Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker

Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Page 6

by Denise Morgan

He left me crying late one Sunday night outside of Boulder. He said he had to find himself out on the road. I guess when love goes wrong, you gotta learn to be strong… I may not be so lucky in love, but there’s one thing I’m sure of. I wanna man to stand beside me, not in front of or behind me …

  I cast my eyes to her fat profile, wishing she would shut the hell up. I have a compelling urge to reach out and switch the damn thing off, but I dare not to take my chances. She can flip like a switch, erratic in her behavior – and prone to emotional outburst, it’s frightening.

  Oh, oh, oh,” she sings, adding her two-bit, off-key rendition.

  I plunge deeper into despair.

  I fold my arms over my washboard stomach and gaze out of the passenger-side window, trying to tune her out, trying to absorb the rich green scenery.

  Not!

  I wish to hell that I had brought my goddamn walkman.

  Some moments later, we drive past three daredevil boys half-standing on their respective bicycles seats, balancing with open arms. Am waiting, just waiting for one of them to crash into a lamppost or a tree, just so I can have a damn good laugh. It is the same reason why I love watching Winter Olympics: professional ice skaters doing a triple-toe-loop and crashing into the barrier sprawling right in front of the panel of judges.

  Priceless!

  I know, I know… I have a wicked sense of humor.

  Someone once criticized me as having a Schadenfruede mentality.

  WTF! What the hell does that mean, I asked.

  He said, taking pleasure in someone else’s pain.

  But that’s not true. People attempting to do stupid things make me laugh. I just love watching when it all goes wrong. Believe me; I would stifle a laugh if I saw blood shed.

  On the opposite sidewalk, a good-looking blond family stroll along; husband, wife and three young kids, all dressed in their Sunday best for the Holy and Almighty God, am guessing. A church service is about to begin in St Demetrius Ukrainian Catholic Church on La Rose avenue hilltop. Usually during my solitary five-mile jogs, I can hear the bell peal at ten o’clock.

  The family makes room for a dark-haired man dressed in a dark business suit and carrying a dark briefcase. He’s walking in long purposeful strides going in the same direction as us. Raye takes her eyes off the road and gapes at the same scene, then, for whatever reason tightens her grip on the wheel and jams her foot down on the accelerator, keeping an eye in her wing mirror, instead of ahead.

  To this day, am still not accustomed to her careless Formula 1 driving. And believe me; I have had firsthand experience that she does not give a rat’s ass about my opinion of her reckless driving.

  But why is she breaking the speed limit?

  We have no obligations, no time schedule. We’re only going to the park to jog for fuck's sake.

  Outside the periphery of Griffith Park, she puts her foot down on the brakes… almost screeching to halt, then she makes a sharp right into the park’s parking lot. She races across the open lot and breaks inches from the guardrail. My seat belt keeps me from head butting the dashboard. I throw her the nastiest sideways glance.

  This whole scenario brings back a vivid nightmare just after Boxing Day shopping trip to Buffalo New York.

  Allow me to recount this briefly.

  We were returning home from Buffalo, New York after a six-hour mad-dash Boxing Day shopping spree sales. Thick snowflakes whipped the windscreen as we drove miles without seeing another car coming toward us. Even with the headlights on high beams, visibility was almost zero. Raye blazed a trail along the highway, pushing the speedometer needle up to 70 mph on the slushy highroad. I held onto the door handle, bracing myself, thinking, we both could be dead meat any minute.

  “Take it easy Raye; you’re driving too Goddamn fast.”

  The woman continued at whiplash speed.

  “Raye, slow down, we’re an accident waiting to happen.”

  80 mph, lampposts blurred into one.

  “For fuck sakes Raye, you might as well drive with your fucking knees!”

  I felt the car hit an ice patch, then the car shifted diagonally. We drifted for fifty yards or so, after that, everything went into slow motion for me.

  Trying to gain control, she swung the wheel hard to the right and broke sharply. I felt the rear of the car, fishtail to a halt onto the icy shoulder. I shuddered under my winter coat, imagining us flipped over on the rooftop in the ravine, our blood staining the snow.

  It was a miracle we remained on the verge.

  Studying her stern profile, I could tell she was shook up by the near-miss disaster, but acted as if what had just happened was normal. She put the hazard warning on and said, “You can collect your umpteen shopping bags and start walking if you want to.”

  I wanted to say, you cannot be serious, you crazy sick bitch. Instead, I said frantically, “Oh my God Raye! All am asking is for you to drive us home safely.”

  She gestured a hand at the passenger door.

  Obviously, I did not intend to hitchhike in the dead of night with some sex-deprived long-haul trucker. Lone truckers you read about coming to the aide of hitchhikers like runaways at gas stations, truck stop or remote diners. The poor, naive victim climbs in and the guy makes friendly conversation. Five miles down the road, he requests a blow job very nicely way up high in his cab.

  “Hey darling, how bout a little head.”

  Refuse and feel a sudden backhand and pass out cold.

  The next thing you know, you come round to find the creep on top of you, molesting you on a deserted slip road where hungry coyotes live, then dumps your lifeless body for the scavengers to feast on.

  That is it – life’s journey over.

  Days later, the sick bastard will walk through his front door, singing the universal cliché mantra: Honey I’m home.

  The little kids will run up to the front door and hug his legs. And, to make up for lost time, the horny wife will put the kids to bed earlier than usual, then fuck his brains out while he’s thinking of being back out on the highway, violating his next victim, and comes like fireworks on the 4th of July.

  Picturing this scenario in my head, I said calmly, “can you please just slow down.”

  After I stopped moaning about her driving, Raye stepped on the gas again, flying down the four-lane pitch-black highway again. I clutched the door handle, shaking my head with utter fury. I knew exactly why she was in such a foul mood. In the upscale department stores and chic boutiques, she could not find a single article of clothing in the cut-down-prices to pass over her rugby shoulders. One of the main reasons she opened up her tailor made-shop for metabolically challenged women. Also, she could not even fit her Fred-Flintstone-size-toes in a pair of Jimmy Choo shoe. Amongst health-conscious shoppers who had queued overnight in the unbearable cold; hundreds of chubby Americans were there too, long before we even crossed the Niagara border onto USA soil.

  Everywhere, from shop to shop, a plethora of jolly fat ladies laden down with decorative shopping bags getting first dibs on her size. And, as we shopped, I mean, as I shopped, Raye became my personal assistant. She exchanged sizes for me while I popped in and out of the change rooms, admiring myself, this way and that, in the full-length communal mirror.

  I felt her envious eyes trailing over my sexy, lean figure, not to mention the layers of fabulous funky clothes to boot, draped over chaise lounges.

  Boyfriends awaiting their girlfriends in change rooms wolf-whistled without sound.

  Her bad mood intensified as I paid on three credit cards.

  Sadly, she had nothing to pay for. I figure that was why she was trying to scare me out on the highway.

  Pure spite and utter jealousy.

   

  The radio clock reads 9:03 am. The parking lot is virtually empty. Two metallic-grey gas-guzzlers are parked along side each other over by the rhododendron bushes. Two middle-aged couples unload fold-up deck chairs, picnic hampers, blankets and a cooler of sodas. They are all
dressed in Bermuda shorts get-up - probably their picnic theme. Even their six snot-nosed brats jumping out the side doors are clad in the same garb. I grimace as they run amok around the parking lot; their high-pitched squeals threaten to burst my eardrums.

  Just one smack… is all it takes.

  I swear to God, one day with my own little brats...  I don’t even know want to say.

  Unthinkable.

  Raye shuts off the engine and pulls the parking brake.

  I jump out and wait idly by the car trunk. She locks up and comes toward me, licking her lip. “How’s your head?”

  “Shit, but I’ll live.” I say, fiddling with the sweatbands on my wrist.

  She thinks am suffering from a dreadful hangover.

  And truly, I am.

  But the sight of her bathing the chronic, combustible cold sore on her lip with her tongue is making me feel sick.

  I mean, gut wrenching, puking sick.

  Jesus fuck! Isn’t Herpes Simplex 1 a contagious virus?

  Shouldn’t she be in quarantine?

  I make a quick mental note not to set one foot into her apartment for social get-together until the gross thing has dried up. There is no way in hell am putting my lips on any of her china cups, mugs or wine glasses, not to mention cutlery.  Cold sores are a bitch, disgusting and embarrassing, and am not about to get one if I can prevent it. Since some guy dumped her some months ago, she’s been stressed out, depressed and fidgety. But Jesus, she does not have to lick the damn thing as if it was her favorite flavor of Haagen-Dazs.

  The sight is so unnerving!

  We leave the parking lot in total silence.

  For some reason Raye looks back down the road where we just came from with great interest. Her hazel eyes seem shifty and shrewd.

  Now, she is preoccupied with her wristwatch as if she is some sort of experienced jogger. Am just waiting for her to inform me of the distance we need to run in a certain amount of time to maximize our calorie burning potential.

  Yeah, right.

  I look up and admire the endless azure-blue sky, and smile. It is going to be a scorcher. Families, health-conscious freaks, half-naked sun worshipers in sunglasses, sun hats and slathered in sunscreen will be out in numbers today, soaking up the blazing rays. Still in silence, we stroll through the ten-foot-high gold gates of Griffith Park. Whenever I enter, the vista is always staggering to me, almost obscene. I could shack up in a tent with a sleeping bag and live here among God’s natural symbols and creatures.

  On both sides of the asphalt-path are verdant lawns stretching away into the tall trees standing hundreds of feet high: Elm? Cyprus? Beech? Birch, Pine? Poplar? Cedar? Hickory? Oak? Ash? Sycamore?

  I cannot tell you which is which, except for the maple trees with their distinctive four leaf clovers, Canada’s emblem. Giant rats – some people call them squirrels - gambol friskily from one tree trunk to tree trunk. Songbirds flap in the dense foliage. I have claimed this park as my very own Garden of Eden, a place where I can release stress and find solace.

  In the past, I tried to persuade Raye to jog with me, have picnics on sunny days since we live so close by.

  She did once, or twice, reluctantly. Now, she is wobbling and jiggling across the grass ahead of me with unbelievable determination. I cannot help but glare at the shock of peroxide ponytail swinging against her broad back. She’d given me a shock when she had bleached it, conforming to the stupid hype: blondes have more fun.

  The sad thing is, she looks albino!

  What she should be concerned about is her roly-poly waist and her large dimpled butt imprinting the thin material of her white cotton leggings. For the life of me, I cannot understand why fat people let themselves go like that, eating junk food and drinking carbonated soda, excessively.

  It simply boggles my mind.

  Then again, who am I to criticize.

  Why am I such a lush?

  I used to drink on special occasions. Now I drink whenever and whatever I can pour down my neck.

  Thank goodness though; my poor toxic liver is still flushing like clockwork after weekends of reckless abandon. But at least I combat the degeneration with milk thistles and Chinese herbal remedies.

  To be fair though, we all have a self-destruct gene button. Dimitri Halley, a professor in the psychology of paranormal phenomena, summed it up well: ‘Human Beings are programmed to self-destruct.’ And I wholly agree with him, the human condition - beneath the confident façade, regardless of culture, religion, education - is weak.

  Just last month I read an article in a woman’s magazine about a high-powered professional woman who had stacked on fifty pounds after quitting her twenty-a-day smoking habit. Before she went cold turkey, she tried patches, acupuncture, hypnosis, but none of them worked. Then she became a manic-depressive and suicidal.

  D’oh! I said aloud, curled up on my sofa after reading her story. Start smoking again.

  The reason she’d quit smoking in the first place was to preserve her health. Now she was fat and about to top herself, lonely in her despair.

  I had a strong urge to switch on my computer and write a brief letter to the editor to offer my sagacious advice, hoping to have it published for all sorts to read. But at the time, I was too tipsy and sluggish after drinking a bottle of wine to move.

  Seriously, I do not give two shits if cigarettes cause cancer and you may die. The truth of the matter is, we’re all going to die of something: patricide, matricide, suicide, mad cow, bird flu, alcoholism, snake bites, arson, wonky heart, or, acts of God: earthquakes, lightening bolt, quicksand, freak accidents, tsunami. Or just plain stupidity: bungee jumping, accidental overdose of your favorite recreational drugs, mountain climbing, skydiving, swimming in shark infested waters, wading in crocodile swamps, you name it.

  All non-smokers, health freaks, gym rats, vegans, like the rest of us will meet thy maker one way or another in any circumstance: train derailment, plane crash, metal bust-up on our highways. The inevitability is going to happen.

  My motto… mantra is, if you are fat and miserable, do something about it. If smoking suppresses your appetite and works for you… smoke. If you want to give up… give up.

  Don’t bawl and moan.

  Besides, there is exercise combined with diet: Atkins, Weight watchers, Lipo, gastric bypass. Pick a country in Africa to visit for God’s sake, witness what plague, war, famine, disease, corruption has done to its people: all malnourished, skeletal and bloated. Cohabit with them just for a few days and watch the weight fall off. They have no clue what starters, entree or dessert mean.

  But hey! I guess not everyone is as vain as me.

  In Raye’s case, she conjures up any excuse for being a single fat female. The woman thrives on self-pity and feeds her face with crap. If she insists on being a human vacuum without a huge expenditure of physical energy, by the end of the year she will be verging on obese. I hate to think how this excessive weight gain will affect her mental state.

  Her favorite mantras are, ‘no decent man wants to be seen with me because I’m fat. If I had the guts to get it all sucked out, I’d do it in a moments notice.’ Or, her best line yet, ‘silicone tits and collagen lips are what the modern man desires these days.’

  ‘Raye, you’re so wrong,’ I’d say to her. ‘The modern man desires a woman with inner beauty, confidence and self-belief… no matter what their shape or dress size was.’

  Jesus, the amount of times I rolled my eyes heavenward listening to her histrionics, I should be cockeyed by now.

  One beautiful summer evening we dined together in an upscale Bistro on Bay Street. She spent the first forty-five minutes studying the menu. All I heard was what she could and could not eat. I felt like yelling at the top of my lungs: Raye, you did not get to the size you are by being choosy about what you put into your gob. Just shut the fuck up and pick.

  Seriously, as I sat there watching her, I searched for reasons not to stab myself in the neck with my fork. Am such a sucke
r for punishment, just being her friend. The woman brings me down, moaning consistently and continually about everything - finding the man of her dreams was on top of her list.

  Oh blah de … oh blah da … It’s all about, me me me.

  Thank God, man and marriage are not in my cosmic plan. Just drink, shop, the occasional screw and jog. At least today, we are here to jog.

   

  «Chapter Thirty One»

  We are standing under a maple tree scanning the grass for animal excrement, in other words, dog shit. Ever since the day Raye scrambled to her feet and her fat ass cheeks were smeared in chunks of it we never forget to check. First came the vile stench, then the gut-wrenching discovery. Even now, I look out for bird droppings, I mean, c’mon, shit is shit.

  Satisfied that it’s safe, we place our hands on our hips, and circulate our pelvis… left… then right…

  Raye looks awkward doing it, mostly comical, really. She’s not even concentrating on technique. She is looking around the park, at the entrance in the distance.

  Maybe she is self-conscious of her weight and checking to see if anyone is watching her.

  There are two iron-pumping yuppies stretching under a willow tree not far away. They look about late twenties, both with corporate haircuts, shirtless, and wearing skimpy black shorts that show off their tanned legs.

  My first instinct is they’re gay. Out of the corner of my eye, Raye follows my eye-line, and then she looks at me with a glint in her eye, sinking her teeth into her lower lip with the… the thing.

  I hold her gaze, thinking… what the hell is she thinking.

  “Did you see that? One of them just gave me the eye,” she says all bubbly.

  As if. Just look at the state of you Raye: pretty fat, and shaped like a tent.

  A streak of sunlight cuts through the branches causing me to squint. I remove my sunglasses from my pocket, clean the dark lenses in the tail of my sweatshirt and put them on.

  “I hope he can’t see my cold sore.”

  I pretend not to hear her.

  “Sacrine!”

  “What!”

  “Do you think he noticed my cold sore?”

  “Huh?” I say, now pretending to be puzzled.

  She jabs an index finger at her inflamed, pus lip.

  The bile rises in my throat, hot and burning.

  “My cold sore, do you think he can see it from over there?”

  “Quit being so paranoid… unless he’s got over 20/20 vision.”

  I touch my throat as if to stop myself from vomiting.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I sit down on the grass, frowning hard.

  “You okay?”

  I barely nod, blaming last night indulgences. “Self inflicted. It’s not the first time and I assure you, it won’t be the last.”

  “Unless we return to abolition,” she says cryptically.

  “Abolition?”

  Half the time I haven’t a clue what Raye’s on about. People talk about not being on the same page. We read different genres of books!

  Raye joins me clumsily on the grass and extends her thick lard legs in front of her, absolutely no muscles in her thighs or calves.

  The two virile young men jog off in sync down the tree-lined meandering path, elbow-to-elbow, and stride for stride distract us both.

  We begin our stretch by spreading our legs wide, lean forward and touch our big toes… two… three.

  Correction.

  I spread my legs wide and touch my toes. Raye does a different translation in sheer agony. I really don’t know what she’s doing out here. She should get up and go home.

  Home Sweet Home… good old suburbia. Our area is an ideal place to live - crime free and peaceful. In the three years that I lived here, I have never heard a peep from the neighbors or a siren in the distance. We live at the bottom of a hill at 1 La Rose Avenue, Etobicoke, Ontario. Raye lives three doors up the corridor from me, at 705. I live in the corner apartment: 701, with my greedy, lounge-lizard cat, Viper - the only cat that farts out loud, even when he’s walking.

  Raye proudly holds the deeds to her condominium suite. I rent mine from some rich guy who thinks he is, in the flesh, property tycoon, Donald Trump. The guy purchases gorgeous condominium suites around the city: Yorkville, Bay Street, Front Street, Harbour Front and here in Etobicoke and rents them out, making a mint, no doubt.

  On the eighth floor is a half indoor/outdoor azure swimming pool with access to a marble Jacuzzi, steam room and sauna. 0n the same floor is a fully licensed bar open till all hours. As I have a trollop’s penchant for getting drunk and disorderly, I have not dared set one foot in there. My articulate uncle once advised me: never shit on your own doorstep.

  In the back of the premises are four tennis courts with high fences to safeguard straying tennis balls. Even though I love living in such a gorgeous place, it is very stressful. I can barely afford to pay “Donald” his exorbitant rent from my meager salary. Only the good Lord knows how I manage to come up with full rent each month and yearly service charge working as a cocktail waitress.

  I know I could find an affordable apartment in the shabby area of Jane and Finch, but being an attractive white girl am afraid of being mugged or bugged, or gang-raped in broad daylight by Ganja-head, inarticulate Yardies, congregating around the graffitified premises. Since Raye and I had become okay friends, both single, you could say, we look out for one another. We had duplicate keys of our cribs made and swapped them.

  However.

  This morning as I lay in a comatose state, Ms Raye Anne Dawkins had used this spare key and came bounding into my bedroom. My bedroom is lovely with marshmallow walls, and wall-to-wall cream carpeting, but it was in an awful mess: gym bags giving off fumes from sweaty Tracksuits and sneakers. Viper’s toys, glossy magazines, empty Evian water bottles, Harlequin romance novels, discarded damp towels and dirty clothes to boot everywhere - no grammatical error or pun intended.

  My redwood dressing table has a large oval mirror with full perfume bottles and empty ones, compact make-up, broken lipsticks, used Q-tips, two stained wine glasses with dregs, hairbrushes with dead hairs in the bristles, lipstick-smudged crumpled tissues, empty deodorant cans. But my tungsten wrought iron four-poster bed is where she found me in an equal mess… semiconscious.

  My bed dipped one side as she sat at the edge and roused me from sleep. “Sac, Sac,” she said softly, “wake up.”

  Startled, furious, groggy, I chose to ignore her.

  She stood up abruptly, leaving me to wobble on the box springs.

  I so wanted to cry.

  She pulled open the velvet yellow drapes causing me to squint hard. My bedroom must have smelt real funky than usual because the next thing she did was fling open the windows letting fresh air in, at the same time, the damn birds made a racket with their ridiculous birdsong.

  She sat down on the bed again, depressing it so low, this time; I rolled and crashed into her.

  Then, the gall!

  She had the gall to try and pull the sheet off me.

  I snatched it away, deeply annoyed at the early morning intrusion and fell back into a deep oblivion.

  But the woman was relentless.

  She shook me by the shoulder.  “Come on Sac, let’s go for a jog.”

  I found the declaration a bit odd, because am the one that did the jogging and she is the one that did the eating. In fact, as I mentioned earlier, she abhors any form of physical exertion. She will not even swim or play tennis and the facilities are right here on the premises. But today, for some unknown reason she wanted to go to the park to jog, determined to prove me wrong.

  The truth is, I had no intention to go jogging today. Not long ago, I had just come home drunk from nightclub hopping.

  “Come on Sac… you party animal,” she said, this time shaking me roughly.

  Slowly I opened my eyes to see the base of her white clad cotton ass. “Go away.” I grunted hoarsely from smokin
g one too many cancer sticks last night.

  From my bedside table, she offered me a glass of water and aspirins. “Take these, you’ll feel better in a minute.”

  “Raye. I’d feel better if you’d FUCK OFF and let me sleep.”

  I immediately pulled a face. My foul breath - a wicked mixture of alcohol, cigarettes and chemicals - made me quiver in my skin.

  “Come on Sac, take these and eat something. You’ll thank me later.”

  Usually, before I go out on my late-night binges I tend to transform my bedside tables into a mini kitchen counter and medicine cabinet, stocking up on hangover remedies. Anything from leftover pizza, assorted salami, Chinese food full of MSG - monosodium glutamate. Liters of fizzy drinks and bottles of mineral water were all within hands reach.

  From my horrible experiences, stumbling to the kitchen the next morning dehydrated, alcohol surging through my bloodstream, head spinning round and round like a tornado, my stomach churning like a washing machine on full cycle, was not my idea of after-party fun.

  “Come on you lush; get your ass in gear. Let’s go for a vigorous jog.”

  Fully pissed off, I propped myself up on my elbows and caught a dreadful sight. Littered across the carpet was my party clothes, underwear and black come-fuck-me-pumps. It was only then I realized I was stark naked.

  Foggy-brained, I wondered if I had entertained a lover.

  I performed a quick mental assessment of my physical body. And, mmm, there were no sore signs of forcible entry: vaginal or oral.

  Damn. Jesus. Damn. Am a born-again virgin with my hymen meld back.

  When did I become such a prude? It’s been months since I made love, which felt like fifteen lifetimes.

  I sat up with the sheet wrapped around me.

  Viper was all curled up on my red-lace, baby-doll nightie on the pillow next to me.

  After I swallowed the pills Raye had offered to me, I said, “am dying to know why you are so gung-ho about jogging this particular morning.”

  “It’s a beautiful day! I feel like getting the blood pumping before I drive to my parents for lunch.”

  “Excuse me… blood pumping… Since when?”

  She sniffed a wilted red rose she had picked up from the carpet. “Who gave you the dead flower?” envy laced her every word.

  “Some guy,” I said, without going into details.

  At the nightclub, a waiter had handed me the long-stemmed rose and a tumbler of Black Russian on the rocks: Kailua and milk on ice. He pointed to some guy across the club claiming to be a Russian visiting Toronto on an assignment.

  He was off the hook!

  Intrigued, excited, horny, I accepted it and went over to chat with him. I discovered he was of mixed heritage: African and Jew-Russian.

  He sounded and resembled a young Arnold Schwarzenegger with a tan. Although I could barely understand a word with the music thumping, I gaped at him with my mouth open. My girlfriend George nudged me in the ribs to tell me to close my mouth. But first, I had to haul my salivating tongue off the floor and stuffed it into my purse.

  Did I invite him back to my place?

  Was he in my bedroom, and stripped me naked?

  Did I foolishly say an affirmative, NO?

  No to oral sex even?

  Idiot.

  Okay, so finally I got up and stared at my reflection in my dressing-table mirror, aghast. My eyes were bloodshot; one side of my face was deeply imprinted from my pillowcase, make-up caked to my tanned skin, lips stained with tannin.

  I munched on a couple of prawn crackers to sop up the alcohol swilling there, then stuffed in a couple of dim sum and guzzled coke straight from the 2-liter bottle.

  While Raye volunteered to make my bed and tidy up, I took a quick shower. By the time I emerged with my towel around my body, she had gobbled up my hangover remedies and left the room.

  I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling.

  I got dressed into my jogging gear: lilac sports bra, green hooded sweatshirt, matching sweat bottoms wondering why it was so quiet. As I sat on the edge of the bed to Velcro my Nikes on my bare feet - I never wear socks because my feet got boiling hot - I called out her name in vain. I picked up my sunglasses and walked into the living room to see her out on balcony practically hanging over the wrought-iron railing, standing between the terracotta pots, looking down to the street.

  For some unfathomable reason, she did a rapid clap of her hands, then, moved to the right as if she was tracking or watching someone or something.

  When she turned around and saw me standing there, watching her, she jumped in surprise. She stepped inside flushed, hiding a masticated-wad of my food in her fat cheek.

  I gave her a suspicious look. “What was that about?”

  She swallowed hard. “Nothing.”

  “Who’s down there?”

   “Nobody.”

  The veins in my temples pulsated stronger. “Why were you clapping? I saw you clapping.”

  “No reason,” she said, obstinately evasive, then said, “all set?” changing the subject.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Two»

  After a good five minutes of limbering up, Raye gets to her feet, brushes the earth from her ass, checks her white wristwatch, and then looks to the park entrance. “Are we ready to rock? Are we ready to roll?” she asks, as though she is anxious to begin jogging.

  I get a sudden impulse to explode with laughter. Am tempted to say, am ready to rock; you’re ready to roll, but I decide to spare her my wicked wit. “Yeah, let’s do it,”

  I jump up to my five foot six height energetically and pull my green hood over my head. My vanity knows no bounds: hood and dark glasses give this diva chick an air of mystery. We step onto the tree-lined path and, side by side, we begin our five-mile jog. But of course, twenty strides later, Raye has fallen way behind me.

  Not surprising though.

  Am fit. She’s fat. Dur.

  Pumping my arms, getting into the zone, I feel like Rocky Balboa the boxer, in training for his next fight. Except my pert breasts wriggle around on my chest; distracting my focus. I need to buy a new sports bra.

  As the endorphins kicks in, I hear the theme tune, the one bar, from the movie, reiterates in my ear. It makes me feel alive and energetic. For me jogging has always been a form of mental cleansing. And where my head is at right now, I do not have the mental strength for chin wagging with Raye and jogging at the same time. At least now I can think in peace.

  Only God knows I‘ve been feeling dead inside lately, as if I have been gutted like a wet fish. Normally these dark funks would kick in during the dead of winter, having to deal with unbearable minus degree Celsius, chilling winds… brrh! Chilblains, frozen lips, ten toes like stubs of ice in my in high-heeled winter boots, slipping and sliding on thin ice and on the brink of suicide.

  If I could hibernate in the innermost core of the sun, I would. Once winter changed to spring, my depression would disperse and disappear without me even noticing. Here it is mid-July, and I still feel like a crock of shit. Angst has become a major part of my everyday life. Heaven knows I do my utmost best to challenge this doom and gloom attitude… try to think positive thoughts, be more optimistic. But I feel as though am experiencing mid-life crisis in my mid-twenties. This prolonged psychological hell is affecting my once attractive personality.

  My beef is this: most young people are in their gap year thinking of their lifelong careers while scaling the Great Walls of China; backpacking through the barren outback of Australia, or in some strawberry field picking brilliant red strawberries in some foreign exotic climate, bantering on incessantly only God knows about what. Come September they’ll be back at university or college, studying some form of academia; some doing their final term, then graduating with high honors from prestigious institutions like Dalhousie, McGill or Queens. The next thing you know, with Stella education under their belts, they’re ascending at light-speed in a state-of-the-art elevator to convince some top-
notch executive in some swank office - panoramic view and all - why they deserved a top-notch job in a sky-view-high-tech-office.

  Of course, no, was not an option. Convinced, the impressed executive offers a nice deal: an astronomical salary with fringe benefits package. Suddenly these ambitious go-getters are able to conjure up great futures: sprawling properties, member of a country club, an equally successful spouse, screaming little bastards looked after by Swedish nannies, not to mention the three long vacations a year.

  Me, my life has been a series of static bullshit since I absconded from home around ten years ago. Don’t get me wrong, am not envious of my peers per say. I grew up with the same kind of traditional values as the next guy. My parents instilled in me, knowledge is power, seek and ye shall find. Still, I do not have a clue what to do with my future. My journey began a twenty-five years ago, a quarter of a century ago, and I still don’t know my destination.

  During my final year in high school, grade twelve, I spoke with my guidance counselor about my future, hoping she could inspire me. The weasel-faced woman sat on the edge of her desk and said, ‘well, first, you’ve got the basic education, now it’s only a matter of choosing something that you love. A young mind is a terrible thing to waste. So follow your heart, Sacrine; listen to your intuition, the whispers.’

  As I sat listening to her, I nodded as if I had Parkinson’s disease, expressionless. I tightened my lips when I felt a yawn coming on. When she was done, I thanked her kindly and left.

  Standing outside her door, I thought, what kind of psycho babble was that? I mean, come on… what whispers.

  Why whisper.

  Speak up!

  Is life some sort of game?

  Some sort of sick joke?

  Intuition.

  Follow your heart.

  What a load of cliché shit.

  Raye once said am pathetic when I moan about my future: slim pretty girls like me have it made.

  Yeah, right.

  I wish.

  I guess I do get a kick out of wallowing in my miseries. It is my excuse to wallow in drink and consume damn-good mind-bending drugs.

  Once on the edge of despair, I visited a psychic on Queen Street West in a quest to seek my destiny. After gulping insipid black tea, I noticed the dregs clumped at the bottom of my little white cup.

  Stuck.

  Just like my life lately.

  I did not need Mystic Mable’s psychic powers to state the obvious. But over time, desperate for answers, I’ve had every conceivable reading done: tarot, numerology, palmistry, crystal balls, runes, astrology, aura, teacups - nothing has yet to materialize.

  Pffft, a bunch of fucking charlatans.

  I continued the drudgery of my life flipping burgers at McDonalds, peddled drugs-fed deep-fried chicken out of the red K. Then I moved up the ladder to working in five-star hotels dotted around the city: Park Plaza Hotel, Hilton, and Hyatt Regency. Presently, I work as a cocktail waitress at the Royal York hotel on the Esplanade, yards away from the Rogers Centre, just a stone throw from the elegant CN Tower. I do thank my blessings. If these landmarks were not erected, perhaps, Toronto would never have been on the map. And God forbid, I’d probably be out of a job living life back on the mean streets drinking piss-warm wine concealed in a wrinkled brown paper bag.

  My cocktail lounge is like a huge solarium. An evergreen tree stands dead center. Sunlight filters through the dense foliage as I served light snacks and cocktails to egotistical business people, especially pompous, loud mouthed American tourists. Sometimes these fat-assed Americans demand food from the restaurant’s menu adjacent to my lounge. If it were a slow day, this would not bother me so much and would grab a menu and offer it to them. But lately, ravaged in personal turmoil, I’d say, “sorry sir, but you have to take a seat in the restaurant to be served off that menu.”

  They would become arrogant and say, just do as your told young lady.

  I would become feisty, giving them back, backchat, mocking their stupid accents.

  I have asked myself often, what the hell is my ultimate purpose here on earth? Why don’t I  have the slightest inclination?

  Perhaps this is how God intended it to be for me, just a rolling stone, gathering nothing.

  I get annoyed reading about people who were born with flourishing talents and are able to progress throughout life. Even kids raised in the worst possible experiences are able to make a name for themselves doing something spectacular with their lives. I despise it even more reading about the ongoing personal lives of celebrities; the likes of J Lo, Paltrow, and their ilk who all proclaim with mirth, how they knew exactly what they wanted to achieve from an early age and worked formidably toward their goals.

  I despise them all. At their smug award ceremonies, they all want to thank God first and foremost.

  Hell-low!

   Excuse me!

  It just terrifies me to think that God, the omnipotent one, sits up there in the vast stretch of blue sky, decked out in his magnificent crown, wallowing in his almighty glory, playing a never-ending game of chess with peoples’ lives. Who should be the pawn and who should be the bishop. Who should be King, and who should be Queen. Who should have access to clean water. Who should not. What about me! What the hell did I get? Where the hell is my Goddam God-given talents?

  When I shut my eyes in bed at nights, I would think perhaps there is no God. Perhaps we are left to our own devices. And if truth be told, spiritual deterioration has happened some time now; atheism frequently beckons me.

  Oh, My, God, sweet eye candy has just jogged by me and has given me the will to persevere.

  Okay.

  All right, all right.

  Quit the bullshit, Sac.

  Let’s get real here.

  I came to Earth to party. Woohoo!

  I belong to the world of party animals and, when I think of it, it’s not such a bad existence. Am what you may call a social butterfly. Some weekends my three-besttest friends: Shilpa, Virna-Lisa and George, arrive at my place travelling with their party clothes to have a girlie-get-ready for our night out. With drum and base blaring on my stereo, we sip decent red wine, shoot the shit while we apply each other’s make-up, and do-up each other’s hair.

  On one occasion, George told us about her painful Brazilian wax at a beauty spa when this Malaysian girl ripped the wax paper away from her already sore vagina, and her leg shot up and knocked the poor girl out cold.

  We laughed so hard until black tears spilled down our cheeks. We had to cross our legs so we would not pee ourselves. Each one of  us had to redo our foundation and mascara.

  After dressing in designer wear, we would head out to our favorite meat market nightclub downtown, tipsy. And the best part of it all, we never pay a cover charge. We are well known to practically all bouncers around the city.

  I, we, indulge in all the wicked temptations that comes with partying: smoke weed, snort coke, and swallow pink bunnies. On the dance floor, we wave our hands in the air like we just don’t care when we hear our favorite drum & base mix. We bump-and-grind with horny hot-blooded guys, their iron bulge bumping against our hips, our crotch. If am really whacked out of my head, I’d find a table to stand on and gyrate under the psychedelic lights like a classless exotic stripper. When the drugs kick in, I’d wig out like my cat Viper after snorting catnip, making a total fool of myself. Even in my state, am fully aware of the greaseball cadaver dogs just waiting to pounce and take advantage if I pass out.

  When Mr. Deejay announces “last call for alcohol,” we down shooters one after the other, all ending up on my credit card.

  The following morning, I’d wake up feeling like a plastic bag of dog shit. I’d swear on my mother’s life that I would never drink again.

  Ever!

  But come Thursday, I’d break my vow of sobriety. Sobriety has been my New Year’s resolution for five consecutive years. Usually, the following day I’d burst my brain trying to recall if I did anything vulgar... anyth
ing I should be ashamed of, but nothing ever springs to mind.

  Convenient temporary amnesia, I had self-diagnosed myself.

  With my saturated brain throbbing in my fragile skull, I literally crawl out of bed, doubled over at a forty-five degree angle, hauling my sorry ass to my living room and crash on the sofa. I’d phone my posse to see how they were doing. But really, am dreading to hear one say, I can’t believe you did that last night! What the hell were you thinking? But not one of them ever had, perhaps waiting for me to chastise them for their lewd behavior.

  When am not sleeping off a beast of a hangover, am at Gold’s gym, religiously, doing a variety of classes, then I’d enter the weight’s room and get down & dirty with finely honed, self-obsessed men.

  Or, I’d shop on impulse, blowing my salary, maxing out my credit cards, keeping up with the latest trend. Most times my eyes would pop wide open in shock horror after checking the ridiculous price tags. Then I’d take one look at the shop assistant hovering with that ubiquitous snooty look, and all of a sudden, I can afford everything. I’d stride with my arms full of gorgeous clothes to the till, sweating profusely. God knows I can barely keep up the monthly credit card payments with extortionate interest rates.

  Payday means to me, pay back.

  Some of my gorgeous acquaintances live glamorous lives. Their talents are well practiced in pretentiousness and promiscuity. They lunched in must-seen places using their womanly wiles to seduce uber-cool sugar Daddies with liver spots on the back of their bejewelled hands. The next thing you know, they are living a lifestyle of luxury going on impromptu vacations: Vegas, Grand Canyon, breakfast at Tiffany’s, shopping at Macy’s, or, off to Rodeo Drive in Beverley Hills to shop… till he’d drop.

  When I think of these women copulating with these old prunes - their scrotum dangling by their ankles - giving their old fellow fellatio, I vehemently gag.

  I mean, that is just sick.

  I don’t know if I could make a career stooping so low for my bread and butter. But I suppose they’re setting themselves up for the unknown future.

  My jolly fat friend Raye has a fabulous career, albeit, a glorified seamstress, designing fancy clothes for greedy women. During her lengthy market research, she had discovered a niche in the market, hardly any competition for bespoke clothes for the metabolically challenged. And now, with her fat toes barely in the water, she considers herself an entrepreneur. She adores the word entrepreneur: a person who undertakes an enterprise or business adventure with the chance of a profit or loss.

  I had to look up the word, entrepreneur in the dictionary. Wasn’t even a part of my vocabulary. Raye brags that when her clientele grows, spinning out greater profits, she’ll expand her label across the galaxy.

  Hmm, talk about an idealistic idiot!

  No, seriously, I really do admire her courage and pure determination.

  Bitch.

  Okay. Okay.

  I admit, am a bit jealous of her success.

  Ah, to hell with it… perhaps am afraid of my own success. Perhaps I enjoy being a total flunky. Anyway, am still young. I have plenty of time to carve out a career for myself and make plenty of money.

  Thinking of Raye… where the hell is she?

  A bead of sweat trickles into my left eye.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Three»

  I slow down on the curving path, cricking my neck to look over my shoulder - I should point out, cutting off vital blood flow. I see no sign of her.

  I decide to do a U-turn.

  More joggers are out now. A lot of familiar faces, but I don’t know any of them well enough to give a nod to. Three minutes or so, in the distance, through striding legs, I see Raye squatting on the path. She’s pretending to tie the laces on her runners. It’s one of her tricks: stall tactics to avoid jogging.

  I don't know why she even bothers.

  As I slow to a walking pace, I feel a bead of sweat snake down my spine.

  “Raye, are you unaware that Velcro has been introduced into our civilization over two decades ago?” I say in uneven breaths.

  “Oh Sac,” she says, grabbing my wrist with an excruciating expression on her face. “My knees hurt; my back’s out of whack. The back of my calves feels like lead.” She rubs her left calve theatrically. “My Achilles heel keeps going into spasms,” she says almost close to tears.

  What is wrong with this unfit madwoman? “Achilles heel?” I say an octave higher, attracting the attention of a hunk jogging by us; his sandy-blond hair flops against his tanned, rugged forehead. Ooh, what sweet pleasure. I twist from my waist to gape at him for a moment. To Raye. “You mean, Achilles tendon, woman.” I twist from my waist again to check out his firm, magnificent bum-cheeks taking turns going up and down in his pale blue shorts. Be still my beating heart. I turn back to my flagging, out of commission friend. “Jesus Raye, get the fuck up! You’re blocking the path. People who are serious about jogging have to run around you.”

  An attractive couple roller-skating, release hands and split to either one side of us. Not far behind a pretty honey-blonde chick in an Alice band, full make-up and the shortest pink shorts, runs at top speed, pumping her arms, doing a good impression of that British runner, Paula Radcliffe with the wobbly head.

  Serious jogging business going on with her then.

  I look down at Raye realizing she does not have the strength or the will or the stamina to go on. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell her. “Go wait in the car.”

  “I can’t bail on you now, Sac,” she says all pitifully. “I got you out here…” She is right about that! “…might as well finish.”

   “Let’s face it Raye, finish because you have liters of fat to burn trapped around your body, not to mention clogging up your arteries.” It sounds as if I care about Raye’s anatomy.

  NOT REALLY!

  Just great, she plunks her ass to the ground, looks at her watch, and then does a slow scan of scenery behind her.

  Who the hell is she searching for? I wonder, but I cannot be bothered to ask.

  “Go!” She flicks her wrist at me. “Go, I’ll come in a minute.”

  As I turn back down the path, I lose my footing, almost tripping over someone’s dolled-up black poodle. I steady myself before my palms skid against the asphalt. The poodle looks up at me with spaceship brown eyes, yapping and wagging its tail with vigor. I cannot believe it; the thing expects me to pet him.

  Yeah, right!

  Can he not scent that am a cat woman.

  Stupid mutt.

  I resist the temptation to kick it like a football right out of the park. “Go away… shoo,” I say, motioning with a hand. I look around for the owner who thinks this pampered poodle is so adorable that he, or she, has let it loose on the inhabitants of the park. My eyes swivel like a security camera from one side of the path to the other. I just want to show the owner a stiff middle finger. “There’s the electric-pink spandex bitch with the empty leash!” I whisper to myself. I feel like marching over and wrap the leash around her stupid neck.

  “Control your dwarf dog!” I yell. But she is out of earshot.

  I meant to say, daft dog, but, dwarf, is a good description as any other.

  After a good few strides, I look over my shoulder to survey the winding path for Raye. She is nowhere in sight. That five-foot-three dough girl cannot move her fat butt.

  Behind her back, I often refer to her as Buddha Belly or Carbo Freak to my friends. She is forever in Jean’s haunting the joint, saying, “I’ll have four of those ones and two of those sugar coated ones, yeah and those ones speckled with chocolate flakes.”

  She is especially fond of jam balls with red jelly oozing slowly from the center, going hmm, hmm, as she bit into one… as if donut and woman are sharing a climatic orgasm.

  Jean adores Raye. She keeps her in business all year round.

  The woman pigs out on donuts as if they are the only food sanctimonious Jesus, standing on the banks of Galilee, pr
ovided after fish. When the bakery is shut, she substitutes donuts with heavily buttered Kaisers smothered in strawberry jam.

  Okay, let me make this crystal clear, I do like fat people, regardless of what I’ve mentioned before. People are people, all with unique infliction. Although most fat people will tell you emphatically that they have thyroid problems and nothing to do with greed. Regardless, I do love Raye Dawkins. She is good people with a fantastic personality. She makes me laugh when she is in a good mood.

  The very first time I came face-to-face with her was on the elevator in our building. Five minutes earlier, this hunk in a red Mercedes had pulled up by the curb outside our building and handed me his business card with his digits. He made me solemnly swear to call him. It was only as he drove off I realized he went to my gym. Matts Hermansson, my Swedish bench spotter.

  Anyhow, as I stepped on the lift, putting his fingers in my cell phone, a copy of Marie Claire magazine slid from under my armpit. This strange woman bustled to pick it up, putting back all the loose leaflets inside that had fallen out

  “Hi, I’m Raye,” she said, handing me my magazine with a huge smile on her face. “We live on the same floor.”

  ‘Hi,’ I said reluctantly. My first impression was... lesbian-stalker or a serious brown noser. My eyes swept over her plump face framed by sharp brunette fringe. She had stuffed her fat self in an all white expensive looking outfit.

  I thought to myself, how I could have missed you.

  “Oh, hi neighbor,” I said as friendly as I could muster.

  She had invited me back to her place for drinks, sealing our budding friendship. She did not have to twist my arm. The idea of free booze was the clinching factor, then staggering the few steps down the corridor to my own bed, fantastic.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Four»

  As I reach the first milepost, Old man Chesney, sits all by himself on the sun-baked old oak bench, broiling in the sun.

  Again.

  No wonder he has a weathered face like leather. His nose is as red as a rooster's comb and sharp as its beak. He has a small wrinkly mouth as if he has spent his entire life sucking on lemons. He always wears the same old clothes: an ecru turtleneck sweater under an ecru stretched-out cardigan.

  I guess old-timers feel a chill despite the torrid heat. It’s no wonder he smells so ripe. A few times, I slipped and called him, Mr. Cheesy. Not only does he look frowzy, he smells like gorgonzola.

  Feeling beads of sweat trickling past my ears, I jog over to him. It’s become a habit ever since the time I had to wait for a snail-paced Raye and shared a corner of the bench with him. “How you doing?” I had said back then, before I sat down.

  “I’m fed up of being on my own,” the old man said sullenly.

  I got all choked up, shocked by his brute honesty.

  It is horrible how the geriatric generation becomes invisible to the world. Since then I have grown sympathetic toward this septuagenarian. Every time I jog now, I sit and chitchat with him.

  “Hi Mr. Chesney,” I say, feeling another bead of sweat roll down my temples.

  Mr. Chesney looks in my direction. “Hello young Sacrine,” he says smiling. “Where were you yesterday young lady?”

  I sit down beside him. “You should know me by now Mr. Chesney, always nursing a weekend hangover.”

  “You young people drink too much,” he says in a shaky voice. “In my day we drank for simple pleasures. These days, young people feel it is all right, funny even, to fall down drunk on the sidewalk. I do have grandchildren the same age as you, I know.”

  I sense a lecture coming on. To appear as if I’m listening, I summon up my best plastic smile and tune him out. I take in the jogger’s faces as they stomp by, wondering if jogging is a cathartic experience for them as well - a sort of meditation.

  The church bell strikes ten.

  Some way off, across the vast green I can see a man walking in quick strides toward the white-bricked Curling Club. The man keeps looking over his shoulder nervously without breaking stride.

  The only reason I noticed him is; he’s wearing a dark suit on such a hot morning, and carrying a dark briefcase. Normally, you see people carrying baseballs and baseball bats, blankets and hampers, Frisbee, boomerangs… not briefcases.

   Is he the same guy I saw on the sidewalk on the way here? He keeps looking over his shoulders as if he’s being pursued.

  I straighten my spine to scope the grounds for any suspicious characters following him. But I cannot see anyone following him.

  To be honest, this man arouses my curiosity. I observe him from behind my shades like a one woman, vigilante unit, every one of my senses gears up.

  Raye had often joked that am the nosiest person she had ever met and that I would make a great spy for the CIA.

  A career option, I guess.

  The man stops by a garbage-can, and looks around nervously.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  “What was that dear?” splutters Mr. Chesney.

  “See that man over there, Mr. Chesney,” I say, pointing with my chin.

  The guy in the suit by the garbage-can.”

  Old man Chesney squints his sunken eyes. “No. I’m afraid my eyesight isn’t as good as they use to…”

  “One minute, Mr. Chesney.” I stand up and stroll over to the water fountain under a shady tree, keeping an eye on the man. I bend over the silver basin, twist the shiny chrome knob and sip some water. As I do so, I flick my curious eyes to the suspicious man still hovering by the garbage-can. He does a last surveillance of the park, then slips the briefcase inside.

  My jaw drops open, water dribbles off my chin. “Uh.” Half-expelled carbon dioxide catches in my throat. It crosses my mind that terrorists do shit like that: plant bombs out to cause carnage and horrific pain. This man is a well-dressed terrorist. They will use any guise to destroy the lives of innocent people.

  But why Griffith Park?

  Why my park? is the pertinent question.

  Get a grip of yourself, Sac.

  A terrorist in Griffith Park!

   A terrorist in the suburbs of Toronto!

  The suspicious man walks away quickly, probably expecting the briefcase to detonate any minute. He waves at a civil servant mowing the grass in a sky-blue truck, an orange light flashes on top sporadically. The civil servant waves back.

   Is he in on it?

  Is that a special signal?

   An indecipherable code?

  Or is he just being polite and it’s just a simple wave?

  The man heads to the far exit of the park, passing the chain-link fence of the playground and out of sight.

  I stare at the garbage-can expecting it to explode.

  Do I shout bomb? Or run around waving my arms in the air - point at the garbage-can and yell bomb? Get out of here quickly! BOMB!

  Or do I call 911?

  Of course, my mind creates a brief dialogue of doubt.

  Operator: What’s your emergency?

  I just saw a man put a briefcase in the garbage-can in Griffith Park in Etobicoke.

  What’s the emergency ma’am?

  There could be a bomb inside! A massive bomb!

  What could be a massive bomb, ma’am?

  The briefcase. Dur

  Is this a prank, ma’am?

  No. We’re living in terrorist times.

  Ma’am, you could be arrested and charged for wasting police time.

  Sorry operator, I’ll call back after it explodes and kill everyone in the park!

  That would be a good time to call ma’am. If it explodes. BOOM.

  I imagine, slamming down the phone.

  Raye comes tearing up the asphalt like the Roadrunner, soles smacking the hot concrete. What the fa…! Is the stray poodle chasing her, I think, and look behind her to see.

  Nothing.

  As a streetwise bullshitter, I limp toward her striving to think of a convincing lie hoping she will fetch the briefcase for
me. All I need is a little imagination and brilliant improvisation on the spot.

  She doubles over with her hands on her thighs to catch her breath back, as if she had just run a 10K marathon. She looks up at me panting; brows wrinkled in confusion, and then look over to the bench where I was sitting with Mr Chesney. Her eyes skip back and forth as if looking for something in particular.

  “What?” I ask bluntly.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  Still bending over, she turns her head, her eyes alive and darting around, surveying the scene behind her. This time it’s as though she’s searching for someone.

  “Raye, Raye.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Remember I told you about my friend whose husband was beating her, practically on a daily basis.”

  She studies me seriously. “No.”

  “Oh! I thought I did. Anyway, I was supposed to meet her here today so she could secretly hand me a briefcase with evidence to pass on to her lawyer. She suggested if I wasn’t here on time, she would put it in that garbage-can over there. Do me a favor, be a doll and get it for me.”

  To me, the request, my ad-lib words, sounds asinine.

  She straightens up and gives me a fierce suspicious look. “What!” She wipes her forehead in her sleeve. “What friend? What briefcase? Why don’t you get it yourself?”

  I fake a limp, and grab a hold of her flabby arm for support.

  She looks down at my foot. “What did you do to your foot?”

  “Oh! I twisted my ankle. I can’t put any weight on it.” I hop. “And shit, am working tonight. Please, can you just get it for me?”

  She looks over to the garbage-can in question. “Let me get this clear. You want me to scavenge through a disgusting garbage-can for a briefcase. Me, clean-freak Dawkins.”

  I chuckle, acknowledging the absurdity. “Scavenge?” I forge on. “Who’s asking you to scavenge? Look how remote it is. Do you think people would be bothered to traipse all the way over there to put disgusting things in it? That’s the reason why my friend suggested that particular one.”

  Jesus, I cannot believe the shit coming out of my mouth, feeding her my inventive drivel.

  Raye seems so nervous; she keeps surveying the park over her shoulders.

  “C’mon. Are you going to get it for me, or not?”

  “Not.”

  “Fine. Forget it.” I throw up one hand in defeat, almost grazing her fat cheek by inches with my extended talons.  Am so pissed off I missed. I seriously wanted to do her some damage. “It’s the last time I ask you for a favor!” I say, piling on the guilt.

  I limp toward Mr. Chesney.

  “Sacrine!”

  I twist back to her on one foot. “What!”

  “Aren’t you going to get it? I thought this was so important.”

  “When am good and ready.”

  «Chapter Thirty Five»

  Playing a damsel in distress with my sprained ankle, I hold the back of the bench, sit down next old man Chesney and watch Raye stare at her wristwatch for ages.

  “Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go,” she shouts.

  Sweet music to my ears.

  She throws me a nervous glance back over her shoulder.

  I wave a hand through the air motioning her to go.

  She checks up and down the path again like someone up to no good. Am so worried she’ll chicken out.

  Beside me, Mr. Chesney hoists an arm and scratches his dank armpit with his thin decrepit fingers for a good ten seconds.

  Jesus Christ!

  What a stench! It must be prickling with live bacteria.

  Just the mere thought makes my mouth water. I turn my head away and spit discretely on the grass.

  Un-lady like, I know, but I could not swallow.

  I shuffle a smidgen down the bench and watch Raye wobble over to the garbage-can. Her white elbows are grass-stained, so is her white legging riding up between her butt cheeks outlining the exact shape of her flat flabby ass.

  I chuckle to myself, thinking, how embarrassing for her.

  She checks her wristwatch… again.

  Judas Priest! I know she has to be at her parents’ house for the ritual Sunday grub, but the amount of time she has checked the time is getting a little ridiculous. She does a little jog now, reaches the garbage-can and peers in.

  She hovers…, hovers…, and hovers as if she cannot believe her eyes.

   In my mind am compelling her to do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

  At last, she dips her hand in and lifts the briefcase out in full view.

  I squint, squirm, and shiver, waiting to hear a major explosion, seeing her disintegrate into a trillion, million pieces, a splintered thigh bone sticking out of the deep green earth.

  Better her than me.

  It's called self-preservation, not wicked.

  I truly do have great affection for my friend Raye.

  Somewhere deep in the tall trees a dog barks four times at something. It gets Raye moving. She jogs a little while managing to duck a soaring Frisbee going straight for her head.

  It’s a battleground out there!

  “Come Mis-tah Philip,” comes a heavily accented voice from behind me. “It’s time to go, time for your medication.”

  “There you are, Abi,” says old man Chesney, without looking behind him.

  As he reaches for his metallic walking stick leaning against the bench, I turn to see a tall, thin, blue-black African young woman in a pale blue print dress. She looks as though she has just stepped off the front cover of a National Geography magazine. Under a scary Jheri-Curl burgundy wig, her face gleams with sweat. Both cheeks etched in tribal scars.

  Am thinking, ouch, that must have hurt.

  She stares at me suspiciously as if Mr. Chesney had given her detailed account of my weekend antics. But she cannot see my eyes through my opaque shades.

  She gives me a faint smile.

  I give her a tight one right back.

  “Well, young lady, I must be off.” Mr. Chesney strokes my thigh with his translucent, liver spotted hand. God, I hate it when he does that; it gives me the creeps. “Time to be fed my pills.”

   I grab his elbow; help him to his feet as he gets up very slowly. “Life of the elderly, instead of nutritional food, I’m hand-fed synthetic pills to sustain my life.”

  “I’d enjoy them Mr. Chesney. Drugs are good when life seems like sh…,” I say, my word trailing off in a whisper. I feel a surge of adrenaline when Raye is fifteen feet away from me with the black briefcase. Her plump face is as pale as Dracula’s bride, and she has an embarrassing camel toe to boot. The chick should join a roving circus of freaks and charge a fee for people to see her. She would make a killing! See here! See here! Come see the jolly fat lady with long white hair like a witch and an amazing camel toe!

  “I will bye dear,” says Mr. Chesney.

  Mr Chesney leans on his stick and the African woman guides him by the elbow down a well-trodden footpath. He once informed me that he resides in an old people’s home, a place called, Sleepy Meadows, just beyond the dense jungle of trees.

  I turn to see Raye smiling deliriously at me. My stomach does a flip as she surveys the park, eyes darting about the place. Perhaps she senses what I’ve asked her to do is wrong.

  “Here you go.” She hands me the briefcase.

  I take the black leather briefcase from her hands as if she were handing me unearthed buried treasure. “Thank you so much, Raye,” I say, my pulse quickening, my eyes glinting. It’s warm to the touch and heavier than I expected.

  Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I rest it flat on my lap.

  I stare at it as if it has me in a trance.

  What the hell do I have here?

  “So what’s inside?” asks Raye, resting her sedentary rump beside me.

  “Inside?” I rack my brain for a sane answer. “Um, um, some incriminating evidence some slimy undercover detective took of my friend’s husband's seedy affair. I suspect lewd pictures of him
in the arms of a gay lover. Documentation with names, dates, hotels, times, video tapes, stuff like that.”

  Raye tosses back her head and laughs out loud. “You sure about that?”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that your little story sounds bogus. First, he’s a controlling wife beater, and now he’s gay.”

  I give her a sidelong glance. “Obviously he’s leading a double life.”

  “Obviously.” She chuckles. “So what does this friend expect you to do with the briefcase?”

  “Hand it in her lawyer’s office.”

  “I’m not a complete idiot, you know, Sac.”

  “I never said you were.” I furrow my brows. “Anyway, what’s with the sudden interest?”

  “Isn’t it a bit heavy to be a few pictures, incriminating documents?”

  Aren’t you a bit heavy to be sitting on your flabby ass? Shouldn’t you be out there jogging, melting some fat?

  Man, the phrases I edit to say this chick, I could reduce her to a flood of tears. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

  “How come you didn’t mention this earlier?”

  “It never crossed my mind that you’d be interested!” I can feel her eyes scrutinizing my deceitful face with intensity. But how can I possibly know what’s inside until I get home and pry this sucker open. “Can I borrow one of your sweatshirts?”

  “My sweatshirt... what for?” she asks sharply.

  «Chapter Thirty Six»

  I had experienced that same panicked tone during one of our fierce spats. Let me take you back this particular Thursday evening five months ago. I had just arrived home after a long day shift. That day at work, as a trial, we served a buffet style continental breakfast from five until ten. Then the usual lunch shift from eleven thirty until three. Therefore, I’d been busy running around flat out all day. My legs were throbbing like mad. All I wanted to do was put my feet up; treat myself to a nice glass of wine and flake out on the sofa with Viper when my doorbell rang.

  I opened the door to complete, utter shock that my mouth fell open. Raye had her beautiful brunette hair bleached a platinum blonde. She looked pale and morbidly depressed, hanging her head low like some abandoned manky puppy given a complete makeover.

  “Oh Christ Raye, what has the adventurous Rupert done to you now?” I asked, examining her radical bleached tresses.

  “What?” She touched her hair. “No, I like my hair.”

  “Then why do you look as though you’ve just been given a death sentence.”

  “Sac, please, can I come in? I need to talk.”

  Truthfully, I was not in the mood for her at all. I wouldn’t mind listening to her histrionic woes if she did not have this self-absorbed personality. “Look, I’ve just arrived from a hectic day shift.”

  “I won’t stay long, I promise.”

  I sighed and opened the door wider. What else are friends for, eh?

  She sidestepped me, walked straight over the sliding glass doors to the balcony and pulled it wide-open allowing fresh air in. Viper’s litter tray provided the fragrance of my living room space. He was curled up on the sofa fast asleep or pretending to be. Sometimes, out of sheer curiosity, he’d open one eye languidly to take in the scene.

  Raye dumped herself down in my armchair and scanned my mess with a look of disdain on her face, perhaps thinking, what an incorrigible, disgusting slob of a woman I am.

  But it wasn’t that bad. A single silk black stocking draped over the dining-table chair; God only knows where the other one was. On the dining table were plates with caked on, dried-up food, lipstick stained glasses with fruit smoothie residue, toenail clippings buried in my dhurrie carpet, not to mention a layer of cat hairs muting the color. There were wilting potted plants, smudges on the television screen and hi fi stereo, sticky smudges on the handle of the sliding door to the patio.

   Big deal.

  On my list of priorities, housework is not even on it anywhere. If I did not have to do double shifts just to live in a nice area, perhaps then I’d be house-proud. Besides, there are no little green elves living behind my walls that sneak out and cleaned up while I slept. Those green midgets are alive in fairy tales of children’s storybooks.

  I had put on a CD, Melisa Ethridge’s, Hello, hello, this is Romeo, poured her some wine and topped-up my own glass. Her hand trembled as she gulped. Then, after a few seconds of silence, she recounted in painstaking detail about some guy she’d been dating in our building.

  I was totally dumbstruck. I had no idea she was seeing someone. I actually assumed she was the Virgin Mary’s twin sister… woven in rusty mesh-wire down there.

  “Finally, you met someone,” I said with genuine interest.

  She nodded stupidly.

  “So, where did you two meet?”

  “The underground parking lot.”

  “The underground parking lot. How romantic.”

  “Are you being facetious?”

  “No. Go on.”

  “You’ve probably seen him. He lives across the corridor from me.”

  “How old is he?” I asked out of curiosity. Andrew Redmond is the only young guy that lives on our wing, and Raye is far from his type.

  “Forty-five.”

  “This is juicy,” I said, even though I stifled an urge to puke.

  Forty-five! I mean Jesus, I thought, freaked-out.

  She said something about her engine stalling, him helping to get it started. Something about him being European: Italian heritage, olive skin, dark hair, charming, the usual Italian attributes. Yada. Yada. Yada.

  “So what happened next? You unzipped his fly, pulled his dick out and gave him a blow job,” I asked shamelessly, my puerile sense of humor emerging.

  Her cheeks went a hot pink.

  “Well, did you?” I teased.

  She glared at me. “You are one sick and twisted individual.”

  “Did he at least go down on you?”

  “Sac, I know you have loose morals, but I’m not a brazen hussy like you.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “That’s cold.” Then I put her straight. “Used to be. The operative words are, used to be. The only hot-blooded creature I share my bed with now is my cat Viper, oh, and my electric dilldo. The battery operated ones are ridiculous, always going dead in the middle of an or…”

  “Sac! You’re babbling.”

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “Can I finish?”

  I flicked my wrist for her to continue.

  “Anyway, I asked how I could repay him for getting my car started. He said, “make me dinner,” before we even introduced ourselves.”

  “So I guess you made him dinner?”

  “Sac, I almost died and went to heaven. I prepared my specialty…”

  “Raye, you can’t cook,” I said bluntly. “You’re package food, junk food Queen, remember.”

  “I managed to prepare him something edible.”

  “What? Donuts marinated in an apricot jelly sauce served with clotted cream and fried dumplings.” Needless to say, I was tipsy and being silly.

  “Are you finished?”

  “No. Pancakes soaked in hot butter, then drenched in Maple Syrup?”

  The look she gave me could kill.

  “Sorry.”

  “I prepared pasta in home-made sauce if you must know. We ate and chatted all evening.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “That night, no.” She lifted her glass to her lips and smiled into it. “We cuddled up along the sofa.” She put her hand softly along her throat. “He smothered me with butterfly kisses up and down my neck.”

  “Butterfly kisses? You mean like hickeys.”

  She nodded smugly.

  “How corny,” I said. “So what does he do?”

  “He’s an international business executive… travels a lot.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “He’s very vague about what type of business… and of himself for that matter. A com
plete enigma.”

  “How long have you been dating him?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “A little over a year,” I echoed. “And you didn’t tell me!” I sensed she was telling fat fibs. “And you have no idea what he does for a living?”

  “Nope.”

  “Raye, how can you sleep with someone for over a year and not know anything about them? I can understand one-night-standers, being deprived of one’s biography, history. Did you not possess the good sense to ask? Snoop around his apartment. Rifle through drawers or dig your hand deep into his pockets, see what comes out. What’s the matter with you? You’re crazy.”

  “You are so devious… maybe I should have,” she said chuckling into her wine.

  “That’s what I would have done, you stupid girl.”

  “You’d make a fantastic spy, Sac. Besides, snooping in drawers and poking in boyfriend’s pockets is violation of their privacy, not to mention, disrespectful.”

  “But at least you would know who you’re screwing.”

  “Sac, you are so tactless, besides, I love Eric to death. I don’t care what he does.”

  “Then what the hell do you guys talk about, eh?”

  “General, superficial stuff: current events, European football. He loves Real Madrid.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “It’s not a he, dumb dumb. It’s a football team!”

  “Sor ree.”

  “He also started me into buying textiles, wholesale from overseas where it’s much cheaper.”

  “God, he sounds like a complete bore.”

  “Far from it. Although, he likes to talk about sex… a lot. I watched my first triple x porno with him.”

  “Perv… did it get the juices flowing?”

  “You know Sac; you have a one track dirty mind.”

  “Yeah, well… it’s been a while since I had some,” I confessed with sadness.

  “Get out of here! You! Nymphomaniac with capital letters!”

  “Like I said earlier, used to be. Am sick of soulless sex. Tired of one-night-stands. I want to meet someone where we share a deep connection… someone I can fall in love with. All I do is drool in lust. As am getting older, I want someone who’s going to treasure me, love me, you know…”

  “Oh, please Sac, you’re drunk, talking a lot of shit. Besides, it’s not like that with Eric. He’s affectionate, kind, passionate. He knows what a woman likes.”

  “How come you’ve never mentioned going on any dates with this guy. Like places you’ve been. Like weekend getaways… dinner parties... the movies. Sounds to me like your relationship is based on sex.”

  “It’s much more than that! He lets me know he loves me in ways no wife can imagine. Intimate ways. Whenever I’m cooking for him, or cleaning up, or doing his laundry, he comes up from behind and slides his arms around me, the next thing you know we’re at it. The only downside is at least three nights a week he leaves his bratty kid at my place. Sometimes I get stuck taking the brat to school.”

  “So he’s a single dad?”

  “The biggest downside. From the moment I laid eyes on the little brat, I could see in his eyes this instant dislike for me. He sticks his tongue out at me whenever I baby-sat. He trips me up and gives me a dead arm.”

  “A dead arm?”

  “One hard knuckle punch when you least expect it. Makes you lose all feelings.”

  “Like a sucker punch.”

  “Yeah. He practices Martial Arts, and uses me as an unsuspecting punch bag, and thinks it’s funny. I’ve done everything in my power to get him to like me.”

  “Hmm, sounds to me like you’re just a glorified babysitter, Raye. But hey, so what if you give the dad a bit on the side,” I said callously, without thinking.

  “We make love. I’m not just some… some side dish!”

  “Think about it, Raye. This guy sounds a bit risqué to me. You know absolutely nothing about him. You do his household chores. You babysit his bratty kid. He fucks you whenever he gets a hard on. And you have no idea if he’s out on the prowl in some lap dancing strip joint flirting with filthy whores while his obnoxious kid sleeps on your sofa. God knows what disease he’s passing on to you. I hope he wears condoms.”

  The look she gave me betrayed her. It told me he did not.

  I continued my spiel. “To me, this so-called relationship sounds one-sided.”

  “You don’t get it. He makes me feel special, sexy.”

  “You don’t get it! You’re more or less a doormat, a substitute wife, but no talk of commitment, or a ring.”

  Either Raye tuned me out or could not face the truth because she went on and on relentlessly trying to convince me otherwise. I wanted to play a sad tune on my air violin as she spoke. Anyone listening in could deduce she suffered with low self-esteem and self-pity.

  I stifled yawns and nodded in all the right places. Why could she not see that this man wanted sex on tap than a relationship? It was so obvious he was using her for her body. Someone had to point out the truth, and of course, being her best and only friend, I felt a strong sense of duty to be that someone. As I said earlier, what are friends for?

  “Mmm, so this is what’s been happening while I slave away on my night shifts. So why today? How come you didn’t tell me about him before now?”

  “He made me promise not to utter a word, you know, his estrange wife… his divorce coming up… I didn’t want to say anything until I knew we were serious… you know… feel secure in our relationship.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a relationship.”

  “You know Sac; you keep saying the most hurtful things.” Then out of the blue, she said, “He blew me off.”

  “What! Oh shit Raye, am sorry. When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Two days ago? Wasn’t that Valentine’s Day!”

  Raye nodded her reply. She bit her lips as she dug into her handbag and whipped out a tissue. She blew her fleshy pink nose with such ferocity, I imagined bits of brain matter in the white tissue. Then she sat hunched and toyed with the snotty tissue. “I thought he was going to ask me to marry him. Instead, he gave me the shock of my life. He sent an email saying, Sorry, we must end this… I must end this! Forgive me, Eric.

  “That’s all he wrote. No attempt at any excuses whatsoever.”

  “It was as if he stuck a knife through each chamber of my heart. He didn’t have the guts to end it face-to-face. After almost two years together, he broke up with me by email.”

  “But why so vague… so callous… so disrespectful?”

  She did not answer; she sniffed pathetically, gazing into her wine.

  “What a spineless toad!” I added.

  “I thought he had strong feelings for me.” She sniffed. “I still cannot believe it, he was everything to me, my friend, my companion.” She sniffed. “He made me feel special, encouraged me to fulfil my dreams. He said don’t give up no matter what, you know. And never once did he make me feel self-conscious about my weight.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “He said he adored my voluptuous figure and loved to watch me eat.”

  I watched a tear roll down her cheek and splashed into her wine.

  Then she said. “All the while he was playing me for such a fool, I was desperate to carry his baby. I feel like such an idiot, but I still love him.” She broke out in maudlin sobs, mournful sobbing that stirred up my own emotions. “I thought he loved me too.”

  I got up, stooped beside her armchair and patted the back of her hand.

  “There, there,” I said. “Get it out of your system.”

  Those words, there, there, belonged to my mother’s lips.

  Jesus, am brained washed, I thought.

  She withdrew her hand from mine, dragged it across her wet, snotty nose and gave it back to me. “I’m hurting so bad inside. Sometimes I think my heart's going to explode. I don’t know if I can go on.”

  “Listen babes, this resonates with me. I’ve been jilted before… big
time. I know what it feels like to have your heart torn from your chests. I donno, for some reason, first love always seems to hurt the most.”

  Seeing Raye in such a state brought back memories of my first dysfunctional one-sided relationship. Trust me; I do not go there with anyone… absolutely no one.

  Ashamed?

  Perhaps then.

  But not now though.

  I’ve learnt a lot about men since.

  Ok, here’s a glimpse.

  This proverbial tall, dark and handsome, twenty-three year old prick was a charming parasite. I met him after he played a basketball match. We chatted about me being a runaway. He seemed as if he sincerely cared about me and I fell for him like an idiot. First he broke my hymen, and then he broke my eighteen-year-old heart. After that, he was never around when I needed him, never took me out anywhere. I spent nights crying in bed till my eyeballs hurt. I nearly drowned in an ocean of my own salty tears.

  Then one day he turned up at my bedsit door unexpectedly.

  No flowers.

  No gift.

  No wine

  Nothing.

  The next thing you know he was sprawled on my couch telling me about his difficult circumstances in life, while drinking my bottle of Blue Nun. He borrowed $200.00 dollars, which he never paid back to this day. Before he left, he got me to give him head, a deep throat suck, came in my mouth, then vanished again without a trace.

  I was such an idiot back then.

  A sorry, stupid, naïve, rebellious teenager, lacking self-worth beyond belief.

  If I ran into the charming prick now, I would hawk up a gob of yellow phlegm and spew in his face.

  Breathe. Calm. Breathe.

  Oh, please, do not get me going.

  Bitter?

  Me?

  What do you think?

  Anyway, let me return to the sad saga of poor-me Raye.

  I squeezed her hand and said, “Raye, you’ve got to move on… for your own good. Put him behind you.”

  As she gulped more wine and refilled her glass, I struggled to get up from my crouching position. Pins and needles rampaged the back of my knees.

  I slipped my ass back on the sofa like a cripple getting into a wheelchair.

  Raye was so self-absorbed; she was oblivious to my struggle.

  I picked up my wine-glass and took a long sip. And as I sat there watching her, reading between the lines of her long, pity-me story, I had the impression that she was completely obsessed with this guy. I did not bother to mince my words.

  “Believe it or not Raye, but your happiness means a lot to me. But think about what you’ve just told me. This guy, he did you a big favor breaking up with you. You can’t see it now, but…”

  “What do you mean?” she interrupted, hysterically.

  “Raye, grow up! You were just a convenient fuck. He didn’t have to look at a map to find where to get laid. A hop, skip and a jump, and voila, he’s in your bed. I mean, do I have to spell it out. He was using you!”

  She jolted upright, spilling wine down her bejewelled fingers. “He was not using me,” she lashed back. “It’s his stupid kid!”

  “Okaaay.” I elongated the word for calming effect. “Quit blaming the boy for your misery. And even if he divorces his wife, I doubt he’s going to make another conjugal plunge and shack up with you and the boy. Get real, Raye. Quit wasting your time and energy on this loser.”

  The look on her red face was an intense rage. Rosemary’s Baby. Damien. The chick, Meagan, or was it, Reagan, whose head did a 360 degrees in The Exorcist, all came rushing to my mind. “Hey Raye, don’t go mental on me. But there are plenty more fish in the sea.”

  “I don’t want a fucking fish! I want Eric back!”

  “Raye,” I pleaded. “There are good guys out there who’ll respect you, reciprocate your love. It’s so painful to see you suffering from such a delusion… so fucking intense.

  “You know what Sac, FUCK OFF!”

  She stood clumsily, lumbered across my living room, flung the front door open and slammed it on her way out. I swear to God, I thought the nuts and bolts would come loose!

  I mean… psycho-bitch or what?

  Chris Bale, the character in the movie, American Psycho, the operative word being ‘movie’, popped into my head.

  I did not realize I had a real Canadian Psycho, a Bunny Boiler, residing on my floor. The woman is clearly insane. Certifiable! Multiple personalities!

  One of these days am going to show up at her apartment with a XXL straightjacket and a hypodermic needle with potent medication. When she opens the door, jab the needle in her fleshy arm and, when she goes down, apply the straight jacket then telephone Bellevue’s mental facility- actually, I prefer the terms, madhouse or lunatic asylum - and have her sectioned.

  Hell, you know what… why bother? I’ll just lock her in her apartment and throw away the key. It already looks like a contained, padded white space.

  Slowly… breathe in…. out …. again … in …. out …. again.

  Poor Raye. In retrospect, sympathy, compassion should have been my first instinct. The chick was already mentally disturbed, and did not need me rubbing salt in her wound.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Seven»

  A cyclist’s bell jolts me back to the present time.

  “What for? Be… because I want to wrap the briefcase in it. My hands are clammy and the leather is kinda slippery.” For visual effect, I slowly wipe my palms on the sides of my green sweat pants.

  “Good idea,” she says happily.

  She does a quick gaze around the park, pulls her oversize sweatshirt over her head, revealing a damp white T-shirt beneath.

  As she hands it to me, I expect pungent smells to smother my nostrils. But all I smell is musk. I used to think fat people are smelly, reeking like a Dumpster from the folds of flesh and crevices they could not reach with a bar of soap. But Raye is a meticulously clean and tidy person. But, but, I bet with all the junk food she binges on its bound to smell like a stink bomb when she relieves herself in her pretty white bathroom.

  I slip the sweatshirt over the briefcase and hold the handle through the open neck.

  Great cover.

  Common sense says I should run back to the car, leave the briefcase in the boot and continue jogging, but curiosity is getting the better of me. And it is too damn hot.

  “C’mon. Let’s go home,” I say, pulling my shades over my eyes, feeling the urgency in my bones.

  Of course, lazybones Raye does not object.

  We walk along the edge of the grass, giving space to joggers, bikers and roller-bladders for at least minutes. The whole time I proceed to make stupid, inconsequential talk, but behind my shades, my eyes darting in all directions, looking for any signs of trouble.

  All I see is joy all around me.

  Bermuda family picnicking in the distant.

  Children running around Helter skelter.

  Young lovers kissing at a picnic-table.

  A ginger haired man applies sun cream to a ginger haired woman’s back while she lay flat on her stomach on a beach towel.

  A gay guy giving the other a piggy back.

  A group of boys playing soccer.

  Two butch-crew-cut dykes dote over their newborn, and then laugh aloud in sync. The poor kid.

  Still, my heart is pounding like crazy. I feel as if someone is going to grip my shoulder and say, Hey bitch… that’s mine.

  Oh shit! I realize am walking without a limp. Am supposed to be injured, suffering a sprained ankle.

  “Ouch,” I say out loud in feign agony and grab onto Raye’s arm.

  Raye looks down at my uninjured foot. “Rice.”

  “What?”

  “You know, RICE. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation… RICE.

  “Oh, Okay.”

  “Do you want me to take that?” She is looking down at the briefcase in my hand.

  “Can you?” I say all miserably, handing it to her. “Swear to me, yo
u won’t mention what I told you about the briefcase to anyone?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  As we carry on Raye seems a lot jittery than me. She keeps glancing over her shoulders, right and left, and eyeing her wristwatch, seems like every two seconds. In the distance, over by the park gates, children gather at an ice cream truck and the hot dog van. A lone man not looking where he is going bumps into a boy, causing him to drop his ice cream cone.

   The mother rips into one, hands flailing, screaming at the man.

  “Oh hell!” says Raye, and suddenly grabs my arm, dragging me across the paved path to the other side of the green.

  “For fuck sakes woman… let go of my arm!” I yell, resisting her pull.

  “Look! Look at that beautiful bed of white lilies over there.”

  “Ow! For crying out loud, let go of my arm. You know I bruise easily!” Man, the chick has an iron grip, her talons dig into my flesh. “Let go! My foot! My foot!” I say, and manage to yank my arm free.

  When we reach the bed of flowers, she squats down, pulling me down next to her.

  “What’s the big fucking deal?”

  “Look!” she says, gesturing to the lilies.

  “Great! Fabulous! White lilies!” I inhale the delicate scent inadvertently.

  “Aren’t they lovely?”

  “Fuck the flowers. You almost dislocated my arm.”

  Raye does not seem to care at all. She peers over her shoulder one-way, then the other, at what, or whom, I have no idea.

  “Who the hell are you trying to avoid?”

  “I’m not trying to avoid anyone,” she says in a defensive monotone.

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah.”

  Anxiety is rising up inside me. I stand up to let her know it’s time to go.

  All I want to do is abscond from the park and see what’s inside the briefcase. Then, it strikes me what she is about to do. “Tell me you’re not going to uproot some stems.”

  “Do you think the gardener would mind?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Raye! Do you want to get arrested for vandalism?”

  She is not even listening. She’s looking over her shoulder once more with a manic look in her eyes.

  “Raye!”

  “Hmm.”

  “What are you doing?”

  She shoots me a worried look, and then grabs some of the topsoil, crumbling it between her fingertips. “The mulch is nice and damp, a good source of…” she tails off again, looking over her shoulder.

  I prompt her. “A good source of what!”

  She shields her eyes against the sun and squints up at me.

  “Did I ever tell you, when I was a little girl, my dad gave me my own patch of garden that I personally took care of.”

  “Get the fuck outta here! You’re a botanist too! That's quite impressive. Now can we go?”

  Raye brushes brown fertile soil from her hands, then unlaces her sneakers and re-laces them.

  I am not amused. “Problem?”

  “No problem,” she mutters silently.

  I lift my eyes to the blue summer sky and shake my head with inner fury.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Eight»

  Finally free from the park, we head toward the parking lot. At the entrance, we stop dead in our tracks. The parking lot is totally full that it changes the dynamics of where Raye had parked earlier. Sensibly, we head toward the guardrail and walk up the farthest aisle. In a row of cars, we find her white Audi A4 squished between a bottle-green Range Rover and a royal blue BMW series 6.

  “Wait there.” She hands me the briefcase. “I’ll reverse out.”

  Between the two cars, Raye squeezes her bulk into the tight space, inserts the key into the lock, slides in behind the wheel, unlocks the passenger door and starts the engine. As she begins to reverse out slowly, a red Toyota screeches to a halt at my hip.

  I freeze to the spot, expecting the driver to jump out, aim a weapon – a Kalashnikov rifle, or an AK-47 or a sawn-off shotgun - and riddle me with bullets. Then, while I lay bleeding, snatch the briefcase from my weak grip and take off in his car. But, when he does not, I realize he is not after the briefcase, but Raye’s soon-to-be empty parking spot.

  I bang my fist hard on his red bonnet and let loose a string of obscenity. “Fuck off asshole, you four-eyed, ugly dick. Can’t you fucking wait!”

  He stares at me, dumbfounded, as if he cannot believe his own two ears. But who can blame me for my foul mouthed outburst? He almost amputated my legs!

  I whip off my sunglasses. “Sorry, am I the first person to tell you exactly like it is.”

  Nothing.

  Perhaps he is in shock.

  It seems I can render any man speechless when profanities spill out of my pretty mouth. If he knew my hard luck background, living on the mean streets of Toronto he would understand. Foul and abusive language is a survival vernacular when one is a homeless, rebellious teenager, Act tough to exist or get the shit kicked out of you.

  I, Sacrine Thompson, survived without a scratch.

  At last, he has surrendered just like when I out-stare my cat, Viper.

  He checks his rear-view mirror and reverses, allowing. Raye to ease out.

  I pull the passenger door open, sneering at him. “Blind idiot,” I say, and climb into the car, slamming the door shut.

  “Sacrine just put it behind you.”

  I cannot tell if she is referring to the incident or the briefcase. But I could not care less which. If she means the briefcase, it is staying put in my lap.

  Raye drives to the exit.

  “Man, it is roasting in here,” I complain.

  “Yeah, I know, my air-condition’s broken.”

  I roll down my window halfway. “You should get it fixed soon. The weatherman predicts a scorcher all summer.”

  “I will when I find the time.”

  My canary-yellow beetle, an absolute rust bucket, is in the service garage getting the busted carburetor fixed. Even so, I cannot wait to get it back on the road instead of relying on public transport, known to every Torontonian as the TTC - Toronto Transit Commission.

  What a joke! Every disgruntled passenger who relies on the TTC knows exactly what the acronym TTC stands for: Take The Car.

  In rapt silence, Raye drives at breakneck speed – fifty-five, sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. Sweat trickles down her cheeks as the hot breeze tousles her long ponytail behind her. My short-gelled hair barely moves.

  I find myself staring into my side view mirror to see if anyone suspicious is tailing us. The road is dead empty.

  I move my face inches from Raye’s head and peer into her rear-view mirror for several seconds, then into my side view mirror again, then, into her mirror again.

  Raye comes back down to earth, takes her eyes off the road, and stares at me for a few seconds. “What are you doing? You’re acting weird.” I can feel her warm breath on my cheek.

  “Checking to see who’s behind us.”

  “Ohm, for any particular reason?”

  “To see who’s coming up behind us.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if anyone’s behind us.”

  “Sacrine!” she snaps. “Why are you being so immature?”

  “Immature? Look who’s talking. And Jesus Raye, do you have a secret death wish? Slow down and keep your eyes on the road.”

  “You know Sac, sometimes you really get on my nerves.”

  “I get on your nerves! Speaking of nerves, why are you sweating like a pig? I know it’s boiling out, but com’mon, you’re sweating buckets.”

  Silence.

  She does not answer.

  She wipes her forehead with the flat of her hand and then her upper lip. She seems extremely tense; the nervous energy is palpable in the car.

  Evidently, she is now bathing that thing on her lip with her tongue.


  Neither of us says another word all the way home. She steers down the ramp and parks in her designated spot. She glares at the 4x4 on her left.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she says all pitifully.

  “Is that your ex’s SUV?”

  “Yeah.”

  Poor thing. I put a consoling hand on her shoulder.

  “Let’s not take the elevator here,” she says. “He might be on his way down.”

  In silence we ascend the pedestrian walkway along the ramp, turn right into the entrance. Raye uses her key to open the door to the foyer. We enter the high-ceiling all-marble lobby, totally deserted. Even the kids that usually hang out on the sofa wearing their trendy loose ghetto outfits. I suppose most Christians are in church for their weekly sermon of brainwashing.

  One of the three elevators stands open for us. In the claustrophobic space, Raye jabs the button for the seventh floor and gives me a tight smile. With the briefcase hugged to my chest, I lean against the mirrored wall and watch the lit-numbers shifting upwards.

  “So, when are you delivering the briefcase… you know… to the lawyer’s office?” she asks nonchalantly, singling out her door key from a bunch.

  “Tomorrow,” I say, feeding her more far fetched lies.

  “I’ll be glad to drop it off on my way to my shop.”

  “Thanks, but no, I’ll do it.”

  “Are you going to open it, read all the juicy info?”

  “Of course not! It’s none of my business.”

  The elevator dings and the silver doors separate.

  Raye freezes, apprehensive about running into her ex, I guess.

  Has she never heard of the adage: don’t shit on your own doorstep?

  “Sacrine, can you look to see if the coast is clear, please.”

  See. I knew it! “I don’t even know what he looks like.”

  “I told you. Italian. Dark hair. Fortyish.”

  “Raye, you can’t live like this.” I drag her by the arm off the elevator. “Let’s go.”

  About ten feet away from her door, I begin to remove her sweatshirt from the briefcase.

  “No!” She puts my wrist in a vice grip and shoots a fierce look at her ex’s apartment door. “Leave it on.”

  “Don’t you want it back?”

  “Can you do me a favor and wash it for me.”

  “Sure.” I know her washing machine is broken. “Hey, listen, thanks for dragging me out of bed. I really enjoyed our run.”

  She shoots a glance at the enshrouded briefcase. “Hey, my pleasure. We’ll do it again next week.”

  Yeah, right, sure! “Ok, see you. Have a nice lunch and say hi to your family!”

  “Will do.” Raye opens her door, goes inside and shuts the door behind her.

   

  «Chapter Thirty Nine»

  Excited, anxious, impatient, all rolled into one emotional mashup, I float down the corridor, trying to imagine what I could possibly be holding in my possession. The suspense is literally killing me. In the best-case scenario, I hope to God it holds precious gems or stacked with loads of cash. In the worse case scenario – finding business papers or some shit like an architect’s draft, I will scream for an entire lifetime. Actually, I will be more disappointed if I find bags and bags of uncut cocaine. I must admit I do enjoy the occasional snort, but am not a coke head. And neither am I into the distribution of illegal contraband, nor do I know who is.

  As I put my key in the lock, I hear a loud bang.

  Stupidly, I duck low thinking that it’s a gunshot blast- someone shouting at my head.

  But damn it. It’s just a door slam. Paranoia!

   Regardless, I enter my apartment in no time and close the door. Jesus, it’s like a kiln in here.

  Judas Priest! Am accosted by the scent of recent cat shit. Purina cat chow beef flavored, going-off. Stale booze and cigarettes. All blended like a disgusting stew.

  Yuck!

  I want to vomit.

  I switch on the air-con, flop down on my worn flora sofa… frayed with etchings on the legs by Viper’s claws. The fur ball thinks he is an artist, a protégé of Henry Moore.

   I remove Raye’s sweatshirt from the -, lift it to my ear, and listen for any potentially fatal ticking.

  Nothing.

  I decide to be gentle, not to shake it. But as I think that, I do the stupidest thing and shake it, risking facial injury and mangled limbs.

  “What do I have in my possession?”

  I press the gold brass knobs expecting the clasps to spring up with a loud thwack, but nothing happens. I rest the briefcase on the sofa, and go into my kitchen to see Viper snoozing by his dish of decaying food.

  Viper opens his eyes slowly and looks up at me.

  Where’s the fresh Purina cat chow, Sac? Do I look like I’m on a fucking di-et?

  Language! You are a finicky pig! Stop eating!

  I swear my cat and I communicate through telepathy. I know this may sound ridiculous, but each time I look into the furball’s eyes, dialogue enters my head. One minute, I send him telepathically. I grab a pair of scissors from a cutlery drawer and, to calm my nerves, I remove a vodka bottle from the fridge, unscrew the cap, take a good swig, then proceed to choke and splutter.

  I imagine Viper, sniggering.

  A distant memory pops into my mind as I empty Viper’s rancid food in the garbage and spoon meaty Purina cat chow chunks, chicken flavor, into a clean bowl. When I stayed in hostels as a teenager, the women running the place - former heroin addicts and runaways - would dole out tokens for the TTC, for the sole purpose to seek employment. However, after weeks and months of going through the Want Ads, making appointments with potential employers over the phone, showing up on time, I met one rejection after another because of my lack of work experience. Being a teenager, I had none to mention except to babysit my neighbor’s kid or one of my second cousins. I would return to the hostel feeling miserable with no job prospect to report.

  No future.

  No life.

  Just cul de sac after cul de sac.

  After a while, I stopped looking for work. I would collect my tokens as usual and ride the subway all day long, just to kill time. I would sit in rush hour crammed with ordinary people with jobs and a life. As I sat there, I’d fantasise about some rich bastard leaving a briefcase with large sums of money on the seat by accident.

  When I told Raye about this verse and chapter of my life, she laughed, and then said, wishful thinking. She suggested perhaps one day I would get lucky.

  Now, I wish to God today is that day. I seriously could use some hard cash right now. I definitely could use a bonus.

  On my way back down the hallway, feeling hopeful, I do a clumsy pirouette, lose my balance and bounce off one wall. Viper stalks me into the living room, jumps up on the sofa, and takes up his spying position on the arm, licking his lips relentlessly. I plop down on the sofa, rest the briefcase on my lap and pry both locks with a firm flick of my wrist.

  Crieky. Much easier than I thought. I take a deep breath and open the briefcase.

  Immediately I feel slightly light-headed. My eyes, stretch wide-open as my brain registers the contents. Omigod! Omigod! Omigod! I am having an out-of-body-experience. “WHAT THE…!”

  Stacks and stacks and stacks of Canadian currency - fifties and hundreds – banded together. “HOLY FUCK!”

  Mesmerized, I slap my forehead hard.

  Ouch!

  “I just knew it! I knew it! I knew it! God is good! God is great!” I begin to rant. “A gift from the great Gods of abundance!”

  I sit up suddenly. “SHUT THE FUCK UP, SAC! This cannot be right, since when did God answer prayers. This is a gift from the Devil.

  Thank you big D. Thank you. Thank you my Devilish friend.”

  For the first time in my life, I feel giddy with euphoria.

  No more bounced checks or fees.

  No more bank charges.

  No more scraping to
pay the exorbitant rent.

  No more reserving on electric energy.

  For the first time in my life, despondency has changed to a sense of hope. I finally know my destination.

  Paradise.

  Hedonism.

  Clubbing.

  Boutiques

  Spas.

  Five Star restaurants.

  Dubai.

  Monte Carlo.

  Vegas… the moon.

  “Let the good times roll, Woohoo!”

  I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from uttering such stupidity.

  “You idiot,” I berate myself. “Whose cash is this?”

  Never mind that, says an inner voice. How much is there?

  I must be mad. My poor brain is dealing with two conflicting personalities.

  One body, two minds.

  One side good, one side bad… it defies logic.

  I reach for my cigarettes and light one up. I jump up and pace, trying to inject logic into my thinking. As I haul on my cancer stick, confusing thoughts keep flooding my mind. But the one that stands out the most is where am I going to hide such a large amount of cash?

  Think. Think. Think.

  Oh, under the mattress.

  Silly fool, too obvious, just stupid. That’s the first place anyone will look.

  The toilet tank!

  Idiot!

  I, stop pacing, chewing on  my lower lip, thinking hard where to hide the money.

  The closet.

  In the bedroom closet. There is a loose floorboard under the thin carpet in my walk-in. I smash the cigarette out in the ashtray, close the briefcase and take it to my bedroom. As I walk in, I catch my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. I do not recognize myself. I lean in closer, fogging up the glass with my hot breath. I peer in one eye, then the other to see if I could see my old self.

  Am not in there. A ruthless thief has taken over my body, an imposter.

  Do you have any idea what this means?

  Yes. My life has changed forever.

  No. Do you have any idea what you are getting yourself into? a conscientious voice expresses these virtuous words in my head. This is someone’s hard-earned cash.

  Oh no, not so fast.

  Fact, I know it is wrong, but I intend on keeping it.

  Finder’s keepers, losers weepers, even my inner child join in. When will I ever have this sort of cash?

  Never!

  “Besides, God helps those who help themselves. Am helping myself to this money,” I say verbalizing my last thought.

  I crouch down in my walk-in closet, chuck shoes out and fold back the grey carpet. I use the tip of the scissors to prise the slat and bury the wads in my private dusty, safe.

  A temporary burial.

  I’ll exhume the rest before it goes out of circulation.

  I toss three wads on my bed for my immediate pleasure. On the top shelf, I notice a similar briefcase an ex had left here eons ago. I take it down, brush some dust off, and wipe a smudge with my elbow. “Hmm, this could come in handy.”

  I replace it on the shelf and put the one from the park, now empty, in my large gym bag. I gather my gym clothes from a bottom drawer and arrange them to hide the briefcase and zip it up.

  I slide the mirrored-door closed and look into my velvet-black eyes. “I swear on my life, not to utter a word to Raye, not to Shilpa, not to Georgina, nor Virna-Lisa. I’ll go to work this evening as usual, keep a low profile.”

  In the bathroom, I strip off my sweats down to my buff body. I pull back the shower curtains, adjust the hot and cold tap and step into the bathtub. I relish under the jet pelting my head, gliding down my honey-tanned skin. I reach for a peach smelling gel, squirt a good blob into my palm and wash away the remnants of my old life, the old me.

  «Chapter Forty»

  In the affluent neighborhood of Forrest Hills, Raye raced her Audi A4 up the rolling hills in the bright afternoon sunshine, a smug look on her face. She played and replayed fragments of her early morning caper in Griffith Park. So far, there were no hitches in her evil plan.

  The wheel had been set in motion. On the way to the park this morning, she had watched Eric recede in her rear-view mirror making certain no cops were in pursuit of him.

  Was he angry, scared, and frightened for the safety of his son?

  Oh, and that Sacrine, she deserved a raspberry for her performance, blatantly lying through her pearly white teeth about some fictitious friend and sordid pictures.

  And JP, what an idiot!

  She could not believe she had almost bumped into him in the park. She had told him to pick the ransom up at 11 o’clock even though the ransom note said ten. She pictured him tearing his hair out when he discovered the briefcase was not in the garbage can, and then going after the boy with murder in mind.

  Did he really think she would trust him with all that loot?

  In the back of her mind, though, there was one thing worrying her. She had visualized nosey Sacrine discovering the 250K in the briefcase, and flying down the corridor to tell her the good news.

  Only she did not.

  Not a peep from Sacrine.

  Had she underestimated her friend?

  Or perhaps Sacrine was not as predictable as she thought. Perhaps she had not bothered to look inside the briefcase… yet.

  That’s got to be it! That has got to be the only reason.

  Almost everything was going according to plan. All she had to do now was bide her time, then retrieve the money. “Half a mission accomplished,” mouthed Raye. “Next step, wait for JP’s panicked call.”

  With both hands on the steering wheel, Raye glanced at her sweet, frail grandmother next to her in the passenger seat, peering out at the grand houses spaced far apart. Some of the most influential people in the city of Toronto owned them. The plush area, Forrest Hills, was aptly named for its enormous maples, creating a luscious canopy above the wide, undulating roads.

  Moments later, Raye pulled up at the gates to her parent’s property, once her childhood home. To her surprise, next to the surveillance camera and Private Property sign, one reads: Beware of the Dogs.

  She frowned slightly. Dogs? What dogs!

  She wound down the window and entered the entry code into the security box recessed into the wall. The wrought-iron automatic gates opened and drove up the circular drive to a Victorian style mansion with two-car automatic-door-garages. Inside, her father’s black Mercedes and mother’s pink Ferrari.

  Raye parked out in front along side a cobalt-blue motorbike, an 850-cc Honda. An iridescent blue helmet hung over one handle. A blue biker jacket, hung over the other; a key in the ignition.

  My sister, the intrepid daredevil, she was thinking.

  As Raye opened her driver door, she had expected ferocious wolf-like creatures to come barging toward her, baring their saliva-dripping molars.

  No such animals.

  She unfolded a wheelchair from the boot, slammed it shut and pushed it to the opening passenger door. “Are you okay, Gran?”

  “I can manage, dear,” said her grandma, slipping her feeble self in her wheelchair.

  Henry Dawkins appeared in the threshold of the double oak doorway, wearing a blue silk shirt and a white cravat matching his white trousers. He stepped aside as Raye wheeled her grandmother onto the marble entryway of the grand hall.

  The marble foyer reeked of the Cuban cigar Henry was smoking. He kissed his daughter on both cheeks under an ornate crystal chandelier.

  “Marselle,” he said to his mother-in-law, the love-lost, palpable.

  “Henry,” she replied curtly, without eye contact.

  “Dad, what’s with the, Beware of Dogs, sign?” asked Raye. “Has there been a problem in the neighborhood?”

  “No. Not at all. After all this time we’re having two Doberman Pincers delivered from the pound on Tuesday.”

  Raye laughed. “I thought mom always wanted a Chihuahua.”

  “I convinced your mother to adopt the
Dobermans. We rescued them just in the nick of time. They were about to be euthanatized.”

  “Were they sick?”

  “Lack of funding. The owners abandoned the animals at the pound over Christmas. We have the grounds and resources to care for them, so your mother agreed. The beware sign, is just a precaution.”

  High-heeled footsteps echoed in the twenty-foot high ceiling. A tall, elegant woman swept into the hallway, dressed in a crimson top exposing a sun-bed pink chest in the plunging neckline. Her wide-pleated blue skirt fell to the floor, and shiny blonde hair swept up in an elegant chignon.

  “Raye, darling.” Pascal air kissed her daughter. “I see you’ve made it this week,” she said with a sarcastic smile, and then gave her daughter the once over from head to toe. She was dressed in a white buttoned down shirt and three quarter length white cotton jeans, white sandals and white beaded necklace.

  “Wearing all white again, I see.” Pascal coiled an errant blonde tendril back in place in the large antique mirror. “For someone that’s into fashion, you certainly have a bland dress sense.”

  “Mom, please, don’t start.”

  “Cal dear, get me my drink,” said Marselle, feeling ignored in her wheelchair.

  “Mama, pardon mama, bonjuor.” Pascal bent and air kissed her mother’s rouged wrinkled cheeks.

  “Bonjour? Bourbon Pascal! Bourbon! I need a drink now.”

  “Okay, let’s get you in the dining-room.”

  There were footfalls on the second floor. Everyone looked up to see a young woman smiling sweetly slithering down the spiral staircase. Madison was tall, elegant, and graceful. She wore a gorgeous sleeveless teal-blue pantsuit Raye had designed for her twenty-third birthday two years ago. The lapels, encrusted with Rhinestones. She took after her mother: natural blonde, greenish-blue eyes, a slim aquiline nose, full pouty lips.

  “Hi, Granny M. Hi Raye.”

  “You look absolutely wonderful darling!” said Pascal, complimenting her younger daughter.

  “Thanks mom.”

  “Everyone, lunch is served.” Pascal wheeled her mother down the long hallway to the dining room. The silk walls lined with pricey art and gilt-framed portraits of glamorous dead relatives. “I must take this opportunity to warn you that I have prepared lunch by myself. As we all know, cooking is not my forte, so please, be kind.”

  “Where is Louise, mom?”

  “The Smiths had some sort of family crisis. I had no choice but to give them the day off.”

  “Tell me darling, what is your forte?” asked Henry facetiously, walking alongside his wife.

  “Henry!”

  The spacious dinning room with Venetian plaster ceiling was magnificent. Eight decorative lamps provided the lighting. Classical music – a piano concerto created a relaxing ambience. The family took their seats at one end of the humongous mahogany dining table; Henry took his rightful place at the head. Being a wine connoisseur, he masterfully uncorked a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse.

  Pascal poured a stiff bourbon for her mother and set the bottle on the table.

  Marselle took a deep sip to the protest of her inner organs.

  “I’m grateful you picked me up today, dear. You know how I hate those dreaded, unhygienic cab drivers talking your ear off about nonsense.” She glanced at her family around the table. “But if Raye drove any faster we would have been airborne.”

  No one found Marselle amusing except Madison.

  Pascal shot Raye a steely look. “I don’t know how you manage not having points taken off your license, sweetheart.”

  “I’m sure she was going eighty miles or more an hour in a thirty limit mile zone,” added her grandmother. “Not even Emerson Fittipaldi drove that fast in his day.

  “Come on, Gran, you’re exaggerating,” protested Raye.

  “I couldn’t focus on anything outside the window, dear. Everything was one big blur.”

  “Perhaps you should wear your glasses Gran. Besides, it’s Sunday… there’s hardly any cars on the road.”

  “How could you tell, dear, for all you know you bulldozed them down?”

  Everyone burst out laughing except Henry. Only God knew how much he despised the sound of his mother-in-law’s creaky voice. Most times, he wanted to ram an illegal fist down her throat to end her.

  “Poor papa, he lost control on the autobahn, in Germany,” said Pascal, her wine glass close to her lips. “Velocity must be in Raye’s genes.”

  Imperceptibly, Raye rolled her eyes as she broke the end of a French stick and slathered it with butter.

  “So what happened to you last Sunday sweetheart?” asked her mother suddenly. “I tried to reach you all day, but all I got was your answering machine.”

  Raye stopped chewing for a moment. “Sunday,” she said, “Hmmm, last Sunday… last Sunday.” Getting plastered.

   “Oh. I had to… one second.” She dug into her pocket for her cell phone vibrating against her leg. She looked at the caller ID display window with a smirk on her lips. It showed JP’s name. “Excuse me everyone.” She pushed herself away from the table, scraping the chair legs on the hardwood floor.

  “But Raye, we just sat down to lunch,” said her mother.

  “I’ll be right back, just give me a minute.”

  “Is it an emergency? You know I detest phone calls during mealtime.”

  “Raye said she would be right back, mom,” interjected Madison, pouring herself some mineral water. “Give her a break!”

  With her cell phone vibrating in her hand, Raye hurried out the dining room, down the long hallway and entered the spacious, modern kitchen.

  Pascal had cooked up a storm, leaving the breakfast island’s worktop in a horrible mess: soggy dish towels, blackened oven tray askew, potato peelings, dirty gadgets and utensils, pot and pans.

  Before Raye answered her cell phone, she practiced her guile. “You’ve got to be kidding me! No, not dramatic enough,” she said, and tried again. “You better not fuck with me, JP! Yeah, that’s it.” She put her phone to her ear. “Hey JP, did you get the briefcase?” she said in a quiet tone.

  “It wasn’t there, Raye.”

  “What!”

  “I waited around thinking the guy must be late or something, but he didn’t show.”

  “Don’t fuck with me JP!”

  “I’m not!”

  “Do not play me for a fool, JP. I want my share of the money.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t there. I got there eleven o’clock, just like you said.”

  “Well, did you look properly?”

  “Of course I looked properly. I had half my body stuck down the thing goddammit. I’m telling you, the guy didn’t pay!”

  “JP, Eric would never put his son’s life in jeopardy.” She could hear him dragging on his cigarettes. “I donno. But I swear I looked good.”

  “Then if you’re not one hundred percent sure, Jimmy, look again.”

   “Don’t you think the cop’s got a whiff of this by now?” he said coughing.

  “Eric wouldn’t dare. I warned him not to involve the cops or the kid dies.”

  “This better not be some head fuck. But I’ll double-check.”

  “You do that… and hey… don’t call me again. I’m in the middle of lunch.”

  “I can’t go back to my place.”

  “Why not? Where are you?”

  “The phone booth outside your building. I’m good as fucking dead, Raye. If I don’t deliver the mon …”

  “What! Deliver what?”

  “Ahh … nothing …”

  “Raye!” She heard her mother’s stern voice travelling from the dining room, and then again more persistently. “Raye!”

  “Wait a sec,” she whispered down the phone. “I’ll be there in a minute mom,” she yelled back. “JP, listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “Hey, just for tonight, can I crash on your sofa?”

  “Would you like a bottle of wine and a video?” she asked sarcastically.

>   “Oh come on, sweet cake…”

  “No JP. Just go back to the park and look again.”

  “Okay, but we need to meet up… discuss what we’re going to do if it’s not there.”

  “Yeah, like what?”

  “Send him a piece of his kid’s ear or something; let him know we mean business.”

  “JP, stay calm. I’m sure it’ll be there.”

  “Let’s just hope so.”

  “Call me later.”

   Raye switched off her cell. Adrenaline shot through her veins like a snake’s venom; everything was going according to her master plan. “What an asshole. Do me a favor, get angry, whack the kid, see if I care. Slice him up… do what you have to do. Za money is mine, all mine. All mine. Buhahahahaha.” The wine had gone to her head.

  Raye stopped halfway down the hallway. She took a couple of deep breaths to compose herself. Act as normal as possible.

  If anyone should ask, she would reply, it was simply business.

  «Chapter Forty One»

  Raye stood outside the dining room door and listened. She could hear laughter between her mother and grandmother; conversation between her sister and father, and sterling silver against china plates. She entered to everyone’s glare.

  “Raye, switch your phone off. Now!” demanded her mother.

  “I did already, mom.” She sat back down in her chair, gulped her wine and refilled her glass.

  Grandma Marselle picked up a serving dish mounded with mash potatoes and handed it to Raye. “The potatoes are getting cold dear, scoop some on your plate.”

  “The mash potatoes are yours, gran.” Raye took the dish and set it back down on the table. “See, mom made us roast potatoes.”

  Henry pushed half-chewed, tough, overcooked steak to one side of his mouth. “If that had to do with work, could it not have waited?”

  “No dad, it could not.”

  “Raye’s business has been in a slump dad,” offered Madison, “Raye needs to stay on top of things.”

  “Where did you get that bit of info, Madi? My shop is doing just fine.”

  “Here, dear.” Gran was passing her a dish of mixed vegetables. “Try the Brussels sprouts.”

  “Not yet, Gran, please! I’ll help myself… thank you.”

  “Business on a Sunday,” said Pascal. “I don’t know why you don’t just cut your losses and call it a day.”

  “I concur,” said Henry, sawing the well-done leather sirloin. He chewed it up with an effort and forced himself to swallow. “It’s no point running a business if you’re under so much pressure, especially if you cannot meet the overheads.”

  Today’s massive loot was always in the back of Raye’s mind. “If it’s the loan you’re worried about dad, I’ll pay it off within a month,” she said icily.

  Pascal raised her eyebrows, which were perfectly plucked and shaped.

  ”And just how on Earth are you planning to do this Raye. You’ve had this loan over two years now! Did the Hudson Bay Company or the Eaton Centre, perhaps Holt Renfrew, commission you to produce a line of clothing for their Fall collection? A multimillion dollar contract signed on the dotted line.”

  “No mother and no need to rub it in. You’ve made your point. But I will pay back every cent.”

  Pascal gave her an inquisitive look. “Really! You cannot expect your father or me to bail you out every time you run into financial difficulties. I heard you had to let go one of your seamstresses, that elfin girl… what’s her name…”

  “Poppy,” said Madison finally.

  “That’s a lie. Where are you getting your info?”

  “Never you mind,” said her mother.

  “Poppy is my PA, not a seamstress. She also mans the office when I’m not there. My business is a bit slow but I’m coping.”

  “I don’t know why you only cater to oversized women. Fat housewives have no interest in fancy custom-made clothes. It’s obvious they spend their money on junk food, hardly preoccupied with fashion.”

  “Leave her alone Pascal,” said Marselle. “Raye’s a super ambitious young lady. She recognized a niche in the market and took advantage of it.” She patted the back of Raye’s hand. “All entrepreneurs find it hard in the first few years. Give her time, she’ll make it work. Right dear?” She patted her granddaughter’s hand again. “Taking risks is a good thing, dear.” She looked at her own daughter. “Being an entrepreneur, gives one a sense of control, an architect of one’s destiny.”

  Pascal chuckled acrimoniously. “Oh mother, what spiritual nonsense are you reading now?”

  “Thanks Granny. Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Raye took a sip of her wine. “Besides Mom, I’ve built up a well-to-do client base: professional career women, socialites, rich housewives…”

  Pascal interrupted with a pitiful laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Raye. That’s hard to believe… considering most ‘well-to-do’ as you put it, shop in Haute couture boutiques in Yorkville, New York, Montreal, Rodeo Drive, Paris, Milan, not from a made-to-measure dress shop from a virtually unknown seamstress in an area where the underbelly of society loiters.”

  Raye took the wine glass from her lips. “Underbelly? Mom, my dress shop is located in a great area… it’s considered chic… trendy.”

  “Trendy? Are you telling me has-been bohemian-actors, rock’n’roll wannabe’s, prostitutes, pimps and punks, not to leave out the junkies … constitute trendy … since when?

  Madison held back from laughing out loud while Raye gulped a mouthful of wine.

  “Raye, you can make me a few dresses. I’ll pay you handsomely,” said Marselle. “What about you Pascal, it would be nice if you supported your own daughter.”

  “If Raye wants to make uniforms for the hired help... be my guest.”

  “I beat Mark at Squash today,” said Madison, attempting to change the subject. “Talk about outwitting your personal trainer.”

  Pascal ignored her. “Why don’t you consider making fancy curtains, fancy bed sheets, matching pillowcases, soft furnishings? Why, I’m sure it’s a lot simpler. Who knows, perhaps it would be more lucrative for you, more successful.”

  “Oh, I have a suggestion,” interjected Grandma Marselle. “What about patchwork quilts, dear? I used to love to make quilts before I got ridden with arthritis. Or what about pretty clothes for dolls. You know, like…”

  “Mother, please!” Pascal paused, her fork close to her lips. “I am trying to have a serious conversation with my daughter.” She returned her attention back to Raye. “It would also do you some good Raye, if you took better care of your appearance. You look a bit run down, especially with that ghastly thing on the corner of your mouth. And when did you start drinking so much?”

  “Cold sore, mom,” said Raye flatly. “It’s a cold sore.”

  “You know Raye, unattractive, overweight, women… well… people tend to look at the overall package. Seems you’ve lost all interest in your appearance.”

  Raye leered at her mother with sharp, cold eyes, but said nothing. She feared she might say something she might regret. However, Pascal was on the roll. “And what about a boyfriend, you’ll be left on the shelf if…”

  “Mom, mom,” interrupted Raye, before she treaded on her love life. “You have made your point very lucid, but isn’t my weight congruent with the business I run?”

  “I suppose, dear. But fat people need encouragement to lose weight. Not an ambitious fat person perpetuating their unhealthy eating habits by indulging them in fancy clothes, condoning that it is okay to be overweight. It beggars belief.”

  “Mom, why do you have to be so cruel,” interjected Madison. “Overweight people have slow metabolisms. It’s not their fault.”

  “Oh, pur-lease, Madi. Don’t be ridiculous. Such nonsense. Thousands of Jews lost weight in concentration camps.”

  “Dammit Madi, you’re not my defense lawyer. You don’t have to keep defending me. I can fight my own battles.”

  “She’s just looking
out for your interest Raye,” said Henry, defending his precious Madison.

  “I just wished, just for once, I wasn’t the topic of Sunday’s conversation.”

  “It’s difficult not to dear,” said Pascal. “Looking at the two of you nobody would ever guess you were twins.”

  Raye glared at her mother, and then shifted her glare to her younger sister … younger by three minutes: tiny tits resting on bare ribs from living on cucumber, watercress and carrots. Filling herself up with Evian when hunger rumbled in her stomach. “Are you suggesting all pampered, skinny-assed, anemic, blond-bimboes are healthy?” snapped Raye, unable to hide her true feelings toward her sister.

  At an instance, Mozart’s delicate violin strings playing in the background, punctuated the tense silence in the Dawkins dining room. Raye had had enough of being under the spotlight.

  The constant scrutiny. Sunday lunches were becoming the Raye Dawkins Spanish inquisition instead of a loving family gathering. However, she did not mean to take her anger out on her sister. She felt backed-up in a corner, defeated. She dropped her napkin on the pile of food on her plate and pushed herself away from the table.

  “Can someone else escort Grandma home?” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

  “Raye, Raye, where are you going?” asked her father in a stern tone.

  She swung round. “Since I’m too fat to eat, so vile to look at, I’m going home to stick my fingers down my gullet and shove my head down the toilet. Happiness for you all?”

  “You should be thanking me, Raye… for being up front with you,” said Pascal.

  “No! You have no idea what I’ve been going through the past five months,” she said all choked up. “You have no clue.”

  “If you don’t tell us dear, how are we to know?”

  Before she burst into tears, she stormed out the dining room.

  “Raye! Raye!”

  “Cal, just let her go,” said grandma.

  Henry, Pascal, Grandma, Madison, all heard Raye’s fading footsteps as she hurried down the long hallway, and then the sound of the oak front door slamming.

  “I’m going to my study.” Henry stood to his feet, equally fed up with Sunday’s ongoing saga.

  “Oh Henry. Not you too.”

  “Cal,” said Henry, “your crass comment about Jews was inappropriate and insensitive.”

  Pascal’s mouth fell open, bemused. “Insensitive? Inappropriate? It is not the truth. So whom have I offended?”

  Henry walked away with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He had too much on his mind to get involved in family squabbles. He carried his wineglass through an oak door at the far end of the room. It led to his precious library, with a view of a verdant grounds leading to dense woods.

  He entered and closed the door.

  Along one wall hung a row of framed photos. A young Henry Dawkins in Tai Kwon Do gear doing some type of Martial art stance. A relaxed Henry on a golf course in motion, swinging a club, iron, The Honorable Judge Henry Dawkins in a courtroom in his long black gown striking his gavel on a wooden sound block. There were framed certificates and diplomas; sculptures on plinths. An entire wall was lined with heavy leather-bounded law books from floor to ceiling. On a solid oak desk housed his computer, phone, pens, pads and law books he was consulting on an upcoming fraud case. Henry sat in one of the armchairs flanked the fireplace and picked up the receiver to call his daughter’s cell phone, but then he put the receiver back down.

   

  Back in the gloom filled dining room.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass her,” said Pascal to her mother, “and my crass comment about Jews… well… I was just trying to make the most effective point possible. I love my daughter... but she has got to pull herself together.”

  “I know, dear,” said Marselle sympathetically.

  Madison excused herself from the table and rushed out of the dining room.

  Once outside, she rushed to her bike, put on her jacket and helmet, threw one leg over the mechanical horse, revved up the engine sped off through the closing electronic gates. She turned left and pursued her sister down the deserted hill to console her twin.

   

  «Chapter Forty Two»

  For the life of me, I cannot get the gross sum of money out of my head. It’s as if am struck with some weird incurable virus. Is this how the filthy rich live on a daily basis: consumed by the gross amount of money they have in their bank accounts collecting shitloads of interest. Probably the exact opposite to how the poor live on a daily basis: consumed by the lack of money, no bank accounts and the only interest is getting their hands on money.

  My parents are comfortable now, but when growing up, night after night, I would hear them in their corner bedroom arguing over money. Although we never starved, we lived like paupers, accounting for every cent, nickel and dime.

  During homework, mom and dad would drum on at us about education, education, education. And to date, my older siblings have respectful careers. My brother Hewitt is a highly successful accountant, and my sister, Velma is a PA to some rich executive - whom she married and has access to serious cash and credit cards. Me, Sacrine Thompson, a drop out, find my fortune in garbage-can in my local park.

  Go figure.

  Just mind-blowing how life can catch you off-guard.

  I pull the shower curtain with a swish, step out, and wipe the fogged up mirror over the face basin, hearing it squeak. There is a look of confusion and deceit in my eyes. And Jesus, on my left upper arm are fingerprint bruises - like rake marks - where Raye had grabbed me in the park earlier. To touch, it’s painfully sore. Crazy bitch.

  I wrap a coarse yellow towel around my body and walk over to the open bathroom window overlooking the tennis courts.

  The sun is so bright, almost blinding. Viper is curled up on the narrow ledge asleep. I smile at the fur ball.

  What a life? Eat, shit, sleep and purr when he needs affection.

  Sometimes when am feeling devilish, I have to restrain myself from pushing him off the ledge to see if he would land on all fours… seven floors down. But in truth, I would never serve something as brutal as that. I adore my cat too much.

  Lovebirds Marcia and Steve, Carol and Andrew, the stuck-up snobs who occupy the only two apartments on the penthouse floor are playing mixed doubles on the tennis courts. I wonder how they can possibly spot the ball tossing it in the blinding light to lob. But at the same time am wondering where I can stash half a million bucks.

  I stick my head out and fill my lungs with hot air.

  I could take a batch over to my parent’s house, hide it in the attic, but showing up without an invite would raise all sorts of suspicions.

  I could stash wads in a locker at work, or in a locker at my gym.

  Hmm, do people like me acquire safe-deposit boxes without raising an eyebrow?

  I guess the sensible thing to do is to put the money back in the garbage-can.

  Problem solved.

  Hell the fuck not!

  I'll figure it all out at some point.

  I pick up the body lotion – Jergens - and put it back down. I go into my bedroom and smile seeing the three wads of cash on my bed.  I drop the towel, remove the slips that holds the bills together and stand dead center on my bed. With both hands above my head, I throw the money up in the air and watch fifties and twenties flutter around my stark naked body, covering the bedspread.

  All of a sudden, I feel my skin flush cold. It dawns on me that the money could be counterfeit, fake. I pick up a fifty; hold it up to the light, looking for special markings as we are shown to do at work.

  Looks fine.

  I pick up another bill and check, then another and another.

  Glad that the loot is the Real McCoy, I scoop up a pile from the bed, throw the bills in the air and, as they rain down on me, I jump up and down, swinging my arms as if am on a trampoline.

  My pillows bounces when my feet contact the bed. “Yes. Yes. Yes. I love
money. I love money. I love money.”

  I cup my breast to stop them slapping into my ribs. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  All of a sudden, I feel horny as hell. I stop jumping and begin to touch my body slowly, sensually, thinking of Tom, the gorgeous bartender from work.

  I move to the headboard, bracing myself against the wall and spread my legs. I caress my clit, running my tongue slowly over my lips. “0h, yes, Tom. I bet you have a big one, yes. Oh, Tom, eat me.” My legs begin to feel weak, so I lay down and continue to caress myself. “Oh, Tom… Tom, eat me, am coming. Ah… ah… What the hell!”

  Viper pounces on my caressing hand, breaking my concentration. My orgasm, shot to hell.

  “You stupid, selfish cat!”

  Whatcha you doing, Sac? asks Viper with those shiny topaz eyes.

  “Masturbating, nosey.” I sit up and feel banknotes clinging to my damp back and backside.

  No silly, the paper money all over the bed.

  I found it.

  You stupid human, you stole it, didn’t you.

  I swear I can hear my cat making siren noises.

  “Co’ mere you fur ball.” I  grab him by his furry belly. “Get out of my head.”

  “Meow.” He rubs his head against my arm, purring as if he means it.

  Only for a second there, I forgot about the money. Masturbating is a good distraction, if am not interrupted. “Okay Viper, let's go feed you.”

  In the nude, I head to the kitchen with my cat, the ventriloquist feline; banknotes fall off me leaving a trail.

   

  «Chapter Forty Three»

  Thirteen forty-one p.m. The sun was blazing in the clear blue sky and the inhabitants of the city stroll along without a care in the world. A taxi pulled up to the curb outside a two-storey dilapidated rundown building, a quarter-block from Yonge and Carlton, downtown Toronto. Larry Parrata dressed in a rumpled cream suit, - grass stains and dirt on the knees - got out of a cab, smoking a Marlboro. He slammed the door closed and chucked a twenty-dollar bill through the open taxi window. It fluttered to the cab well.

  He glanced around as he hurried to the entrance of the building.

  “Hey… jerk off!” yelled the hippie-haired cabbie leaning deep into the passenger seat. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

  Parrata turned and marched back toward the taxi.

  Seeing the menacing look on Parrata’s face, the cabbie screeched away from the curb.

  A disgruntled driver honked his horn.

  “Come back here you fucking piece a shit!” he shouted after the taxi, drawing funny looks from pedestrians about him. “What you looking at, you fucking moron?” he said to a curious onlooker close by. “Got a fucking problem?”

  Parrata turned back, went through the frosted pane glass door and charged up the flight of stairs to the second floor. He hurried down the dark and ominous corridor, the walls scarred with graffiti, obscenities and fist holes. Halfway down a plaque on an open door frame was in italicized black letters, Marble Balls and Associates, the name giving nothing away. Every self-styled businessperson needed a professional title to seem legit, if not important. Most people that visited the office knew it was for appearance’s sake.

  Parrata entered the shabby office. His boss, bloated with his own self-importance, did not look up from the Sports page of the Toronto Sun newspaper in front of him. When his boss was not muscling on other people’s turf, whether it was drug running, prostitution, or fraud, he loved placing bets on just about every sporting event under the sun. He had the money to burn and put a huge chunk on the outcome of the Toronto Blue Jays versus Milwaukee match just yesterday. Stacks of local newspapers were in one corner of his desk: Toronto Star, National Post, The Globe and Mail. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and a black tie speckled red stilettos, a black suit jacket draped over the back of his chair.

  Parrata cleared his throat forcibly, dying for his boss’s attention, who he thought was a dead ringer of Danny DeVito.

  His boss removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and then studied Parrata in silence for a moment. He dropped the newspaper down on his desk with a menacing grimace. “Where’s the fucking briefcase, Larry?”

  “Mad Mickey, you’re not going to believe this. Jimmy said the drop would go down at eleven, but it didn’t go down like he said.”

  “What!”

  “It’s like this boss. I get to the park an hour early to stake out the perimeter, look out for sharpshooters, you know, plainclothes cops trying to blend in like normal people. But mostly - to find a getaway route after I picked up the briefcase. Everything seemed cool.”

  Mad Mickey frowned, uncertain. “So?”

  “So, outta the blue I see this cute broad walking toward the garbage-can.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “When she got there…”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She reaches in and takes out this briefcase as if she knew it would be there.” Parrata clasped his palms under his chin as if he is about to pray and shook it. “I could not believe my fucking eyes! I looked at my watch and it was only a little after ten. The pickup was for eleven, not ten.”

  “Moron, are you sure Jimmy didn’t say ten?”

  “No boss, he said Griffith Park, eleven o’clock sharp. I swear on my ma’s grave he said eleven.”

  Mad Mickey slumped back into his chair, stunned. “Marie Parrata is dead! When did Marie die?”

  “No, no, Mad Mickey, my ma’s still alive,” he said slightly embarrassed. “But if she was dead, I’d swear on her grave, he said eleven.”

  Mad Mike leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk, held his head in his hands, and shook it. He could not believe the ignoramus he had on his payroll. Suddenly he looked up. “Wait, back up. What do you mean she removed it as if she knew it was there?”

  “Like she was expecting it to be in there.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It’s not like she was throwing garbage in the garbage-can and saw it there.” Parrata shifted from foot to foot, using his hands to express himself like a typical I-talian. “She just looks in for a second or so, reaches in and takes it out. Boss, I think it must be the broad Jimmy set this thing up with?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “But boss, like I said, it was like she knew it would be in there.”

  “Or it could be just some nosey broad seeing the guy put the briefcase in there?”

  “I never met her before, but I bet on my life, it was her.”

  “So you think it’s the same broad,” said Mad Mickey quietly, rubbing his bearded chin, letting the information sink in.

  “I think so.”

  “So what did you do?” he barked, “you let are take it. Just like that.”

  “But Mad Mickey, I had my finger on the trigger. But you said ‘no guns,’ remember?”

  Digesting the information, Mad Mickey picked up a well-chewed cigar from a glass ashtray and sucked on the soggy end a couple of times, bringing it back to life. Smoke clouded his face and drifted toward a ceiling fan. “Dis don’t sound too good. Dis sounds to me like a double-cross.”

  “I figure…”

  “Figure what?” interrupted Mad Mickey, his intense gaze designed to intimidate. “You let some broad hijack our operation, just walk off with my fucking money. You didn’t have the balls to stop her other than shooting her. You know Larry, you have a great propensity to piss me off.”

  A huge belly laugh came from the corner of the room.

  Mad Mickey looked over at Angelo Primo, slouching on the dilapidated green chesterfield, using a soggy toothpick to dislodge a bit of salami between his molar. His round, pale face was covered in contusions. His left arm was in a cast, supported by a dirty sling, which he rested on his pot belly under an oversized orange Maple Leaf jersey.

  A few days ago, Angelo Primo was discharged from Toronto General Hospital after a copycat triad gang kicked the shit out of him, after insulting a Chinese hooker in China
town. They had left him with a couple of cracked ribs, internal bleeding and a broken arm.

  “So Angelo, you personally think this is funny?”

  Angelo Primo lifted his orange baseball cap with his good, beefy hand and scratched his greasy black hair. “Sorry boss.”

  “You fucked up royally last week, drinking sake with some Chinese hooker instead of doing your job! You want me to come over there and break the other arm, shove it down your throat. Answer me that.”

  Angelo Primo hung his burly head. “No boss.”

  Mad Mickey looked back at Larry Parrata, his gaze becoming more menacing. Larry Parrata looked down at his scuffed brown shoes, trying not to show any fear. Because for a little man - five foot five inches - his boss was a mean motherfucker, a happy sadist and uncompromising. Parrata knew all too well what he was capable of after screwing up a simple job: kneecap busted with a rusty crowbar, a disfigurement. The missing tip of his left pinkie was proof of his cruelty. And Mad Mickey kept a loaded weapon in a false bottom drawer of his desk just by his right leg. A Beretta Model 92 SB, a 9mm, with vast firepower. But Mad Mickey had no idea Larry had “borrowed it” and threaten to shoot three Oriental guys when they were kicking the shit out of Angie last week in China Town.

  He would go apeshit, probably bust a vein.

  “Since you got there early, did you see the suit drop the money in the garbage?”

  “No Mad Mickey. I must have got distracted.”

  “Distracted? What do you mean you got distracted?”

  “A couple a horny faggots was making out behind an elm.”

  Over on the chesterfield Angelo Primo tipped back his head, laughing a raucous belly laugh.

  Mad Mickey glared at the Neanderthal. “Are you on medication? Is that what’s making you stupid?”

  “Sorry boss.”

  “Don’t let me warn you again, Angie.”

  “Like I was saying, Mad Mickey, I wasn’t expecting nobody till eleven.”

  Both men could hear Angelo Primo sucking air through his back molar, as if dislodging the stubborn food. But this time, Mad Mickey paid him no attention.

  “So tell me this. You think at eleven o’clock there would be another briefcase deposited in that same garbage can. I mean what are the odds, hmm? You better find out where this broad lives, get my money then teach her a good lesson.”

  “It’s gotta be in the fancy condo where Jimmy works at… where he snatched the kid from.”

  “You moron, you know where she lives and you still standing here infroname.”

  “But boss, I don’t know what her name is. But once I find out, all I got to do is figure out which apartment number.”

  “Ask Jimmy. He must know what apartment number.”

  “But Mad Mickey, I can’t find Jimmy.anywhere. He called to pick up the boy and get his cut, but I told him the briefcase wasn’t there. He said he was going to look himself.”

  “Didn’t you tell him you seen the broad take it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know boss.”

  “You don’t know.” Mad Mickey smiled a slow deliberate smile. “You don’t know. Fucking unbelievable!”

  “I thought maybe I could be wrong, let him go double-check.”

  Mad Mickey looked at his wristwatch with a frown. “It’s almost one o’clock,” he announced. “So where the hell is he? He must have gone and checked by now.”

  “He must have looked and didn’t find it either. He must be shitting bricks and gone into hiding.”

  “Did you go by his place?”

  “I knocked and knocked, but he ain't  there.”

  “Are you sure he ain’t run off with half the money, probably with this moll he’s been screwing.”

  “Jimmy’s not that stupid to double-cross you, boss.”

  “Then where’s ma money. You ain’t got it. He ain’t got it. Tell me, what does this broad look like?”

  “Like my type. Pretty, soft and fat with big bazookas. The only thing I didn’t like is she got long white hair, probably too much peroxide.”

  “Do you think I’m here fa laughs?”

  “No… sorry boss. But that’s why I noticed her. When I saw her heading for the garbage. I said to myself, now that’s my type a woman, round and soft.”

  “Well use your dick radar and go find her,” barked his boss.

  “Glad to boss.”

  “And don’t show up here again without the money or you’re going to pay.”

  “Yes boss.”

  Mad Mickey poured iced water from a sweating glass pitcher into his empty glass. “Before you go, go make sure the kid’s comfortable.”

  “Yes boss.”

  “Angie, go with him. Tell Fabrizzi to stay alert. Maybe we can cut a deal ourselves with the father. He’s all we got.”

  “I hear you boss.”

   

   «Chapter Forty Four»

  Angelo Primo cringed in agony as he shifted his bulky form from the sofa. He trailed Larry Parrata to the end of the long corridor into a shabby back room. Sitting at a wonky wooden table, Fabrizzi was playing a game of Euchre, skillfully shuffled a deck of cards, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  In a corner, the kidnapped boy sat on a dirty futon, hugging his knees to his chest like a drugged-up autistic child, rocking himself for comfort, looking at nothing. The goose egg on his forehead had shrunk and now the shades of a yellow purplish black smudge, the wound itself had scabbed over.

  No one had bothered to clean up the detritus on the worn, linoleum flooring. Daily newspapers piling up, smelly T-shirts and socks, random junk food wrappers: Snickers, Mars bars, McDonalds, Kentucky, and Mr Submarine, empty pizza boxes, crushed soda cans, beer cans, wine bottles, cigarette butts, littered the floor. Several lines of ants were having a picnic, filling their tiny bellies on dried syrup and crumbs.

  “We might have a problem,” said Parrata to Fabrizzi. “Seems fucking JP fucked this thing up of historical proportions.”

  “Historical proportions? How? He snatched the kid. Wasn’t it your job to pick up the ransom?”

  “Yeah, sure, that was the plan, but the money wasn’t there.”

   “What! You’re kidding me right.”

  “I kid you not. This whole thing was a…”

  “I want to go home,” interjected the kid, snapping out of his trance.

  “As soon as your dad pay up kid,” replied Parrata.

  “Is my dad back from Europe yet?” he asked in a whiny voice.

  “What do you mean Europe?”

  “Is my dad coming to get me?”

  “What are you talking about, kid? What’s this about Europe?”

  “My parents went to Europe.”

  “What… when?”

  “Last Thursday.”

  “Ain’t your dad Eric Mandini?”

  “No. That’s my best friend’s dad.”

  “You ain’t Enzo Mandini?”

  “No. My name is Greg Junior Gardinghi.

  Fabrizzi stopped mid shuffle, frowning, allowing reality to sink in.

  Angelo slapped his good hand to his forehead, leaving his hand there as if it was stuck, his eyes stretched wide in disbelief. “Jesus H Christ, son of Mary and Joseph.”

  Parrata froze like a statue, his face pale with shock. “What! You ain’t Enzo… Enzo Mandini.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “The kid said no!” barked Fabrizzi, throwing down the deck of cards on the table where they scatter - a Joker landing on the floor facing up ironically.

  “You bunch of fucking morons.”

  “Watch your mouth, Brizzi,” said Parrata, snapping his mobile open. He  speed-dialled the number under MM and pressed the cell phone to his ear and waited a tick. “Boss! Boss!” said Parrata, and relayed the breaking news.

  “Sonovabitch!” said Mad Mickey.

  “What we do now boss
?”

  “Shut it Larry, I’m thinking.” An uncomfortable silence ensued for several seconds. “Blindfold the kid; take him back to the apartment building. Let him go.”

  “Let him go?” echoed Parrata. “But Mad Mickey he saw our faces!”

  “Aha, but he didn’t see my face. Tell him to keep his mouth shut or we make his life hell. And find that prick, JP. I want him here infroname.”

  “Okay boss.”

  Parrata snapped his cell phone shut, pushing it into his pocket. “It’s your lucky day kid… you’re going home. And Fabrizzi, clean up this fucking room. Can’t leave evidence hanging about. Angelo, blindfold the kid.”

  “But Lar, I only got one good arm.”

  “Useless piece of shit.” Parrata looked at the boy. “Hey kid, pick up the blindfold. Use it.”

  Some minutes later, Larry Parrata and Angelo Primo walked down the long corridor and passed Mad Mickey’s open door, the kid blindfolded and struggling between them.

  “Calm down kid,” said Primo. “You’re going home.

  “I still want that ransom money,” yelled Mad Mickey from behind his desk.

  “Yes boss,” replied Parrata.

  “Listen up, kid,” said Parrata, as they neared the stairwell. “I’m gonna remove the blindfold now. Don’t look at anybody. Don’t try to talk to anybody. I want you to be quiet, understand?”

  Greg Jr nodded apprehensively. However, deep down, he knew he could outrun the two sweaty overweight lugs.

  As soon as Parrata untied the blindfold, the kid could see that the escape route was just right there, straight ahead. All he need was to get to it. Disobeying specific orders, he broke free, bolting down the corridor with incredible speed and energy as if the bogeyman was chasing after him. Parrata and Primo were the bogeymen – they thundered down the corridor after the boy.

  However, the boy was too swift for his own good. The two men watched as the kid turned at the top of the stairwell and, as if in slow motion, tripped over his own feet. He put out his hands to save himself, but hurled head first down the long flight of stairs, tumbling down violently, down the twelve or fourteen steps, rolling over until he came to a gruesome halt at the back door.

  Parrata legged it down the stairs and crouched down on one knee by the boy’s lifeless body. He picked up the boy’s arm, felt for a pulse on his wrist. He noticed the ulna stuck out of the broken skin. He attempted to give mouth to mouth, but his head was loose like a puppet in his hands, eyes fixed open and stared at nothing.

  “Jesus H Christ, Angie, the kid’s dead.”

  “Oh Jesus Lar, he was such a nice kid,” said Angelo coldly. “He reminded me of my nephew, Vino… same age.” He crossed himself. “May God rest his soul.”

  “How we gonna explain this one to Mad Mickey?”

  “It’s all your fault Lar. You forgot to tell him not to run off.”

  “How is it my fault?”

  “You said, don’t look. Don’t talk. Be quiet. But you never said don’t run.”

  “Shat-ap, Angie…”

  As if by magic, Mad Mickey appeared at the top of the staircase. Assessing the horrific scene, his pale complexion altered to the color of a Japanese Macaque. “What the fuck happened here?”

  “Boss,” said Larry, looking up at his boss. “We took the blindfold off and he legged it, he fell down the stairs. He’s dead.”

  “Dead? Between you two fucking clowns he just fell down the stairs.”

  “But boss, he tripped trying to get away.”

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about your goddamn excuses, Larry. Is this how we take care of our business now? One screw up after another.”

  The two men remained silent.

  “Take him back to Jimmy’s turf; hide the body in his workshop or something. I sure as hell ain’t going down for this. He started this mess. Let him worry about it.”

  “Yes boss.”

  Mad Mickey stormed off back to his office. “And I still want that briefcase,” he yelled out.

   

   

   

   

 

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