“Walter, Walter … yeah, sure. Big guy, long frizzy hair like whatshisname … Richard Simmons.”
“The workout guy?”
“No, wait. The guy from KISS.” Cowboy rose unsteadily to his feet. “Gene Simmons. You want another drink?”
That was another problem with booting around the city in a borrowed car. You’d have to be a fucking idiot to drive drunk.
“Coffee.”
“Coffee? I can do coffee.”
The coffee was bitter as hell, but I drank it anyway.
“Do you know a man named Anton?” I asked.
Cowboy closed his eye, and when he opened it, he squinted at me like he was seeing me for the very first time. I had the feeling he’d been hitting the sauce pretty hard before I arrived. “So, Jack, here’s the thing. I don’t know you. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been real nice to stroll down memory lane and all. But these people … it’s been years. Decades. The only reason I agreed to meet you is that Eddie said you’re a stand-up guy. I got a nice little life here. I busted my ass to carve this out. Cassandra, yeah, sure, we played cards, I staked her. We had some laughs and made some money. I haven’t talked to her in years. I don’t know anyone else. You understand?”
CHAPTER 17
I left Cowboy’s Rosedale mansion and drove north on Mount Pleasant. The name of the street was no lie. This part of the street was surrounded by parkland. It was like driving through a tunnel of trees.
I cut west on Inglewood, up to St. Clair East. A little bridge took me over the park and the creek that ran through it. I continued west on St. Clair. The parks dropped away and the city rose up. I drove across Yonge, past streetcars and skyscrapers. I used to know a woman who lived around here. Silvia. We spent one hot summer drinking sangria and getting naked on her balcony. She loved showing off her body, her curves in all the right places. I was usually a little more private, but fuck it. That summer was so hot and the sangria was so damn sweet.
I turned off the AC and rolled down the window. Cowboy had dummied up quick when I brought up Anton. There was something there. I just wasn’t sure what.
At the hospital, I stopped at a kiosk and bought two giant coffees.
Melody was sitting outside her dad’s room, hunched over her phone. She looked up at me with bleary red eyes. I passed her a coffee. “You get any sleep?”
She tucked her phone into her purse and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. “Not much.”
“How’s he doing?”
Melody slowly nodded. “He’s a tough old bastard. Still wants his gun, though.”
“I think he’s safe. I don’t think Fisher was trying to shoot him. I think he was gunning for me.”
Melody sipped her coffee and stared straight ahead. “See, I’m not sure about that. Fisher and my dad, they’ve known each other for a long time. They had some kind of falling out. I think it was about the coke.” I waited for her to continue. She didn’t, though. She just sat in the hospital hallway, clutching her giant coffee with both hands.
“What coke?”
She sighed. “My dad moves a little product, you know, on the side. He’s not Pablo Escobar or anything. A few weeks ago, his shit got jacked. Home invasion. Two robbers burst on him late at night when he was drunk off his ass. They had shotguns and were wearing clown masks, like those rubber ones that go over your whole head, with the curly red hair and everything. They forced him to sit his ass down in his ratty old cigarette-burned La-Z-Boy, and then they tore out that fake 1970s-style wood panelling in his basement rec room until they found the stash — four kilos of a hundred percent pure uncut coke.”
“Where does Fisher come in?”
“It was his shit. Fisher and my dad were working it together. Fisher blames him for his shit getting jacked. At least, that’s what my dad thinks.” Melody sighed again. “You know they both rode for Satan’s Blood, right? They had this crazy scheme that they were going to bring back the Blood. Boom down the highway with their colours flying, ‘Glory Days’ by Springsteen pumping from the speakers. The coke was supposed to finance that. Fisher got a good deal on some shit and my dad was supposed to move it. They take the cash, buy some new bikes, get some recruits … it’s crazy, right?”
“Your dad told you all this?”
“Shit, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Blah blah blah Satan’s Blood blah blah blah.” Melody set down her coffee, smoothed out her pants, and stood up. “I need a cigarette. You coming?”
Outside, a summer storm was blowing in. The wind was whipping the trees. The sky was the colour of dirty dishwater. Melody popped a cigarette in her mouth and rummaged through her giant purse. I pulled a lighter out of my pocket, stepped forward, and lit her cigarette.
“So Fisher thinks Walter stole his cocaine.”
“That’s about it.” Melody sucked down smoke. “It’s not my dad’s fault. Sometimes shit just goes sideways, right? Act of God and whatnot.”
“Who do you think stole the coke?”
Melody shook her head. “Shit, man, I don’t know.”
“They knew where he hid the shit.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they jammed a shotgun under his chin and said ‘Where’s the shit?’”
“I need to talk to your dad.”
Melody lifted her head toward the dishwater sky and blew a perfect smoke ring. “Later, okay? He just came out of surgery. He’s a tired old man, Jack.”
“Fisher might’ve kidnapped Cassandra. Your dad might know something about —”
“Uh-uh. No way. My dad doesn’t know shit about any kidnapping.”
Lightning flashed. I rubbed my head and tried to think. “Fisher’s coke got snatched. He needed money. Cassandra was making money for Fisher’s boss, Anton. At least until her luck went south.”
“You really think she ran out of luck?” Melody finished her cigarette, dropped it on the sidewalk, and ground it out with the heel of her sneaker. “I think she was just sick of the gig, man. Being trotted out to play poker with a bunch of mobsters. She probably wanted to get back to the nice quiet days of taking down the marks at Casino Rama. Shit, she’s probably there right now.” Melody jerked her thumb toward the hospital doors. “I’m going back in. Call me later, okay?”
“Wait. How do I reach Fisher?”
“He’s sweet on one of the girls at the club — Janelle. Little mousy girl, bad skin.” Melody shrugged. “Try her. She might know.”
CHAPTER 18
The cab smelled like burnt plastic. Janelle and I drove straight up Bathurst, past Bloor, past Dupont, past Davenport. Right before St. Clair we veered left and continued north on Vaughan Road. We passed the Dutch ice cream shop, the janitorial supply store, and the occult shop. My ex, Suzanne, bought a candle in there once that supposedly was a “money-drawing” candle. You light it up and money starts sticking to you like a magnet. In her case, maybe it worked; she got a gig in Saskatoon and moved away.
We kept driving north toward Oakwood. Janelle pointed out the window. “That’s the house.”
The cabbie started to slow down.
I said, “Keep driving.” Then I turned to the woman sitting next to me in the back seat. “Thanks again, Janelle.”
She smiled. “Anything for Melody.”
We drove past slowly and checked out the house. From the outside, it didn’t look like anything special. Just another quiet bungalow on a quiet street. There was a tidy hedge and a cherry tree in the front yard. The cabbie pulled over down the street. I paid him, and Janelle and I headed back to the house.
There was an old brown Ford station wagon in the driveway. A few scraggly flowers pushed past the weeds in the planter bed at the front of the house. The concrete porch steps were starting to chip away. If Fisher had money, he was hiding it well.
On the front door was a big red-and-white sign that said OXYGEN IN USE. Someone in there had medical problems and was using an oxygen tank. I knew what the sign meant: don’t come strutting into the house puffing on a stogie like Winst
on Churchill. But I suppose you could put up a sign like that in any house where someone was breathing. Hell, yeah, I use oxygen. My plan was to keep using oxygen for as long as I could.
I turned to Janelle. “What’s with the oxygen sign?”
“Fisher’s Mom, Daisy. She’s … not well.”
Shit, I thought, Fisher’s mom? She must be a hundred and ten years old.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, a little bit louder. Still no answer. I peeked in past the OXYGEN IN USE sign. I could see into the living room, which was cluttered but clean. There were at least four clocks in there.
I thought about going around back, but I didn’t want any neighbours getting squirrelly and calling the cops. If Fisher wasn’t home, I could always come back. Borrow a car from Eddie. Camp out in the car and wait. Get a Thermos full of coffee, some sunflower seeds, and an empty two-litre bottle to piss in. What more could a guy want?
The blinds flickered. Someone was there, peering out. The blinds flickered again and the face disappeared. Janelle frowned. “Fisher is suspicious as hell. He thinks everyone from the milkman on up is wearing a wire.”
“The milkman? What year is this? Is your old man living in a Heathcliff cartoon?”
“A what?”
“You know, Heathcliff? The cat that wasn’t Garfield?”
Janelle stared at me blankly. I shook my head. “Forget it.”
We sat in the gloom of the living room. The clocks tick-tocked. An old German shepherd thumped its tail against the floor. Fisher smoked his cigarette and sipped his beer and tilted his head toward the dog. “Came back from the vet today. Cost me two grand I don’t have.” The biker shrugged. “Maybe I’m a fool, but I can’t just let him die.”
“What’s his name?”
“Brutus.” The old dog’s ears perked up at the mention of his name. Then, slowly, they deflated back down against his skull. Brutus looked at me and growled.
I kept my hands where they were. I knew better than to try to pet a biker’s dog.
Fisher looked over at Janelle. “Take Brutus downstairs, will you? Me and Jack need to talk.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bone-shaped biscuit. The old dog creaked wearily to his feet. His tail thumped on the floor. Fisher tossed the dog biscuit in the air. Brutus clumsily lunged for it, and the biscuit hit him on the nose and bounced onto the carpet. The old dog took a step forward and gobbled it up.
Janelle stood in the living room doorway. “Brutus, come!”
The old dog looked over at his master. Fisher nodded. “Go on.”
I watched them go, then I turned to Fisher. “Did you try to shoot me?”
Fisher smiled. “Son, if I tried to shoot you, you’d be shot.”
“Where’s Cassandra?”
Fisher stared at me. He took another pull from his cigarette. “If I knew that, you think I’d be wasting my time sitting here talking to you? We’re looking for her, too.”
“I heard about your scheme with Walter. Bringing back the Blood. That’s some ballsy shit. That’s going to piss off a lot of people.”
“You mean the Angels? Anton’s got connections there. He’s gonna smooth it all over.”
“I think you’re dreaming. Worse, I think you’re caught in another man’s dream.”
Fisher slammed his fist against the table. “Bullshit! Bringing back the Blood is my baby.”
“I heard you had a little problem with the seed capital.”
Fisher narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“The coke. I heard it got ripped off.”
“You heard, huh?” Fisher ground out his cigarette in a skull-shaped ashtray. “Fucking Walter. He talks too much.”
“Is that why you shot him?”
Fisher shook his head. “Walter and me, we go back years, man. We’ll work it out.”
I leaned forward. “If you and Walter go against the Angels, that’s your funeral. But if you’ve somehow gotten Cassie involved in this …”
Fisher shook his head. “That’s all Anton. She owes him money and she skipped. If she’s still alive, we’ll find her.”
“If she’s still alive?”
“I’m just saying, man.”
I stared at Fisher. “Why did you suggest meeting here at your house?”
“You think I’m scared of you?” Fisher shook his head. He lit another cigarette with his silver Zippo. “I’m not scared of you.”
I tilted my chin at Fisher’s cigarette. “You’re smoking in a house full of oxygen tanks. One wrong spark and the whole place goes up.”
“Oxygen tanks don’t work like that.”
“That shit is flammable.”
“Nah. It’s non-combustible.” Fisher shrugged. “It is an accelerant, though. Oxygen makes small fires bigger. Like using a bellows on fire in a fireplace.” He stared at me. “My mom’s tanks aren’t going to blow up in some badass movie-style special effects explosion. If someone lights up a smoke while wearing an oxygen mask, they could scorch their face. That’s about it.” Fisher frowned. “Dynamite, though. That’s a different story.”
“You’ve got enemies.”
“We’ve all got enemies.” Fisher took a puff from his cigarette. “You and I, we don’t have to be enemies. I invited you into my home as a show of trust. Some people you can’t trust at all. You, though, I don’t think you’re going to dynamite my mom.”
“Aw shucks. What a nice thing to say.”
Fisher grinned, flashing his gold tooth. “You’re a joker. I like that about you. Some of these guys, it’s all tough guy, blank face, thousand-yard stare, no matter what’s going down. They think being tough means blocking out their emotions. I say fuck that. Feeling is tougher than not feeling.” Fisher took another drag from his cigarette. “Course, some of these guys … they can’t feel. Some of them are straight-up psychopaths. You dig?”
I nodded. “I’ve met my share.”
“Yeah, I bet you have.” He stared at me. The clocks tick-tocked. “I’m not a psychopath,” he added.
“Good to know.”
“Anton … well, I’m not going to talk shit about my boss.”
“You’re a good soldier.”
“Damn right.” Fisher ground out his cigarette in the skull-shaped ashtray. “You and me, Jack, we got something. You know what that is? Soul.”
The man was drunk. This was some real I-love-you-man type shit. “Just like Sam & Dave,” I said.
“No, not like Sam & Dave! I’m not saying we’re gonna hit the stage with matching sequined suits and bust out all kinds of awesome dance moves. I’m saying you’ve got heart.” Fisher patted the pockets of his jean jacket. “Damn. You got a smoke?”
“Sorry. Quit years ago.”
“Smart, man. That nicotine gets its hooks in you, no joke.” Fisher stood up and bellowed, “JANELLE! You got any smokes?”
I heard Janelle’s footsteps as she came up from the basement, then a skittering of paws as Brutus followed her up. Silently, looking away from Fisher, Janelle handed him a pack of cigarettes. I frowned.
“You want a beer? Janelle, two beers. What the hell, get one for yourself, too.”
I didn’t like the way Fisher was talking to his old lady. That stupid, old school, macho, mean-to-women bullshit was played out. Janelle silently left the room and headed for the kitchen. Brutus stumped over and curled up at Fisher’s feet. He reached down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “So, I trust you. Trust is a rare thing. I’m reaching out, man. You and me, we want the same thing. We want to find Cassandra. We want her back safe and sound.” Fisher leaned back into the couch grinning. “I say we work together.”
“What do you think, Janelle?” I smiled at the mousy woman, who was lingering in the doorway, three beers in her hands. “Should Fisher and I work together?”
Fisher frowned. “Why the hell you asking her?”
Janelle flinched. She didn’t look at me when she answered. “If it helps f
ind this woman … then, yeah, sure. Why not?”
“All right,” I said. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER 19
Maybe working with a biker who had the habit of shooting his friends in the gut wasn’t the smartest idea I ever had, but if it would help me find Cassandra, then I was willing to give it a try.
I stood in Walter’s hospital room and listened to the machines ping. The big biker was looking better. Bushy-tailed and rosy-cheeked. He was sitting up and smiling at me. “They say I can go home today.”
“That’s great.”
“You talked to Fisher?”
“I talked to him. He says shooting you was a misunderstanding.”
Walter grunted. “He’s a hothead, that’s his problem. Add a few beers on top of that — it’s a volatile combo, man.”
Melody bounced into the room. “Knock, knock! You ready to go? The nurse is getting a wheelchair as we speak.”
“I don’t need a fucking wheelchair.”
“Come on, Walter,” I said. “Take the free ride.”
Melody held out her hands. “Okay, Dad. I’m going to help you up. You ready?”
Walter winced, rolling over in his hospital bed. The hospital sheets crinkled like paper as he rolled. He grabbed on to Melody’s wrists. “One, two, three, PULL!”
Melody heaved her dad out of bed. I stepped forward to help stabilize the old biker. Walter looked over at me and frowned. “See, what I’m worried about is Fisher coming back to finish the job.”
“He wants his coke or his money. Give him that and you’re square.”
Walter coughed. Melody handed him a tissue. He hawked up a giant green loogie and folded it into the tissue. Walter shook his head. “I should have never brought him into this deal in the first place.”
“Fisher says bringing back the Blood was his idea.”
Walter barked out a laugh. “Yeah, right. Fisher’s a soldier, Jack. He does what he’s told. Bringing back the Blood, that’s some big-picture shit. That’s all me.” The old biker turned to me and winked. “You ever ride?”
Carve the Heart Page 9
