Undercard

by David Albertyn

  The line beeps off.

  Keenan crumples to the ground, his face in his hands.

  11:19 a.m.

  A step too late. Like she had been on the basketball court. Always a step too late.

  The police ask her questions, and she can answer the specifics. Coming to the bar, seeing Antoine down the hall, entering the bathroom, seeing the body, the blood, chasing after Antoine.

  “What kind of car?”

  “Grey. Small.”

  “Make?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Licence plate?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Why do you think he did this?”

  Here she stumbles. The deeper questions, the why, she cannot explain. Keenan told her not to let anyone know that he had been at the Reef last night or that he had seen Antoine. Keenan is in police custody; he can tell them everything when he’s ready. So she does not tell the cops what Antoine said about avenging his father’s death. Even if she were to divulge this, she still wouldn’t be able to explain how Antoine could do such a thing. She would have to recount the entire history of the four of them to begin to make sense of the last twenty-four hours, and she is not ready to do that. Especially not in front of a bunch of strangers.

  At last the police give her some space. She sits on the curb outside the bar, not wanting to be in the same building as that body and its endless blood. Calling Rosie was even worse than finding Craig. Hearing that sweet woman’s heart break.

  Naomi knew Craig was dead the moment she saw him. That’s why she went after Antoine instead of calling an ambulance right away. If she had just gone after Antoine first, as soon as she caught a glimpse of him, she would’ve caught him. She wonders if he would’ve tried to kill her too.

  I let him down, she thinks. He wasn’t a monster when I knew him. I shouldn’t have listened when he said to stop visiting him in prison.

  But really, what difference would it have made? How do you save someone from all the horrible things that have befallen them? How do you save them if they don’t want to be saved?

  You try, she tells herself in an admonishing tone.

  She thinks back to when they were kids. She wants to say, How could we have known? But the truth is they did know. All three of them knew that something sinister was ripening in Antoine, and they left him to fend for himself, each of them consumed by their own ambitions.

  She gives a snort of self-reproach. Where have their ambitions taken them?

  If this is it, it wasn’t worth it.

  She hangs her head. Runs her hands through her hair. Feels like she could cry again if she wasn’t emptied of tears.

  For some reason, at that moment, the smiling faces of her girls yesterday, as she high-fived and shoulder-bumped them, return to her. Fill her mind with their radiant exuberance. They make her smile, in spite of everything since then.

  You wouldn’t be a coach now, she thinks, if you hadn’t tried so hard to be a baller.

  She stands up. Paces like it is the fourth quarter and she, on the sidelines, is in support of her players.

  She has lost Antoine. No doubt of that. He is gone. Become something worse than if he were dead. But she is alive. She’s still here. And she’s not going to lose Tyron and Keenan. She’s not going to divide them anymore. She’ll be there for both of them, and they’ll be there for her. But she’s not going to be with either of them ever again. That time has passed. They are her brothers. Her family. She understands that now. For the time being at least, she will be on her own. And yet she can feel, as sure as she can feel the sun warming her skin, that she will be less lonely than before.

  Her phone rings. It’s Tyron.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Naomi.” The gravity in his voice is evident in that one word.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m in the desert. I’m with Keenan.”

  “What happened?”

  She listens. Learns of Detective Miles and his gruesome end. Learns of Antoine’s phone call with Keenan. Learns of Keenan’s shootout in the Reef. And when he is finished, she tells him all that has transpired with her.

  “So Antoine was telling the truth,” he says. “I was holding out hope that he was lying about Craig.”

  “I fucked it all up, Ty. I promised Key I’d keep his father safe. Instead I’m the one who sent him into Antoine’s hands.”

  “None of this is your fault. Believe me. Antoine made his choice. Nothing that happened to him excuses what he’s done.”

  “We should’ve never turned our backs on him. He needed a family and we were it.”

  “I’ve had that thought too. But the truth is we had our own issues, Naomi. Who we are now? Yeah, we could’ve been there for him. Who we were then? We weren’t ready for it.”

  “So he knew Craig wasn’t involved in killing his dad. Or your parents. He knew it and he still killed him.”

  “That’s right.”

  She takes a moment. The viciousness and vindictiveness, the extent of it. “How’d you turn out so different, Ty? Your parents got murdered when you were a kid too. How come you’re not filled with hate?”

  She waits for his answer. Can almost hear Tyron thinking it over.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally says. “It’s not because I’m naturally good, I know that much. Antoine lost his dad at a younger age than I lost my parents. Also, I had my parents a lot longer than he did, and they were good people.” He pauses. “And the Quinns took me in. He was left on his own.”

  No matter what he said about them dealing with their own issues in the past, not being equipped to support Antoine, she can hear it in his voice: he blames himself too.

  “You’re wrong, Ty,” she says. “You are good. You always have been.”

  “Thanks, Naomi.” She can’t be sure, but she thinks there is less guilt in his voice. She hopes so.

  “How’s Key?” she asks.

  “Bad.”

  “I should be there. You guys coming back or staying put?”

  “We’re staying. Key says we shouldn’t leave the crime scene. So we can explain how everything went down. He had me get a hold of a cop friend of his. Fitzgerald. I told him everything. He’s on his way out here with the rest.”

  “Fitz. I know him. His wife’s too flirty for my liking, but he’s solid. He should help us.”

  They are silent a while, nothing to say, yet taking comfort in their connection over the phone. She wanders away from the bar and the surrounding commotion of emergency workers, witnesses, and bystanders.

  “Naomi.”

  “Yeah?”

  “About us . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Whether you’re leaving Keenan or not, he loves you. I can’t —”

  She laughs. Nothing jovial, just a gentle release of tension. “I can’t either. We’re family. You, me, Keenan. I know that now.”

  “Good,” he says.

  She feels like he is going to say more. She wants him to say more. But he just says “Good” one more time.

  It is enough for her.

  11:28 a.m.

  Tyron lowers the phone and looks at it. He takes a deep breath. Then he puts it away.

  He raises his eyes to Tara and Ricky — he called them in after he got off the phone with Fitzgerald. For once Ricky is speechless. Tara, never overly demonstrative, looks composed, but he can spot the tension along her jawline and around her eyes, the protectiveness with which she carries herself. Civilians, he thinks, glancing at the corpse in the dirt.

  Ricky, staring at the body, reaches out his hand to Tara. She looks down, contemplates it, then takes it in her own. Their eyes meet. They smile briefly. Look away, as though they might ruin the moment by drawing too much attention to it. But they continue holding hands. Tyron is glad that they do.


  He turns and looks at the slope behind him. Keenan is nowhere to be seen. Must’ve hiked around to another face of the mountain. For the best. He needs his space.

  Tyron follows the tire tracks toward Auntie Trudy’s car, which takes him past the body. It does nothing to him. If anything, he feels calmer looking at it, its limbs bent unnaturally, its clothes torn, its face broken and bloody. He is not a civilian, no matter that his uniform hangs in a closet or that his rifle is in the hands of someone else. He comes around the sedan to inspect its blood-smeared hood and dented bumper. He fingers the broken glass at the edges of the smashed windshield. He will pay for the repairs. Or perhaps a new car.

  He understands that Vegas PD will most likely come after him. Even with Keenan’s friend Fitzgerald on their side, the cops won’t hold back on someone who ran over a decorated detective.

  But this doesn’t bother him either. Enemies, adversity, danger, death, it’s what Tyron is equipped for. Built for it, one piece at a time.

  Marlon was right, he thinks. I can be of use. It’s not everyone who can keep their head when the world goes to hell.

  But no more fighting and killing for men I would never vote for. No more fighting and killing for economic interests I will never benefit from. No more fighting and killing poor people. I decide who I fight. And who I fight for.

  A breeze stirs and is a moment’s respite from the oven-like heat. It is cool on his cheek. One corner of his mouth tugs upward. Maybe the desert is where I belong. Where else would a breeze like this feel so good?

  “Ty,” Tara calls to him. “Where’s Keenan?”

  He walks over to her and Ricky, and notes that they drop hands when he gets close. Glancing back, he says, “He went up there somewhere.”

  “Do you think you should go after him?”

  “Why?”

  “I think you should check on him.”

  “The man’s pops just died,” Ricky says. “That could push anyone over the edge.” He looks up at the mountain. “Bad pun. Unintentional.”

  Tyron turns and looks up. Suicide. He didn’t think of that.

  “You think?” he asks.

  Tara shrugs. “It’s been a long day for everyone. He shouldn’t be alone, though. Not up there. Find him, Ty. He needs you.”

  Tyron nods. He jogs across the valley and onto the low slopes of the mountain. At first, suicide struck him as an unlikely concern. It’s not something Tyron would ever contemplate, and so it didn’t come to mind. But Tara has put the idea in his head, and the sight of Keenan weeping on his knees, clawing at the dirt with his fingernails, makes Tyron think that any outcome is possible.

  He hoists himself up over rocks and continues on a small footpath between the thorny brush, winding his way up and around the mountain. The world drops away and stretches out to the horizon, a flat sea of reddish brown, but for a peak here and there in the distance. Tyron’s shirt clings to his back, perspiring with each step higher. He stops, breathes deep, looks up from his footing, and sees Keenan above him, standing on a ledge.

  “Key!” he shouts.

  Keenan looks down at him.

  “Hang on, I’m coming!”

  Tyron bounds up the stony path.

  11:49 a.m.

  As fast as Tyron can run, Keenan knows he can jump ten times over before his friend will reach him. It’s a long drop onto the sand and rocks. Not the worst way to go, he thinks. A fine view, a final rush, dead before you can feel a thing.

  “Key!”

  Keenan looks down. Even now Tyron is trying to save him. The man is indefatigable. Keenan cannot deny that it is inspiring.

  He has learned a lot these past twenty-four hours. He has learned that the world is a brutal place when you’re not sitting on top of it. Learned that he can endure. Endure his own failings and those of others. Endure pain like he couldn’t have imagined. Endure loss. Most of all, he has learned that more death solves nothing. It’s just more death. It doesn’t bring back Raul Deco, or Terrence and Viola Shaw. It doesn’t bring back Craig Quinn.

  Tyron is a few yards away. Now or never. Keenan leans over the edge. Studies the drop. He closes his eyes.

  It doesn’t bring back Reggie Harrison. It won’t bring him back. It won’t.

  “Key!”

  Eyes open.

  Tyron is panting as he clambers up onto the ledge. “You all right?”

  Keenan helps him to his feet. “Not all right. But I’m not going to jump, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t but . . . my cousin, she . . .”

  Keenan shakes his head. He looks out over the ledge.

  The desert blurs as fresh tears come to his eyes. He feels Tyron’s strong hand on his shoulder. Looks to his friend, grateful.

  “We can never escape the wrongs we’ve done. Can we?”

  “No,” Tyron says. “We can’t. But that doesn’t stop us from doing right with the time we’ve got left.”

  Keenan stares at Tyron. At last he nods.

  “Let’s go back. I’m ready to face whatever comes.”

  Tyron smiles. “Me too.”

  Keenan embraces his brother, and they begin their descent down the mountain.

  11:56 a.m.

  Antoine, in the backseat of a car with tinted windows and clean plates, speeds westward toward California and the Pacific coast. Another of his associates sits behind the wheel and Carlos sits in the front passenger seat. Carlos will accompany Antoine throughout his journey by ship to Mexico and by plane to Venezuela, and will most likely be with him long after. A loyal ally. A proficient employee. A fearless soldier. But not a friend. Definitely not a brother. Antoine has no need for either of those.

  At this point he is more content alone. He is stronger alone. People are resources, assets, and none is more valuable to him than Carlos, but all are expendable. There’s no shortage of people in this world. That’s what he never understood as a boy. You lose one person, you replace them with another. People let you down, you find new people. All expendable, all interchangeable.

  The men he killed are replaceable. No doubt of that. They won’t be missed long. And if anyone does, they’re a fool. Those men were meant for the grave.

  Thirty-two years old, he reflects, and my life’s work complete. What now, Antoine Deco? I like making things happen. Being a player. My game is over, but maybe I could compete in someone else’s. Rent my services out.

  Maybe Venezuela or Bolivia can use a man like me. You would like that, padre, wouldn’t you? Is that why you never told me where you or my mother came from? So that I would think all Latinos are my brethren?

  Are you sleeping easier, padre? Your son is no coward. He has set right your wrongs. He is no coward.

  Antoine stares out the front window. The land is open.

  Yes, he thinks, I would like to play in another game. I will need a long rest, but when I am strong, I would like to hunt again. Perhaps that is what fate had in mind for me. Perhaps that is why fate took you, padre. To give me a purpose that would prepare me for something larger. There is much out there.

  I would like to hunt again.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I have to thank my family: my parents, Chris and Debra, and my sister, Ruth — not only for their endless love, support, and encouragement, but also for being with me on this long journey to publication. Listening to my ideas, sharing their opinions, and editing my early drafts, they have helped make me the writer I am.

  I must thank my agent, Michael Levine. I never dreamed that I would have such a staunch supporter in my corner, and I will forever be indebted to him for the generosity he has shown me and my family, and for the doors he has opened for me.

  Thanks to my editor, Doug Richmond, who has provided me with the incredible opportunity of publication, and whose insights have taken this book to new height
s. I will always be grateful.

  I’d like to thank Sarah MacLachlan, Janie Yoon, Maria Golikova, Holley Corfield, Sonya Lalli, Joshua Greenspon, and everyone else at House of Anansi Press. It has been a dream to be associated with their reputable publishing house, and I could not be happier with the finished product we have put together. Especial thanks to Anansi’s senior designer, Alysia Shewchuk, for creating such an incredible cover, a significant component in the experience of reading this book. I could not have asked for anything better. Thanks also to my copyeditor, Tilman Lewis, and my proofreader, Gemma Wain. Their excellent work ensured that the book reached its full potential.

  Thanks go to Donna Morrissey, my advisor in the Humber School for Writers program. Her guidance took this book and my writing to new levels, and I will never forget it.

  Thanks also to David Bezmozgis and everyone involved in the Humber School for Writers for being such a valuable resource and support network for me.

  Thanks to everyone at Westwood Creative Artists, especially Maxine Quigley, for all the work done on my behalf. I greatly appreciate it.

  Thanks to my Queen’s University Creative Writing professor, Carolyn Smart, whose teachings and encouragement helped make me the writer I am today (hopefully that’s a compliment).

  A huge thanks to my web designer, Louis Wong, for doing such an incredible job on my website. I could not be happier with the outcome.

  Thanks to Jacobo Romo and the Spanish Centre in Toronto for their assistance in correcting the Spanish.

  Thanks to all the readers of my early drafts (not just of this book but of my previous unpublished works too), far too many to name, but whose comments and edits have shaped my stories, forever teaching me what works and what doesn’t. Thanks also to family, friends, and acquaintances who had a kind or encouraging word for me during the seemingly endless and difficult road to get to this point. It helped.