The Weight of Stones

by C. B. Forrest

  Tim sighed. McKelvey closed his eyes, pushing away the desire to tell his friend the truth about retribution, how in the end there was no other way for a man to live with himself than to put one foot in front of the other, to swing the hammer or throw the rope, to make things happen when everyone else was standing around with their hands in their pockets.

  “Are they going to finally nail this son of a bitch?” Tim asked. That was it, there was nothing left in his voice. He had exhausted himself of violent hatred. He was simply tired of it all.

  “I still have some friends at the Crown attorney’s office. I’ll be sure to put in a real good word for this asshole,” McKelvey said.

  “How long do you think he’ll do?”

  “My bet is he’ll draw a few years this time for sure.”

  Tim said, “Thank you, Charlie.”

  “For what?” McKelvey said.

  “You know, for putting in a word on Tilman. I appreciate it.”

  McKelvey said, “I’m glad I can do it.”

  “Well,” Tim said, glancing at his watch, “I guess there’s no point in putting it off.”

  The tattoo parlour was long and narrow, nestled among the vampire clothing outlets and trendy head shops of Queen Street West. The place was clean enough in McKelvey’s estimation, a lingering smell of antiseptic in the air. There was nobody else in the shop on this weekday afternoon. The woman who greeted them at a low counter was dressed in torn black fishnet stockings, a camouflage mini skirt, a black sleeveless top with what appeared to be her bra on the outside, and her lips were painted the deepest purple to match the thick band of eyeliner highlighting an otherwise youthful and attractive round face. Her name was Kendra, and it was a small enough shop that she appeared to be both the receptionist and the tattoo artist. McKelvey found himself counting the number of Kendra’s piercings—nine that were visible—while Tim went over the rough sketch he pulled out of his pocket.

  “Is your friend getting one too?” Kendra asked as she drew an ink outline from Tim’s design, then made a transfer from it. “I’ll give you guys a discount if you double up.”

  “I don’t know,” Tim said, glancing over his shoulder. “Are you?”

  “Not today,” McKelvey said. “Maybe for my ninetieth birthday or something.”

  “Everybody should get at least one tattoo in their life,” she said.

  “I don’t see any on you,” McKelvey said, teasing.

  “‘See’ being the operative word,” she came back with a little smile. “Check out the portfolios over there on the coffee table while you’re waiting. Most of my work is in there, and a bunch of other local artists who work in the shop. There’s a picture of my back in there somewhere. Took eighty-five hours just to do the outlining, another sixty hours for the colour work.”

  McKelvey whistled and made his way to the four waiting chairs and the coffee table piled high with the thick black ledger-sized art portfolios. He looked around at the posters on the walls, the samples of artwork to choose from, a sign going over all the rules and health code information in great detail. Another sign declared: If you’re not 18, don’t even bother. He watched as Kendra brought Tim to a single dentist-style chair just behind the counter and began to prep his flesh for the inking. She put rubber gloves on then shaved the area at his upper left shoulder with a disposable razor, explaining every aspect of the procedure as she worked. McKelvey marvelled at the professionalism, the artistic pride, to be found within this strange subculture of placing permanent designs on the human body.

  “Just holler if he starts to pass out,” McKelvey said. “He tends to get squeamish at the sight of blood, starts flopping around and the whole thing.”

  “And yet I’m the one sitting in the chair,” Tim said.

  McKelvey said, “Touché,” then hefted the top portfolio and began to flip his way through the clippings of artwork and accompanying colour Polaroids displaying the finished result. There were entire sections dedicated to themes: dragons and skulls, Celtic and tribal, naval-style and Japanese. Soon the sound of the tattoo machine began to buzz like a sharp electric razor, and McKelvey could hear Kendra and Tim making the time pass with smalltalk. She asked about the design, and Tim told her the story of his wife. She said something about memorials being one of her most common requests, recounting the time she’d inked the portrait of a man’s revered father across the expanse of the client’s back. It was work that she came to with a sense of artistic and spiritual understanding.

  McKelvey was on the third portfolio, skipping some pages here and there, gazing at other spreads absentmindedly, when he flipped a page and stopped. Stopped cold. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t move. His stomach clenched. The air in his lungs constricted as he stared at a picture of Gavin smiling, displaying a freshly inked tattoo on his chest above his heart. A girl in the photo beside him, a pretty girl smiling with black hair and olive skin, proudly displaying a matching tattoo.

  He lifted his head. The room spun. Noise from the tattoo gun. Humming. His fingers fumbled with the protective plastic sheet, then he was beneath it, pulling the Polaroid free. He went to the counter, legs weightless. He stood there, the photo between a thumb and forefinger, and the photo seemed to be shivering.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “Kendra.”

  The young woman raised her head, clearly intent on remaining focused on the job at hand. She held the tattoo machine in one hand, in the other a bloody tissue that she was using to dab at the plasma running from the fresh wound.

  “This is my son,” he said, and held the photo out. “My son, Gavin.”

  Kendra squinted and nodded. McKelvey felt his chin quivering, nerves. “Well, at least your son wasn’t afraid to get a tattoo,” she said with a smile.

  “When was this taken? Do you keep records of this sort of thing?”

  Tim was listening with interest now.

  “I did both him and his girlfriend that day. I remember, because they didn’t have all the cash, and we worked out a deal where they agreed to clean the shop and make up the difference. We’d have their authorization forms on file, for sure. Randy, the owner, is real anal about all the paperwork.”

  Girlfriend, McKelvey thought. And it brought back some of the comments the street kids had made. Innuendos, vague utterances. It was never confirmed that Gavin had a steady girlfriend, but then on the street that sort of declaration could be a liability. He had moved beyond the circle of the squeegee kids, graduating to the orbit of the drug peddlers. The kids beneath the expressway and in the drop-in shelters carried only faint memories of the boy by the time McKelvey had got to them, their population transient.

  “They got matching tattoos?” McKelvey said.

  Kendra dabbed the tissue at Tim’s arm, where a line of translucent fluid was forming in a fat teardrop.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m a little confused. You didn’t know about the tattoo?”

  McKelvey stared at the photo. In vibrant colour. His son, smiling, proud of the new artwork on his body. The black-haired girl smiling beside him, their heads touching, the whole rest of their lives spread before them.

  “His son was murdered,” Tim offered quietly. “About two years ago now.”

  “Oh my god,” Kendra said, and her shock was genuine.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know...”

  “Don’t be sorry,” McKelvey said. “Listen. I need copies of their authorization forms. I need the girl’s ID.”

  “Oh, my god,” Kendra repeated, and now it seemed she was trying not to cry, the emotion of the connection coming through. “It’s just that...”

  “What is it?” McKelvey said.

  “You knew they were expecting, right? I mean, the reason they were getting matching tattoos,” she said. “Because they were expecting...”

  Kendra sniffed, the tears coming now. McKelvey didn’t hear anything after that.

  Nineteen

  Duguay’s mind swam with the possibilities, and he took no noti
ce of the white Ford minivan pulling away from the curb as he drove out of the club parking lot. The van kept its distance, then allowed a car to cut between it and Duguay’s Mystique. Twice since the meeting at Danny’s place, Bouchard had called him on the safe cellular, speaking in code, pushing him towards the dual objectives. He’d gleaned the retired cop’s home address, even driving over there and circling the neighborhood, getting a feel for the territory. And for the first time in a long time, Duguay experienced the pressurized discomfort that comes when a man finds himself increasingly wedged between two wrong places.

  Duguay saw it clearly laid out: Bouchard would use him to get rid of the dirty cop and the meddling cop—two cops, for Christ’s sake—then it would be Duguay who took the bullet in the back of the head. He saw how it would unfold. The call to a meeting. The shot you never heard. His body tied in a sleeping bag, tossed in the lake with a set of weights. Or perhaps they would opt to roll his body into a minivan which would be found burned to its metal frame in a vacant lot in an industrial complex, in true Quebec biker style. No physical evidence, no leads. It would take significant efforts to identify the body. And when it was identified, it would make the front page of llo Police, then he would be gone from the world as though he had never been born.

  With some of the guys it came easy. Guys like the famed Cortez from down south who had a dozen notches on his belt. Duguay had always sensed it was more than just a job for some of them, more than a contract to be fulfilled. It was something, the seeking and the finding, sniffing for the essence of death. With Duguay it was all business. There was no pleasure to be found in taking a man’s life. You carried that blood on your hands for all of your days. There had been only one, and he had never talked about it, not with anyone. It was his hope that there would be no more. He wanted money and a string of businesses, a nice home, a truck. He didn’t want to look over his shoulder for the rest of his days, wondering when the payback for an old kill might be delivered. It’s what they didn’t understand, that once it got started, there was no end.

  With Balani it made sense. There was no question. The cop had stepped across to the other side, sticking a toe in the waters, accepting envelopes of cash, a hotel room with a high-priced call girl, the exhilarating knowledge that he was in many ways above the law. He was the law, and yet he was circulating in a realm of ambiguity, a sense of danger. Happened to the narcos all the time: good cops driven underground for a year or two suddenly found themselves no longer surprised by their own depraved actions. Of course Bouchard was right, it made business sense to get rid of Balani if the drug-addled cop was starting to spread stories.

  With the other, this McKelvey, it wasn’t so clearly defined. Duguay was puzzled, confused by the man, even more confused by his own feelings. There was no obvious connection, at least not in his memory. He had requested and received personal information on the man, relying on inside sources, police informants. He looked at the stark black and white departmental photo of the man, with his piercing eyes and his square jaw. The facts were plain: the man’s son had been murdered. The cop’s son peddling dime rocks for none other than Marcel Leroux. That was the connection to the Blades. So what did this have to do with him? McKelvey was retired. What was the point?

  Or had he simply lost his nerve? Was he making excuses here?

  The man had suffered the loss of his son, a weight to carry for the rest of his life. So what? People die every day. They die in accidents, stabbings, bombings, from food poisoning for fuck sakes. Why am I supposed to feel bad for this asshole snooping around in my life, making connections, drawing conclusions...

  What the hell is wrong with my head? Duguay joined the traffic merging onto the four-lane highway headed east. His mind finally drifted, and he thought of Chantal LeClair’s body and the taste of her, the smell of her, the girl from his street back home, the only woman he’d ever thought of marrying. He wondered, as he did from time to time, where she was or who she was with, what she was doing now, right now. Another missed opportunity, choosing the boys and the lifestyle over a home with babies, Chantal in her summer dress to greet him at the door with his lunch bucket and his little paycheck. They could have made it, he knew. She had wanted to. Get married, get out of the life, get a trade ticket and live like all the rest of the people in their row houses, living for a Saturday night drunk, getting old and your kids coming back home for Sunday night roast beef.

  Chantal LeClair. What would she think of him now? It made him smile. To think of the old days and the old places, those nights when they were seventeen and made love in the back seat of a car parked down a dead end street. Probably something he’d stolen. He smiled at the memories of Chantal, the girl he could have had and should have had. Some times when he felt himself starting to go crazy inside the penitentiary, he would go back to those days. Before he’d robbed the bank in Dorval and been caught two days later asleep in a room at the Holiday Inn in Pointe Claire. It was the first time he’d used a handgun, the first time he’d drawn more than a short stint. Seven years. Too long for Chantal to wait, even though she would have. She would have waited. But he never gave her the chance.

  Duguay pulled into the lot at Danny’s place. He glanced around as he walked from the car to the door, quick shoulder checks to scan the field of vision. He sensed the vehicle near him, around him, always just out of sight. He’d made the connection halfway across town. It was Bouchard’s man keeping tabs on him, or a Hells associate come to make good on that promise made all those years ago after the Lennoxville Massacre. Sign with us or retire, that was the ultimatum. He knew things, he knew people, he held secrets, and they’d offered him a place with the new chapter, but he had turned his back on them.

  Duguay slipped inside the garage with its strong smell of epoxy. He paused at the door to the bay, watching his friend work on the frame of a rare 1981 Trans Am. Danny’s hand moved in slow circles across the front quarter panel, shaping the body one invisible layer at a time.

  “Sugar plum,” Duguay said, “I need a favour.”

  Danny looked up, smiled. He set the square of sandpaper down and wiped his hands across the front of his coveralls. His eyes were red, and he moved slow, buzzed.

  “You’re in your zone,” Duguay said. “You wouldn’t even notice somebody coming in here to rob you. You should lock the fucking door at least.”

  Danny came over and stood with a shoulder against the door frame, fishing for his pack of cigarettes. He offered the pack to Duguay. Danny lit their cigarettes and blew a mouthful of smoke toward the tubes of bright fluorescent lighting that made everything, even the flesh on their faces, seem fabricated, plastic.

  “Not much to steal around here,” Danny said, looking around. His face was dark with ground dust and fibreglass shavings. “Anyway, I got a full set of wrenches that’d knock a row of teeth out pretty quick. Not to mention I still keep an old pistol in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  Duguay laughed, said, “Not the same little .38 I gave you, es ti.”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Thing probably wouldn’t shoot any more, buddy. It’d jam on you. You have to clean them, or they don’t work. We’ll have to get you set up with something newer. A Taser, maybe. They’re getting popular. Bring a guy down without having to waste him, at least not right there and then.”

  “Come on, Pete, look at me. I don’t need to keep a fucking gun around, man. I’m just hiding away in here with my cars, you know? I’m not bothering anybody.”

  “I brought you into this, Danny. You’re in it. If Bouchard is looking to get rid of me, then he won’t think twice about wasting you. The guy’s fucking paranoid.”

  “What can I do, Pete? Just say it.”

  “When it happens, it’s gonna be big. A real big bang.”

  Danny pinched his cigarette at the halfway mark, twisted the end and slipped the butt in the front pocket of his coveralls. It was an old habit, and witnessing it brought Duguay back to prison, where cigarettes
and decks of smokes were traded with the weight of cash. A man on the inside could have another man beaten for the mere price of a few cartons of cigarettes. Everything had a value: blowjobs from the trannies, a pinch of dope hooped in a con’s anus, a copy of the key to the phone in the administration wing. He remembered a green kid coming to the pen for the first time, how badly he’d wanted a deck of smokes, and how Duguay had warned him to wait until the canteen order was placed in a few days, not to borrow a pack. The kid couldn’t wait and wouldn’t listen to advice, ended up “borrowing” a deck of smokes from a particularly degenerate old con, an infamous and merciless sex hound. The kid’s time inside quickly turned to a version of hell when he found out the next day that it wasn’t a one-for-one trade; no, the old con wanted a full carton for his single pack. It was inflation in triple digits. The kid didn’t have the ways or the means to cover the carton right away, so he began digging himself deeper into the debt of the old con until finally he was owned outright. Duguay saw the kid crying in fear and desperation, coming back to him for help. But the old con’s game had been played straight up, it was the code, so Duguay had no choice but to turn his back on the kid.

  Whatever happened to that kid? Duguay wondered. What makes one stronger than the other? Why am I still here, still standing, when so many of us fell back in the day?

  His mind flashed with memories from the penitentiaries, the stabbings in the weight pit with jagged hunks of glass, toothbrushes melted and fitted with a razor blade, an uncoiled bed spring sharpened to a deadly point, the actual smell of fear that settled upon the place like a poisonous gas as a new fish was brought down the line—the ways they tried to maim and kill one another on the inside, it was mediaeval. It didn’t happen every day, but when it did, it was brutal, and it was fast. The last stint awaiting trial, it had made him think. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to do another long stretch. He couldn’t say it, but it was there in the back of his mind, a whisper.