by David Gane
Having others owe him, however …
“And don’t worry. It won’t be a disaster,” Charlie assures him.
Lock shrugs. “Do what you have to do.”
chapter 50
We walk out of Joseph Lock’s office and past the robot receptionist. I don’t say anything until the elevator doors close and we’re on our way back down.
“What just happened?” I ask.
“We traded information.”
“We did? What exactly did we get? And what, exactly, did we give?”
“A while ago, Mr. Lock had me digging up dirt.” Charlie sounds pretty blasé about this.
“Uh. What sort of dirt?”
“You know, the usual. Weaknesses, addictions, who they’re hooking up with—”
“Who?”
“Competition or co-workers. Whoever’s in his way.”
“Charlie! That’s just wrong.”
“I know, I know. I kind of feel bad, but really they’re all greedy, rich douches just screwing each other over, so …”
“Wait. Have you helped his competition too?”
“Hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Besides, they’ve all got gobs of money and insurance; they can afford to buy their way out of most things.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I know,” he shrugs, “but it’s all about the connections. It never pays to be too selective. It’s like investing: it’s always good to maintain some diversity.”
I shake my head. “We really are all pawns on your personal chessboard, aren’t we?”
He grins but doesn’t answer.
“So, what did we get?” I want to know.
Charlie holds up his phone, showing me the photos he took of Lock’s computer.
All I see are the blueprints of a house.
“What’s that?”
“The layout of his boss’s multimillion-dollar home.”
I’m still confused. “You’re failing at communication again,” I say.
Charlie sighs. “Remember, Shepherd, it’s all about the information.”
“So we’re giving it to who? The people who tagged the wall?”
“Exactly. We need something of value. What do people want and what do people have? The boss is a dick, and Lock wants a bit of petty revenge.”
“So the house is just collateral damage?”
Charlie shrugs. “It’s the high cost of doing business.”
I shake my head. “Unbelievable.”
“You can say that again, sport!” Charlie’s dig finds its mark.
“Oh, don’t you even—!”
“Okay, okay. Just messing with you. Relax,” Charlie laughs. “Lock is usually an asshole, but he was being extra disrespectful to you today.”
The doors open with a swish, and we walk out the lobby, Charlie raising a hand in farewell to the security guard. “But don’t hold a grudge against Lock for too long. I’m pretty sure the old karma wheel will spin back around on him soon enough.”
“Never thought you were the type to believe in that kind of thing.”
He grins. “Only when my hands are on the wheel.”
Sometimes I’m really thankful Charlie’s on my side.
chapter 51
We leave the gloss of the city centre behind and head to the low-income working class neighbourhood between the rail-yard and the industrial part of town. There’s the occasional home that’s been cared for: exteriors freshly painted, lawns raked and mowed, yard blossoming with flowers. But many others are neglected—really neglected—windows lined with tinfoil, paint peeling off siding, weeds sprouting up around broken fences, garbage littering the front lawn. It’s the opposite of what I recognize as familiar in my own neighbourhood.
Charlie’s got his own take. “You know, people from newer neighbourhoods pass through here and judge, but hell, they’ve got their fair share of shitty-looking homes too. And I bet there’s just as many people dealing and using in the suburbs.” He pauses for a second. “Ever notice how lots of these homes have open doors, though? You won’t find that in the ’burbs.”
I have to admit I’ve never noticed. “Why’s that, do you think?”
Charlie shrugs. “Maybe it’s just that there’s nothing to steal. But maybe it’s for safety, like way up near Churchill, Manitoba.”
“What are you talking about now?”
He rolls his eyes at me, as if what he’s about to say is common knowledge. “It’s the polar bear capital of the world and no one locks their car doors up there, so if a polar bear shows up, you can just jump into any random car to save yourself. No bears to worry about around here, of course, but people are way worse.”
“You’re a regular ray of sunshine, Charlie.”
“Always preaching the truth!”
We pull up to a three-storey house, cream-coloured with brown trim around the windows. There’s grass in the front yard, but it’s long and unkempt, still flattened from the snow.
“We’re here,” Charlie announces.
I park the car and wonder exactly where here is.
Charlie gets out of the car and I follow him up the walk.
“Is anyone home?” I ask.
“Of course. What did you think? We’re going to do another B&E? Seriously, Shepherd, you need to quit being such a thrillseeker.”
I shake my head. Despite what he’s said, nothing’s outside the realm of possibility with him. “You know, Chuck, we do what we have to do.”
“Yeah, well, not here.” His tone is suddenly serious.
As Charlie often does, when we get to the front door, he walks right in, no knocking.
The main floor has a living room that opens into a dining room, and through a doorway it looks like there’s a kitchen. A girl and guy, maybe fifteen years old, are playing a co-op game on two super huge television screens that are way too big for the space.
The floor is sticky and gross, and the whole place smells like smoke and dust. The coffee table in front the teenagers has several ashtrays on it, each stacked with cigarette butts, and none of the furniture matches. In the corner, a box of empty beer cans perches atop three pizza boxes.
Now that I’ve seen the inside, I’m actually surprised that the window has a curtain.
From somewhere upstairs we hear yelling.
“Get out of the bathroom!! You’ve been in there forever!!!”
“Screw off! It’s my turn.”
Something crashes upstairs, and I flinch. Footsteps race above us and someone else yells a distant “Oh shit!”
Charlie chuckles. None of this bothers him in the least.
I, on the other hand, am totally uncomfortable.
“Where’s Fran?” Charlie asks the gamers.
“Kitchen,” says the boy without looking up, but he dies in the game anyway, his screen flashing a neon YOU LOSE. “Son of a—”
The front door kicks open and a young man backs into the front hall behind us, dragging a green leather sofa. Another kid is pushing it through on the other end.
“Hey, ease off for a sec, will ya!” yells the guy who’s halfway in. He hollers at the two on the couch, “Give us a hand!”
The boy who just lost his game scrambles to help, but the couch goes nowhere.
“It’s stuck in the doorway,” the kid yells outside before looking at us. “Gah! Are you two just gonna stand there?”
Charlie and I jump in to help, me on one side and Charlie shimmying between the couch and wall on the other.
The kid outside expresses his appreciation with a “God! Thanks! Finally!”
We’re all reefing on it, trying to twist it around to ram it through the entryway.
The kid from the game says, “This thing weighs a ton!”
“We’ve been carrying it since First Avenue,”
says the guy inside.
I calculate quickly. “That’s ten blocks away!”
“Duh! But when you see an opportunity, you take it.”
“Especially when no one’s around to say otherwise,” snickers the kid outside.
“It’s stolen?” I try not to sound surprised. “And you walked away with it in broad daylight?”
“What’d you expect? We should steal a truck too?”
They all laugh, and Charlie joins in.
We give the sofa one final, solid jerk, and yank it through the doorway.
The kid from outside tumbles onto it and takes a drag off a vape cigarette. “Besides, it’s a Natuzzi.”
“Nice,” Charlie nods with approval.
I hit his shoulder to remind him that we don’t need to steal leather furniture, and we don’t want trouble for helping those who do.
“What?” he asks, glaring.
“What are we here for?”
“Oh, right.”
We leave them to rearrange the front room and walk to the back of the house.
In the kitchen, a heavy-set redheaded woman sits at the table, smoking a cigarette and scrolling through her phone. She’s maybe in her early thirties, quite a bit older than the rest of them.
“Hey, Fran,” Charlie says.
The woman looks up, registers Charlie, and her expression changes. She stands and comes over to him, turning her limp into a graceful sway, to give him a hug. “Charlie Wolfe, you handsome boy.”
“Fran, this is my friend Tony Shepherd.”
“Ah, so this is Tony. Nice to meet you, finally.”
“This is Fran’s house,” he tells me.
I put out my hand and Fran takes it.
She grins. “Isn’t he formal.”
A young girl with a bad green dye job in a ponytail and all sorts of facial piercings walks in and drops two bags of groceries on the counter. She looks me up and down, then walks out.
“Is Donny here?” Charlie asks.
“Yes. He’s upstairs.” Fran turns and shouts through a door, “Channy?”
Silence.
“Channy!”
A voice hollers back. “What?”
“Come here!” Fran yells again.
We hear clomping down the back stairs and another girl appears. She’s wearing a uniform from a fast food joint and looks about my age. She’s sporting a tattoo on her neck and a lot of black eyeliner. When she sees me, her lip curls and she folds her arms, giving me a look of absolute disgust.
“Oh, calm yourself, Channy,” Fran says. “Just take the boys up to Donny.”
Channy mumbles, “Whatever,” under her breath.
“When you’re done, come back down if you have time for a visit,” Fran says, starting to dig through the grocery bags.
“Will do. Thanks,” Charlie replies, and we follow Channy up.
We take the stairs to the third floor, manoeuvering around a couple more kids as we do. As we pass the second floor, I glimpse yet another teenager passed out on a mattress on a bedroom floor.
I can’t wait anymore. “What is this place?” I whisper to Charlie.
Channy beats him to it. “It’s home.”
“Home?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Channy says, stopping mid-stairwell to turn around and pin me with another glare. “Fran owns the house and Donny pays her rent. But she’d likely let him live here for free if he asked because she likes the company. Some of us have jobs and help out when we can. And some of us s’kids—street kids—come and go. You know—” she looks at me, “actually you probably don’t—some of us are throwaway kids. Hitchhikers, drug addicts, dropouts, petty criminals, pickpockets, hiders. Kids who come from shitty homes or violence, drugs, or foster families. We need a place to crash and she lets us. No judgment.” She looks at Charlie. “But next to your trailer park shithole, this place is the Hilton.”
Charlie doesn’t say anything.
I want to jump to his defence, but this isn’t my world, these aren’t my people, and I don’t know what Charlie would think, so I keep quiet.
We reach the dark attic to find an older guy—I can’t really guess how old, but he’s definitely not a teen—sprawled out in an over-padded moon chair at the far end of the room. The windows have been painted dark, and a lava lamp glows on a table. Incense and candles burn on a shelf on the wall, making this the only semi-pleasant-smelling room in the entire house.
A couple of people are asleep on another floor mattress. Cats wander in and out.
“Boys, Donny. Donny, the boys,” Channy says, dripping with condescension. “Introductions are done. I’m out.”
“Thanks for the help,” I say, a little too smugly.
She gives me the finger as she goes back down the stairs.
chapter 52
Donny stares at us. He’s rough-looking and skinny, and I’m pretty sure he’s stoned.
“Hey, man,” he says, recognizing Charlie.
He doesn’t get out of his chair but waves us over.
Why do I get the weird feeling he thinks he’s the king and we’re his peasants?
“You want a hit? I can get someone to wrangle something up.”
I’ve never known Charlie to do any of that stuff, but I quickly say, “No, I’m good,” hoping it’ll stop things from going any further.
“Who’s the shiny boy?” Donny asks.
Guess I’m a little too clean-cut for this house.
“A friend,” Charlie answers.
“Is that right?” Donny takes a longer look at me, and I stand a little straighter without getting too cocky.
“Don’t seem like your type of brutha,” Donny says.
Is he making fun of my skin colour, or does he actually think he’s a gangster?
“Well, he is,” Charlie says, his face tightening.
Donny nods, still assessing me, though his words are for Charlie. “So, what’s got you crawling back to the old digs?”
Another cheap shot, this time at Charlie’s expense, but he’s all business. “I’ve got something you might like.”
Donny doesn’t respond immediately. He leans back in his chair, deciding.
Charlie waves him away. “Hey, I can go find someone else—”
“All right, all right,” Donny says. “Show me what you got.”
Charlie crosses to him and flips open his phone.
Donny’s leaning in close, smiling wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth. “Not bad, not bad.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And you got all access?”
“All that’s needed.”
“And you gonna give me an address?” Donny asks.
“When you give me what I want.”
Donny grins. “Always the businessman.” He looks at me. “Been that way since I first met him.”
He’s trying to stake a claim on knowing Charlie longer, but I couldn’t care less. Though, for the first time since we got here, I realize that Charlie’s uncomfortable.
Donny’s smile fades. “So why this house?”
“The guy’s a dick. Deserves what he gets.”
“No way. That ain’t you.”
Charlie forces a smile. “Hey, aren’t you all about being Robin Hood—take from the rich, give to the poor? Why’re you asking questions now?”
Donny laughs. He’s missing a tooth, one of his canines.
“That I am, that I am. But you don’t come into my house and hand over a potential score without wanting something in return.”
“All we’re looking for is a couple of answers.”
“Ah, see! There you are! I thought maybe your new friend over there,” Donny indicates me, “had softened you up.”
“Enough bullshit,” Charlie says now, and there�
�s steel in his tone. “Thought you’d want a fancy house in a gated community, but I guess I was wrong—”
Whatever Donny’s been goading him about has finally hit its mark, and Charlie’s heading for the stairs.
“Whoa, whoa, there!” Donny calls after him. “Don’t be so hasty. We’re just talking old times, right?”
Charlie’s not having it. “I’m not interested in old times,” he says, turning back. “Either you answer my questions or we’re gone.”
Donny glares at him. Seems they’ve pushed each other into opposite corners.
“Okay, whaddya want to know,” Donny finally asks.
“You still own the park.”
“Most of it. Which part?”
“The pedestrian underpass on Albert Street.”
“Yup, that’s ours.”
“How often you get out there?”
A shrug. “Couple days a week.”
“How long you been holding that territory?”
“Couple months.”
“How about last year, around October or November?”
Donny studies Charlie. “Wait a sec. This about that poor sack of hamburger they just found?”
“Information for information.”
Donny stalls, maybe thinking he’s got an opportunity. “Last fall? Long time ago.”
I tap Charlie’s shoulder. “Come on. This is a waste of time.”
But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
Donny smiles, the gap in his teeth appearing again. “Seems I can’t remember a thing.”
A groggy male voice speaks from the mattress on the floor. “What about the suit?”
Donny rolls his eyes, frustrated that all this wheeling and dealing just got upended by Mattress Boy. “Oh yeah. The suit. Almost forgot about him. Good thinking, Benny.”
I’m pretty sure Benny’s in for a beating, but I’m tired of this bullshit. “What about the guy in the suit?” I ask.
But Donny continues to stall, leaning back in his chair, scratching the patch of stubble on his chin, pretending to ponder. “I was working on a mural in the underpass—”
“What time was this?” I ask.
“I told you. Last fall—”
“No, day or night?”
