric pauses. “You asked. Maybe I wish I didn’t? Maybe I wish you’d quit? But you don’t believe a word. That it?”
“I’m leaving room for embellishment brought on by booze and insec—”
Eric laughs in a way I’ve never heard: bitter, harsh. “ ’mbellish?…That right? Okay, Jaz. You’re way in it, it’s cool, we all are. Just thought you’d want to know. And it must be even worse for you. I’ve seen…because I know where you come from…”
Someone enters the washroom, slams the door, startles me. “Where I come from?”
“It’s cool, really. Your gangster brother, that beater car, I saw, y’know—”
“You saw what?”
“It’s…I followed you home, other night? Because you’re always so…cagey about us? Like when we’re out together, you’re only half there? That’s the feeling I got. So I wondered. Is she fucking married, something? Can’t blame me.”
Close my eyes. I thought I’d outgrow feeling ashamed about being raised broke. A family of four in a one-bedroom apartment in South Van, a brother who wanted out so bad he…and am I any different? Like Amar, only less honest with myself? Vincent Peele offering to take me skimboarding and that moment where I wanted him to—
“—so I get how you feel now, finally…doing well for yourself? Fucking journalism! Jaz? Can we look back, have a laugh? How young and dumb we were? I mean…what were we thinking? Journalism? Get a real job!”
“Yeah, journalism! Ha ha! Can you imagine? Get real!”
“Yeah, shit. What a laugh! Getting called a liar scumbag, trolled twenty-four-seven, can’t afford a basement suite in this town? What a waste. So…do me a favour? You don’t believe me about Peele? Think I’m being…fine. This is still a small town. Word gets around. Check North Van last weekend. See what’s up over there. Bet it’s not all pretty.”
Tell him thanks, dodge a question about dinner tonight, hang up. Head to the library computers because I have a silly but unshakeable suspicion my phone has been hacked. Search recent news stories out of North Vancouver. What a waste, huh, Eric? A violent home invasion pops up immediately. Two intruders, masked. Father assaulted in front of his family. House vandalized. No suspects. Father was a real estate attorney who did consulting work for Marigold—
An image of a howling Clint Ward kicking in a door and behind him another man, built lean, ragged black hair hanging over his eyes, pacing and spitting and scratching, furious, forgotten—
Close the browser window. Take a look over my shoulder. The library hasn’t changed at all.
* * *
Night. At my desk at Marigold, pretending to work while the janitor makes his rounds. This awful feeling of being stuck on the outside and wanting in but having no idea how to get there; this growing suspicion that if I work for Vincent much longer I’ll forget what I set out to do, wake up one morning with absolutely no recollection of Clint Ward, memory erased, adult decision, the money sure helps.
The janitor’s cleaning Beckett’s office. Most of the lights are out. Beige cubicles with computers and printers, family photos, sticky pads, and I thought by now I’d have uncovered a hidden clue or secret sign. Isn’t this when I discover an innate skill like telepathy or lock-picking that sees me through and saves the day? Isn’t this when the real hero runs in for the rescue, smiles, says let me take it from here?
The janitor locks Beckett’s office, unlocks Peele’s. I wait until he’s vacuuming, then interrupt, say the vacuum’s too loud for me to get any work done, ask him if maybe he could do another floor and come back in an hour or so? He says sure, sorry, and after he leaves I spend twenty minutes rifling through Vincent’s desk and photocopying documents—
Mark Ward
Me and Ryan kill Thursday morning building a concrete-block retaining wall at a house on West 17th. Kid’s dragging his heels, slacking, hungover. I’m not feeling too shit-hot either; leg’s locked up, forces me to limp around like an ass, submerge myself in a deep blue Oxy sea. During coffee we smoke a joint on the customer’s front steps, argue about whether I should let him drive the work truck. Ryan gets lippy, bugs me about slurring my words, picking. I tell him my skin feels thin. Like it can’t hold all my blood inside? Kinda like the atmosphere can’t hold all of us inside? He laughs, says this is only my first week working and how about we bet a c-note I don’t make it two full weeks and I tell him to shut up.
Clint rolls up around eleven, honks. Ryan gives me an excited look. I say stay put ’til I call you, wander over, hop in the Dodge. Ryan gets to work cutting blocks, suddenly going balls-out to impress the big boss. Makes me want to smack some sense into him.
First time I’ve seen Clint since he got fitted by Peele’s tailor. He’s wearing his custom suit. Truck stinks of Colts, Cool Ranch Doritos, and Axe body spray. My brother’s sweating, pale, eyes rolling in his head, hands twitching, legs bouncing up and down. Totally ripped. Ask him if he’s meeting Vincent Peele today? Ask him if he has a tee time lined up?
Clint grimaces, tells
me to piss off, looks across the street and into the yard where Ryan’s working, seems surprised. “Twll still showing up?”
“Yeah. Wants to see you. You’re the boss.”
“Huh. That I am.” Clint rummages through a backpack sitting between us, pulls out a wad of bills and a Red Bull. Hands me the cash, cracks the Red Bull, downs it. “I miss this shit. Crazy. Last thing I thought I’d say. But getting up, going to a job. Building something, you know, with my own two hands. Standing back and looking at it. Being satisfied. Go home, have a beer, forget it, do it again the next day. Now…you know? Business follows me around. Clings. Stinks. No downtime. Can’t sleep.”
“You do stink.” Clint doesn’t laugh. “Right now I’m not minding work. It’ll get old soon.”
“Leg’s hurting. See you limping.”
We watch Ryan work for a minute or so, then I ask how shit’s going with Marigold.
“Peele said the loser he tasked me would bow out easy, this bullshit Indian said there’s special bones buried in North Van, fucking straight-up trying to shake us down.”