The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  Nick whistled. “Think she’s right?”

  “I think — now that I’ve met the real Mrs. Wilkens — that she might be onto something. I sent her to the nearest police precinct to talk to the nice man there.”

  “Good advice. Glad you’re not trying to handle that one yourself.”

  “No, but it’s tempting.”

  Nick let that hang in the air for a few seconds. “You’re scaring me, Dan. You’ve already said people are dying over this. Please be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “And keep your cellphone handy.”

  “I will.”

  It was coming on twilight as Dan reached Moss Park. People were milling about in groups of twos and threes in the growing gloom, standing on the sidewalks and in the middle of the road, hawking their wares. Drugs, guns, girls. Dan had certainly been on better streets than these. Hell, he’d grown up on better streets, and that was in Sudbury’s Flour Mill district, hardest of the hard in a bleak mining town. Around here even the convenience stores seemed to be trying to stay invisible. He would keep Nick’s advice in mind and not relax his guard.

  It never ceased to amaze him where he found himself digging up dirt and sniffing down cracks to discover whatever it was he might be looking for — in this case the friend of a dead rapper who knew Donny’s adopted son Lester. The chain linking one person to another was often elusive and hard to grasp, but you never knew where it might lead.

  Taejon’s dead cousin, known locally as Sam the Brother, had grown up in Lawrence Heights in the city’s northwest, not far from the nightclub where Lester’s band had performed. At eighteen, Sam had joined one of the local gangs, the Gatorz. Between the Gatorz and the Five Point Generalz, their members had racked up an impressive number of the area’s homicides.

  Someone had interviewed Sam the Brother for an article on violence in his neighbourhood. “This ain’t no organized crime centre. This here the Jungle,” he said, giving the district its street name. “We at war, but it’s disorganized crime run this place,” he laughingly told the reporter. A month later, he was dead.

  The dead rapper was trouble, with a career-criminal background long enough for more than one public enemy. But the live rapper Dan was about to meet was even more troubling: an African émigré who’d had a long list of charges thrown at him — sexual assault, forcible confinement — with all but one, that for drug peddling, tossed out of court. Darkest of all were allegations of human trafficking. Out of the blue, however, the career-criminal-slash-rapper who called himself D-Rap had transformed overnight into a law-abiding, peace-loving citizen. No accounting for strange, Dan thought.

  He got to the corner of Queen and Ontario streets just before eight. A few minutes later a nearby pay phone rang, one of the last in the city. It was like a scene from a spy movie. Dan picked it up and listened to the caller’s smoky voice. The instructions were simple: walk one block to the corner of Parliament and Queen, be there for 8:15. He was to hang out on the northwest corner across from Marty Millionaire, the sprawling vintage furniture store, and wait for someone who, if they liked his look, might approach him. Oh, yeah: And stay cool, brother!

  That was it.

  Dan was naturally wary wherever he walked, but he was not, generally speaking, afraid for his safety in downtown Toronto. Having slate-grey eyes and a scar dangling from his temple eased up on the pressure to appear tough to anyone who might mistake him for prey. Tonight, however, he was very much on his guard.

  The men who hung about on the streets of Moss Park were for the most part transients and homeless types, the ones you would see hanging around in the early mornings looking for casual employment outside the Followers Mission. They were mostly of the friendly persuasion. The prostitutes could be pretty harsh, Dan knew, but so, too, could the proprietors of long-time establishments like Coffee Time, whose owner had recently been arrested for selling crack along with coffee and donuts. Once again, it took all sorts.

  Dan checked his watch: 8:05. Still a few minutes to kill before his would-be greeter showed himself. He took a stroll down Ontario Street. The gloom was sepulchral, the streetlights of the dimmest wattage available. Gas lamps would have provided better illumination. He understood why the residents were up in arms lately. It hadn’t been long since a nurse had been shot on these same streets coming home from the hospital early one morning. Even that hadn’t convinced the city to provide better lighting. Perhaps a renewed letter-writing campaign by locals would do the trick, but he doubted it.

  As he emerged onto Richmond, a car slowed. Its driver looked him over. Not a pleasant-looking face. Dan felt a surge of adrenaline as the vehicle ground to a stop beside him.

  Things happened quickly, as Dan would later tell Nick. A second man leaped out and came at him with a tire iron. Small and wiry, not much more than a teenager, but extremely agile. Dan’s eyes were camera-like, taking staccato shots of everything: black Mazda, licence plate 239 RDC; the assailant white, early twenties; five-ten, dark hair, flattened nose, dark eyes.

  He ran straight at Dan, the iron raised. The first blow missed Dan’s shoulder by an inch as he dodged to the left. The second came down on his forearm. He grabbed the bar as tremors shot through his limb, but he hung on, twisting and wrenching the iron from his attacker.

  They struggled for possession of the bar, grappling with it as if they were trying to get past it to reach one another directly. Dan’s grip proved stronger. He shoved his attacker off balance. Having lost his advantage, the man turned and dashed back to the car. Dan ran after him, heedless of the voice in his head saying he could be carrying a gun. The Mazda was already peeling away from the curb as his assailant leaped inside and fought to close the door. Dan raised the iron and brought it down on the rear windshield with all his strength, shattering the glass in every direction. He had one last look at his attacker’s face as he turned in fright. Kids, really. No professional would be so messy.

  As the car raced off, Dan flung the iron after it. It bounced off the trunk and went clanging along the ground. He felt adrenaline coursing through him, his heart pounding. The entire episode had taken less than a minute. He leaned forward, hands on knees, catching his breath and panting with the effort.

  So much for staying cool.

  He pulled out his cellphone and dialled 911, quickly relating the details, how a black Mazda with a smashed rear windshield and two male occupants had just attacked a pedestrian at the corner of Ontario and Richmond. The dispatcher kept him waiting for a moment. When he came back his voice was skeptical.

  “Sir, are you sure that was the correct licence number?”

  “Absolutely,” Dan sputtered.

  “And you’re sure the car was a black Mazda?”

  “A black Mazda RX-8.” Dan felt his impatience growing. “Yes, I’m sure about both.”

  “They don’t match, sir,” said the world-weary voice.

  Dan felt disgust rise in his throat. Of course, you idiot! he wanted to scream. Run a trace! “Then they’ve switched the plates. Put out a bulletin looking for a black Mazda with a smashed back window heading west.”

  He hung up feeling angry, exhilarated, and frustrated all at once.

  His watch read 8:13. He had two minutes to get to the corner and meet his designated greeter. It occurred to him that he could’ve been set up, and that maybe the attack was the only greeting he would be getting tonight, friendly or otherwise. There was only one way to find out.

  He was on the corner at 8:15. Three middle-aged women milled about waiting for a streetcar. Seconds later, four teenagers spilled from the doorway of the Souvlaki Express, laughing and joking among themselves. Dan couldn’t pick out a single person who seemed to be sizing him up or preparing to meet him. Then he looked across the street. A solitary figure sat in the window of No Bull Burgers, staring out at him from behind dark glasses. Gotcha, he thought.

  Da
n watched as his contact left the burger joint and crossed the street, holding out a hand to stop a car racing through the yellow light. It swerved. The figure kept on course without so much as a glance backward. Moses parting the Red Sea.

  “You Dan?”

  He recognized the husky voice on the phone.

  “Yes.”

  The glasses came off, the better to see him with. “You wanna see somebody, yeah?”

  “I’m here to meet D-Rap.”

  “Ain’t no D-Rap. Not no more.” She laughed, not unkindly. “He the Rapture now, see?”

  Dan was not sure he did see, but he wasn’t about to leave.

  She looked at his torn lapel.

  “You had some trouble?”

  “Yes, I did have some trouble. Two guys in a black Mazda attacked me with a tire iron.”

  “They not our people.” She shook her head sadly, as though someone had just littered the sidewalk. “Ought not be bringing this shit down on the neighbourhood.”

  Her eyes seemed to take in the sad high-rises, the dilapidated storefronts up and down the street, as though the area were an oasis of beauty and tranquility. Still, peace and security were not to be sneezed at in any borough when you called it home.

  “Some good people live hereabouts. We got our community gardens over back of that lot.” She pointed to a spare bit of ground. “We also got community days when we all get together and share what we grow. We even have a public pizza bake, you dig? This ain’t no place to be hurtin’ people.”

  “You should tell the guys who attacked me. What’s your name?”

  “Serenity.”

  She replaced her sunglasses and ducked down an alley. Pausing for a moment, she pulled out a lighter, flicked it, and motioned him forward.

  So, here he was on his way to a meeting with someone called the Rapture, after being attacked by two thugs wielding a tire iron. A woman named Serenity was leading the way wearing sunglasses and carrying a cigarette lighter. The whole thing was beginning to take on the overtones of a very goofy Hollywood thriller. Could anything else surprise him tonight?

  He followed her unexpectedly quick footsteps to the back door of a high-rise. They stepped inside. Someone had smashed the bulb in the entryway. By the flickering light he saw that the stairwell was littered with garbage and the walls covered in the usual splashes and slashes of graffiti. In his day it had been Johnny loves Jean, or at worst Dan loves dick. Now it was a world of colourful whirls and swirls, like being stuck in a kaleidoscope. It felt like a place that had seen many inhabitants, but had been loved by none. He wondered how many drugs and guns were run up and down these stairs. A promising young football player, a local hero, had been shot to death in one of the nearby buildings not long ago, Dan recalled. The sad thing was that no one really knew why. But then murderers didn’t usually announce their reasons, at least not publicly.

  “Does the Rapture live here?” Dan asked, as much to make conversation as to keep himself on track.

  Serenity turned and held up the lighter to see him better. “That like asking where God live. Nah, he don’t live here. He just come to meet you. He a big deal, you know.”

  “I gathered that. From his name and all.”

  “The Rapture be like the real thing.”

  Dan wasn’t sure what that implied — maybe not Coca-Cola — but whether she meant he was a true representative of God, a celebrity in the rap world, or just a big deal in the urban ghetto remained to be seen.

  They passed a couple of small boys playing with matches on one of the landings between floors. Serenity gave the kids a weighty glance and they scurried off.

  “You nasty,” she called after them, waving a finger in admonition. “Don’t be killing people with that fire.”

  They exited on the ninth or tenth floor — Dan had lost count — and stopped in front of a door with a portrait of a blindfolded woman painted on it. The figure held a flame in her hands and seemed to be fading in and out of the dusk. Dan looked at his guide and thought he saw a likeness there.

  Serenity rapped once then turned the handle. They entered a room lit by dozens of candles, outfitted with rattan rugs and fabric hangings like the tent of a visiting sultan. A melody floated ethereally through the air, borne aloft on unseen currents. An irregular grey shape stretched across a far wall. Drawing closer, Dan guessed it was a hippopotamus skin, cracked and wrinkled as a dry riverbed. It emitted a rank smell that reminded him of potent hashish.

  The only incongruity, if it were an incongruity, was the Harley-Davidson perched dead centre in the room. Five hundred pounds of customized chrome, steel, and rubber, with a pair of tusks adorning the handlebars like the bull horns he’d seen on truck hoods in the American south. They were placed as though on an altar, some obscure deity represented by their presence.

  Serenity turned a corner into another room where a large man lay sprawled on a sofa. He was shirtless, in a feathered vest, with black-and-orange ankara pants. A bright blue fez sat on his head. The man’s eyes turned to Dan. His lips rippled lightly. A smile, not a smile.

  “Mr. Marlow, I presume. You’ve come upriver to see about the rivets?”

  It was an educated accent. The voice seemed to emanate from a blob of jelly.

  “I’m not —” Then he caught the reference: Conrad.

  “No matter,” said the man. “Try not to choke, just my little joke. Ain’t no yolk been broke.”

  A jester, then. He nodded to Serenity. “Thank you, my dear.”

  There was silence for a moment. The door closed behind them.

  “My intended,” said the man.

  Dan took a step forward. “I’m Dan Sharp,” he said, unsure whether to offer a hand. At the last moment he decided not to, nodding instead.

  The man on the sofa watched him intently.

  “Dan the man,” he intoned. “I am Dan, Dan I am. You be, I be, we be Dan.” He laughed suddenly. “And I am the Rapture. The Rapture capture Dan the man. Welcome, Dan I am.”

  He gestured slowly with one hand, as though offering Dan to partake of all he could see. On his chest, the outline of an eagle spread its wings. Always a frigging eagle, Dan thought. Why never a cockatiel or a lowly sparrow? On his forearm, tattooed strands of barbed wire encased the verses of Psalm 23. Enlightenment in chains. It seemed the whole world was angry these days. Dan could relate.

  The Rapture followed his gaze. “You are my guest. Be at rest, ain’t no test.”

  It was feeble rhyming, little more than the linguistic tricks of Dr. Seuss. If that was the extent of his rapper schtick, Dan thought, it wouldn’t hold a candle to the names on the world’s stage.

  “Sit.”

  Dan glanced at one of several footstools. Sitting would have placed him several inches below the Rapture. There were no other seats in the room.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “As you wish. I understand you’ve come about a certain question of … law.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I was told you know something about the death of a man named Sam the Brother. I understand he was your friend.”

  The Rapture regarded him intently. “What of it?” he asked abruptly.

  “I’m looking for a man named Tony Moran who seems to have gotten himself in trouble. It’s possible that Sam had something to do with the men who are looking for Tony, possibly to harm him.”

  The Rapture continued to stare. “I did the dance with Death, but she went away bereft, ’cause I won the con-test.”

  He waited to see if Dan caught his meaning.

  “You outsmarted somebody,” Dan ventured.

  “Indeed. Know this. The Rapture don’t dance when he ain’t in a trance. Ain’t none but the King make him do that thing, make the Rapture sing like a shing-a-ling. You dig?”

  Dan nodded. “I dig. Someone asked you to do something you
didn’t want to do. You refused. Are you afraid of them?”

  He seemed affronted. “I fear no man nor devil.”

  “Then you’re either very brave or you’re a fool.”

  The Rapture’s lips parted with scorn. “You be your own invention, ain’t no prevention. You choose your own reality inside the vanity. This life no man can ever know, ’cause they only see the woe, nowhere to go in this political show.” He bared his teeth in what passed for a grin. “The man with the yellow collar, he loved him the dollar. The immigrant man, he ain’t got no thing, but the immigrant no swing from the bridge like bling.”

  Dan thought about John Wilkens hanging from the coiled yellow rope. “That’s impressive,” he said.

  The Rapture eyed him. “So you understand what we are talking ’bout?”

  “Yes,” Dan said. “I understand. Who was it came to you?”

  For a moment, Dan thought he saw a trace of fear betrayed on the Rapture’s features.

  He shrugged. Not worth losing sleep over. “They knew about my drug charges. Said they could get me off and that I’d get a thousand. D-Rap, he need the money. They put the bills in a bin and walked away. There was a gun with it.”

  “Who left it there?”

  Another shrug. “Said he’d protect me. Said he knew people high up in government. Called himself the Magus or some shit like that. Ain’t no rapper name.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Don’t know no names. Names not important. They come to the Rapture when he still D-Rap, see? They say, kill us the man in the stone house. But God say, ‘No, D-Rap, you don’t do this thing. You no more D-Rap, you the Rapture now. You stay true to my word, I be true to thine.’ So they went to another name of Sam the Brother, and say, ‘Do this thing. Here plenty of bling, if you make the man swing.’ So he did and now we know, he down in the ground, ain’t make no more sound. Sam the Brother is gone. Let that be a lesson to all who folla the dolla.”