by Michelle Wan
* * *
That afternoon I got to know the geography of Green Park. It was a big rectangle of trees and grass running between four streets, just as Marcia had described. I parked my car a few blocks away and walked back. Maitland was a quiet road with houses set back from it with lots of shrubbery. That was good because it meant no one had a clear view of the road. Traffic was light even during the day—the occasional car, the odd dog walker, a few teenagers on bikes, moms with strollers. There’d be even less activity late at night.
The Maitland end of the park had lots of bushes and a floral clock. There was no stoplight at Green and Maitland, but there was a streetlamp. I picked out a spot on Maitland on the park side, about half a block west of where it crossed Green. I paced out the distance from there to the intersection.
Then I turned up Green and walked south as far as the Beekland’s house. When I was even with it, I turned around. I checked my watch and timed the walk from their house back up to Maitland. I went slowly to match what I thought would be Stanley’s pace. I made it in thirteen minutes.
As I walked, I tried to think of what I was doing as prep for a wrestling match. I tried to make myself focus on the moves. Only this time it wasn’t arm or leg locks, it was keeping the car idling with the lights out, judging the distance, imagining Stanley stepping off the curb, letting out the clutch and stamping on the gas. I thought I’d need to be going at least sixty to kill him, and I figured I’d hit him just as he was a third of the way into the road. I could almost feel the impact, see his body flying, all arms and legs, as I kept going.
I groped my way to a bench and sat down. It was a hot, muggy day, but that wasn’t the reason I was soaked with sweat. I still couldn’t believe I was actually going to murder someone.
* * *
Nightfall brought no relief from the heat and humidity, only mosquitoes. You could feel things building up to a summer storm. Rain was not predicted until tomorrow, but the way things were going, I figured it would move in early just to thwart me. I didn’t park at the spot I had chosen on Maitland but instead chose a position on Boswell, north of Maitland. I got there at ten. I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for Marcia’s call, and I saw no point in being too obvious.
I tried to keep my mind free, my body loose. That’s hard to do when you’re crouched low, white-knuckling a steering wheel.
“Oh, Chico,” I moaned. “Why? I wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t wanted a quick way to some cash. Sure, we fought over your gambling, your playing around, but life together had its good times. In the end, did I really mean so little to you?” I started crying.
The tweeting of my mobile nearly sent me through the roof.
“Yeah?” I realized I was shouting. My hands were shaking.
“He just walked out the door. He’s going to the Shortstop. Get him this time.” Marcia hung up.
My heart was thumping in my throat. I felt the familiar nausea. I could barely focus on my watch as I began the count. One minute. Two. Three. Four. I pictured Stanley pausing to light a cigarette. At minute seven I keyed up the ignition and moved down Boswell, turning left onto Maitland.
At minute nine I slid into place and killed the lights but kept the engine running. Ten. I thought of all the things I should have done. Like gas up. I saw myself running out of gas as I tried to make my getaway. Eleven. For the first time I seriously wondered if my 1981 car had the oomph to hit sixty in half a block. Twelve. I nearly wet myself when I saw headlights coming toward me far down Maitland to the east. They moved slowly, like a cop car on the cruise. Twelve minutes thirty seconds. Stanley should be nearly at the intersection. He’d cross and I’d slam into his body in full view of that damned oncoming motorist.
Yes, Officer, I saw the whole thing. The driver went right at him, as if she meant to run him down. Yes, I’m pretty sure it was a woman even though it was dark. And I know it was a Honda Civic, blue. I even got the last three digits of the license plate if that helps.
Thirteen. The car swept past in a quiet rush of air. Fourteen. Fifteen. At minute sixteen I heard myself screaming, “Where the hell are you?”
And there he was, moving slowly into view. I recognized his stiff-legged gait. The streetlamp gleamed on his bald head. I gunned the motor just as he stepped off the curb.
That was when I saw the dog. It was more a blur with a tail, low to the ground. Damn Marcia! She didn’t tell me they had a dog. Instinctively I swerved. I expected to hear the screaming of a squashed dachshund. My momentum carried me up on the sidewalk. I swung the steering wheel to miss the streetlamp. I overcorrected and shot across the pavement. I knew I had to get out of there, so I didn’t brake. Instead I accelerated.
That was my first mistake. My second was to check my rearview mirror, where I caught a glimpse of Stanley standing in the middle of the road. Then I saw the mailbox rushing at me. I swerved again and clipped wing mirrors with a parked car. I kept going, zigzagging wildly from side to side down Maitland, bouncing off the curbs on both sides, whanging garbage cans that had been left out for pickup, dodging more streetlamps and finally, crunching my right fender on a guardrail.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The tweeting of my phone woke me up on Thursday morning.
“Go ’way,” I groaned. I was hungover from all the scotch I’d drunk to calm my nerves and groggy from the sleeping pill I’d taken to knock me out. I didn’t want to greet the world. I didn’t want to explain to my angry boss why I wasn’t going to be in again that day. Most of all I didn’t want to talk to Marcia.
My phone went on chirping at me. I stumbled out of bed and groped around. I found it under a pile of clothes.
“How’re we doing, Mrs. Lopez?”
It wasn’t Marcia. It was the broken-nosed gorilla Bernie, doing his weekly follow-up. Things were still at the polite stage.
“Nothing yet,” I said.
“It’s been a month. My people don’t like being kept waiting for their money.”
“Look, back off, will you?” I tried a weak threat. “I can take this to the cops, you know. I’m sure they’d like to know about people like you.”
“Not a good idea.” He didn’t sound so friendly now. “Besides, it’s a legit business loan. I got the paperwork and all. A wife’s responsible for her husband’s debts, ain’t she?”
“I’ll call you when I have something,” I said and hung up.
I’d hardly put the phone down when it rang again.
I snatched it up and yelled, “I said back off!”
“This morning,” Marcia hissed like a viper in my ear, “he was down for breakfast. I want to know why he was eating an egg this morning when he should have been dead! ”
I sank down on the edge of the bed, reliving my nightmare escape down Maitland. I remembered the air dancing with garbage cans, my car dragging metal, sparks flying. There was no way I could claim the damage on insurance.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the damned dog?” I croaked. My head was pounding.
“What dog?” she screeched.
“The one he takes for walks!” I found the strength to yell back. “A little thing. Short legs. Long body—”
“You fool! That’s the neighbor’s dog. He wanders loose a lot. He follows everyone.”
“Look,” I said. “Call me back in thirty. I can’t deal with this now.”
I disconnected and staggered to the bathroom. I stood under a shower so cold it made my butt ache. I dried off and stared at my face in the mirror. My skin was pasty. My eyes had dark pouches like beanbags under them. I was the one who looked like roadkill.
I was still staring at myself when she called back.
“You now have four days,” she said.
“Listen, what’s your hurry anyway?” I demanded.
“That’s none of your business,” she snarled. “If you’d done your job right, it would be over by now. Just get on with it.”
I said, “I need more information. About Stanley. He can’t j
ust go to work and take a walk at bedtime and wash his car on weekends. What else does he do?”
“He watches television.”
“That’s it?” Maybe she wanted him dead because he was so boring. “Well, what are his likes and dislikes? His weaknesses? You gotta give me something I can use.”
“He’s”—she lowered her voice— “he’s attracted to big women.” She made it sound disgusting.
“So?”
She said stiffly, “You haven’t seen his magazine collection. He hides it under his bed. His favorite is Big Fat Mamas. He likes them oversized with big breasts. He circles their boobs with a red marker. The centerfolds, I mean.”
I almost laughed. Well, well, well. Who would have thought it of Mr. Duck Walk, with his bald head and necktie and little lunch bag? An idea was forming in my mind.
“You said he stops off at Benny’s on Friday nights. How long does he stay?”
“Depends. A few hours. He’s usually home by ten.”
I wondered if Stanley went to Benny’s to pick up big fat mamas. If he did, he must have been a quick worker to be home by ten.
“Who does he drink with? People from work? Friends?”
“He has no friends. As far as I know, he drinks alone. But he never gets drunk. He doesn’t hold his liquor well, so he’s very careful. Are you thinking of doing it then? I need to know because—”
I cut her off. “Yeah, yeah. You need to set up your precious alibi. Let’s just say he may be a long time coming home.”
Before I hung up, I asked, “Did he mention anything about last night?”
“Not a word,” said Marcia.
* * *
After I hung up with Marcia, I called Jimmy. He wasn’t pleased to be rung out of bed at such an early hour.
“Jimbo,” I said. “You know that horse syringe you mentioned? I need one. Don’t ask why.”
I heard him groan off-phone. He mumbled, “Hang on a minute.” He put down the phone. After a while I heard a toilet flush in the background. When he was back, he said grimly, “You on drugs, kid?” He disapproved strongly of drugs now that he was clean. He knew firsthand what they could do to you.
“For cripes’ sake, with a horse syringe?” I kept it lighthearted. “Can you ask your vet friend? I really need that needle and I need it pronto, Jimbo. It’s—it’s for a joke on Wanda.” I hated lying to him. “Nothing bad. Just something to take her down a slot.”
That put him in a better humor. “Oh, well, in that case. I’ll see what I can do.”
“This afternoon? Thanks. Love ya.” I switched off.
I didn’t bother calling Roz with more lame excuses. I banged my right front fender back in place and headed out of town. I drove to London. It was a long way to go shopping, but I knew better than to do anything locally.
My first stop was a corner store. In the magazine section I found the latest copy of Big Fat Mamas. Marcia was right. The feature babes were large. I tried to imagine Stanley with one of them and nearly choked. I drove to the east side of town to a specialty boutique called HERZ. Before I went in I put on my headscarf and sunglasses. The woman there wanted to be helpful, but I said I was just browsing. When I found what I wanted, she said, “Might I interest you in another style, ma’am? These aren’t very—ah—durable.” I just smiled.
I stopped off at a Shoppers Drug Mart for cosmetics, then a place called The Costume Bazaar where I bought a wig. The nylon hair was curly, long and red.
At the Value Village on Wellington, in women’s fancy wear, I tried on a very low-cut satin dress. It was size XL, grape purple to match Stanley’s Chevy, and hung on me like a sack. It was a little worn under the arms but it would do. In sportswear I found a tired-looking, stretchy one-piece swimsuit. It was also XL and would have easily fit Jabba the Hutt. In accessories I unearthed a fake leather burgundy handbag with a silver chain. My final stop was Jake’s Mill. It carried everything from remnant carpeting to knitting yarn to underwear. I bought a large, two-inch-thick foam-rubber pad.
On the drive back to Franks, I swung by Al’s.
Jimmy was at the bar. He pushed something in a paper bag across to me.
“Is this a syringe or a caulking gun?” I asked, looking in the bag. It was a lot bigger than I expected.
“It’s was last used on a stallion named Rondo,” he chuckled. “In case Wanda asks.”
“Awesome,” I said.
He took a closer look at me. “What happened to you, kid? You look like hell.” He gestured at my swollen nose and scratched arms and hands. He hadn’t seen me since my disaster at Sutherland’s.
“Fight with a dumpster. Thanks, Jimbo.” I gave him a swift peck on the cheek to avoid further questions and left.
I was dead tired and my head was buzzing, but I didn’t go back to my apartment and crash as I was aching to do. I went downtown to check out Benny’s Tavern.
I’d been to Benny’s once or twice but not recently. Since I started mud wrestling and because of Jimmy, I did my drinking at Al’s. Benny’s was a raunchy establishment, not unlike Al’s, with hot-pink neon lighting spelling out the name over the door. In the window was a sign advertising Friday Happy Hour 5 to 7 Drinks Half Price. The tavern stood in what over the years had become Franks’s skid row. There was a Canadian Cab office on one side of it and a takeout pizza on the other.
I didn’t need to go into Benny’s. I already knew the layout, a typical saloon, long bar, tables in the middle, booths at the back. But I wanted to have a look at the alley running behind the tavern. My getaway route. It was narrow and dark and smelled of garbage and cat pee. Benny’s back door was propped open. Inside I glimpsed a dim hall tiled in dirty, cracked linoleum and stacked with crates of bottles and beer kegs. Farther down were the doors to the washrooms.
I hadn’t eaten much all day, so I went back out to the street. A hulk in a red tank top stretched over a beer belly was having a smoke on the sidewalk in front of Benny’s. At the pizza place next door I ordered a pepperoni, black olive and hot pepper takeout.
“Benny’s busy on Friday night?” I asked the pimply kid working the ovens. He shrugged. “Ask Ox,” and pointed a floury finger at the big guy outside. “He’s the bouncer.”
I decided to pass on Ox.
I took my pizza home, ate half of it and fell asleep in front of the tv. When I woke a little after nine that night, I felt so dry I drank a liter of coke. I finished off the pizza. I spent an hour on the Internet looking up veins. I spent another hour practicing finding them in my arms. Then I had a shower and crashed.
* * *
I spent most of Friday getting dressed. I measured and tried the foam on several ways. Finally I cut it crosswise into a couple of two-foot strips. I taped the strips around my middle and pulled the swimsuit over it. I stood in front of the mirror. My new look was barrel-shaped. Then I blew up the supersize inflatable push-up bra I’d bought at HERZ and put it on. I pulled the grape-colored dress on over everything. I had to do a bit of juggling to get my boobs to sit right, but in the end I achieved the desired effect. When I saw the finished product, I had a shock. With the red wig on, I looked remarkably like Wanda.
CHAPTER NINE
My phone warbled as I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup. Wanda went heavy on the false eyelashes and mascara when she wasn’t wrestling, so I did too. She liked lipstick. I made up a bright red mouth. It’s not that I was consciously setting out to frame her for murder. I just needed a big woman to model my new self on, and she seemed to fit.
“What?” I barked, expecting it to be Marcia. I was feeling as strung out as a high-tension wire.
“Yo, Lava.” It was Jimmy. “When are you gonna do it?”
“Do it?” I squeaked. How the hell had he found out what I was really up to?
“Wanda,” he said. “The big joke.”
“Oh. Right.” I peeled myself off the ceiling. “Tell you about it later.”
At five o’clock I was ready. I slipped the hypodermic in t
he burgundy handbag, breathed deep and went for my car. I cruised slowly past Benny’s. Stanley’s Chevy was nowhere in sight. People were drifting into the tavern for the happy hour. Mostly a young crowd, guys in jeans and muscle shirts, chicks in shorts and halter tops. A few in working clothes. I circled the block and kept circling until luck finally broke my way. A 4x4 pulled out of a slot just opposite the tavern entrance. I managed to slide in ahead of another car and got a loud horn for my trouble.
It was another sweltering night. The promised storm that was supposed to break the heat hadn’t arrived. To make things worse, I was wearing a wig and four inches of foam. I was sweating like a pig and I felt my makeup sliding. My car didn’t have air conditioning. I tried fanning myself with a road map folded into quarters. It came apart at Kitchener-Waterloo. I was sinking into a soggy mess by the time the purple Chevy finally showed. It did the routine drive-by, looking for a parking spot. Eventually it headed up the street to the pay lot on Boxwood.
Here we go, I told myself as I watched Stanley return on foot and push through the tavern door.
I allowed him half an hour before I followed him in. The bouncer Ox gave me the once-over as I entered. Up close I saw that his belly actually masked a lot of muscle.
“Hey, big girl.” He looked amused. He’d changed from his tank top to a T-shirt that said Benny’s, and he’d slicked his black hair straight back. “You come equipped with a forklift or what?”
For the first time in my life I was aware of the shit fat women have to put up with.
“No, I use a trolley,” I said, playing the good-natured, oversized broad, but I thought, Dick-head. I gave him a wink, felt my false eyelashes stick together and quickly headed for the bar. I pried my eyes open and checked out the crowd. At least the place was air-conditioned. I pushed my elbows out to air my armpits. A smartass behind me said, “Awk, puk puk puk.” I knew I ought to go to the Womens to repair my makeup, but at that moment I picked out Stanley perched on a stool, staring into a beer. I pushed in beside him and jogged his elbow just as he was raising his glass.
