Blood Sports

by Eden Robinson

  Tom studied him. Overly tanned with wide-set brown eyes in a narrow face. No scars or tattoos.

  “We’ve got two computers. Someone’s using one, but the other one is free.”

  Stan suddenly said, “Eat that! Yeah!”

  Through the security camera at the back, Tom could see Stan leaning forward as he exploded, burned, and decapitated mutant enemies galloping across his computer screen in Alien Apocalypse IV.

  A young black man wearing shiny blue shorts banged on the window. “We won!” he screamed. “4-2 on the penalties! We won!”

  “That’s great!” Tom said.

  The man banged the window a few more times then skipped away. The guy in the muscle shirt paid with a twenty and left. Must be a full moon tonight, Tom thought.

  The same black van rolled into the parking lot. It parked near the street.

  “That van’s back,” Tom said.

  “Yeah?” Stan said, distractedly, still focused on his game.

  “What if they’re casing the store?”

  “Fuck, don’t be paranoid.” Stan craned his head around a pile of canned pop and stared out at the van. “If it turns into a robbery, give them whatever’s in the register. Insurance’ll cover it.”

  “Glad we have a plan.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stan hunched down, grunting and swaying as he got back into his game. “You’ll get used to it.”

  The van waited.

  Stan emerged from the back as a parade of cars honked past. The passengers hung out the windows, wahooing, alternately in shadow or brightly lit as they passed under the streetlights. When Tom glanced back at the parking lot, the van was gone. On the hood of the last car in the parade sat a well-endowed topless woman with two strategically placed soccer-ball pasties, her upraised arms flying a large, flapping Brazilian flag. She sang along to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” as it thundered out of the car’s stereo system.

  “Wow,” Tom said. “You gotta love The Drive.”

  Stan said, munching Cap’n Crunch cereal from the box, “Brazil must have beat Holland in the semi-finals.”

  “Beat them at what?”

  “The World Cup.”

  Tom must have still looked puzzled, because Stan said in exasperation, “We talked about this last week. When Beckham got red-carded. England in flames. Footballers rioting.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Tom said. Afterward, Tom had deliberately kept asking which Spice Girl Beckham was dating because it bugged Stan. Which would be more entertaining if he wasn’t so easily bugged. Still, anything to make the hours pass. “I thought you said it was soccer.”

  Stan glared at him.

  “Weird time for a game anyways,” Tom said, turning back to his Enquirer.

  “It’s in France,” Stan said slowly. “It’s a half a day ahead of us.”

  “Ah,” Tom said. “Some guy said it was 4-2 on the penalties.”

  “Do you even know what that means?” Stan said.

  “Nope. Not a clue.”

  “It means we missed a fucking great game because we’re stuck in a shitty little hole in the wall, that’s what it means.”

  “It’s not like I’m asking for the moon, am I?” Cindy said, tapping her high-heeled foot. “He’s got a fucking forty-thou-a-year job. Bobby’s clarinet lessons aren’t going to break him, right? But, no-oo. Clarinet is a fucking girl’s instrument. Bobby has to play sax. Well, I’ll tell you what. Bobby hates sax.”

  A customer came up to the counter, and Cindy gave him a wide, insincere smile. “Twelve-fifty. Thanks, have a nice day.” She turned back to Tom, chewing her gum furiously. “So that asshole won’t pay unless Bobby changes instruments.”

  “What does Bobby say?” Tom said.

  Cindy sighed. “I haven’t told him. How do I tell him his dad thinks he’s a weenie?”

  “What does your mom say?”

  “Please. What she always says. You made your bed, missy, you go ahead and sleep in it.” She pulled a compact out of her purse and examined her eyes. “God, I’m so puffy.” She clicked the compact shut. “Destiny’s molars are coming in, and she’s a basket case, an absolute basket case.”

  “I should get going,” Tom said. “Paulie’s waiting.”

  “How’s she holding up?”

  “She’s wrecked.”

  “Oh, the poor hon. Did you guys try the clove oil?”

  “Yeah. But Mel’s got four teeth coming in and she’s not sleeping –”

  “Bauer,” Stan said as he put on his jacket on the way out. “You’re such a girl.”

  Cindy popped her gum. “Spoken like a man who hasn’t been laid in years.”

  “Shut your pie-hole,” Stan said.

  “Stick it in your ass and rotate, perv.”

  “You’re begging for it. You’re just begging for it.”

  Cindy snorted. “When I want a pencil dick, yeah, I’ll come begging for you, perv.”

  “Are you going to let her do your talking, Bauer?”

  “You betcha,” Tom said.

  “You’re both fired.”

  “What-EV-er, perv,” Cindy said as Stan stomped out the door. “I don’t know how you can stand working with him. He’s such a creep.”

  “He’s okay.”

  “If you think perverts are okay, yeah, I guess he is.”

  “See you Saturday,” Tom said.

  “Kiss your honeys for me,” Cindy said.

  As he walked, Tom swung the plastic grocery bag filled with milk, digestive cookies, and caramels. He wondered if he should get his Americano early or save it. The chill damp in the morning air was already giving way to a humid, glass-shimmering, smog-inducing heat. They’d have to hang out somewhere with air conditioning today, maybe splurge on a movie. Or take a ride to the beach. Sit in the sand and eat ice cream and screw everything else. He had three days off before he had to go back to work.

  He yawned, his eyes watering as he fiddled with his apartment keys. Mel had a nasty habit of rising with the sun no matter how late she’d been up. He always hoped to find them both asleep when he got home, but Mel was usually playing on the living-room floor while Paulie sat blankly in front of the TV, waiting for him to come home so she could catch a few zees before taking a shower and heading off to her meeting.

  The TV wasn’t on, but he heard a telltale crash. The coats were scattered down the hallway and the coat rack was on the floor. Tom straightened it.

  “Mel,” he said. “What are you up to, my little monkey?”

  She usually giggled when she heard him come in. He frowned. The coffee table was tipped over. The books were tumbled over the living-room rug. The recently reupholstered couch was slashed open and leaking stuffing. “Mel –”

  A man popped up from behind the overturned armchair. It was the man wearing a muscle shirt he’d seen earlier in Lou’s. Another man stepped out from the kitchen, grabbed Tom by the throat, and shoved him against the wall. He touched the barrel of a Glock, cool and hard, to the underside of Tom’s chin. Glock Man wore a blue T-shirt pitted with sweat, his boxer’s nose close to Tom’s, half an eyebrow on his left side, greying brown hair, and brown eyes.

  The grocery bag fell with a splat as Tom grabbed the burglar’s hands.

  “Relax, Tom,” Glock Man said.

  “Mel!” Tom shouted. “Paulie! Mel!”

  “Shh,” Glock Man said, pressing the gun into his flesh.

  June 4, 1998

  Dear Detective Pritchard,

  Thank you for lunch yesterday. I hope you can help us. The three videotapes I found in Jeremy Rieger’s apartment are lost and all I have are these transcripts. George seemed like such a nice private investigator, and he had such lovely offices. Honestly, he charged so much money to keep the tapes in his safe, I never thought he’d go out of business!

  I am terrified of what will happen when Jeremy gets out of prison and no one seems to care! I am including the statement my son sent me in 1994, although I don’t know why you want to see it. I told you
it’s all lies. Jeremy has my Tommy so terrified, he refuses to help me and he won’t talk to anyone.

  I pray that you find a way to keep my nephew in prison,

  Christa Bauer

  I, Thomas Eugene Bauer, reside at 943 Victoria Drive, Vancouver, British Columbia. My date of birth is April 3, 1977. My social insurance number is . I am making the following voluntary statement:

  Jeremy Rieger is my first cousin on my mother’s side. He lived with me and my mother, Christa Bauer, in apartment 304 of The Woodcourt Apartments at 1334 Woodcourt Street from the beginning of March 1993 to mid-April 1993. He had a cot in my bedroom. He was not home much. He used our apartment as a crash pad.

  I was not aware that he had recently been paroled. He did not discuss his personal life with me. We argued about what to watch on TV and whose turn it was to do the dishes. Two days before he moved out, Jeremy bought a large-screen TV for my mother and paid off some bills we had outstanding. We were surprised and asked him where he got his money. Jeremy told us he had received an inheritance from his grandfather. I did not witness Jeremy Rieger selling illegal drugs to get his money. Jeremy had a pack-a-day Player’s Light habit, and he argued with my mother about not being allowed to smoke inside. After he moved out, he would visit every two weeks or so.

  We lost all our possessions when The Woodcourt Apartments burned down on May 26, 1993. My recollection of those events is hampered by a head injury I sustained when I fell off the drainpipe I was climbing down to get out of my apartment. I became extremely paranoid and spent five weeks hiding in the Downtown East Side of Vancouver. I have epilepsy, absence and sensory seizures followed by convulsions, and require medication to be seizure-free. As the weeks progressed and the medications left my system, the frequency and duration of the seizures increased. A friend from high school who lived in the area found me and brought me to Emergency at Saint Paul’s Hospital.

  After this time, Jeremy offered to let us stay at his condominium, Suite 2702 of The Pacifica at 410 West Georgia Street, until we were back on our feet. Jeremy told us he was a stockbroker and he sold stocks, bonds, currencies, etc. He said you had to be a complete idiot not to make money in the stock market and recommended we save our money and invest. After almost a year, we still did not have our own place. The relationship between Jeremy and my mother soured.

  The thirty-seven-thousand dollars Jeremy Rieger spent for my mother to attend the Twelve Oaks Rehabilitation Centre was offered as a Christmas gift, not a loan. When she is not receiving social assistance, my mother makes minimum wage. She would never accept a loan of that magnitude. I have the Christmas card and the envelope that Jeremy Rieger gave her when he presented her with the chance to stay at Twelve Oaks. The handwriting is Jeremy Rieger’s, and he dated the top-left corner of the inside of the card. I have placed the card and envelope in the custody of Julia Howlett-Danson, who is a volunteer from the Law Students Legal Advice Program at the University of British Columbia.

  I will not press charges against Jeremy Rieger for an assault committed by Richard Patolmic. The bruises on my neck and arms in the pictures my mother showed the police were not caused by Jeremy. A day or two after my sixteenth birthday, I had been assaulted by Richard Patolmic, a man my mother had recently dumped. I did not press charges against Mr. Patolmic then, nor do I wish to press them now even if he comes back. His actions were not within the normal range of his character. Being dumped is hard.

  Although my mother is currently a member in good standing of Alcoholics Anonymous, at the time she had difficulty admitting she had a problem and was frequently absent from our day-to-day life. I ran small errands such as picking up the dry cleaning and washing Jeremy’s cars. I attended accelerated classes to complete high school early. At no time did I witness assault, sexual assault, “pump and dump” scams, money laundering, extortion, threats, unlawful confinement, kidnapping, or homicide while I was living in Jeremy Rieger’s condominium. I believe my mother believes what other people have told her, but I’m not willing to say I saw things I didn’t see.

  I am sending notarized copies of this letter to the legal representation of Jeremy Rieger and Christa Bauer. I do not wish to participate in either of their cases. I think these problems would be better solved through family counselling.

  I swear that the above statement consisting of this and two additional pages is true to the best of my recollection.

  Thomas Eugene Bauer

  August 18, 1994

  VHS 1

  Title: FRESH START IN VANSTERDAM!!!

  Date: 02-03-1993

  Duration: 00:59:18

  [00:00:00]

  Light levels in the van are low. Two unidentified Caucasian males in their late teens sit in the front bucket seats. The first male holds a black semi-automatic paintball gun across his lap. He sits in the passenger’s seat. He wears a dark windbreaker and has a baseball cap over closely cropped blond or light brown hair. The second male, the driver, wears a light short-sleeved shirt and jeans. He has dark hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

  Jeremy Rieger is visible in the rear-view mirror reflection as he pans his camcorder back to the 1st Male. Mr. Rieger is in his early twenties with dark hair and wears a black T-shirt.

  JEREMY RIEGER [off-camera]: Her! Her!

  A blond female in her late teens waits at a bus stop. The 1stMale fires at her with the paintball gun. The female stumbles backward. Green paint appears on her left breast.

  J. RIEGER: Bull’s eye!

  [Laughter]

  The van speeds off. The camera stays on the female until they turn a corner.

  1st MALE: That rocked!

  2nd MALE: Fucking watch where you point that thing!

  [Laughter]

  [00:02:12]

  A tall, bald, heavy-set Caucasian male jogs along the road. He wears sweatpants and a white hockey jersey with a Vancouver Canucks logo. The 2nd Male is now in the passenger’s seat. He sights the back of the jogger’s head with the paintball gun. The jogger stumbles forward.

  2nd MALE: Canucks suck, you loser!

  The jogger gives chase to the van.

  [Laughter]

  1st MALE: Give me the gun.

  2nd MALE: You couldn’t shoot shit in a toilet bowl.

  1st MALE: Jer, I want my turn.

  2nd MALE: You fucking baby. I want my turn, I want my turn.

  J. RIEGER: We’ll all get a turn. Let him have his fun and then you’ll have yours.

  [00:03:22]

  The engine starts. The 2nd Male is driving. Mr. Rieger is now in the front passenger seat. He holds the paint gun.

  J. RIEGER: … anyone take him serious? What kind of pussy name is Firebug?

  1st Male hoots. His laughter is distorted because he is close to the camera as he films.

  2nd MALE: Never say that in front of him. He’s real proud of that nickname.

  1st MALE: Firebug fragged this shitbag –

  2nd MALE: Use your fucking head. What if Rieger’s a cop?

  1st MALE: Or full of it.

  J. RIEGER: I’m not a fucking cop and I’m not knocking over gas stations. Any halfwit can do that. I want serious action.

  2nd MALE: You got to claw your way up the food chain like the rest of us.

  J. RIEGER: I’ve paid my dues.

  2nd MALE: Look, there’s a drive-through Starbucks.

  1st MALE: I want doughnuts.

  J. RIEGER: Okay, Homer.

  2nd MALE: D’oh! D’oh!

  [Laughter]

  1st MALE: Fuck you!

  J. RIEGER: Get close to that cyclist.

  2nd MALE: You have to watch the trigger.

  J. RIEGER: Closer.

  2nd MALE: It sticks on the –

  The squeal of the door opening is followed by a loud thump.

  1st MALE: Holy fuck! Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck!

  2nd MALE: What the fuck did you do that for!

  J. RIEGER: Keep driving.

  1st MALE: Man, oh, man, oh, man, o
h, man –

  2nd MALE: Shut the fuck up! I can’t think with your shit!

  1st MALE: We’re screwed, man! We’re so screwed!

  J. RIEGER: I’ve had enough of amateur night. I want to see Firebug. Now, people.

  00:00:32 elapses without conversation.

  2nd MALE: Is there blood on the door?

  1st MALE: Let’s ditch the van.

  2nd MALE: Maybe it’s just dented.

  1st MALE: Pull over, man.

  The interior car light flares, and the open door chime goes off.

  00:02:05 of shuffling and doors opening and closing.

  J. RIEGER: Did you get that? Did you see her face?

  [00:05:59]

  The Woodcourt Apartments at 1334 Woodcourt Street have three floors. The apartment building is dark brown with white trim. A Skytrain is audible in the background, but not visible.

  J. RIEGER: What a dump. [pause] Hi, Mom! Made it in one piece. There’s Aunt Chrissy in the corner apartment, waving. I’m ready to start a new life in Vancouver! [pause] So stop phoning my fucking parole officer and get your own goddamn life.

  [00:06:32]

  A short, thin, brunette Caucasian female in her mid-thirties fries hamburgers in the kitchen. She wears a white apron over a knee-length, short-sleeved yellow dress.

  J. RIEGER: Hi, Aunt Chrissy!

  CHRISTA BAUER: You silly goose! Put that away!

  J. RIEGER: I’m making a video for Mom. Say hi!

  C. BAUER: Hi, Sis! Hope your new meds are working out! [pause] Um. Can you start over? I don’t think I should mention her meds.

  J. RIEGER: I’ll just edit that out. Hey, where’s Tom?

  C. BAUER: He’s not here?

  J. RIEGER: He’s been AWOL all weekend.

  C. BAUER: Check the fridge. He usually leaves a note if he’s staying at Mike’s.

  A tall, heavy-set Caucasian male with brown hair enters the kitchen and kisses Ms. Bauer.

  RICHARD PATOLMIC: Hey, good-looking.

  C. BAUER: Richard, have you seen Tommy?

  R. PATOLMIC: Have you checked the jails?

  C. BAUER: That’s not funny.

  R. PATOLMIC: What? It’s the truth. He’s a pothead with authority issues. You don’t have –