Flashback: Mark's car ...

Angel was waiting for me at Broadway and Victoria when I got there just before two AM.  She had a winter coat on this time and had it zipped up right under her chin, with her hands stuffed deep in her pockets and a grey toque on her head.

I’d brought the stuff she asked for – I found a large plastic bleach bottle with just a dribble left in Bill’s laundry room and a new one sitting there, so I dumped the old one out and rinsed it.  Then I raided the work bench in his garage and found a couple feet of solid copper wire and a half roll of electrician’s tape.

I showed it all to Angel and she said it was perfect, so we started to walk toward Nanaimo.  She cut into the closed Shell station there.

“We need some gas.” she told me.

“It’s closed.” I said, “The pumps are turned off.”

“I know that.” Angela said impatiently like I was an idiot, taking the bleach bottle and twisting off the cap and setting the bottle down.

She lifted one of the pump handles off the cradle, “There’s always some gas left in the hoses.  Not a lot, but we don’t need much.”

Sure enough, when she squeezed the handle a few ounces of gas trickled into the bleach bottle.  She repeated it a few times until there was an inch of gas in the bottom of the bottle.  She screwed the top back on and we carried on walking.

I showed her where Mark lived and took her down the alley to his carport and showed her his 55 Chevy.

“It’s nice.” she whispered.

The neighbourhood was quiet except for the odd ‘shush’ of a car heading up Nanaimo, the houses all dark and sleeping.  We snuck into the carport and Angel reached around through the grill and popped the hood and lifted it just high enough to work under.

“Here.” she handed me a tool with a hexagonal end and a t-handle, “Take out the spark plug closest to the battery.”

I pulled the spark plug lead off that plug and set the tool over it and twisted it until it let loose, then screwed it out of its hole.  Angel shook the bleach bottle violently then unscrewed the cap and stuck the spark plug in the end, wrapping the metal part at the base with the copper wire then wrapping the end of the plug and the wire so it was secure in the bottle.  Then she felt around and found the negative post on the battery.

“Ground the spark plug wire to the negative terminal.” she whispered as she pointed at the negative terminal so I knew which one it was, “We don’t want this thing blowing up in our faces.”

I peeled back the boot on the plug lead and scraped it against the negative terminal — no spark.  Angel set the bleach bottle on the engine and wrapped the other end of the copper wire to the negative post, then put the lead back on the spark plug.

“Let’s get out of here.” she whispered as she eased the hood down and pressed until it clicked closed.

Angel led us up to the top of the hill on Nanaimo until we found a phone booth.  She asked for Mark’s phone number and I gave it to her.

“Where does he work?” she asked.

“He manages Pacific Xerograph up on Kingsway.” I told her.

“Vancouver or Burnaby?”

“Burnaby.” I said.

“What’s his last name?”

“Chalmers.” I told her and I did my paper clip trick to get a free call and she dialed Mark’s number and waited until he woke up and answered.

“Hello, Mister Chalmers?  Mark Chalmers?  Yes, this is Constable Yazniski of the Burnaby RCMP.  Are you connected to Pacific Xerograph on Kingsway?” I couldn’t believe she was doing this, “Yes, well I’m sorry to inform you there’s been a break-in and it’s quite a mess.  Yes, a great deal of damage.  We can stand-by until you get here and can put you in touch with a contractor who can secure the store until you can contact your glass repair place in the morning.  Yes, as soon as you can, it’s busy night for us.  Thank you so much, Mister Chalmers, we’ll be standing by.”

She hung up the phone.

“Now what?” I asked as she led me to the shadows of a couple trees on the corner.

“We wait.” she said.

We could see Mark’s house and the roof of his carport from where we were.  Lights were coming on in his house and in a couple minutes we heard the sound of Mark’s back door slamming, then the sound of him closing his car door.  The dull wind-up of his starter came faintly from his carport and suddenly his backyard lit up with a flash and a loud ‘thud’ and the clatter of the hood of his car blowing off and bouncing off the carport roof to fall onto the concrete.

We could hear Mark swearing, then heard him go back in the house.  Angel led me back to the phone booth.

“Do your thing.” she said and I shorted out the phone to get her another free call.  He answered right away.

“Have you called the cops yet?” Angel said into the phone, “Good, don’t.  You just learned what happens when you fuck with a friend of ours.  Pay Jackson what you owe him by noon tomorrow or next time we’ll blow up your fucking house.  He’ll be at Pacific Xerograph tomorrow at lunchtime.  Be there and have his cash ready.  And Mark?  Don’t ever fuck with us again.”

Angel hung up.

“Let’s go.” she said and we ran across Nanaimo and took dimly lit side streets heading toward her foster home.

“Jesus Christ, Angel.” I said quietly as we walked – sometimes she scared me.

"That Dog Don't Bark"

Flashback: Mister Schröder ...

  Frankie was washing blood off his hands at the kitchen sink and drying them on a tea towel.

“What’s going on?” I said as I walked past a mantle with framed family photos on it - husband, wife, three kids all under ten.

“Hi Denny.”  he said as he wiped down the kitchen sink and the taps, obviously thinking about fingerprints.

“Whose house is this?” I asked.

“A very interesting guy.” Frankie said and threw the tea towel in the sink, now that I was in the kitchen I could see Frank’s shirt and pants had blood droplets all over them.

“What did you do, Frank?  Where is this guy?”

“Tied up in the basement.  You can meet him in a couple minutes.”

“How about his family?” I motioned to the photos.

“Nah-nah, they left him months ago once they found out what a scumbag he is.”

“I’m losing my patience.” I said.

“Alright, I’ll fill you in.” said Frankie, all smiles; “So, there’s this funny little chick that works the stroll with Carrie.  Cute as fuck and a real oddball.  If she was older I’d introduce her to Gordon.

“Anyway, she writes down plate numbers of all the johns who pick up the girls.  Kind of an insurance policy I guess.  Turns out, she wrote down the plate number of the stronzo who hurt Carrie, and I got a friend at motor vehicles who ran his plate for me.”

“Didn’t I tell you Carrie wanted us to leave it alone?” I asked him, “She’s pissed at me because you were interrogating the girls - her words.  She says we’re through.”

“Carrie said she didn’t want you to do anything.  That doesn’t include me.” Frankie said, “She’s one of us, Denny.  We protect our own.”

“Fuck.  What did you do?”

“Come on, you can meet him.” Frankie said, leading the way to the basement stairs, “Don’t touch anything.  We already wiped the house for prints.”

Frankie had the guy tied to an old kitchen chair - one of those bent steel-tube chairs that everyone had in their kitchens in the fifties.  The guy looked like a horror show; his arms were tied to the back of the chair, each shin bound tight to the legs.  His face was bloody and swollen, his eyes so puffy that he couldn’t see out of them.  I could see the stubs of broken teeth through his fat lips.

“This is Mister Schröder.” Frankie said, “He likes to hurt little girls.”

“You know it’s him?” I asked Frankie.

“He admitted it.” then to Schröder, “Didn’t you, Mister Schröder?”

Schröder lifted his head, moving it around like a bat trying to echolocate in the dark.

“I pay them.” he lisped through his swollen lips, “They let me if I pay them.  I pay them well.  Please?  I don’t force them.”

I thought I would be angry.  I thought I would be filled with a righteous, murderous rage and that I would pick up something heavy and beat this guy to death right there in his basement.  But all I felt was sick.  I believed Schröder.  He had no reason to lie - I’m sure he thought we were going to kill him anyway, so he had nothing to lose.

I believed that Carrie allowed herself to be hurt for money.  The memory of her limping home that night in the pouring rain flashed before my eyes and broke my heart anew.  This explained her unwillingness to tell me what happened; her tears when I told her I cared about her; and her admission of feeling ashamed.

I didn’t understand the depths of her addiction until that moment, and it crushed my heart until it felt like it would burst open and stop beating.

I walked to the corner of the basement to get myself under control, because I felt like I was on the verge of crying myself.  Frankie and Rocco had the decency to remain quiet while I did.  I let the coldness creep in on me a bit, and when I felt more in control, I walked to Schröder and bent down so he could hear me.

“The blond girl.  The little, pale one.” I said, describing Carrie in a way he’d understand who I was talking about, “How many times?”

“Just once ...” he shuddered, “Just the once.”

I stood up.

“I’ll never touch her again, I swear.” Schröder sobbed, I guess thinking he was about to die and trying to bargain, “I’ll leave her alone.  I didn’t know she was your friend.  Please don’t kill me.”

I stared down at this ruined man, feeling only a cold contempt.  His wounds would heal just like Carrie’s, but his fear would remain - Frankie and Rocco made sure of that.  No matter how much money you paid, you couldn’t escape the consequences of your actions.  He learned that lesson - all night by the looks of it - from Frankie and Rocco.

“We’re not going to kill you.” I said to him, “Not this time.”

I bent over again.

“But if you go back there.  If you hurt another girl - I will kill you myself, mister Schröder.”

"Bigger Gangsters"

Flashback: Jessie's drunk ...

I dug around under the bar and found a bottle of anisette that the guys used for shots to celebrate little victories.  I drank right from the bottle and shivered as the strong liquorice liqueur warmed a path down my throat to spread across my belly.  Taking the bottle I walked to the old Wurlitzer that Dad installed for the club’s reopening party and punched in numbers from the 1960s section and listened to the music Dad said was the narrative of his young life; Led Zeppelin’s ‘Good Time, Bad Times’, Clapton’s ‘Crossroad Blues’, Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth’, all the while sipping the anisette and weaving to the music.

Then I played all the songs I knew reminded Dad of Carrie; ‘Hey Carrie Anne’ by the Hollies, ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harem, and the one that made me cry that night; ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ by the Foundations, about a young man who was so desperately in love with a girl he knew would break his heart, but loved her anyway with every ounce of his being.

I knew them all by heart, growing up watching my Dad get that faraway look of longing and heartache whenever someone played one of them.  I was always in awe of a love that could endure for so long; kept alive and fresh even separated by such an impossible distance; the love he held for that long dead girl.  And knowing he was capable of that made me know that when he told me he loved me, he meant it and it was real.

I drowned myself in his music and Mike’s anisette until I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the Wurlitzer, with raw tears flowing down my cheeks.  I wanted my Dad right then, right there.  I wanted to feel his arms around me, holding me like he held me so many nights as I cried.  And him, never offering advice, never trying to fix it, never reminding me how I ended up in that state in the first place.  All he ever did was listen and hold me and love me, and that was more than anyone can ask.

I’d set out to quiet my busy mind and had drank myself into a state of crippling nostalgia.  I was a hot, drunken mess, and my busy thoughts had given way to a flood of emotion that was gutting me.  I toughened up on myself and called an end to my pity party.  My Dad was still alive and would hold me again, and I was determined to keep him alive by hunting down the motherless bastards responsible for his wounds and pain and kill every single one of them.

The Dark Riders and the Russian mob learned of my Dad’s cunning and savagery the hard way - ‘just wait until these mutts got a load of his daughter’, I silently swore to myself.

It took me three tries to get my legs under me and hold myself up by clutching the Wurlitzer.  I studied the song titles as they blurred and came into random focus until I found the song I was looking for to pull myself out of the funk I was in;

‘Mambo Number Five’ by Lou Bega, the song that Dad and I danced to at my ninth birthday party, immortalized by the enlarged photo that lived inside the entrance in our home since that day, and will forever remain the happiest moment of my childhood.

I danced like I did when I was nine until I lost my balance and almost dropped the anisette bottle as I fell against the Wurlitzer.  Then I felt dizzy and sick, so I staggered behind the bar and threw up into the sink.  I rinsed it down and doing so tipped over the anisette bottle and spilled it all over Mike’s prep area.  I tried to clean it up but I’d cashed in all the exhaustion that I’d saved up since Tuesday morning and the more I tried to clean up the worse I made it.  So I finally scrawled ‘I’m sorry Mike’ on his order pad and hauled myself upstairs and flopped face down on the couch and passed out.

"Gangster's Girl"

Flashback: Made her bones ...

When Jessie and I walked into the club I announced to the room;

“Twice the cookies today, Mike!  In fact, cookies for everybody, my little girl just made her bones!”

The crew and the hang-arounds all cheered and applauded, and even some of the regulars clapped.  Leon, Patrick, and Cheech all came forward to kneel and hug Jessie and kiss her on both cheeks in the Italian way.  Then they ushered her to a chair at the crew table as Mike came out with a heaping plate of cookies and Jessie’s usual frosty glass of milk - Mike had taken to keeping a glass in the freezer for her so her milk was extra cold as the weather got warmer.

The guys waited until Jessie had her first sip of milk then begged her to tell the story.  With a milk moustache, Jessie began by saying that Morgan and her had been on the playground when Rickie had come up to them and said that horrible thing to Morgan that made her cry.

“What did the mutt say?” Cheech asked.

“Yeah, his exact words.” Patrick said.

Jessie looked at me standing at the counter, sipping a coffee, and I nodded, so she turned back to them and repeated word for word what Rickie had said to Morgan that made her cry.

Cheech made a fist and bit his knuckle and made a painful sound.

“The stronzo!” said Cheech.

“Infamia!” said Leon.

“Ach!  What a bum!” said Patrick, “What did you do?”

“I made a fist back here” Jessie demonstrated but putting her arm back and to her side and making a fist, “And I swung as hard as I could up like this.” she said as she pushed her fist up and in front of her, “Because he’s bigger than us.”

“And?” Cheech asked.

“Pow!  Right in the nose!” Jessie said, getting into the theatrics of telling the story.

“Was there blood?” Leon asked.

“Gallons!” Jessie said with feigned fierceness, “They had to take him to the hospital because it wouldn’t stop.”

The crew laughed.

“And!” I said loudly, “When she was pinched, she didn’t rat.”

More laughter.

“What did you tell the Principal when she tried to get you to talk?” I asked her.

“I went like this.” Jessie said, crossing her arms and making her angry face, “I’m not saying a god-damned word until my dad gets here.”

The crew was up on their feet again laughing and jostling her good-naturedly.  It was good to see Jessie basking in the adoration of the crew, knowing it was all in fun and seeing it as the rough acceptance of her adopted family.

When every one had settled down, and we all had a celebratory cookie, Jessie asked Cheech;

“What does “making bones” mean?”

“Ah, when some guy has to go because he’s nothing but trouble for the family, and another guy - you know - pushes his button, he turns into a pile of bones.  So when you do that, you ‘make your bones’.” he explained.

“Have you made your bones?” she asked Cheech.

“I refuse to answer on account that my testimony may incriminate me.” Cheech held up his hand like he was pleading the fifth like an American gangster, and we all laughed.

“Has my dad made his bones?” Jessie asked.

And there it was.

"Millennial Gangsters"

Flashback Friday: Going Crazy ...

  “You know what the worst part is?” Frankie said, peeling a blade of grass into thin strips, “There was a girl that moved into the house across the alley from me last winter.  Her name is Gina - Gina Marie.  I saw she was all alone in her backyard trying to build a snowman, so I went over there and helped her.  We built a huge snowman together - and it was beautiful.  Her mom was watching us through the kitchen window and smiling and she brought us out a carrot for his nose and an old hat to top him off, then invited me in for hot chocolate and cookies with Gina.  It was a great day.  I really liked her.”

Frankie paused, like he was trying not to feel what he was feeling.

“Then when Christmas break was over we went back to school and at first Gina was friendly to me, letting me walk her to school and home again.  But as time went on she started making excuses to not be around me.  I finally asked her what was going on and she said it was because I scared her.  She said I was dangerous and we couldn’t be friends.”

“She said I was dangerous, Denny.” Frankie said, his voice thick with barely contained emotion, “I would never have hurt her.  Not her.  Not for anything.”

I thought of Carrie then and knew how he felt - it would kill me if Carrie thought I might hurt her.

“So, yeah.” Frankie took a deep breath and let it out, “I think I’m a little crazy.  I scare girls when I just think I’m being funny.”

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the small white clouds that weren’t in the shape of anything other than clouds.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Frankie.  It must have hurt.” I said, “And I don’t think you’re crazy, but I know I am.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.  So I told him about the sparkly shit that eats my vision once in awhile, and the hollow, numb feeling of shrinking and growing at the same time, and how I don’t know how to talk to people.

“You do better than talking to people.” Frankie said, “You listen.  You actually listen to people when they tell you things.  When most people are in a conversation they’re just waiting for you to stop talking so they can tell their story.  Sometimes they even interrupt when you take a breath.  You actually stay still and let people finish what they’re saying.”

“What about the sparkly shit and the numb thing?” I asked him.

“I don’t know.” Frankie said, “Did you ever think it might be because your old man slaps you around all the time?  Like maybe it’s better to be numb than have to deal with that?”

I had never thought about it that way before and it sent goose bumps up my back.  I’d never figured that my dad slapping me around had an affect on me, but maybe it did.  Maybe it was having a huge affect on me.

Jimmy’s dad slapped him around too and his habit was to be slow and careful and that’s how it affected Jimmy; he was terrified of making a mistake and being beaten for it, so he was slow and careful about everything.  He was even slow and careful around his friends who wouldn’t be mad at him for taking risks and messing up.

Carrie was shy and quiet and tried to blend into the background because if she stood out she’d be picked on by her older siblings, and when she was picked on you could watch her fold into herself, trying to be smaller than she already was so she could go back to not being noticed.  It wasn’t until those moments of awareness sitting under the fir trees in Stanley park that I understood why Carrie was so happy that I pushed her on the swing that day that she held my hand as I walked her home; she knew I saw her and appreciated her as a person.

So maybe Frankie was right; that I disconnected from my body rather than feel anything, just like filling my head with a million stupid facts kept me from having meaningful conversations with people like I was doing with Frankie that day.  It was a revealing moment for me as I realized I couldn’t fix a problem I didn’t know I had and now that I knew, I couldn’t go back to not knowing.

I stood up and looked down at Frankie as I started to walk down to the rocky shore where the little crabs lived.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Crazy.” I smiled, “Wanna come?”

"Little Gangsters"

The Cover-Up ...

M_ moved to the front of the Winnebago, so I moved toward the rear where the bedroom was.  I saw movement and the short barrel of a sawed-off twelve gauge sticking out from behind the half closed accordion door.

“Drop it!” I said, aiming at the thin vinyl of the retractable door where I knew I’d get a piece of him, “Come out slow and drop it.”

There was a silence, then;

“Okay.  Coming out slowly.” the second biker said, his rough voice deep and calm, “Just don’t shoot.”

He eased himself out from behind the door, holding the butt of the sawed-off and pointing the barrels at the roof.

“I don’t know what your beef is friend.” he said, looking me in the eyes.

“Put the gun down.” I said, aiming my Walther at his centre mass.

“Setting it down on the counter.” he smiled, “Nice and sl …”

A sudden violent thud knocked the wind out of me as the tight air in the RV was shocked by thunder.  I actually felt the bullet from M_’s Taurus snap past my right shoulder before it hit the biker in the chest, knocking him back onto the bed in the back.  The shotgun clattered to the floor.

M_ had executed both bikers.

As Lennox and Ruben made it to the door beside M_ I rushed to the biker on the bed.  He was still alive but barely; his sternum was shattered and pulsing blood from dozens of burst veins in pulverized flesh.  He was choking, spitting up specks of blood, quivering.

“Why?” he gurgled.

“You killed D_.” I said, lifting his head.

“Dunno a D_” he gasped, then the light went out of his eyes.  I let his head drop and spun on M_

“Why did you shoot him?” I half shouted at him, covering the distance between us in three strides, wanting to smash him in the face, “He was putting the gun down.”

“They killed D_and Tracy.  They had to go.” M_ said, still holding his Taurus loosely in his hand.

“We could have questioned them.” I said, my anger with M_’s reckless attitude straining my voice, “We don’t even know if they did it.”

“Yeah, we do.” M_ smirked and pointed down at the first biker with the barrel of the Taurus.  I saw it then, tucked behind him in the cushions of the sofa – D_’s Arkansas Toothpick.  I suddenly felt tired and washed out – it finally hit me then that we were truly leaderless, but what hit me harder was that I no longer trusted M_.  The thought came to me that he could have dropped that ugly knife there when I wasn’t watching, and somewhere in there I felt my heart break.

“He was going for it when I shot him.” M_ said.

“We still could have questioned them.” I offered lamely, “Found out if there are others.”

M_slapped me on the back, “There’s always others, B_  It’s the nature of our business.  Right Ruben?”

I looked at Ruben still standing in the narrow stairwell of the Winnebago.  He looked unsettled as well, but whether it was from the lingering shock of losing D_ or if he too had his suspicions about M_, I had no idea.

“Yeah.” Ruben said, “There’s always others.”

"__&__"

The Winnebago ...

I heard the gag and gurgle and turned to see B_ falling to her knees, her hands still clutching her robe tight to her throat as she heaved up bile and foamy spit.  It had all been too much for her and she wasn’t lying when she said she felt sick.

I went to her and squatted down, steadying her with my hands as she vomited then dry heaved.  She was as small and light and frail as a baby bird, and I worried about the child resting in her belly.

“We need to get you home.” I told her gently once she stopped heaving.  I eased her up to her feet, her body still curled around her core.

“I feel sick.” she said.

“I know.” I said.  Then Betts was there, taking B_ from my arms.

“I’ll take her and stay with her.” Betts said, her cheeks still wet with tears, “I can’t be here either.”

We took Lennox’s car and drove out to Conkle road.  We’d all came strapped when we got M_’s call that his father’s home was engulfed and his parents were nowhere to be found.  M_was waiting in his Charger when we arrived and he waved us on to follow him.

Uncharacteristic of M_, he idled down Conkle road then turned right onto a dirt path that lead to a cluster of brush and twisted trees.  We both parked and we all got out.  M_ had drawn his Taurus and chambered a round.  We did the same.

“We go the rest of the way on foot.” M_ said, leading us further down the path.  There were motorcycle tracks in the sand.

“What’s down here?” I asked him.

“The men who killed D_ and Tracy.” he said.

“How did you know they were dead?” I asked, “They just found the bodies before you texted.”

“I was there just after the fire started.” Ma_ said, “I heard the Harley’s light up as they left the park.  That’s what woke me up.  D_’s place was already burning hot and there was no sign of him or Tracy.”

“You followed the bikers.”

“Yeah and I watched.  They’re in there.” M_ said, pointing through the bush.  I could see the corner of an old Winnebago.