Monday Night Man

by Grant Buday

  “Rupp. It’s not money, but principle. From the Latin principium. In Christian Science, another word for God.”

  BROTHERLY

  LOVE

  Rupp announced he was buying a church.

  Bunce pointed out that Blue Sky was jumping from 4000 to 10,000 off a loss. Very suspicious.

  Horst stared harder out the grimed window of Wally’s Cafe. A semi hauling chickens stopped in the traffic. Chickens crammed so tight in wire cages only their eyes moved, blinking stupidly on their way to the slaughterhouse. That’s what we are, thought Horst. He’d just turned thirty-nine and was inclined to the morbid.

  Bunce tapped his Racing Form with his red pen. He smelled a rat. “4000 to 10,000 off a loss. Somebody knows something.”

  Horst said, “Whataya mean, a church?”

  “A church. You know.”

  “You can’t buy a church.”

  “There’s a sign. I phoned.”

  Bunce circled Blue Sky. “As long as it’s deconsecrated, a church is nothing but real estate.”

  “Deconsecrated. Yeah. That’s what the priest said.”

  Wally appeared, coffee swaying like black paint in the pyrex pot.

  Horst said, “Hey Wally. You go to church?”

  “Church? I was fucking altar boy. Hong Kong R.C.” He refilled their cups then threw down three creamers.

  Bunce decided to indulge Rupp. “Pray, what wouldst thou with a church?”

  “It’s a gold mine.”

  Bunce smiled.

  Horst snorted.

  Rupp said, “You gonna be track bums the rest of your life? Look at you! Countin’ quarters. You gotta have imagination!”

  Horst was insulted. Imagination? Since when did Rupp have imagination? Horst’s head was a Mediterranean maze of topiaried shrubs, Florentine fountains, odalisques reclining on trimmed turf. Sure, his apartment faced an alley strewn with the guts of split green garbage bags. But yesterday he’d bought himself a suit at Value Village for fifteen bucks. Tailor-made in London. Slate grey, silk lined. He wore it last night, wandering his place getting drunk on red wine and pretending he had guests. “Yeah, Rupp’s got so much imagination he hasn’t changed his shirt in three weeks.”

  Bunce turned to a fresh page in his notepad. “What are they asking?”

  “One-sixty.”

  Bunce wrote the figure and underlined it. “Square footage?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “That’s small”

  “It’s old.”

  “Does it have a bell?”

  Rupp looked at Horst. “Of course it’s got a bell.”

  “Hey. Fuck you. Maybe they took it.”

  Rupp turned back to Bunce. “Corner lot.”

  “Parking?”

  “On the street.”

  “Pews?”

  “Revarnished last year.”

  Bunce sized up what he’d written.

  “Land,” said Rupp. “You can’t go wrong!”

  “Where you gonna get the bucks?”

  Rupp looked caught.

  Horst knew the expression. He made a wall with his hands. “No way. You’re dreaming. You still owe me.”

  Bunce flipped his notepad shut.

  Rupp got frantic. “Jesus, Horst! You’re thirty-nine and don’t own dick.”

  “Neither do you.”

  Rupp slapped the table. “That’s what I’m saying. We gotta pull together. The three of us. We can own real estate. That church is a multi-use facility!”

  Those weren’t Rupp’s words. “Where you pick that up?”

  Rupp pulled pamphlets from his coat pockets. “Bingo Hall! Community Centre! Day Care! We can get public funding. City Council’s got programs.” Rupp looked to Bunce and threw down his ace: “Handicapping seminars.”

  Horst jerked his thumb, “Who’d pay to hear him?”

  Bunce didn’t like that. Bunce dreamed of holding handicapping seminars and Rupp knew it.

  “Five thou down, we can get a mortgage. Seventeen hundred each.”

  “You haven’t got seventeen dollars.”

  Rupp let that pass. He got sincere. He put his hand on his heart. “I’m fifty. You know what I mean? Fifty. And I’m gonna tell you something I never admitted before: I’m management material.” He rushed on before they could laugh. “This is my chance. Right here. I can make this place pay. It’s commercially zoned. Could make a pub out of it. A pub. Goddamn fortune!”

  Bunce had written in his pad: Trip handicapping, Speed handicapping, Trainers, Jockeys, Breeders, Body language. He thought, Body language alone could take an entire lecture.

  Horst pointed at Rupp. “I got imagination you bastard.”

  “Then get on board.”

  Horst was disappointed the saint statues were gone. The alcoves in the walls were empty. The open rafters lent a vaulted feel to what was basically a one-storey house. Behind the altar the pale outline where the cross had hung glowed faintly in the October afternoon.

  Rupp hurried between the pews, lifting the kneeling-boards, hunting for coins, and calling out the features. “Stained glass is forty-two years old. There’s a basement with a kitchen and two ping-pong tables. Can hold wedding receptions. Get some mattresses can stick two dozen immigrants down there.”

  Bunce stepped up onto the altar platform and raised his arms high as if to exhort the faithful.

  Horst stood before the confession booth. Two carved doors, the smell of old wax and sour wood. He hadn’t confessed in thirty years.

  Rupp found $2.20 in change.

  Horst opened the right-hand door, turned, sat down, and pulled the door shut.

  When word got out, people dropped in. Wally came by wearing his white shirt and white cook’s pants. Larry Sodd came too. Sodd had been a jock, but a horse kicked him in the back. Now he moved like he had a fence post for a spine. He couldn’t look left or right without turning his entire body. Both Wally and Sodd kept their hands in their pockets, uneasy about being in a church.

  Wally had only one thing to say. “Why?”

  Rupp was shocked. “It’s a money tree!”

  Wally didn’t push it. He asked Bunce about today’s feature race.

  Bunce said he was going with Gleason. “It likes the rail.”

  “That goat’s 23-to-1!”

  “Exactly.” Bunce pointed out the odds column. “All his rail rides have been long. And he’s never finished worse than second.”

  Sodd said he liked Angel.

  “Won’t even be in the money.” Bunce x’ed out Angel’s name.

  Sodd and Wally were skeptical.

  Bunce was cool. “10-to-1 Angel finishes no better than fourth.”

  Angel finished dead last. More convincing, Gleason won by four lengths going away. Bunce had put sixty to win and twenty to place and collected sixteen hundred dollars. Horst and Rupp each won four hundred.

  Rupp took this as a sign. “See!”

  “Rupp. That was not the Hand of God. It was the Hand of Me. I picked the winner.” Privately, though, Bunce was ecstatic. It was his first big hit all season.

  Sodd and Wally showed the following Sunday, tortured at missing such a gold-plated tip, but hopeful for another. Billy Fenster came too, as did Will White and Frank Grassic. Grassic crossed himself as he came in and asked if anyone needed shoes. He had a trunk full. He was a mortician. Everyone knew he stole the shoes from the corpses he dressed. Half the bodies in Vancouver’s cemeteries were barefoot.

  They all sat in the back, just as they’d sat at the back of the class at school. Bunce confessed today’s card a mystery.

  Grassic said, “Fuck you, who’s got the late triactor?”

  Will White lit an Old Port and threw the match at Grassic. “Don’t swear in church.”

  Bunce sat on the back of a pew. “Forget the late triactor. Forget all the races but the Sixth.”

  Mike Rohr came in. “Fuck me up the ass if I’d’ve believed this.” He propped his foot on a pew and shook his head. />
  Grassic said go home.

  Bunce directed Rohr’s attention to the Sixth.

  Rohr stated North Star was a lock in the Sixth.

  “Then bet it,” said Bunce.

  “I will. Hundred across.”

  “You don’t need me, then.”

  “Nobody needs you, Bunce.”

  Bunce smiled. “Then why are you here?”

  “I come to see the fish.” Rohr spat his gum into the bible slot in the pew then walked out.

  “The Sixth,” resumed Bunce. “I’ll give 10-to-1 North Star finishes out of the money.”

  “Okay,” said Sodd. “But who’s gonna win?”

  Bunce smiled. “Take responsibility for your own wager.”

  “I will. But who’s gonna win?”

  “I’m going with Rambling Rose.”

  “That mutt hasn’t won in two years!”

  Bunce closed his eyes and smiled up into the coloured light streaming in through the window. “I saw her in a dream.”

  The following Sunday Rupp counted thirty-two people. The Sunday after that eighty-one. And each paid two dollars. Or eighty did. Rupp counted and recounted and there was only one hundred and sixty bucks. One of the bastards sneaked in. Rupp figured Rohr. Bunce was on a roll and word was out.

  Bunce stepped up to the pine lectern and surveyed his congregation. He wore a blue suit. Horst had never seen Bunce in a suit. Bunce was a different man. Hard, professional, public. He even moved differently.

  Horst had taken the opportunity to wear that suit he’d bought at Value Village. He felt like an usher.

  The crowd became quiet. Bunce noted how the sun shafts chose to illuminate certain faces in the room while ignoring others.

  “The First! Who’s got the First?”

  Bunce smiled down upon Rohr in the front row. Ah, Rohr, he thought. How the mighty do fall. Standing before an audience these past few weeks, Bunce had made a discovery. He was in control. He could raise his hand and stop a cloud from crossing the sun. He could make Sodd’s spine as elastic as a willow. He had power. Yet he was not a fool. He couldn’t predict winners. Not every time. No one could do that. But he had to say something.

  “Let us consider the question. The First. Why start with the First? Why plod that routine course? It crushes the creative. Handicapping requires imagination. You must come at it from the side. Seek new angles. Find your way. If I teach you nothing else, let it be that: the true gambler does not seek formulas. He does not fear chaos. He thrives on it! He understands that order is a shape in the clouds — it appears, then is gone.”

  “Fuck, Bunce! Who’s got the First?”

  “I’ll ask another question. What good is inside information if everyone has it?”

  Rohr stared.

  Bunce smiled. “No good. If I announce the winner, you’ll all bet it and destroy the odds. You see? Useless. In fact, worse than useless. Damaging. Your greatest advantage lies in keeping your information private. You must keep the odds long. To keep the odds long you must see what the others do not. The masses are the masses because they possess no imagination. They are cattle.”

  “You told us the winner last week!” shouted Grassic.

  “And how many of you made more than fifty dollars?”

  Sodd’s hand went up.

  “How much did you bet?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Three hundred to make fifty! You’re a fool.”

  Sodd’s face burned.

  “You all bet the same horse, so nobody won.”

  “So what the fuck’re we doin’ here?” said Rohr.

  “Hallelujah!” Bunce stepped down, embraced Mike Rohr, then turned him to the crowd as if introducing a prodigy. “Think for yourself.”

  “I want my money back!” said Grassic.

  “Yeah!”

  Bunce laughed, reached into his pocket, and flung loonies into their faces.

  The coins rang and clattered. Insulted, nobody moved but Rupp, who chased down each spinning dollar.

  “Call it an experiment,” said Bunce. “Choose your own horses. Tell no one. Then meet here next Sunday.”

  “Come back? Fuck you. Why should we?”

  “Because Father Ray has a plan.”

  “Why didn’t you give ’em a winner?”

  “I don’t know the winner.”

  “Well fuck, we lost ’em. They won’t be back.” Rupp kicked a pew.

  “Oh Rupp of little faith.” Bunce placed one hand on Rupp’s shoulder and held out the other. “Give me back my loonies.”

  Rupp stared like a kicked dog.

  “And next Sunday charge four dollars.”

  “You’re crazy. No one’ll show.”

  “Twenty says more show.”

  The following Sunday Bunce arrived fashionably late. Rupp rushed over.

  “The fuck you been? Hundred’n six people.”

  Bunce didn’t look at Rupp but at the crowd. “You owe me twenty dollars.”

  “I didn’t bet.”

  “That’s because you’re a coward.” Bunce turned to Horst. “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think you need a miracle.”

  Bunce strode up the aisle to jeers and insults.

  “Bend over Bunce, we got something for you!”

  “You’ll be wearing a diaper!”

  Bunce stepped up to the lectern and thanked them for their kind support.

  Mike Rohr sat in the front again. “Okay Bunce, no shit.”

  Grassic stood. “You think I don’t got better things to do?”

  “Gentlemen. You honour me with your presence. So let me assure you Father Ray has the goods.”

  Murmurs swept like gusted leaves through the room.

  “But first let me ask about your homework.”

  “Cut to the chase, Bunce!”

  “Shut up and talk straight.”

  Bunce smiled his smile. “Fine. Today I’ll give you two-for-one. The winners of both the early and late triactors.” He paused amid the flurry of paper and pens. They looked up, waiting. “For the low-low price of twenty dollars each.” Bunce gestured to the aisle. “Form a line.”

  They stared.

  Bunce stared back.

  Then howls racketed the room. A gale of abuse.

  Bunce waited. Then he asked, “What do I gain by giving away my tips?”

  “You can bet too.” said Rohr.

  Bunce shook his head. “What did I say last week? I have a product. You’re the customer. Twenty dollars. Buy or go.”

  The howls started again. Many demanded their four dollars back. Rupp, however, was hiding in the basement.

  When everyone left, Horst stepped forward shaking his head.

  Bunce raised his finger, meaning: patience.

  A minute later the main door opened. Sodd. His fused spine made him upright and formal as an ambassador. An impression compromised only by his jean jacket and baseball hat. Horst thought perhaps they were preparing to lynch Bunce, and Sodd had been elected to negotiate a compromise. He imagined Bunce swinging from the maple tree in front of the church, or dropped from the dock of the Alberta Wheat Pool, his hair streaming up as his chained legs dragged him to the bottom of the grey-green water.

  Sodd slipped Bunce a twenty.

  Bunce whispered.

  Sodd ducked out the side door.

  A minute later it was Fenster and White. Then Grassic, who tried swapping a pair of brogues. Bunce appraised them but decided no. Over the next half hour, twenty-seven more slipped in and paid up. Six hundred and twenty dollars.

  Horst and Rupp demanded a third each.

  Bunce refused. “You got the gate.”

  “No,” said Horst. “Rupp got the gate. I got zip.”

  Rupp looked guilty. “I was gonna share!”

  “You didn’t share last week.”

  “I’m re-investing it in the building.”

  Bunce slotted the twenties into his wallet. “I did the work. I handicapped. Not you.”<
br />
  “We’re partners!”

  Bunce smiled. “Rupp. Rent the place to the old ladies for Bingo. Maybe you’ll finally find yourself a girlfriend.” He started down the aisle.

  Rupp watched. Then he lunged, grabbing Bunce around the neck. “Gimme that money you mick bastard!”

  Horst tried separating them, but Bunce went wild swinging his briefcase. They staggered into a pew. Bunce whipped at Rupp until one brass-capped corner of his case struck. Rupp cried out and dropped to the floor holding his forehead. He looked up, shocked, skin split to the pink-white bone, glasses broken, blood already blinding his eye.

  Bunce groped for his own glasses, then scraped up the contents of his burst briefcase. Racing Forms, notebooks, two copies of SLUT. His throat bled where Rupp had clawed him.

  Horst said, “What the fuck’re you doin’?”

  Bunce looked at Rupp bleeding on the floor. He looked at Horst. His eyes softened with doubt. For a moment Horst saw Bunce’s heart beating in his eyes. He saw longing. He saw Bunce wanting to confess. Then Bunce’s eyes became fists. He headed down the aisle.

  “Bunce.”

  Bunce walked faster.

  “Fuck, man …”

  Bunce went out the door.

  Rupp made it to a pew, face muddy with blood.

  Horst didn’t know what to do. Get a wet cloth to wipe the blood from Rupp’s face? Get some toilet paper? Rupp was shivering. Horst couldn’t bring himself to touch him. He didn’t want to lend him his suitcase because it’d get blood-stained. He couldn’t even pat Rupp’s shoulder. He wished he could, but he couldn’t. He wanted to leave. But that wouldn’t be loyal. He forced himself to wait another minute. “You better get some stitches.”

  Rupp didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

  Horst stood there. He tried to think. But there was nothing to think. He went down the aisle. Churches all have that smell, he thought.

  HORST HOT-WALKED HORSESas a kid at the race track. The track was on Hastings Street. To Horst, Hastings is the only street in Vancouver. It runs the length of the city, like a river on whose banks Horst played as a kid. It was always dirty, but now it’s a sewer. Only certain forms of life survive. Horst thought of those monstrous grey sucker fish feeding at the mouths of the sewage pipes spilling into Burrard Inlet.

  In grade four, Mrs Lee told Horst’s class that Hastings Street was named after Warren Hastings, First Governor General of India. Mrs Lee was Chinese, and passionate about everything British. These days, Horst almost felt bad for her when he thought of Hastings. The Balmoral Hotel, for instance. Horst wouldn’t go in that dog-pit even with a gun.