Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One

by Adam Knight

  “There’s clearly a cover up in process. I have heard reports that right after the last election a small electrical firm was used to update and rewire the hospitals in Manitoba. The selection process was not done in the usual manner. Questions of biased selection, palms greased.” Cathy shook her head, pronouncing judgment. “It is a real problem, Joe. Worse than I had ever imagined.”

  I nodded. After an emotional and clearly passionate outburst like that, I’m not sure there was any other response I could make.

  Cathy looked at me expectantly.

  Apparently she was looking for another response.

  Come on, Joe. Think.

  “So … What’s that got to do with me?”

  Cathy continued to stare at me for a moment. Then she eventually sighed, putting down her notepad and looking conflicted.

  I waited her out.

  When she spoke, her voice was quiet and almost resentful. “My boss,” Cathy muttered sourly. “My boss isn’t interested in the weather girl’s conspiracy theories.” She actually used air quotes around those last two words. Her eyes darkened a bit and looked away. “He’s too busy trying to make certain the station continues to receive sponsorship dollars from all the government agencies that advertise on our news programs that he’s ruining the integrity of the entire industry. The evidence is as plain as day when you bother to look at the facts as opposed to what is put out in the Press Releases. Every day there’s a new private deal being done without proper public consultation and taxpayers end up paying the price. Sometimes like it almost was in your case, people pay with their lives.”

  I grimaced. And pointedly did not rub at my now aching scars.

  Cathy motioned out the window, her expression sour. “All across the city, hell across the province; people are being robbed of their freedom of expression and democratic rights. The last two provincial elections were a joke, filled more lies and rhetoric than anything I’ve ever seen. It was like a U.S. Presidential Race, where whomever has the most money wins and then spends the rest of their term paying back the people who paid their way to power.” She stared at the traffic speeding by. “Unqualified people being put in positions of authority. Lucrative construction contracts awarded to private firms that don’t pass a proper vetting process. More and more taxation tricks and service fees to double dip on the working folk. Keeping them in line and while the people in power stay in power.”

  That was something I could relate to. Just thinking about the mountain of bills and invoices waiting for me on Mom’s kitchen table was enough to make my head ache. No matter how hard I worked to stay on top of things I was constantly in debt and unable to get ahead. Even the thought of switching jobs and going to look for better work was problematic, knowing that any lapse in income could cost the mortgage.

  “Sure,” Cathy went on looking back at me. “It’s not all doom and gloom. There are many worse places in the world with significantly bigger issues. I’m a proud Canadian and we have a terrific life here overall.” Her eyes glinted. “But it is the very fact that we live in such a good country that petty, behind closed doors dealings like this really upset me. There are people taking advantage of the system that are in no way accountable for their actions, no matter who gets hurt. So long as they can smile for the cameras, be seen cutting a few ribbons or be out and about at some gala fundraiser that costs more money to put on than it brings in for the people it’s trying to support …” She trailed off, disgustedly.

  “What?” I prodded.

  She shrugged. “People are being treated like pawns on a chess board. Disposable. And we in the media are just supposed to turn a blind eye to it and spout the everything is rosy message.“ Cathy shifted her gaze from my face to my chest, her lips twisting in anger. “Unless there is a sensational story we can cover to garner more ratings, thus justifying higher advertising rates for their commercial time.”

  I blinked.

  “I have been after my boss for months, pitching ideas and leads for stories on the corruption I have uncovered. Every time he’s shot me down, told me to ‘sit at the weather desk and look pretty for the camera.’ ” Cathy looked back up to my face, meeting my eyes. “And then you got shot in front of me. My boss finds out I was on scene and that I know you from college. So I’ve been given the opportunity to gain an exclusive human interest story on the hero bouncer who protected people from disgruntled and ungrateful aboriginal troublemakers who don’t toe the line.”

  A flush began to creep up my neck again, heating my face. “ I ain’t no … I just… “ My throat got stuck and I had to clear it. “Look, I was an idiot. If I’d been thinking clearly …”

  Her fingers were warm on mine. I blinked, Cathy’s tiny hand gripped mine softly. Well-manicured and soft fingers on my hairy knuckled, calloused and chewed fingernail mitts.

  “I’m screwing this all up,” Cathy said quietly. Still holding my hand, giving it a squeeze. “It’s just … Being this close to the real news and not being able to actually report on it is so aggravating.”

  Something swelled in my gut then. “I get aggravation,” I muttered darkly, trying to ignore how good her hand felt.

  “But that doesn’t diminish what you did.” Her voice was strong, convinced. Trying to make me listen. Cathy’s fingers squeezed again. “What you did was unbelievable, Joe. Dozens of people are alive today because of your actions.”

  It is apparently possible to glow red from embarrassment.

  “And no, this is not how I wanted to reconnect with an old friend. It isn’t how I want to move on from being the weather girl and advance my career. But you are a big story, Joe. And there are people in this city who are interested in what happened to you.”

  Shit.

  “I’d love to be able to tell your story, if you’ll let me.”

  Silence.

  Delicately I took Cathy’s fingers off of mine and leaned back in the booth. “I gotta get home,” I muttered. My face red and the tingle at the back of my head pretty much gone. My scars and stitches ached like fire. “My mom is sicker than sick and been on her own for over a week.”

  Cathy’s expression became disappointed, but tried not to show it. “I understand, Joe. It’s too much to ask.”

  I raised a hand before she could continue. “She’s been through a lot. And I don’t want any more stress being piled on her. And I also don’t want to be the poster boy for victim of governmental incompetence.” I gave her my small smile, taking any sting out of my words.

  Cathy gave me a small smile back, her face still disappointed. “So what you’re saying is ...”

  “I’ll help you,” I said cutting her off gently. “I promised I would back at the hospital, and I always keep my promises. So I’ll give you a proper interview, on camera and everything. Hell, I’ll come into the studio if you want.”

  She blinked. Surprised.

  “I take it there’s a but coming next.”

  “However,” I continued with my small smile. “I want you to promise me to try and make the piece as un-sensational as possible.” I scanned the Sal’s’ diner quickly. “I don’t want to be a damned local hero. I don’t want any spotlight. And once this is all over I want to go back to being left alone.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  “Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded. “I can. I promise.”

  I nodded in return.

  Cathy slid out of the booth, putting her notebook in her purse as she stood up. I followed suit, gathering my coat and my gym bag. We stood there for a moment, with me towering over her tiny frame.

  Cathy touched my arm gently. Her expression soft. “Thank you.”

  I shrugged. “It’s cool. You can have my fifteen minutes.”

  Her fingers squeezed tighter. “No, for the other night. At the club.”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. Feeling like a nimrod. “Well, you know … What else was I gonna do?”

  Cathy smiled. “I’ll talk to my boss and
set up a time to talk about that in studio.”

  Great.

  Chapter 11

  “Joseph Alan Donovan, you sit at that table and do not move a muscle!”

  “Please Mom, you gotta sit down.”

  “You stay right there and relax!”

  “I’m just fine, now let me get that for …”

  Mom slammed the pot she’d been holding down on the kitchen counter, making it ring like a bell. “You are not fine, Joseph!” Her eyes were wide, red rimmed and terrified. “You’re not!”

  I backed off , my hands up before me in surrender.

  Mom was a wreck. Fatigue showed in every fiber, which was saying something given her usual condition. Hair completely frazzled. Her housecoat a wrinkled shambles. Cheeks sunken even further than I remembered.

  But her eyes. It was her eyes that would haunt me forever.

  The pain. The fear. The loss.

  I burned with shame.

  “I … okay, Mom. I’ll sit down.”

  She just stared at me.

  I forced myself to look at her diminutive frame. Made sure my voice was steady. “So long as you sit with me. You’re exhausted, and I don’t need any soup.”

  Mom glared at me, more out of frustration and impotence than any real anger. Then her coughing fit came back briefly, which rapidly turned to tears.

  My own eyes began to itch and water, but I blinked them back manfully.

  I hate it when she cries.

  I took the pot out of her hands and wrapped her in a very gentle hug. Her face pressed hard into my chest, her hands clenched into fists into my sides. She sobbed. Chest heaving, which caused more coughs and convulsions.

  We stayed like that. My shirt getting damp and my heart breaking.

  “You scared me, Joe.” Mom mumbled brokenly, her hands trembling up until they touched my face. She looked so old. So frail. “So scared.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  “Do you have any idea what it was like, to have the police show up at my door at three a.m.? Telling me that you’d been ….” Her face screwed up again, she bit her lip.

  “I … Mom, I just.”

  She pounded on my shoulder with one tiny fist. It didn’t hurt at all save for the pain in my heart. She hit me again and again as her tears fell.

  I know what that sounds like, but trust me - it wasn’t like that. It was never like that.

  I stood there stoically and let Mom get her frustrations and fear out of her system by reminding her that I was strong and hale and could take whatever she needed me to take.

  ‘Cause that’s what I do.

  After a while she exhausted herself and let me lead her back to the couch. My stitches still ached like fury but I wasn’t about to say anything in front of Mom.

  Besides, I hate taking pills.

  I got her settled in. Brought a glass of water for her medications and a mug of coffee that she’d never finish, placing them on the table beside her.

  “Can I make you anything? Are you hungry?”

  Mom shook her head weakly, just patting at the blanket near her feet. I complied, sitting carefully on the far end of the couch.

  Mom just stared at me.

  I had a flashback to being nine years old and getting that look after bringing my bike in the house and leaving dirty tire marks all over the living room carpet.

  Same look.

  Like a coward I looked away.

  “Joe,” she said. Her voice so tired. So weak. “What are you doing home?”

  I gave her a confused look. “Huh?” I articulated. Sorta expected a different interrogation tact.

  More of the Mom-stare. “What are you doing home? All of the doctors and nurses I spoke with over the phone and in person told me you were very badly hurt.”

  My shoulders shrugged fractionally. “I guess.”

  It was like she didn’t need to blink, that’s how the Mom-stare worked. Sorta like the Care Bears Stare, only with less bright lights and cuddly bears. And more guilt.

  What? I was a child of the eighties. I watched a lot of cartoons. Not all of them were cool like the Thundercats.

  Let’s move on.

  “Joe. Did you get discharged?”

  I looked away again. “Not exactly.”

  If anything the Mom-stare got more intense. And accusing.

  “Look,” I said, sighing. “I feel fine.”

  “How can you possibly feel fine after … After what happened?” It was clear as a bell that she would never actually use the words you got shot at any point. It was like they didn’t exist in her vocabulary. “What happened to you was very serious, Joseph. You should be getting looked at daily.”

  “I was getting looked at daily. Hourly for a while.” I shrugged again, my stitches pulling slightly. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mom. I feel fine all things considered.”

  She tried to keep the Mom-stare going, but it was clear that her energy was fading fast. She took two of her pills and sipped water to get them down.

  She looked scared.

  I put my hand on her blanket covered foot, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going away, Mom. I promise.”

  She blinked back tears. “You can’t go back to that job, Joseph. It’s clearly too dangerous.”

  I tried to hide a grimace. My mind imagined paying the bills without the extra cash coming in from Cowboy Shotz. I didn’t like the way the numbers added up in my head, and I knew damn well how they added up on paper.

  Unrealistic at best.

  I squeezed her foot again, comforting her with my small smile. “Try to get some sleep, Mom. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  She blinked her eyes a few times, made a small sound in protest. But sleep was already taking her.

  I got up from the couch, creeping away to the dining room and sat down at the table putting my aching head in my hands.

  I wanted to weep, but I wouldn’t let myself. The last time I cried was at Dad and Donald’s funeral and I wasn’t about to break down now.

  In the back of my head I could still feel a small tingle, causing the headache I was dealing with to pulse in time with the beat of my heart. My fingers gripped painfully hard into my matted hair. I welcomed it.

  Pain lets you know that you’re alive. If I am hurting, I am breathing. And if I am breathing I can deal with whatever’s put in front of me.

  Mantra complete.

  I leaned back in the old wooden dining room chair. It creaked under my weight as it always did.

  On the table in front of me was the usual mass of newspapers, bills and miscellany that accumulated there over the course of a week. Mom reads the complete newspaper every day without fail, even if it takes her a few days to get through all the articles. So they tend to pile up here, collecting dust until she get to them. Almost all of them had some variation on the Sun’s front cover story about the shooting, save for the ones talking about missing girls and the Jets missing the playoffs. Again.

  I pushed them aside and tried to take stock of the bills.

  No surprises there. Hydro and the cable company wanted their pound of flesh. The house insurance was coming due in a few weeks and MasterCard wanted to know why I hadn’t made a payment since January.