by Trevor Clark
“Whereabouts do you live?” Derek asked.
“About ten minutes from downtown.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
“About a year,” she answered, gazing past him to the band.
“You’re good,” Jack said.
“Thanks.”
He downed the rest of his drink and went to the bar. When he came back he put another rum and Coke in front of her, and sat down with what was presumably a second vodka-tonic. “You drink too slow.”
“You trying to get me drunk?”
Five minutes later, Derek finished his beer and said he had to work in the morning, which didn’t make much sense after the trouble he’d gone through to get them there. Maybe the invitation had been a setup for Jack. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, but didn’t think she could suddenly leave, not with a new drink sitting there.
After he was gone she said, “Your friend’s really been watching out for you, hasn’t he?”
“What do you mean?”
“Inviting me to go out after work, then getting us to the bar and leaving us alone. . . . When you went to the washroom before, he was talking you up and telling me what a nice guy you were.”
Jack smiled slightly. “Yeah, well, he’s kind of a mother hen sometimes.”
Marva squeezed the lime into her drink, then dropped it in and twirled the ice cubes with her swizzle stick. “What did he really bail you out for?” She put the pink plastic sword in the ashtray, and took a sip.
“Well . . . basically, this woman was getting hassled by a guy, and I got into it with him and ended up getting charged with assault.”
“You came to her rescue and had to go to jail?”
“Well, I sent him to the hospital and—I have to get a lawyer. I’m not sure what the legalities are just yet. He wasn’t beating her up, but she was obviously scared and trying to get away from him, so I guess my defense would be that I thought she was in danger. I don’t know if that’ll hold up in court since I hit him first.”
“Well, cops bust or shoot people all the time, and then ask questions. What’d you do to him?”
“Oh, he had a broken nose and lost a couple of teeth.”
“So you’re, like, a hero.”
Jack’s expression might have been suspicious. “No, sometimes I just help the less fortunate.” He studied the band and then turned back at her. “The other day I got off the subway at Yonge and Bloor, and there was a Coke can on the platform which this student-looking guy accidentally kicked into the leg of this weird, reprobate type, who exploded into a rage. He was shoving the guy and screaming, ‘What the fuck?!’ or some shit like that, and the other guy was saying, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ The system was really crowded, and all these people were ambling by pretending not to notice.
“I felt sorry for the student so I intervened and said, ‘Hey, man, he’s said he’s sorry about fifty times. What’s the problem?’ Now the fucker was in my face. He shouts, ‘You wanna box?’ Fists clenched but not raised. I put myself into the ‘ready stance,’ as I was taught in martial arts, feet planted shoulder-length apart, arms loose. I said, ‘Do you?’ Just then a couple of uniformed TTC guys happened to come down the stairs, and the guy took off, yelling, ‘Fuck all you faggots!’ He was obviously wasted on crack or something. A minor incident, but things like that get the adrenaline pumping.”
Before she could respond, he continued. “And with animals especially—I fucking hate it when anybody abuses them. A couple of months ago, right, I was walking along St. Clair, and just before Yonge Street, outside the Scotiabank, there was this dog tied up to a parking meter—right out in the direct sunlight. It was really hot. He was panting fit to beat Jesus, and wandering around as much as he could, and whimpering. I went into the bank and pointed out the window at the dog and asked the lady at the service desk, ‘Do you know who the owner is?’ She was very nice, and said, ‘Well, I’m not sure, but I think he’s in the bank somewhere.’ I said, ‘Okay, well, I’m going across the street for a minute, and if he’s still out there when I get back I’m calling the police.’ Just then this guy comes trotting past us from the teller counter, and the service lady asked him, ‘Is that your dog out there?’ He said, ‘Yeah,’ and I said, ‘That dog is really suffering, man.’ He wouldn’t look at me, and he ran out and untied the dog and went on his way at a distinctly brisk pace. Sometimes I forget how intimidating I can look. I’ve heard it said that I look like a Hells Angel whose Harley is in the shop. Anyway, that was my good deed for the day.”
Now that all the lights were on, Marva tried to concentrate. Even if she wasn’t drunk, alcohol always fucked with her thinking. He’d taken off his leather jacket and was wearing a preppy type of striped shirt with the sleeves pushed up beyond the zigzag tattoos, and was barrel-chested but not exactly fat, not yet, not for another few years maybe. Also, he smoked American cigarettes.
“What sign are you?” she asked.
“Capricorn.”
“I’m Gemini. I don’t know astrology that well, but my girlfriend’s into it so I’ll have to ask her what Capricorns are like one of these days. She’s going through a lot of shit right now. Children’s Aid took her kids away, and she’s trying to get them back.”
Jack turned his head to exhale. “How come?”
“I don’t really know. I think her ex-boyfriend phoned them and lied that she took drugs and that they weren’t getting fed, and stuff like that. I don’t know exactly. He was kind of fucked up over her and wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“Are you two good friends?”
“We’re all right. I used to know her from where I grew up, so we still get together and stuff.”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Jane and Finch.”
“Tough area.”
“Yeah, I had to get out. People live really badly sometimes. They have no respect, and write on walls and vandalize everything. It’s disgusting. I still have friends who live up there, and my mother too, because that’s where she goes to church and knows everybody.” Marva raised her glass. “Do you ever go?”
“Church? No.”
“Never?”
“Not since I was a kid.” He seemed to be looking at her funny. “Why, do you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What religion?”
She felt self-conscious. “Well, it’s a friend’s church, I don’t know what religion. It’s very spiritual. Gospel music where people get more involved, not where you just pray or listen to a sermon. It’s good to put on your best clothes . . .” She trailed off in case she sounded stupid. The musicians were packing up their instruments, and people were leaving. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I have a half-sister in Texas,” he said, with a pull on his drink. “My parents split up when I was a kid, and I grew up in California. What about you?”
“I’ve got two brothers and a sister. Well, half-brothers and a half-sister. Everyone has a different father. The other fathers are in Jamaica; mine’s in Brooklyn.”
“Do you see him much?”
“No, he never writes or anything. I went to visit him when I was fourteen, and he never even came to get me at the airport. I had to find my own way to his place.”
“Don’t take this personally, but your father sounds like an asshole.”
Marva sipped her rum and Coke. “Well, I guess he’s got a new life. He didn’t really know who I was or anything since he left when I was little. I wrote a couple of times after that, but then I stopped. My mother doesn’t talk to him, so I don’t know if he’s still there, or even if he’s alive.”
“Wasn’t he paying child support?”
“No, nothing.”
When the staff was clearing out the remaining customers, she drank off her cocktail and stood up without knowing what was supposed to happen next
. He didn’t seem to have a clue either.
6
Lofton was waiting by the streetcar stop with her outside the subway at Queen when she suddenly hailed a taxi. He wasn’t sure if she was bailing on him until she moved over to make room, and he climbed in beside her. Her assertion that she lived ten minutes from downtown was more than wishful thinking, it was a downright lie unless she meant by helicopter.
Her basement apartment was in a rundown Victorian manor in Parkdale near Sunnyside Beach. He went down the stairs with her at the side of the house, waited while she unlocked the door, and then looked for her refrigerator. As soon as he had a beer in his hand, he embraced her and they kissed against the sink.
Later, during sex, her expression grew disturbingly remote. When he leaned in on one elbow to kiss her, she turned her head away, her face a mask of savage illogic after the passion he’d aroused while eating her. “I wish we weren’t doing this,” she said.
So that’s how it was. But she was wet and her nipples were still stiff. Despite the alcohol, Lofton was tense and insufficiently confident of his hard-on in the prophylactic after the booze to indulge this twist in her mood; he tried to focus on the act itself, how far along he’d come, the geometry of her spread legs and the grip of her pussy as he held her, giving her a few thrusts he hoped she’d feel tomorrow. He stroked her firm breast and slid a hand down her back, turning her slightly to grip a cheek and insert a fingertip into her tight asshole.
His ejaculation partially eclipsed the insult and hinted at a new phase in his life, post-divorce, with or without this stripper. He lay beside her and tried to relish his flawed triumph, wondering if he should get up and leave or give her a chance to explain herself. He wiped away some sweat as he straightened his bandanna, then reached over the side of her bed for his beer. He was still wearing his socks. “So, what’d you mean—you ‘wish we weren’t doing this’?”
She looked at him without emotion. “I meant so soon, the first night.”
“Didn’t you feel all right?”
“Things never work out if you go to bed with someone right away.”
Lofton relaxed but wasn’t entirely convinced. He offered her a drink. “Listen, that’s the strangest fucking thing I’ve ever had anyone say in the middle of sex. You don’t say that kind of shit to someone when they’re fucking you. That’s a goddamn mood killer.”
Marva didn’t look contrite. In fact, her face was maddeningly detached. Swallowing, she passed the bottle back. “Sorry, but I just have to say what I think. Whenever I have sex with somebody the first night, it always goes wrong. I should probably tell you, my relationships don’t usually last very long.”
There was a brief silence. “What happened with your last boyfriend?”
“I was engaged but he said he thought we should take some time apart. What do you think of something like that—‘We should take some time apart’?”
“How long ago?”
“A month.”
Lofton put his bottle on the dresser beside him. His gut sagged as he turned and tugged the reservoir tip of his condom, and slowly began to roll it off. “How long did you know him before you got engaged?”
“A month.”
“No, I mean, how long before you got engaged?”
“A month.”
He leaned over and put the rubber on her throw rug. “You only knew him a month and you wanted to get married?”
“Yeah, you know, you look for Mr. Right. . . . But he told me to stop being stupid when I was asking him about us, trying to get some kind of idea about what he was thinking. I guess I wasn’t feeling too sure about things. I wanted some, you know . . .”
“Reassurance.”
“Yeah, but he said I was being stupid.”
“And he hasn’t called since.”
“He phoned a few days ago and wanted to know if I wanted to see a movie,” she said, twisting one of her braids. “He knows I’d rather talk because we’ve got things to say, but he wanted to see a movie. I told him I’d call him back because he woke me up, and when I did, he wasn’t home. I know he went to see it without me. We’ve argued about that before—him not waiting to see if I’m going to go or not. He left a message after that but I didn’t call back.”
“White or black guy?”
“White. I won’t go out with black guys anymore; they’re too much trouble. They act too ignorant and full of themselves.”
When she got up to go to the washroom, Lofton pulled aside the sheet nailed across her doorway and left the tiny bedroom, or alcove, or whatever it was, and lumbered out to the living room. A couple of well-worn chairs faced a TV, VCR, DVD and CD player. Above the sofa her basement window offered a view of the driveway at asphalt level. A spray-painted garbage can was visible between the yellow curtains. As he pulled his cigarettes from his jacket he noticed an unlikely law book on a shelf of DVDs and old video cassettes, and looked at some framed photos on the scratched coffee table of girlfriends, a teenaged Marva with some guys, maybe a tough-looking boyfriend or half-brother, and an older woman who was probably her mother. He flicked his silver lighter aflame, inhaled, and studied a professional-looking studio shot of her a few pounds lighter in a tank top and vinyl hot pants.
Lofton went into the kitchen for another beer. Before drawing back the sheet to reenter her bedroom space, he noticed a closed door beside what looked like a closet. “Is this a bachelor or a one-bedroom apartment?” he asked, lying back down beside her.
“A one-bedroom, not including this.”
“Why don’t you sleep in the real room?”
“I rent that out.”
“What do you mean? There’s somebody in there?”
“No, he’s out. He works at night.”
“You’re saying you live with a guy?”
“He’s just a roommate. I put an ad in the paper after this girl who was living here moved out, that’s all.”
She closed her eyes as she turned her head on the pillow. Lofton drank from his bottle, mulling her situation, when he became aware of something. “What’s that stink?”
Marva laughed. “I had to fart.”
He leaned back on his elbow. “You’re kidding.”
“Well, what would you do? It’s just natural. You can’t hold it in—you’ll hurt yourself. I have to do another one, too.”
“Hang your fucking ass off the bed.”
She laughed as he pushed her hip with his knee, edging her from the mattress, when the telephone rang. They glanced at one another. He checked his watch while Marva leaned over to the nightstand and lifted the receiver. “Hello? Oh . . . hi. It’s kinda late, you know.” Her eyes became glazed. “No. No, I haven’t seen it. . . .”
Lofton drew on his cigarette and tapped the ashes down the neck of an empty bottle. A poster of Bruce Lee in a martial arts stance was tacked up near the draped sheet. He looked around at the amount of stuff crammed into the small space: a rack of dresses, shoes, hats on hooks. There were various brushes, bottles of perfume, and unfamiliar afro-type cosmetics and hair products on her dresser.
When she got off the phone she shook her head. “I don’t believe that guy.”
“Who was it?”
“Oh, this guy who used to live here, an ex-boyfriend. Can I have some of that?” Marva reached for his beer. Swallowing as she passed it back, she said, “He wanted to know if he left his health card here.”
“At three in the fucking morning?”
“Well, he knows I work late.”
“When did he move out?”
“About three months ago.”
“Weird time to phone.”
Marva yawned. “I never saw a guy with a ring in his nipple before. For a big guy with tattoos, you don’t have very much hair on your body.”
He looked down at himself.
“Me, I’m hairy,” she
said, running her fingers along her forearm. “I don’t know what’s in my background; it’s all mixed up from the West Indies.” She lay back and studied him. “So, what do you do for a job?”
Lofton took a drag as he considered his words. Exhaling, he said, “Security work, consulting in private investigation—”
“You’re a private eye?”
“Not now, but I was in L.A.”
She looked skeptical. “So you mean you were a real private eye, like in Chinatown?”
“Yeah.”
“How’d you get started in that?”
“I took an eighteen month program that cost six thousand dollars at the best detective academy in the States, and opened my own office.” Lofton propped up a pillow. He was kind of pumped, and felt like talking. “I didn’t join an agency because I didn’t want to work with . . . One of the advantages of being a private investigator, why it’s such a popular fictional character, is because while they work in law enforcement, they’re seen as independent. I figured if I was going to work for an agency I might as well join the police department. I also knew I’d be doing a lot of insurance fraud, shit like that. It’s bread and butter work, but I didn’t want to do that—taking pictures of some poor bastard on compensation who’s out roofing his house. I preferred to work on the other side of the fence, where a guy’s fighting a compensation hearing, you know, and establishing evidence to prove that he’s really incapacitated.” As the words were leaving his mouth, he realized the improvisation didn’t make much sense. “You see what I’m saying?”
“What other stuff? Cheating wives?”
“That’s spousal activity,” Lofton said, passing her the beer. “There are some detective agencies that only do that, and they advertise a flat rate. Workplace fraud is a big thing. People stealing merchandise. And showing services—that’s where, say you walk into a muffler shop and the guy behind the counter says, ‘Okay, well, you need five hundred dollars’ worth of work, but I’ll tell you what. Rather than having it done here, come back to my place. I’ll fix your car in my garage and charge you two hundred bucks.’ I’d be hired to investigate that, where the staff is taking business away from the owner.
