Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One

by Adam Knight

  Cathy smiled with a raised eyebrow back at me. “Why would I want your flowers?”

  I shrugged slightly, feeling the stitches pulls faintly. “Why would I want them?”

  “They’re gifts, Joe. You should keep them.”

  I grunted. It might’ve been in agreement.

  “Seriously, Cathy. What are you doing here?”

  She didn’t look at me.

  More silence.

  I nodded.

  “You want an interview.”

  Cathy’s face flushed again, though I could only see the fringes of it from this angle. “Yes. Well, no actually. My boss wants an interview and he’s quite perturbed that you won’t grant us one.”

  “I ain’t a story. People get shot. Doctors fix people. Put the doctors on the six o-clock news.”

  Cathy’s lips pursed together firmly as she turned to face me. “We did put them on. And this isn’t like anything else, Joe.”

  “Sure it is.” I stepped up next to her, examining the bouquets again. “Doctors helped me, so let them get the attention. I just got lucky. Well, unlucky and then lucky I guess.”

  Cathy’s eyes were on me intensely. I tried to ignore her gaze. “Joe you were clinically dead for twenty minutes. No heartbeat. No breathing. You were two minutes away from being declared DOA.”

  “Oh.” My mouth twisted along with my stomach as a chill rank down my back. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “What have you heard?”

  I shrugged again, still examining my flower arrangements. “I got shot. CPR. Several dudes swapped spit with me. I got the paddles.” The big arrangement from Aaron and the boys plus the one from the church I figured. “Should I be weirded out by guys giving me mouth to mouth?”

  Cathy placed a hand on my upper arm. I obliged her motion and turned to face her. “There’s a lot you should be weirded out about. Everything about this makes no…” She blinked a few times, taking a second look at me. My street clothes and my packed back. “Have you been discharged?”

  “Not exactly.” I said, stepping away and over to the bed. I slipped the gym bags’ strap over my left shoulder.

  Cathy’s eyes were wide. “Joe, doctors said you should be in the hospital for weeks. Maybe months.”

  “Meh.”

  “Meh?”

  “Meh. I feel fine.”

  “It’s only been nine days!”

  “That’s nine days where my mom’s had to fend for herself. Nine days where I needed to get things done around the house and didn’t.” I stepped back up to her, close enough to be looming. It was a dirty tactic, one that I tried never to use unless absolutely necessary. Especially on women. Cathy had to lean her head back in order to keep eye contact. “You gonna rat me out to the nurses?”

  She paused for a long moment before finally shaking her head. “But I won’t have to. You’re practically a hospital celebrity. Every nurse on the floor is keeping an eye on this room.”

  Shit.

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  I frowned. Debating with myself as I stared down at my old classmate while the cheap halogen light tubes flickered over our heads. Preference versus necessity. Which way was I gonna go?

  Please.

  Necessity wins every time.

  “You said you wanted an interview?”

  “My boss wants one.”

  “Fine. Go to the nurse’s station and start being a TV celebrity. The ladies there should eat that up.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “So I can slip out the back stairs.”

  Cathy’s lips pursed flashing her dimples again. From pursed lips? That happens? “Why should I do that?”

  I pulled a ratty old Jets cap out of my coat pocket and jammed it low on my head. “Because I am heading over to the Norwood Sals’ for lunch. And I could use the company of an old friend who wants to talk.” My stomach rumbled loudly again. “And because I’m broke so you’re buying.”

  Chapter 9

  My grandmother’s favorite admonishment whenever I made a pig of myself at the dinner table was always; “You can’t have two sets of manners, Joseph. Now sit up straight and use your fork.”

  With all due respect to my grandmother, you don’t use a knife and fork when you’re devouring a Salisbury House triple nip platter.

  Salisbury House restaurants are an institution in Winnipeg. Founded back around the Great Depression it branched out from one small diner to a full formed local franchise. Specializing in great breakfasts and one of the first twenty-four hour establishments in the city, Sal’s is the ultimate greasy spoon.

  And perfect for a big man nine days removed from his last real meal.

  Many a night was spent in one of those old fashioned, vinyl booths after a night of bouncing. Swapping stories, checking out drunk patrons and the occasional hot assed waitress. Chowing down on burgers and fries while pounding hot coffee until the sun came up.

  Good times.

  Cathy sat across the table, sipping on a Diet Coke and watching me with faint amusement. Her notepad was open on the table, a pen stuck behind one ear.

  So far nothing had been written down.

  Hard to talk through a mouthful of awesome.

  I leaned back in my seat and sighed contentedly. My stomach was still gurgling, but the shock of honest to goodness real food had hit me like cold water in the shower. I wasn’t full, far from it actually. But after days of sparse meals and lots of broth it just felt good to eat.

  “Better?” Cathy asked, smiling behind the brim of her soda.

  “Much,” I grunted in return, popping a sweet potato fry into my craw and reaching for the coffee pot. Cream and sugar in equal doses, liberally applied to turn the black java into smooth Columbian goodness.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to have coffee.”

  “I’m also not supposed to be out of the hospital.” I savored a mouthful of coffee, the delicious sweet bitterness just this side of scalding. “Seems a bit late to be worrying about rules.”

  Cathy put down her plastic glass and removed the pen from her ear. Apparently we had passed the pleasantries part of the meal.

  Her first question surprised me.

  “How did you slip by the news crews out front?”

  I motioned with my head out the diner’s front window. “You see that garbage bin across the street?”

  Cathy craned around in her seat, peering across the parking lot and the busy intersection. It gave me a great view of her top stretching across her bosom. Not that I was noticing.

  “The blue one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “At the Norwood Hotel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s having a fire sale on gently used get well soon bouquets.”

  Cathy blinked and turned back to me.

  “What?”

  It had been a tense moment stepping into the street. I’d wanted to take back hallways out a staff entrance, or preferably out the Emergency entranceway near the parking lots on Tache Boulevard. But there was too much activity there for me, my packed gym bag and the three biggest bouquets to slip past without getting busted. So I took the fire stairs down to the main floor, tucked my cap low over my eyes, brought the flowers up in front of my face and pretended to be talking to someone on a cell phone in a horrible British accent as I walked right past the small crowd of newsies chatting amongst themselves.

  After that it was easy. I took the long way up the Tache sidewalk, crossed across Goulet and finally turned right on Marion. I slipped behind the hotel and walked through their parking lot until I got next to the dumpsters.

  Heave ho and away the flowers go.

  I shrugged. “Nobody questions delivery boys.”

  Cathy leaned back, her gaze thoughtful. “Huh,” she grunted in a very unladylike way. Not a question. A statement.

  “I know right? I look so dumb.”

  She put down her pen and leaned forward on her elbows. “W
hy are you working so hard to avoid people, Joe?”

  “Not people. Media.” I drained my mug and picked up one of the sweet potato fries, scraping it through the dregs of the chipotle sauce.

  “But why?”

  Why indeed.

  Part of it was Mom. She’s been through so much and was so weak, I didn’t want the extra attention forced upon our little family. God only knew how she was handling being on her own while I was in the hospital being doted on. Any extra stress in her condition was a very bad thing.

  But that wasn’t the whole reason.

  “Hard to explain,” I began pouring myself another mug of coffee. My stomach gurgled in anticipation. “I’ve always tried to avoid attention. Growing up big and clumsy, seemed like every time I turned around people noticed me. Usually doing something stupid. Something embarrassing.” I shrugged slightly. “So I started to avoid attention as much as possible. Low profile.”

  Cathy made a small note in her pad, frowning as she did. “But you were in media college with me. Everything we do draws attention. The whole industry is about drawing attention to things”

  “Everything you do draws attention,” I clarified motioning towards her with my mug. “You’re a weather person. One that’s obviously striving for the anchor’s desk.” I don’t remember her blushing that easily in school, score two points for the big guy hunting for the Battleship of truth. “What you went to college for was to be on TV. To gain attention.”

  She adjusted uncomfortably in her seat. “Kinda makes me sound egotistical.”

  “Of course it does. But everyone who wants to be on TV is egotistical. You have to be in order to do the job.” I stirred the last creamer into my mug and took a sip. “I just wanted to write.”

  She blinked. “Write?”

  “What, a bruiser like me can’t enjoy writing? I read too, by the way.”

  “So like, you wanted to be a reporter?”

  “Columnist. Blogger. Sports writer. Academy Award winning screenplay auteur. Hell, I’ve got the outline for an epic swords and sorcery series written down on a napkin at home. It’s in a box on the bottom shelf of my desk. I was gonna release it in three separate trilogies.”

  Cathy stared at her notepad for a moment before looking up at me, laughter twinkling in her eyes. “Did you ever write any of it?”

  “Yeah, but it sucked.” I grimaced playfully and gave a faintly theatrical sigh. “Eighteen year old boys should live a little before they try to talk about love and heartbreak.”

  A waitress came by to clear my empty dishes. I handed her the empty coffee carafe and asked for a slice of Sal’s’ famous red velvet cake. Cathy looked at me thoughtfully as I sipped more coffee.

  “We’re getting a bit off topic,” she admonished.

  “It’s your dime.” I motioned my fingers in a give it your best shot gesture. “Make your boss happy.”

  Cathy’s lips pursed again, bringing out her thinking dimples. She glanced at her notepad and flipped back a few pages, reading old notes.

  “What do you know about your attackers?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “What’s to know?”

  Cathy looked up from her notepad again, surprised. “You didn’t know these people? Never had contact with any of them before?”

  I racked my brain for a moment, scanning recent memories just to be sure. “Some of them might have tried to get in the club once or twice. It’s hard to be sure.”

  “Did you know they were gang members?”

  “Sure. I recognized their patches. Native Posse. Rough crew.”

  “What about Keimac Cleghorn?”

  “Who?”

  “Keimac Cleghorn?” Cathy repeated, giving me the same hand gesture I’d used earlier. “The man who shot you?”

  I sputtered around the lip of my mug, reaching for a napkin. An old timey jukebox off in the corner skipped a beat, static hissing for a moment over the tinny speakers before righting itself. “Man? There’s no way that kid was eighteen.”

  “Twenty-one according to police,” Cathy corrected, consulting her notepad. “Cleghorn’s got a long list of priors and a lifelong association with street crime in Winnipeg. Obviously his juvenile record is sealed to the public but the implication is very strong that this guy is a career criminal.”

  Twenty-one? Unbelievable.

  “My eyes must be going. Figured for sure that kid was sixteen, seventeen at best.” I rubbed at my eyes as the scars on my chest throbbed slightly, my painkillers starting to wear off.

  “I assume he’s been arrested?”

  “Of course he was arrested. Right there on the scene.”

  “I was a little preoccupied after the whole getting shot thing.”

  “Well sure. But it’s been all over the news.”

  “Oh. Yeah, makes sense.”

  “Didn’t you read it? See our coverage?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t read it yet.” Cathy stared at me like I’d grown another head. “Don’t look at me like that, I just told you how I hate attention. I’m waiting until I’m ready. When things settle in my head. In my life.”

  Cathy leaned back in her booth, still staring at me. The waitress came back with my precious cake, a refilled coffee carafe and more creamers. Then she gushed over Cathy, telling her how she “watched CTV every night for her weather cast” and how “all the ladies in the city are so jealous of her.” Like a pro, Cathy turned on the big TV smile and made pleasant chit-chat for a few moments, making the waitress’ day before she moved on to her next table.

  “See that,” I said as Cathy turned back to me with a small, satisfied look on her face. “That’s why I just wanted to write. That sort of attention’s good for people persons like you.”

  Cathy laughed quietly. I ate cake. Cream cheese icing, thick full fat loaded with sugary goodness. Definitely hospital disapproved.

  Cathy put down her pen and pushed the notepad aside, leaning forward on her elbows again. Reporter mode off, intimate conversation mode engaged.

  “It is good to see you, Joe. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  “Life. It happens.” I shrugged again and shoveled in more cake. Heaven. “Don’t be sorry.”

  “We all wondered what happened to you. One day you were there in Kaye’s advertising class. The next …”

  Delicious cake suddenly tasted like ashes in my mouth. The jukebox speakers hissed again while the lights overhead flickered, like a power surge had just swept through the strip mall.

  I tried for lighthearted.

  “Yeah well … Some of us couldn’t wait til’ graduation for our careers to start.”