I breathed the night air and smelled all sorts of interesting things. Car exhaust and the perfumed hot air from someone’s nearby dryer. I smelled dust and a vague tang from grass recently cut, and even the richness of dog shit and damp, turned earth. In time I smelled cigarette smoke and woodsmoke from a fireplace or one of those outdoor firepits I lusted after secretly. These were the smells that came to me as I waited.
After a long time I went downstairs and tossed Smiley’s room.
In the closet a floorboard had been pulled up and the nails cut flat so it looked normal, and in the space underneath I found an old-fashioned English Enfield revolver in .38 calibre with a one-inch barrel. Beside the gun was an ancient cardboard box with forty-four soft lead-nosed bullets; the other six rounds were in the gun itself.
There was also a Ziploc baggie holding an assortment of pills. I held them up to the light and catalogued them: 2-mg Rohypnol pills marked ROCHE, crystals of crack cocaine that looked like macadamia nuts, even some old-style yellow jacket and Dexedrine amphetamines.
I smiled to myself and took the bullets into the kitchen, where I used a pair of needle-nosed pliers wrapped with duct tape to empty each cartridge of its grey-and-black load of powder down the drain. When I was done I re-seated the bullets in the cases and twisted the hammer spring a little until it would never work again. Then I put everything back where it belonged.
Eventually I fell asleep. Claire and Smiley coming home didn’t wake me at all, which shows how honest I was getting. I just slept and dreamt complicated dreams of cowboys and river gamblers, six-guns and dynamite, gold coins and paper money. I dreamt of horses and mesas and half-naked men and women drinking beer and listening to fast music in wooden houses with a wind blowing outside and keening through cracks in the planks. There were thieves in my dreams and bankers, whores and dudes, sheriffs and marshalls, red-coated Mounties and blue-coated cavalry, bad guys and good guys, Indians wearing feather headdresses and Chinese workers in pig tails and straw hats.
And then it all segued into another kind of dream, full of forests and rivers, plains and fields. The whole dream was full of animals, deer and rabbits and squirrels and prairie chickens and wolves and bears and wild pigs. But as the dream went on I realized that I was either hunting them or they were hunting me. And in either case it was all perfectly fine by us all. When I woke up all the dream animals and men stayed with me for a surprisingly long time.
The next morning the memories of my dream kept me in a fine mood for dealing with my wife and our guest discussing the women they had met the night before. Claire’s acting was impressive. “… she was the one with the open shirt so you could see her belly, do you think?”
Smiley snorted. “Sure. And she was a real blonde too.”
They laughed and made coffee and toast and eggs while I sat on the floor and kept an eye on Fred, who was under the kitchen table rattling pots.
Claire asked, “How many of what kind of eggs?”
When I realized the question was aimed at me I answered that two sunny side up would be good and went back to watching the baby under the table. He was becoming more … intelligent? Not quite the right word, he was becoming more … capable of planning. I rescued the pots and let Fred wrestle with the dog while I ate, sitting there under the table and watching Claire and Smiley. It was a strange sensation, that, to be reduced to the size of a child and watch the adults do their adult things.
“So, do you think she’ll call?”
“Nope. But I’ve been wrong before.”
There was flippancy, an intimacy that hadn’t been there before. I felt jealous so I asked, “Did you meet anyone nice?”
Smiley grinned. “They were all nice. Some liked the way I looked and others liked my history.”
“You told them the truth?”
“Yep. A couple of them were turned off and walked away but most thought it was cool.” Claire nodded and added, “I kept him away from the nasty ladies. He met secretaries and office workers.”
“And how did he do?”
She answered, “The boy ended up with a pocketful of seven-digit combinations.”
“In English?”
“Phone numbers. They thought he was cool and hot, he danced, he laughed, he bought drinks and he was so not a player.”
I had to ask, “What’s a player?”
Smiley wrinkled his brow and answered, “A guy who just wants the notch. Not the girl, just what she’s sitting on.”
They both laughed and I finished my food. “So you’re trying to say you don’t want the notch?”
They helped me to my feet and he slapped me on the back. “I want the whole damn thing. I always do.”
#36
I went to clean Fred’s room and the bathroom. When I was finished Claire told me that Smiley had already left and that he had been in a good mood. While she was getting ready to go to work and I was getting ready for the arrival of the kids, she asked me about what I’d found in his room and I told her.
She nodded. “What now?”
I just shook my head. “I’m not sure.”
Neither of us was satisfied but we both walked away. Claire went to sell houses and I watched children and thought about crime. After supper we read and listened to the radio, alternating between an old rock-and-roll station on AM and CBC’s FM‘s stellar The World at Six. Claire was still deeply engrossed in Buying Homes for Canadian Dummies while I was trying to chew through Of Mice and Men, which she had conned me into by priming me with Tortilla Flats and Cannery Row.
“You know, this isn’t funny at all. Not even remotely. You’re sure it’s the same author?”
“Uh-huh.” She put a finger in her book and looked at me. “Did you know that Steinbeck wrote a really bad propaganda novel at the behest of William Randolph Hearst called The Moon is Down?”
“No, should I?”
“And that William Randolph Hearst is the grandfather of Patty Hearst, kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army?”
“Didn’t know that either.”
She flipped the page of her book to look at a diagram and went on. “Anyhow, before Patty started robbing banks the SLA demanded that the Hearst Department Stores start handing out free food for the poor and downtrodden. At that point Ronald Reagan, who was the governor of California, said that it would be good time for an outbreak of botulism.”
“Hmmm. Cruel with a touch of crazy. What was his nickname again?”
“The Great Communicator.”
“And the point of all this is what?”
She smiled, which made my heart flutter. “No point. No point at all. But it was under Reagan as president that the war on drugs started to heat up in the States, which jacked the price and popularity of the stuff to astronomical heights. It was also under him that many, many handguns were produced.”
“Aha. Which truth profited me greatly just a few years later as the trend trickled down to the poor and up to the north. Interesting.”
“Maybe. But like I said; there’s no real point, no point at all to this whole discussion. The next question I have is: how can you relax while the Smiley problem is still with us? And why aren’t you worried about Smiley’s current absence?” Claire was genuinely curious.
“Those are easy questions. If I let the stress get to me I might make mistakes. I can’t afford those so I have to relax. Necessity requires it. Now, a question for you. If Reagan heated up the war on drugs, who started it?”
She perked up. “Finally, something you don’t know! Tricky Dick Nixon started it.”
“Aha.” That made sense. Nixon had had trouble dealing with everyone, especially hippies. Maybe he had associated the two in his mind. “As for Smiley, I know he’ll come back.”
“Aha again.”
“Although I do admit that relaxing is not easy. Without you it would be impossible.”
“You flatterer, you.” She went back to her book and I went back to trying to relax and working through the book, which seemed
to be leading unstoppably to a dismal ending. While I was doing that Smiley came back. He was wearing his party clothes: black pants and blue shirt and a really nice black leather duster jacket that ended at his ankles. It had probably cost a grand and a half.
“Hi Mom, hi Dad!”
Claire looked at him and snorted. “You’re drunk.”
“Nope. Never. Well, maybe a little.”
I looked him over and spoke mildly. “So where have you been, what have you been up to, you drunken bastard?”
He sat down on the sofa and picked Fred up. For a few minutes they played together and then he offered, “Went out with Tracey, to whom your lovely wife introduced me. She’s a sweetheart.”
“What does she do, he asked, somewhat fearing the answer?”
“Guess.”
“Dancer-waitress-bartender-card dealer-hairstylist-student …”
He started to laugh. “Nope. She’s a secretary at a law firm. Beautiful girl, with a great big …”
Claire cleared her throat and Smiley caught himself. “… sense of humour. A very firm and hefty sense of humour. And long, elegant vowels. Two of them, just beautifully formed. Yep, a stone-cold beautiful person.”
“So where did you go?”
“First for coffee and then to her place. She has a nice apartment by the Convention Centre. She introduced me to her roommate.”
“Sounds like a Penthouse letter, I never believed it could happen to me …”
“Naw. Her roommate’s a guy named Louis; he’s a bodybuilder and a bartender.”
“Okay, sounds like a Hustler letter, I never believed it could happen to me …”
Claire glanced at me and winced before asking, “So, are they an item?”
“Nope. Just buddies.”
Smiley went to bed and Claire and I looked at each other and she said slowly, “Beautiful women don’t normally room with beautiful men.”
I agreed and wondered why Smiley wasn’t doing anything about the route, nothing at all. And I wondered wishfully if maybe he had changed his mind again about going straight. But I knew that was bullshit and I settled back to wait some more. He would act eventually; he was built that way. He had already betrayed me once to Sam.
All I had to do was wait, patiently or impatiently, it didn’t matter.
Eventually he’d act.
#37
The next day was tortuous for me but uneventful. Late that night Smiley came home. Claire and I were at the dining-room table, playing a desultory game of crib and waiting for him to show. He opened the door with the key we’d given him on his first day and then stepped inside. When he saw us he froze and slowly put down the plastic bag he was holding.
“Is there a problem?”
“No.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Uh, not that I know of.”
He took off his shoes and padded forward and I could see he was wearing some of his new clothes, but they looked a little unkempt. His tie was loose, his shirt had the buttons done up wrong, and there was a deep furrow between his eyes.
“So Tracey didn’t call?”
“No.”
Claire smiled and shuffled the cards. “Should she have?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
He put the bag down on the table and drew a medium-sized bottle of Southern Comfort liqueur out of it and bit his lower lip until a thin trickle of blood started.
“I want to get drunk.”
Claire smiled again. “You’re a grown up. Do what you want.”
He looked at me and I told him, “It’s your choice.”
“Do you, either of you,” the words seemed to stick in his throat, “… want some?”
Claire nodded and brought glasses from the kitchen, one for her and one for him, and he filled them to the brim with the thick, sweet liquor. He drained his glass and my wife from sipped hers and silence spread through the room.
“So …,” Smiley started, “… were you guys waiting up for me?”
I looked at Claire. We silently agreed to keep our mouths shut and that’s what I told him. “No, everything’s fine. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything. I had a date with Tracey.”
“And?”
He refilled his glass. “I went to her place. She didn’t want to go for drinks, or dinner, or see a movie … she just wanted to screw. So we did.”
My wife shrugged. “It happens.”
“Yeah. Sure. Sometimes. But she kept getting louder and louder as we did it. You know sometimes women fake it, right?”
I agreed, “Sure, sometimes men do too.”
Claire stuck her tongue out at me. “And why would they do that?”
I listed reasons on my fingers. “First if they’re tired and can’t. Second if they’re just not in the mood. Third if the girl is a real dead lay. Fourth is if the guy can hear the husband walking up the stairs. And fifth is to have it over and done with.”
“I may punch you.”
Smiley interrupted. “Yeah, anyway, back to me. I think she was faking it. Loudly. Over and over again. And her roommate was in the next room. He started to pound on the wall, telling us to shut up.”
It was hard to imagine that, and I tried to figure what Smiley would’ve done, but he kept talking.
“I wanted to go over and punch him out, make him shut up. Whatever. And she wouldn’t let me. Just kept doing things and making noise and telling me to keep doing things we weren’t doing. It was embarrassing.”
Claire flinched and filled her glass again and let him keep talking.
“You know, put it in … don’t stop … harder, harder … stuff like that. And throughout it the roommate’s pounding on the wall. It was fucked up.” He said it mildly.
“Anyhow so we finished and she goes over to the door and pulls it open, you know, bang, like that.”
Nope, still couldn’t imagine it.
“And there’s the roommate standing there. And she’s yelling all sorts of shit at him. And she’s buck-ass naked and she’s holding this condom she pulled off me in her hand and she throws it at him!”
Claire let out a bray of startled laughter and Smiley just nodded. “No, it’s cool. It was funny. So she steps out and shuts the door and starts to talk to him and I’m left in the room and I don’t know what to do. So I pull on some clothes and wait there, feeling like a dick. Pardon the expression.”
He drank some more and I realized that the two of them had almost polished off a forty-ounce bottle, with 90 percent going down Smiley’s throat and neither of them was showing any effects.
“Anyhow. The door opens and the guy comes in, this big fucking bodybuilder wearing pajama bottoms, and Tracey’s in the doorway wearing his robe and sniffling. He sits down beside me and puts his hand on my knee.”
He stared off into space and then shook his head. “First I thought he was coming on to me and then that maybe this was some kind of three-way hustle. But no. He starts talking that him and Tracey were an item and had some problems but now everything was cool between them and maybe I should take off.”
I realized I was waiting for the punchline, but there was none, and he kept right on.
“I didn’t know what to do.” He said it wonderingly. “And I look at him and say that I need to hear it from her. And before I’m finished saying it, well, Tracey is opening her hole and says that I took advantage of her at a difficult time and that we shouldn’t see each other again. And the guy’s nodding and the chick’s nodding and I can see past her head to this light fixture in the middle of the living room and the condom she pulled off me is stuck to it. And I swear it’s smoking and stinking from the heat off the bulb.”
I couldn’t help myself, I had to smile. He saw me and his face flushed with rage, and something snapped as he stood up and said,“Fuck you, Monty.”
I stared at him and he blew out hard through his nose before getting control of himself and calming down. Then he went on with a strange edge to his voice.
“Let’s do it now. Let’s dump Marie. Let’s take the route. Let’s make some real money. Let’s have some fun. Let’s see some action. I’m tired of this half-straight shit—it’s not for me. It’s not for you either. Fuck it. Shit or get off the pot.”
I shook my head and I could see a creeping look of pity coming into Claire’s eyes, and then I said softly, “No, man, no.”
His anger flared. “You’re doing nothing. Let’s get started. Let’s do this.” I didn’t say anything and he went on in a more conciliatory tone, trying to con me. “Let’s go. Your family’s slowing you down, you have to realize that.”
He stared at me hard and I shook my head. “No.”
I had set him up. His eyes widened and he realized that I had never intended to go into the biz with him again. “You fucking bastard, you chickenshit coward … you betrayed me!”
The words hung there.
#38
Words, they were only words, and I let them rush over me. “I’m not your enemy. I didn’t betray you. You were the one who took Sam’s contract to set me up.”
I took a deep breath, swallowed some words, and finally came out with, “I’m not your enemy. You are.”
His rage was like a fire in a forest, leaping from tree to tree, boiling creeks dry, and cracking rocks. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you the one with the fucking clean slate? Aren’t you the one with the fan-dam-ly? Aren’t you the one who said, ‘just let it go.’ Maybe you can. You and your fucking family. You owe me. I did you a favour. I could’ve handed your ass to Sam.”
He exhaled and went on. “I didn’t because we have connections, because we have a history.”
His voice was calm, silky now but his face was still red and his whole body was taut with something. Claire looked back and forth between us and the anger started to burn in me but when I spoke my voice was just as silky as his, just as smooth and unyielding and slick. “Leave my family out of it.”
His rage flared again. “I don’t want this. I don’t want any of it. You can FUCK your normal citizens and you can FUCK the honest people and you can FUCK YOURSELF AND YOUR FUCKING BITCH AND BRAT TOO!”
Your Friendly Neighborhood Criminal Page 19
