“I can’t do it myself because I blew it last night,” Dean said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
For a beat I didn’t answer, then I just said: “Yeah,” and took a bite of onion ring.
“Apparently there’s a little password and you have to say who referred you. It will all be in the text. See what you can do and we’ll figure out what she knows. She knew who Brucie was, that’s for sure.”
I sucked the last of my coke through the straw and rattled the ice cubes around in the paper cup. Then I headed back to the office, booted up the computer, and went to overtheboards.com.
The store sold game-worn jerseys and other memorabilia, but mostly the website was dedicated to new and vintage sports cards with a big emphasis on hockey. I noticed, with interest, that the some of the trading cards had been authenticated by a company called Professional Sports Authentication and came in little plastic containers. A few minutes of online research revealed that PSA was affiliated with CQC.
Now, being from the South, I don’t much give a shit about hockey, although I went to some Kings games in LA. But some of the hockey cards were pretty cool. I especially liked the ‘Vintage Game Used Memorabilia Cards’. They’d have a picture of Alex Ovechkin, or whoever, and then a little tiny square of fabric from a jersey he’d worn. Or a very thin slice of a hockey stick he’d used. They were glossy and cool looking. I would definitely buy basketball cards like that.
Eventually I found the blog of the proprietor, a dude named Derek Ha. Mr. Ha, whoever he was, was seriously into hockey. There was a post every couple of days talking about the cards he was doing, when things were getting signed, new players he’d added, stuff like that.
One of the posts mentioned something like: “back when I had my problems with the CRA.” That kind of piqued my interest, so I started skipping back by year. It looked like in the year of the NHL lockout (2003-2004) Over The Boards had a pretty tough year, financially.
I re-checked Brucie’s account statements but I didn’t see anything at a comic store after the $9,000 charge. Even so, I spent the afternoon looking up comic stores in Toronto online and calling them if they had a CQC account. None of the clerks I spoke to remembered Brucie, but they all promised to ask the other clerks about it.
Finally I called my buddy Milo and got him to set up the date with Tanya. Milo is well-to-do. He’s a blue-collar Hungarian who runs a bunch of hot dog stands in the city. Nice guy, but not a looker, and no stranger to the ladies of the night. He called me back after the arrangements were made.
“It’s all set,” he said. “It better be worth it because it’s going to cost me a thousand bucks.”
“That’s it?” I said.
“What do you mean that’s it? That’s a lot.”
“I thought it was two.”
“Two? That’s fucking nuts. Who would actually pay that?”
“So when’s the date?”
“Not till Saturday. She’s coming over to my place.”
“Great. Dean and I will be there.”
“This better not be trouble,” Milo said. “Last thing I need is a black guy getting knifed by a pimp in my apartment. Think of the property values.”
“There goes the neighborhood,” I agreed.
16
The next day Dean was jammed up at work, so I was alone when I strolled into Over The Boards Collectibles. Big place, huge. Racks and racks of colourful jerseys, signed photographs and posters on the walls, and glass cases filled with memorabilia.
Mr. Derek Ha was behind the counter, and he was a character. Asian, late forties, very short, with jet black hair parted very severely on the left side. He wore large glasses and he had braces. The store was pretty busy and he was talking to a couple of kids about some signed photographs of Alexander Ovechkin.
“Hello hello,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Terrell Delacroix. I’m here about a comic book.”
“We don’t sell comic books,” Derek said. “Try Altered States on Lakeshore.”
“I’m not here to buy comics,” I explained. “I’m here to talk about a comic that was submitted to CQC through your store a few years ago.”
“Oh?” Derek said. “How do you know it was submitted here? I didn’t know that CQC released that information to the public.”
“Well, I got it anyway,” I said.
“How did you get it?”
“Well, we made inquiries of CQC and they answered us.”
“I think that information is private.”
“Well,” I said, “like I said, they gave it to us.”
“I don’t think I’m prepared to discuss this at all.”
“But why?” I said. “You don’t even know what I’m here about.”
“I don’t think I’m required,” Mr. Ha said, his voice rising (which was a bit ridiculous, because he had a very high pitched voice) “to answer questions about information that was supposed to be held confidential.”
“Mr. Ha,” I said. “Let me explain to you what I’m here about. A young man killed himself. One of the last things he did was purchase a copy of Detective Comics #66 for $9,000. We just want to know if you can shed any light on that comic, whether you can remember anything about it in particular.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t remember. I submitted hundreds of comics to CQC, even though I only did comics for two years. It was during the lockout. Sales of hockey cards were way down. I was already a member of PSA and I thought it was a good way to broaden my business a little.”
“But it didn’t work out?” I asked.
“I just didn’t know what I was doing,” he said. “It was nothing but headaches. People submit a comic and it doesn’t come back with the score they want and who do they blame? Me. God forbid if it comes back restored. Those restorations are hard to spot and they take the value down to nothing. I had one guy threatening to sue me, saying I stole his comic. I stole his comic!”
Derek shook his head and continued.
“There’s one thing you should know about me, Mr. Delacroix. My whole business depends on integrity. When I sell a signed picture, how does my customer know the signature is real? How do they know I didn’t just sign it myself? They don’t. They can’t tell. They rely on my integrity. When I sell a game-worn jersey, how do they know the jersey was really worn in the game? My integrity. When I put a slice of a hockey puck in one of my signature series hockey cards, how do they know that’s real? My integrity.”
“Integrity is pretty important in a lot of businesses,” I said. “A lot of people don’t know exactly what they’re buying and have to trust the store.”
“Exactly,” Derek agreed. “That’s what that guy who said I stole his comic didn’t understand. Could a jeweler sell a cubic zirconium to one of their clients and call it a diamond? Sure, most people can’t tell the difference. But are they really going to jeopardize a whole business, a whole successful business, trying to rip off one guy?”
Derek smiled, and added: “That’s why comics were so unpleasant for me. Plus, I don’t even like comics! I just don’t get the appeal. I prefer real-world heroes.”
“Well, all right,” I said. “You don’t have any written records of who submitted this particular comic? I have the CQC number.”
“I threw all that paperwork out,” Derek said. “I don’t remember. Can I help you with anything else?”
I shook my head. Mr. Ha went back to the computer behind the counter, and I left.
17
I spent Friday morning driving around the city after Anthony Burke, to no avail. A little before lunch on Friday my phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hey man, is this Terrell Delacroix?”
“It surely is. To whom am I speaking?”
“I saw your posting on Brucie’s wall.”
“On his what?”
“On Facebook.”
“Right. Who are you?”
“My name is Jam
ie Halfin. Can I talk to you?”
“You’re talking to me now.”
“I mean, like, in person.”
“What’s this about?”
“Well, I was with Brucie a couple of days before he died, and it was a bit weird. I haven’t told anyone about it. I feel like I should say something.”
“You don’t want to talk on the phone?”
“Nah man. Can you come up to Lawrence and the Allan? The Coffee Time just east of the Allan? I’m here now.”
“Okay mystery man. You better be there though.”
“I’ll be there.”
And he was, sitting at a booth in the far corner where he could see everyone coming in and out. A shifty little guy, thick glasses, curly hair, twisting a plastic straw into knots. His shirt didn’t fit him; his neck was rattling around in his collar.
I ordered a doughnut, and it was dried out and crappy. Coffee Time sucks. I mean really. Who is so poor that they can’t afford Tim Hortons? Who’s like, “oh no man, Tim Hortons is too rich for my blood! I want to go to the budget version of Tim Hortons!”
I sat down in front of Jamie and eyed him skeptically.
“So what have you got to say?”
Jamie glanced around and then spoke.
“Look, Brucie and I were never close friends.”
“Okay.”
“But we went to the same private school. Upper Canada College? Anyway, I was kind of the school drug dealer. One day last year the cops were inside with one of those drug-sniffing dogs. I was fucked, hiding in an empty closet. Brucie saw me in there and took my stuff and flushed it for me. Real classy move, I thought. Like I said, he didn’t even know me, and he was a popular kid.”
“I thought Brucie was a dork.”
“Yeah, but he was a cool dork,” Jamie said.
I shook my head.
“You kids have such complicated lives. Back in my day, no one bothered to make different categories of dorks.”
“Anyway,” Jamie continued, “I told Brucie I owed him one. I didn’t really think much about it. But he called me in late August to call in the favour.”
“When?” I said, taking out my notepad.
“August 18. The Thursday. He said he needed my help the very next day. The idea was he would take my car and I would take his. I would wait for him in the underground parking lot of this hotel out near the airport. Then he would drive in with my car, we’d switch, and go our separate ways.”
“What kind of car have you got?”
“A Honda. It’s nothing special.”
“And so did you do it?”
“Yeah, of course. It was weird, but I figured I owed him at least that much.”
“So you waited in the parking lot …”
“And he came in, driving really fast, and parked next to me. Then he popped out and got this black box out of the trunk.”
“Whoa,” I said. “A black box?”
“Yeah.”
“What did it look like?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It looked like it was made of plastic. I didn’t get a good look at it. He just stuck it in the trunk of his car, we switched keys, and he drove out.”
“And that was that?”
“Yeah,” Jamie said. “And then a week later he’s dead.”
I carefully wrote everything down.
“How come you didn’t tell the cops?”
“Well,” Jamie said. “No one ever asked me about it. Like I said, we weren’t really friends. And I was nervous about it. Like, what if I did something illegal?”
“Do you have any idea what was in the box?” I asked. “Was it heavy?”
“I don’t know,” Jamie said. “Not too heavy, I guess.”
“All right,” I said. “Thanks very much for the information.”
“Will you tell the cops now?” he said.
“Maybe, eventually,” I said.
“Well, let me know if you do. I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong.”
“You’re pretty nervous about this for a drug dealer,” I said.
“Yeah, you should definitely leave that part out,” Jamie said.
“No problem, Mr. Halfin,” I said. “I got your back.”
He nodded.
“I feel terrible,” he said. “Brucie was a good dude. He stone-cold carried three ounces of pot all the way to the washroom. He knew no one would search him, but what if the dogs sniffed it? They were yapping and pissing over everything. He didn’t have to do that. He was a good dude. Whatever happened, it sucks.”
“That’s for sure,” I said.
18
I didn’t get up to much Friday night, which meant I woke up early Saturday morning. That kind of sucked, because if you’re single, Saturday morning is one of the loneliest times. I tried to go for a run up Mount Pleasant to Sherwood Park. Within ten minutes I had to walk, wheezing, a dark stain spreading across the back of my shirt. I stayed out for almost an hour, anyway, then went back to my apartment and had some orange juice and watched the British Premier League soccer game on Sportsnet.
Let me tell you a secret: soccer is boring. I managed to sit through the first game, a 1-1 draw between Newcastle and someplace called “Everton”, and that was all I could take. I had to do something else. I sent some texts out but I didn’t even get a nibble. I checked my Facebook, nothing. So I broke down and called Dean’s house. I thought maybe I could just go over there and hang out until our appointment. Maybe I could help with some gardening or something.
Tina picked up the phone.
“Terrell!” she said. “So nice to hear from you!”
“Hi Tina,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” she said. “I just got the baby to go to sleep.”
“Great,” I said. “I hope I didn’t wake him up.”
“Oh no,” she said. “I set the phone to mute before I even start to try.”
“Phew,” I said. “What about Krystal?”
“Oh, she’s out with her friends today,” Tina said. “I worry about her. Dean says I worry too much. I just don’t want her to make the same mistakes I did.”
“Well,” I said, “you turned out all right.”
“That’s what Dean says!” Tina said. “And of course he’s right. We all have very nice lives. Still, I have a lot of regrets. Don’t you?”
I opened my mouth to say, sure, of course, but whatever, or words to that effect. To my complete surprise there was a hard, painful lump in my throat, followed by a pricking feeling in my eyes. I said something like: “Ahhh.” Then I was scared to try to say anything else.
Holy shit, I thought. Am I going to fucking cry?
“Terrell?” she said.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Yeah, there’s stuff I regret.”
Like I said at the beginning of this book, I’m not one for flashbacks or dwelling on the past. So if you’re hoping for a bunch of salacious details about California, you’re out of luck. But maybe now’s the time to mention that working in the porn industry can cast a shadow over your life. It’s not that having sex on camera is actually any worse than what most other people do to pay the rent. It’s the way people treat you, the stigma. Perception, opinion, can be such a real thing, such weighty, hefty thing. It’s tougher to carry it than you think, especially when you get older and you slow down and tire out. When you’re young it doesn’t seem like a big deal. Fuck what other people think, right? But it does matter. Sure it does.
“But you’re doing so well!” Tina said, her voice warm and generous. “You’ve got a great job and it sounds like you’re doing really well.”
“Yeah,” I said, “things are good.”
“Well you tell me if you start feeling sad, all right?”
“All right,” I said.
“Do you remember Jacey?”
“No,” I said.
“Sure you do,” Tina said. “She was into all that jungle music, she had it on her computer?’
“Um,” I said.
“She had the tattoo of a compass on her, on her back.”
“Right,” I said. “How’s she doing?”
“She killed herself,” Tina said.
“Fuck,” I said.
“Yeah,” Tina said. “I guess she was bulimic for a long time. They thought she was getting better.”
“Who told you?”
“Rodney. We’re friends on Facebook. Anyway, I guess she wrote her suicide note to her bird. Isn’t that sad? She was going to kill herself, and the only person she thought would care was her bird.”
The rate of substance abuse, depression and suicide for porn actors is rather high. When I worked in the industry there was this campaign to set up a hotline set up that adult performers could call in to get free counseling. It was called PAW (Protecting Adult Welfare). I remember a fundraising event they had that involved paying to watch porn actresses bowling in the nude. I think it raised under five thousand bucks. This in a five-billion-dollar industry.
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, Tina, it was a good time, we had some laughs, we made some cash, and now we’re home free.”
“I hope so,” Tina said. “Things were pretty tough down in California towards the end. I guess Dean told you about it?”
“Uh, sort of.”
“Well, we had to do something. Dean was in rough shape. We just weren’t getting along so well. Then I got pregnant and this opportunity came up and we thought maybe things would be different up here. But this new firm! Terrell, it’s not healthy. They all work to ten pm every night. That’s an easy-going night for them. And I don’t know about this detective thing. It didn’t work out with Tanya, remember? You guys couldn’t prove anything and then Dean went back on drugs.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I mean, what good ever came of it?”
“That was different though,” I said. I felt like I was trying to convince myself. “You know Dean felt responsible for Tanya.”
“But it was so long ago,” Tina said. “It took him so long to get over it.”
Here’s the thing about Dean that I didn’t say to Tina, but maybe I should have. Dean can get really emotional about stuff without showing it. For instance, when the shit went down right at the end of the Tanya thing, I lost it. Dean had to drag me off the guy or I’d have choked him to death (remember, I was still in shape back then). Just the look in that bastard’s eyes, that fucking sly look. But two days later I was over it. Six months later I’d forgotten it. But Dean? He was as cool as a cucumber at the time, but now it was eight years later and he was still feeling it. That was the difference between him and me.
The Black Box: A novel Page 7
