by John Mackie
“Did you break it?”
“Broke two bones. Doctor says I may not get full motion back.”
Shit.
“C’mon. Let’s take a seat.” I took his arm and lead him into the conference room. Kara headed into the kitchen to get him a coffee.
We sat, and it felt to me as though I was facing a condemned man. The slump in his shoulders, lifelessness of his eyes. I had a bad feeling Jamar was giving up.
“You’ve got to hang in there. We’ll find a way to deal with this thing.”
He leaned forward then, one eye on the door, and I realized he was watching for Kara. With the barest of whispers, he said “This thing is killing me, man.” His eyes welled up, and his voice cracked. “I can’t live like this.”
There was the faintest of sounds from the hall, and Kara rounded the corner, two bottles of water in hand. The look on her face told me that she had heard at least part of what Jamar had said. Enough to hurt.
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. The ceiling above me was standard industrial — a drop tile grid of two foot by four foot panels. Fire, mould and sound resistant. Speckled dots on a white background, a star-filled night sky in negative.
This was turning out just great. First day the boss has a heart attack. Now, after a few weeks of constant insanity, one of my drivers was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. At this rate, I would destroy Clay’s legacy by Canada Day.
I needed a solution for Jamar, a way to deal with that damned ring. And yes, I believed that Jamar’s ring was cursed. I believed that anyone who wore that ring was subject to some sort of power or influence which attracted the negative, sort of like one of my old girlfriends. Which meant we needed to find a way to protect him, to shield him from its influence.
I continued gazing at the ceiling as I mulled this over, aware that both Jamar and Kara were now openly staring at me. I turned the issue over and over in my head, looking for a solution. But I could see only one route out of this mess. So I turned back to Jamar and leaned forward, right hand out-stretched and palm out.
“Hand it over, big guy.”
“What?”
“The ring. Give me the ring.”
“What! No, Donnie!”
At least Kara seemed concerned for my well-being. That was a good thing.
“Listen. Everything I’ve seen suggests I may not be as susceptible to this kind of thing as you guys are. I’m figuring I should be able to take it from you without being affected by the curse.”
For the first time in a long time, I could see a glimmer of hope in Jamar’s eyes. I waggled my fingers, gesturing for him to pass me the damned thing.
He paused, then in a quick gesture tugged at the band. When it slid off into his palm he looked startled, as though unable to believe it had come off. The three of us stared at it, this innocuous lump of metal that had caused so much pain. I gestured again, and he dropped it into my palm.
I admit I experienced a moment of dread. Wouldn’t have been the first time I regretted acting on a hunch.
Jamar sagged, as though he had just crossed the finish line in the New York Marathon.
“Feel anything?”
I glanced at Kara, who was watching me like I was clutching my chest.
“Nope.”
“Nothing?” Jamar’s eyes were wide, like I had said I could walk on water.
“Not a thing.” I moved to drop the ring on the tabletop, but it slid across the palm of my hand then stopped as though magnetized. I turned my hand over and stared at it, hanging from my palm. “Weird.”
“No kidding.”
Looked like I wasn’t going to be able to just drop it in the garbage can, which had been my first inclination. So I slid it over to my right palm, then onto my ring finger. As I was admiring it (and feeling testosterone — challenged), something occurred to me. “Does it mean anything if you wear a ring on your right hand like this?” I glanced at Kara, since her opinion was the one I was looking for.
“Nothing, I don’t think.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re gay, or anything?”
“Not that I know of.” I glanced at Jamar for confirmation, but he seemed offended that I should even ask him for advice on homosexual fashion practices.
Throwing caution to the wind, I went for it. I could care less whether someone was gay or straight, but I had no interest in false advertising.
The look on Jamar’s face made it all worthwhile. Grinning from ear to ear.
“Man, I feel great!” He rubbed his eyes, as though awakening for the first time that day. “It’s like a huge weight was lifted off me, you know? You sure you feel all right, man?”
I shrugged. I felt exactly the same. No strange tingles, voices in my head, burning sensations. Nothing.
“Thank you.” Jamar stood and enveloped my hand in his. “I owe you, man.”
“No problem. In fact…,” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the coin I had taken from the Lost and Found. “Why don’t we see if we can give you some good luck for a change?” I dropped the coin in his palm.
“Now — can we get back to work?”
CHAPTER 19
That afternoon was a bit of a bugger. I considered whether the ring might have had something to do with it, but from what I could tell, everyone was experiencing the same damned thing. Storm clouds had started to drift in off the lake by two p.m., and there was a chill in the air. As usual, summer had peeked its head out in late April and early May, only to get one last slap-down by Canadian winter. People on the streets were wearing everything from winter jackets and mitts to shorts and t-shirts. Stubborn bastard that I am, no way was I going to put on a jacket.
Celtic Cross Healing Arts was based in a second floor walk-up on Bathurst, just off Queen. They had several bags of healing stones and crystals for direct delivery to a residence in Leaside.
I was walking at a quick pace back to the van, a small canvas bag dangling from each of my hands, when I was confronted by two ambassadors for Toronto’s Christian Youth organizations. Okay, they were more like ambassadors for Toronto’s Living on the Street, Can I Squeegee Your Car organizations. Hanging back at the corner was another kid, this one with spiked black hair, a safety pin through his cheek and half a dozen rings in the one ear I could see. Combined with the old-style Doc Martens, torn black jeans and a torn hoodie over an old concert t-shirt for The Cramps, he could have blended into the 1970s punk scene with no difficulty. The guys in front of me were similarly dressed, though one wore a Dead Kennedys shirt and the other a Black Flag shirt. Apparently there had been a sale on American punk band t-shirts.
I sidestepped to avoid one of the kids (Mr. Kennedy), but he moved to cut me off. With the usual Elder personal space concerns, I tried to avoid contact, but he seemed determined to bump me.
Any other time I would have apologized. It’s the Canadian way. But the way he was staring at me made it clear this little dance was on purpose. Maybe it was because of the incident in the elevator, but my immediate instinct was to assess the situation. Three kids, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Two my height and one a few inches taller — maybe six two. None of them weighed more than one fifty soaking wet. No obvious weapons.
I had taken to driving with a miniature baseball bat in the van, a memento from a Blue Jays game a few years earlier that seemed ideally suited for swinging at heads. But the van was a block and a half away.
“Is there a problem here?”
Ask a stupid question…
“No problem, shithead. Just hand us the bags and your wallet, and you can go on your way.”
I couldn’t believe it. Second time in a month. This was Toronto, for crying out loud!
“And what makes you think I’m going to do that?”
The other guy spoke — the kid with the Black Flag shirt. His face was splotchy, with the uneven facial hair of a kid who needed to shave once a week at most.
“You remember what happened last time?”
I glared at him. These lit
tle shits had heard about the attack on Clay and me, and had decided they would try to score a little something for themselves.
Well this time, there was no gun. And I wasn’t worried about my boss getting hurt. And I was pissed.
I shoved Mr. Kennedy with my shoulder, bags still in my hands, and stepped up to him — chest to chest.
“You wanna go?”
For a moment I thought that would be the end of it. They would take a look at me, sneer, and pimp-walk down the street looking for some other action. But my guess is that Kennedy didn’t want to be seen backing down in front of his boys. Well, he took the wrong route. He took a swing at me.
I dropped the bags and ducked, taking the punch high on the cheek. Then I moved in, grabbed the lapels of his jean jacket with both hands and drove my forehead into his nose. Zenedine Zidane, eat your heart out. As he fell back, I took the opportunity to stomp down hard on his instep.
Unlike in the martial arts movies I watch on TV, real-life fights with more than two combatants tend (in my limited experience) to look more like mob clutch and grabs than the structured “your turn, now my turn” choreographed fights. True to form, contestant number two was all over me even as Mr. Kennedy fell to his knees. One arm around my throat, the other throwing punches to the back of my head. Queensbury would have turned in his grave. I tried to turn into him, but he clung to my back like Yoko Ono. Meanwhile, the kid with the Cramps’ shirt was wading in, charging me with a lowered shoulder that managed to knock much of the wind out of me.
As I spun around trying to free myself, I noticed a handy light pole just a few feet away. With a shove off the Cramps kid, I backpedalled into the light standard and heard with some satisfaction a lungful of air escaping from Black Flag’s lungs. Taking advantage of the moment, I reached over my shoulder and took hold of his hood. That has always been a mystery to me. Why the hell would you fight someone while wearing a hood? It proved an excellent lever to haul him over and slam him to the ground. I then pulled it down over his head and held it with my left hand while raining down punches with my right.
I took a moment to catch my breath when I noticed that the two friends had backed off, Kennedy and the Cramps kid slinking away and trying to look invisible. Nice friends.
I stepped away from the kid I had been pounding on, and straightened out my shirt while he came to his senses. The Cramps kid, sensing that my temper tantrum had come to an end, edged forward and helped him to his feet. I brushed sweat and dirt from my forehead, checking for blood.
My stitches seemed to have held, so I watched them to see what their next move would be. A quiet look between the three of them seemed to resolve the issue, and they began to move off, occasionally checking over a shoulder to see if I was following.
I watched them walk away and sighed. Another great day in the big city.
Call it a hunch. Or perhaps better to frame it as a grudge. Either way, I realized as I watched the three of them walk away that one of them must have a link with Niki. As I walked to the van I considered that, with the result that a minute later I was pulling the van around in a tight u-turn, eliciting a few choice words from a cabbie behind me. Stopping at the curb, I watched as the three punks sauntered along Queen West towards Spadina.
At Spadina they broke up, with Mr. Kennedy and Black Flag heading south. The Cramps kid continued along Queen, but I had to pull ahead with traffic now building behind me. I drove a block past the kid and turned, dropping the van into park ten yards north of Queen. I was lucky. He continued straight and I spotted him just a few moments later, dropping onto a bus-stop bench.
I stared, then in a moment of spontaneity turned off the engine and stepped out of the van. It took me less than twenty seconds to jog up to the bench and drop down next to the kid.
“Hey, fancy meeting you here.” I put my arm around him and pulled him tight to my side, in case he tried to make a run for it. But my sudden appearance had clearly shocked him, because other than a twitch at my voice, he froze.
“Cat got yer tongue?”
“N — no.” His voice came out shaky and high pitched. Up close I could see that he was fifteen at most, a faint moustache growing in for the first time.
I glanced over my shoulder and smiled at a woman in a dark overcoat and leather boots as she strode by. No reason to draw attention to us.
“Tell me, how did you happen to hear that we had been mugged?”
I suppose even the meek have a backbone. He sat silently staring at his lap. I gripped his arm and squeezed. He struggled, not real happy with the direction this was going. But his upper arm was thin enough that I could close my fingers around it, and I wasn’t about to let go.
“Speak up, or I’m going to finish what we started.”
“Some guys were talking outside the Riv last week, and one guy was bragging about it.” The Rivoli was a long-standing club on Queen West, not far from where we were seated, as a matter of fact.
“Aren’t you too young to drink?”
“Yeah, but sometimes you can score an invite to a party.”
And a place to spend the night, if you were lucky.
“What was this guy’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
I squeezed again.
“I don’t know! He was a big huge guy, German or something. Dressed like a Gino.”
Nice. Though it did sound a lot like my Russian friend.
“Name?” I squeezed one more time, until I saw tears in the corners of his eyes. Seemed he didn’t know Niki’s name.
“Alright. Then how did you know where to find me?”
He shrugged. “Dumb luck. Saw your van.”
Shit. Maybe the ring was affecting me. I made a note to myself. First indicator of possible disaster.
“Then where can I find this guy?” I knew one place I could find him, but maybe my punk friend had some other ideas.
“I don’t know!” I squeezed. “Alright! He hangs out along Queen West some nights, I think he’s a dealer. Rev, maybe a bit of coke.”
“Rev?”
“It’s new. Hard to get a hold of, but supposed to have an unbelievable kick.”
Great. Niki the Jerk was getting kids hooked on drugs. I nodded for the kid to continue.
“I’m not sure where he lives, but I think he said something about the Century Club once.”
OK. More than I had before. I stared down at the kid, and then it sunk in. Fifteen years old. I was in grade ten, just got my first job cutting lawns for the summer. High school hockey and a new interest in girls. Meanwhile, this kid was living on the streets.
“What’s your name?”
“T-toby. Toby Barnes.”
“Well, nice to meet you, T-toby.” It was not particularly nice of me to imitate his stutter, but I was in no mood to be nice.
“Tell me about yourself. Better yet, you got some ID on you?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Hand it over.”
That got his attention. I let him fumble in his front pocket, then watched as he pulled out a grimy brown leather wallet with a zipper. Moments later I had his Health Card in my hand.
“OK, T-toby Barnes of Kenilworth Ave. What is that, off the Beaches?”
He nodded.
“Your parent’s place?”
“Mom’s.”
“And where would you be resting your weary head these days?”
“Covenant House, mostly.”
“Gerrard Street, off Yonge?”
He nodded.
Covenant House was the largest youth shelter in Toronto. With nighttime temperatures between 20 and 50 degrees Fahrenheit from the end of September to the beginning of May, sleeping outdoors in Toronto was a death sentence for the thousands of kids living in the streets. Runaways, abused kids, those without work — the numbers kept growing. Places like Covenant House were a lifeline for kids like Toby Barnes.
“You got a phone?”
“Yeah.” He showed me a cellphone tucked into his waistband.<
br />
“Let me see the number.”
He told me the number, but I insisted on checking the screen.
“OK, T-Toby,” I flipped his Health Card into his lap. “Thank you for being such a help. Now — here’s the deal.”
I pulled my own wallet out, and after a moment of thought, handed him a twenty.
“If I hear you spent this on booze or drugs, I’m going to pound your ass.” I lifted his chin to make sure he saw I was serious. “Now, I may need to call you from time to time — ask you to keep your ear to the ground.”
I thought about it, then handed him another ten bucks.
“For a calling card. If I call, you answer. If I ask you to meet, we meet. You understand?”
T-Toby looked at the cash in his hands. Probably as much money as he might see on his best day working squeegee.
“Yes.”
“Alright kid. Get outta here. Find a roof before it gets too dark.”
CHAPTER 20
The incident with the punk rock trio settled it for me. It was time to have a chat with Niki and the Legenkos.
This time I didn’t stop at the park bench. I parked just off St. Clair and marched over to the Ruscan Industries offices. Straight up the front stairs and through the doors into the reception area.
What looked impressive outside looked even more so inside. The entrance opened out into a large two story atrium, bracketed by a mezzanine accessed by a central staircase. Front and centre was a semicircular reception desk the size of a small coffee shop, manned by a single receptionist. On either side, under the overhang of the mezzanine, was an actual coffee shop with a display of pastries and fruit, and on the other side, a series of seating areas — boxy leather sofas and reclining chairs, the leather an olive color, with rosewood frames and arms.
Seemed appearances were important at Ruscan.
I also spotted out of the corner of my eye a private security guard, leaning nonchalantly against one of the floor to ceiling columns. He was chatting on a cell phone, but he nodded his head when we made eye contact. Great.
Start from the beginning, I thought. I turned to the receptionist, who struck me as one of those professionals who have a way of listening that makes you think of plastic. Face and body set in posture and expression, the look one of rapt, pleased attention.
