New Canadian Noir

by Claude Lalumiere

  My momentum carried me across the alley. I pinballed off the opposite building wall and back into the fire escape. Rusted rivets were torn from brick, and the whole thing followed me to the ground. A dumpster slowed my fall by trying to snap my spine. I bounced to a stop under the twisted iron of the fire escape.

  Somebody wanted to make a point. Somebody who knew this probably wouldn’t kill me. If pissing me off was what they were aiming for, they’d succeeded.

  This place was my home. And it’s been a span since I felt that way about anywhere.

  Watching the fire department try to control the blaze confirmed it wasn’t jake. Only a few things could cause a conflagration of this scale, this quickly.

  Somebody woke something up. Elemental, efreet, devil. Hell, maybe a dragon.

  I thought they’d all been hunted to extinction. I shook my head and muttered “Armin” under my breath.

  Big power also left a big signature behind, something that would be impossible to hide from me.

  Wizard of Runes isn’t a title I throw around much, and I have less cause to use those gifts than my mitts, but it looked like it was time. I may not smoke, but I always carry a lighter. There are a number of runes that deal with fire. I called to one that would speak to that primal, uncontrollable fire. Getting too close to that kind of blaze, that’s the sort of thing that could take a guy back to a part of him he felt was better left buried.

  I flicked the Bic. The smell of butane was absorbed immediately by the larger fire. Flames coalesced, forming a serpentine beast, curled up catlike in the shape of a crown. It glowed against the smoke of my burning home. Dragon. I shook my head. Worst of a bad lot. The conjured residue flew off and disappeared. It could’ve gone anywhere. I couldn’t track the one responsible for the fire, but they’d stand out to my sight should our paths cross again. I had a feeling that wouldn’t take long.

  My breath misted, blending with the smoke and steam from the fire, and I got dressed. I slid a rune-marked washer into the first payphone I could find, tricking it into thinking I’d offered coin of the realm, and called Armin.

  “Didn’t expect to hear from you again.”

  Bullshit.

  “Since everybody wants the old me to come out and play, may as well oblige them.”

  A pause. The line crackled with static. “What changed your mind, son?”

  I bristled at the “son,” but Armin had been a father in a way, teaching me how to get around in the world outside Old Town. “Someone burned down my place.”

  “I’m sorry. I never thought they’d go that far.”

  “Hrrm. Not as sorry as whoever did it is gonna be.”

  “So…you’ll fight?”

  “This is the last time,” I said. “And you’ll clear my marker, or I’m coming for you next.”

  A sigh. He really hated the idea of giving up that power over me. “Do this, and the marker’s gone.”

  Armin must be in serious trouble. He’d held onto that bargaining chip for decades. But he also knew it was the only thing that would pull me out of retirement. He was desperate. I had been his get-out-of-anything-free card for the last twenty years; knowing Armin, his line of enemies could circle the city.

  I didn’t want to leave him any wiggle room. “Make it official.”

  A deeper sigh. “Neelak Trollborn, Wizard of Runes; Neelak Trollborn, Reaver of Cardiff; Neelak Trollborn, Shield-Breaker, Sword-Taker; Neelak Trollborn, fight on my behalf this last time and I will release your debt.”

  I could feel a chain going slack and being lifted over my head.

  The moment before I said, “Agreed,” Armin blurted, “After the fight.”

  The chain of debt was pulled tight again.

  I growled.

  Armin asked, “Do you remember—?”

  “I know where the fights are.” I hung up the phone.

  The Fighthome was in an abandoned train station, laid out in years past when the city had considered installing a subway. That station had gone from fact to myth, and been absorbed into Old Town. Through these tunnels a guy could walk to any Old Town in any city in the world.

  In the audience were manitou and djinn, kumo and kami, and unless I missed my guess, more than a fair share of humans. All eager to see monster get it on with monster.

  Normally, I don’t like being the centre of attention. Here, under the torchlight, I felt at home. There was no neon, no fluorescents. I could stretch my shadow, and no one would run screaming. I paced the ring, cracked my neck from side to side, threw a couple quick jabs. My shadow filled the ring.

  “Neelak Trollborn!” the announcer called out, rolling the r in troll and holding the last syllable longer than a whale’s breath.

  Only a few voices called out my name in response. I would’ve thought my return to the fights would’ve been enough to get me top billing, so Armin must not have lied. There must be a new big bad. I glanced over my shoulder and I could see the sweat glisten on Armin’s bald head. Even with the torches, it wasn’t that hot in here. He was worried about something, and it wasn’t my health.

  I folded my jacket over my forearm and passed it to Armin. The crowd was here for the old Neelak. That troll didn’t wear a custom suit. Didn’t wear much at all. In lieu of a loincloth made from the faces of my vanquished foes, my Joe Boxer would have to do.

  Loosening the knot of my tie, I slid it over my head, straightened it and laid it on top of my jacket. Never wear a tie to a fight unless you’re planning on strangling someone.

  When I finished undressing, I said to Armin, “See this gets no blood on it.”

  The announcer called out my opponent: “Halftone!”

  It was the woman from the alley. The one who’d wanted someone found. She looked at Armin, and that look told me all I needed to know.

  A halo of fire runes shone atop her head like a crown. She was also the dragon who’d burned my home. She was the one after Armin. Unless I missed my guess, she was trapped in human form. Her eyes were burnt coals, embers smouldering behind thick lines of her eye makeup. She stomped out of her alcove, and the crowd scurried away like rats.

  I didn’t let the fact that Armin’s heavy was a woman throw me. Go three rounds with a Valkyrie and you won’t be cracking wise about “hitting like a girl.”

  Drums boomed, bouncing off the stone walls. Halftone’s head was bowed, ever so slightly, and her eyes bored through me from under the scowl she directed at Armin.

  She wore a gauzy white dress and army boots. When she reached the ring, she kicked aside her boots and stood slightly pigeon-toed while the announcer went to work. Halftone didn’t primp or pose as some fighters did, didn’t play to the crowd like a fake television gladiator.

  I say things like ring and fight, but we’re not talking boxing. There’s no Marquess of Queensberry rules in Fighthome. It’s maim or be maimed. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten.

  From the crowd’s chants of “Halftone. Halftone. Halftone” I knew I wasn’t the favourite. There were only a few folks still shouting “Trollborn.”

  “Your name’s Halftone?” I asked.

  She smirked. “You couldn’t pronounce my true name… Neal.”

  The announcer yelled, “Round one!” and it was on.

  I threw my shadow at her, full of Hyperborean winter and fell deeds, wanting her to whimper, to drop, but it didn’t work. Tossing your shadow only works if the person is scared of who you are and what you’ve done. Halftone wasn’t.

  I was in trouble.

  She’d seen what I’d done, and wasn’t impressed. Which meant she’d done much, much worse. I hadn’t thought such a thing was possible. But here we were. There’s always a bigger monster. As our shadows scrapped, I knew, impolite as it was to mention, that she was older than me. Meaner. Stronger.

  Debt to Armin or not, I considered throwing the fight. But this wasn’t money stakes. Not for me. To the victor go the spoils and I was back on the food chain.

  Halftone moved slicker than wha
le shit, and she was on me too fast to dodge. I tensed, my gut waiting to take the punch. Her fist opened up and she sank her nails into my hide. She got in there good and deep. Her hand clenched and she tightened her grip as if she were going to tear out my ribcage. She walked her feet up my legs. Her toenails dug into my thighs. I grabbed at her left hand to try and jerk her off me but she twisted it out of my way, jabbing it at my gut as if she was stabbing me with a knife.

  Those talons she had for fingernails came in rapid-fire. Tiny knives stabbing again and again. Turning my chest into a cribbage board.

  Her assault slowed. Must’ve thought I was done. I caught her mouthing “You’re next” at Armin.

  Instead of trying to knock her off, or throw her, I wrapped my arms around her. If I turned that spine to powder, she wouldn’t be dancing so lightly.

  “You burned down my home,” I growled.

  “Done worse,” she gasped. “So have you.”

  She squirmed in my grip. Something tore in my leg, and I dropped to a knee. I was low enough for her feet to touch the ground. I heard a crack. I thought I heard her cry out, though that might’ve been wishful thinking.

  And then I heard the goddamned bell.

  “Corners,” the announcer yelled.

  I had to drag myself there. But I made it.

  I don’t know why they break the fights up, but they do. Anything goes, but I figure you’ve got to give the audience a chance to get drunk before the end. I also figured Halftone was playing with me.

  “You’re losing,” Armin said, more concerned for himself.

  “No shit.” I could feel the words slur out, my tongue fat in my mouth.

  “Fight harder,” Armin suggested, as he daubed a burning poultice over my shredded chest.

  “You want to fucking tag in?”

  I’d barely got my breath back, and Armin was still searing my wounds shut when the announcer yelled, “Round two!”

  Round two went even worse than round one. But I hung on until the bell rang. Halftone practically hurled me toward my corner. Armin wasn’t there.

  Bastard.

  Knowing what I did of Halftone, running wouldn’t help him.

  “Round three!”

  Armin’s desertion meant that Halftone was no longer distracted. She landed a shot to my throat. My vision flickered. Her shadow fell over me like never-ending night. The only light came from her flickering crown of runes. My eyes closed as the roar of the crowd became a white blur, and then was gone entirely.

  I woke up on a bed that was too small for me, surprised to wake at all, and my head hurt worse than the time I’d stumbled into a train. Halftone stood over me. She still wore that simple white dress. My blood was liberally splashed all over it.

  Her hair was blonde, still not natural, but more natural than it had been. I wondered how long I’d been out.

  She dropped my suit down on the bed. “It’s been laundered. Smelled a little smoky. I still need you to find someone for me. I’ll even pay you.”

  “Why do you need me, when you can beat me?”

  She smiled. “Why should I do my own dirty work?”

  Armin had her binding ring. She wouldn’t admit it, but she couldn’t go after him. I grinned back. The fight was over.

  He’d released my bond.

  His eyes went wide when I came knocking.

  “But…but…you owe me.”

  “We’re square, remember? The fight cleared my debt.”

  But I figured I’d give him something for old times’ sake.

  My shadow stretched from the doorway to envelop him, and I gave him a last good look at what was coming to him.

  NUNAVUT THUNDERFUCK

  Dale L. Sproule

  I was chillin’ solo at the club, three hours before opening, when I heard the brap of an iron dog on its last legs and went out to find Anyu Kigutaq sittin’ on his Ski-Doo in the middle of an ice storm. So I grabbed the hood of his parka and dragged him in the side door.

  “What the fuck you doin’ out there, kid?”

  Tell the truth, I knew Anyu was coming and had an idea why. Thanks to my bro DJ Crispy Kay, we got taps and spycams at three separate police detachments. He got access working security for Baffin Hydro when they were running the power lines from Jaynes Inlet. Even designed and installed our industrial perimeter harpoon rig round the welcome mat at the old lab. Durin’ the long darkness, if somebody we didn’t like came snooping – presto, they were on an instant fuckin’ ice cube floating into Hudson Straight. Smart motherfucker, my brother. But he’s a polar bear, so his employment options are limited.

  After he stopped opening and closing his jaws to thaw out his facial muscles, Anyu said, “Nice to see you too, Tulok.”

  I didn’t make a habit of consorting with humans, but Anyu’s old man, Karpok, and I went way back. When I was living with my sister on the fringes of Dorset City, he was yard supervisor on the nightshift at the dump. Turned a blind eye when Manny the Fox and I put some heat on a gang of lemmings to honeycomb under the bear fence, so we could run a big culvert, eh? That was some concession we had – moving upward of eighty kilos of meat scraps every day all summer long. Karpok even gave us the heads up when the Nunavut Sanitation Authority twigged to our scam and came to plug the hole.

  So I liked to help out his family when I could. And Anyu was always kinda special. True that half the humans in Cape Dorset who can hold a hammer end up sculpting, but he’s one of the truly talented ones. Previous summer he came out on a mission, telling me, “All the sculpture galleries want dancing bears these days, eh? Walking bears – dime a dozen – but dancing ones are the shit. Problem is, I’ve never seen a bear dance. I need live models, and I heard there were a couple sows out here who could boogaloo like nobody’s business.”

  “Whoa, whoa, round here you don’t call ’em sows unless you wanna wear your nanooks as a necklace.”

  “Wha—?”

  “Sedna’s an equal partner in the club and she thinks the word ‘sow’ is misogynist bullshit. ‘Bear-assed bigotry’ she calls it. And that don’t cut no ice with her, eh? As for the dancing, ask her to boogaloo she’ll tell you to watch The Jungle Book. But she’ll be happy to freestyle for ya. Maybe throw in a little lockin’ and poppin’.”

  Turns out my warnings were unnecessary, because Anyu and Sedna got on like a house on fire. Last I heard he was making a killing with his dancing bear sculptures.

  “What brings you back here in the middle of winter?” I asked this time, in a considerably less friendly tone than I greeted him with in the summer. “Got some heavy duty ursine kink going on, kid?”

  “Lemme lubricate you, Tulok. You drinking Canadian?”

  “Blood,” I deadpanned.

  He gave me a gap-toothed grin. “If it were blood, your muzzle would be covered with it, ’steada just foam.”

  I grabbed the front of his parka and pulled him up real close. “Polar bear foaming at the mouth ain’t no fucking joke, kid. We can smell you from three glaciers away.”

  I licked my teeth for emphasis. “Come evening, there will be twenty starvin’ bros in here. Think it’ll be a cakewalk keeping you off the menu?” I got straight to the point: “Nobody comes out here for a joyride in minus fuckin’ fifty.” I leaned forward menacingly. “I know for a fact you’re working for the Dorset Metro Police. I was told they caught you and Gilbert Etok with a kilo of sour diesel at the airport. That little cooler is crawlin’ with po-pos – what were you thinkin’?”

  “Thought the jar was vacuum sealed. It’s Colorado hard goods, medical grade. One of your bear buddies musta sniffed it out.” I raised my eyebrows skeptically, but he didn’t miss a beat. “My uncle’s sitting in the territorial legislature. He’s gonna introduce a Medical Marijuana bill. Maybe we can change the law before my conviction comes down.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said.

  Anyu held up the palms of his sealskin mittens. “Hey, you can’t lecture me about selling pot while you’re runnin
g a meth lab. Look, I don’t deny that the Mounties busted us. And told me they’d let me off if I helped bust your operation. But I’m not here for that. You’re my illamar – my buddy. So I actually came to warn ya.”

  “Spill!” I growled.

  “When I was at the cop shop, there was another guy there, sittin’ in the captain’s office. An elder with one arm. I asked about him, but nobody answered. Just traded these spooky stares like the guy was freakin’ them out. When they put me back in lockup, my buddy Gilbert’s there, eh, and he asks me, ‘Did you see him?’ ‘See who?’ I says. And buddy says, ‘Torngasuk.’ And I say, ‘Fuck you. Torngasuk’s not real.’”

  As Anyu was telling me his story, we heard a voice from somewhere inside the club, “Oh, but I am.”

  “Who’s there?” I shouted, kickin’ my chair outta the way as I stood up. How could I have not smelled him?

  “It’s me – Torngasuk,” and this feeble old one-armed man steps into the light.

  “How’d you get in here?” I demanded.

  “Rode here on the back of Anyu’s iron dog and followed you guys in. But I was invisible, so neither of you could see me. The Mounties didn’t know where your base was, but they figured Anyu here would come to warn you. And they were right.”

  “So that’s why I ran outta gas!” exclaimed Anyu. “Carrying the extra weight.”

  “No, you ran outta gas because you forgot to fill the tank,” says Torngasuk. “You’re always too stoned.”

  I gave him my steeliest glare. “Okay, so you’re here. What now?”

  “I’m supposed to bring you to justice, eh?”

  “For what?”

  The old shaman shrugged. “Breaking the taboos.”

  “Whose taboos? The Mounties? Whose side you playin’ on?”

  “A taboo’s a taboo! You’re cooking crystal meth and sellin’ it to our children.”

  I shook my head. “I just run a nightclub. Welcome to Sedna’s Dance Emporium. Feel free to look around, eh? You wanna drink?”