Deadly Decisions (26 page)

A
FTER UNSUCCESSFULLY ATTEMPTING TO DECODE THE GARBLED
message for Kit from a person named Preacher about a meet, I concluded that this probably involved Harleys, and not those owned by a suburban motorcycle club. I thought of waiting up, decided against it.

Impulsively, I dialed Ryan’s number. The answering machine replied. My despondency complete, I went to bed.

I slept fitfully, my thoughts like colored chips in a kaleidoscope, congealing to form clear images, then drifting apart into meaningless patterns. Most of the tableaux involved my nephew.

Kit, driving his pickup through a tunnel of trees. Kit, arms overflowing with flowers. Kit on a Harley, Savannah Osprey riding the back, bookend bikers to either side.

At one point I heard the beep of the security system. Later, vomiting, then the sound of a toilet.

In between cameos of my nephew, my unconscious presented theme song suggestions.
Lord of the Dance
kept repeating. The music was like fleas in the carpet: Once in, it was impossible to dislodge.

Dance, dance, wherever you may be . . .

I awoke to pale gray lighting the edges of the window shade. Slamming a pillow across my head, I threw an arm over it and pulled my knees to my chest.

I am the lord of the dance, said he . . .

At eight I gave up. Why be annoyed? I reasoned. It isn’t rising early that’s a pain. It’s
having
to rise early. I didn’t
have
to get up, I was choosing to do so.

I threw back the covers and slipped on the same outfit I’d featured for my Friday evening with Bird. A Brennanism: When in doubt as to where the day will take you, underdress.

While the Krups pot brewed my 100 percent Kona I peeked out the French doors. Rain fell steadily, turning trunks and branches shiny, jiggling leaves and shrubs, and puddling in low spots on the courtyard brick. Only the crocus sprouts looked happy.

Who was I kidding? This was a morning to sleep.

Well, you’re not. So do something else.

I threw on a jacket and sprinted to the corner for a
Gazette.
When I got back, Birdie was curled on a dining room chair, ready for our Saturday ritual.

I poured myself some Quaker Harvest Crunch, added milk, and set the bowl next to the paper. Then I got coffee and settled in for a long read. Birdie watched, secure in the knowledge that all cereal leavings would be his.

A United Nations human rights panel had blasted Canada for its treatment of aboriginals.

Dance, dance . . .

The Equality Party was celebrating its tenth birthday.

What’s to celebrate? I wondered. They hadn’t won a single National Assembly seat in the last election. Equality had been born of a language crisis, but the issue had been relatively quiet over the past decade, and the party was hanging on by suction cups. They needed another linguistic flare-up.

The Lachine Canal would be undergoing a multimillion-dollar face lift. That was good news.

As I refilled my cup and gave Bird his milk, I pictured the place where Kit and I had skated last Sunday. The bike path ran along the canal, a nine-mile waterway filled with toxins and industrial sludge. But it had not always been a sewer.

Built in 1821 to bypass the Lachine rapids and allow ships direct passage from Europe to the Great Lakes, the canal was once an integral part of the city’s economy. That changed when the St. Lawrence
Seaway opened in 1959. The canal’s mouth and several basins were filled with earth displaced by construction of the métro system, and it was eventually closed to navigation. The surrounding neighborhoods were neglected and, save for the creation of the bicycle path, the canal was ignored, tainted by a century of industrial dumping.

Now plans were afoot to revitalize the city’s southwest side. Like Mont-Royal Park, designed by Frederick Law Olmsted one hundred and twenty-five years ago, the canal was to be the centerpiece for a renaissance of the entire sector.

Maybe it’s time to buy a new condo.

I resettled at the table and opened to another section.

The RCMP had to squeeze more than twenty-one million dollars from its budget to cover salary raises. The federal government would cough up only a portion.

I thought of the blue-collar workers picketing on Guy.

Bonne chance.

The Expos lost to the Mets, 10–3.

Ouch. Maybe Piazza
was
worth the ninety-one million the Big Apple had forked out.

Dorsey’s rearraignment on new charges was on page five, next to a story about Internet crime. The only thing I learned was that he’d been arraigned late Friday afternoon, then transferred from Op South to the provincial prison at Rivière-des-Prairies.

At ten I phoned the hospital. Madame LaManche reported that her husband was stable, but still uncommunicative. Thanking me politely, she refused my offer of help. She sounded exhausted, and I hoped her daughters were there for support.

I sorted clothes and ran a load of whites. Then I changed to basketball shorts and a T and laced up my cross-trainers. I walked to McKay and Ste-Catherine, and took an elevator to the top-floor gym.

I ran the treadmill for twenty minutes, finished with another ten on the StairMaster. Then I lifted weights for half an hour and left. My usual routine. In. Exercise. Out. That’s why I liked Stones Gym. No high-tech glitz. No personal trainers. A minimum of spandex.

When I emerged, the rain had stopped and the cloud cover was losing its hold. An especially promising patch of blue had appeared over the mountain.

I arrived home to the same quiet I’d left. Birdie was sleeping off
the cereal milk, my nephew was sleeping off something I didn’t want to contemplate.

Dance, dance . . .

I checked the answering machine, but the message light was dark. No response from Ryan. As with all recent calls to his number, his machine was not calling back.

O.K., Ryan. Message received loud and clear.

I showered and changed, then arranged myself at the dining room table. I sorted everything Kate had loaned me. Photos to the left, documents to the right. Again I began with the photos.

I glanced briefly at Martin “Deluxe” Deluccio and Eli “Robin” Hood, then at a dozen members of the same species, bearded, mustached, goateed, and stubbled. I moved on to the next envelope.

Color prints fell to the table. In most the focus was blurry, the subjects badly framed, as though each was shot quickly and covertly. I sifted through them.

The settings were predictable. Parking lots. Motel pools. Barbecue joints. Yet the amateur quality made these scenes somehow more compelling, gave them a vitality lacking in the police surveillance photos.

Going from picture to picture, I noted accidental events captured by tourists, salesmen, passing motorists. Each told the story of a chance encounter, a random intersection of the ordinary and the dark. Kodak moments of fascination and fear. Heart racing, palms sweaty, reaching for the camera before the wife and kids returned from the toilet.

I picked one up and studied it closely. An Esso station. Six men on chopped-down Harleys, twenty yards from the lens yet a universe away. I could feel the shooter’s awe, his seduction-repulsion by the aura of the motorcycle outlaw.

For the next hour I worked my way through the stack of envelopes. From Sturgis, South Dakota, to Daytona Beach, Florida, whether shot by police or Joe Citizen, the events and participants were tediously similar. Runs. Campgrounds. Swap meets. Bars. By one o’clock I’d seen enough.

It was time to talk to Kit.

Bracing myself for the conversation, I went to the guest room door and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked harder.

“Kit?”

“Yo.”

“It’s after one. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Mmmm.”

“Are you up?”

“Uhm. Hum.”

“Don’t go back to sleep.”

“Give me five.”

“Breakfast or lunch?”

“Yeah.”

Taking that as an affirmative for the latter, which was my preference, I made ham and cheese sandwiches and added deli dills. As I was consolidating Kate’s material to make space at the table, I heard the bedroom door open, then activity in the bathroom.

When my nephew appeared I almost lost my resolve. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face the color of cooked oatmeal. His hair was doing Jim Carrey.

“Mornin’, Aunt T.”

When he raised both hands and rubbed them up and down over his face, the border of a tattoo peeked from the hem of his T-shirt sleeve.

“It’s afternoon.”

“Sorry. I got in kind of late.”

“Yes. Ham sandwich?”

“Sure. Got any Coke?” he asked in a thick voice.

“Diet.”

“That’s cool.”

I got two sodas and joined him at the table. He was regarding the sandwich as one might a squashed cockroach.

“You’ll feel better if you eat,” I encouraged.

“I just need to wake up a little. I’m fine.”

He looked as fine as a smallpox victim. Up close I could see tiny veins threading through the whites of his eyes, and smell the smoke that clung to his hair.

“This is me, Kit. I’ve been there.”

I had, and I knew what he was going through. I could remember
the feel of residual booze slugging through my bloodstream, churning my stomach and pounding the dilated vessels in my brain. The dry mouth. The shaky hands. The sense that someone had poured lead shot in the space below my sternum.

Kit rubbed his eyes, then reached over and stroked Bird’s head. I knew he was wishing he were someplace else.

“Food will help.”

“I’m fine.”

“Try the sandwich.”

He raised his eyes to me and smiled. But as soon as he relaxed the corners of his mouth hooked downward, unable to sustain the effort without conscious direction. He took a bite the size of a dime.

“Umm.” He popped open the Diet Coke, tipped back his head, and gulped.

It was obvious that he didn’t want to travel in the direction I was headed. Well, neither did I. Perhaps there was no issue. He was nineteen. He’d had a big night. He was hungover. We’d all been there.

Then I remembered the phone message. And the new tattoo.

There were issues, and we needed to discuss them.

I knew what I said would make little difference. Probably none. He was young. Invulnerable. And “born to boogie,” according to Harry. But I owed it to him to try.

“Who’s the Preacher?” I asked.

He looked at me as he rotated his Diet Coke can on the table.

“Just a guy I met.”

“Met where?”

“At the Harley shop. When I went with Lyle.”

“What kind of guy?”

He shrugged the question off.

“No one special. Just a guy.”

“He left you a message.”

“Oh?”

“You listen. I can’t translate it.”

“Yeah. The Preacher’s kind of a head case.”

That was an understatement.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. He’s just out there. But he rides this chopped ’64 panhead that is truly righteous.” He took a long swig of Diet Coke. “I’m sorry I stood you up last night. Did you find my note?” He was looking for a new topic.

“Yes. What was this event that was so important?”

“A boxing match,” he said without expression. His face had the consistency of bread dough. And about as much color.

“Do you follow boxing?”

“Not really. These guys do, so I went along.”

“What guys?”

“Just these guys I met.”

“At the Harley shop.”

He shrugged.

“And the tattoo?”

“Pretty cool, eh?”

He raised his sleeve. A scorpion wearing some sort of helmet spread its legs across his left biceps.

“What is it supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It just looks kick-ass.”

I had to agree.

“Your mother is going to kill me.”

“Harry has a tattoo on her left buttock.” He pronounced the last with a British inflection.

I am the lord of the dance, said he . . .

For a while neither of us spoke. I ate my sandwich while Kit picked at his, nibbling off a gram at a time then washing each down with Diet Coke.

“Do you want another?” he asked, pushing back his chair and wiggling his empty can.

“No thanks.”

When he returned I plunged in again.

“How much did you drink last night?”

“Too much.” He scratched his head roughly with both hands and the hair went from Carrey to Alfalfa. “But it was just beer, Aunt T. Nothin’ hard. And I’m legal here.”

“Just beer?”

He lowered his hands and looked at me, making sure he understood my meaning.

“If there’s one thing you can count on with this boy, it’s a negatory on pharmaceuticals. This body ain’t much, but I’m keeping it a drug-free zone.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” I was. “What about the Preacher and his flock?”

“Hey. Live and let.”

“It doesn’t always work that way, Kit.”

Go ahead. Ask.

“Are these guys bikers?”

“Sure. That’s why it’s Disneyland for me. They all ride Harleys.”

Try again.

“Are they affiliated with a club?”

“Aunt T, I don’t ask them a lot of questions. If you mean do they wear colors, the answer is no. Do they hang with guys that do? Yeah, probably. But I’m not going to sell my boat and strike for the Hells Angels, if that’s what worries you.”

“Kit. Outlaw bikers don’t draw lines between gawkers and those wanting charter memberships. If they perceive you as even the most minor of threats, or even a slight inconvenience, they’ll chew you up and spit you into tomorrow. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“You look like a nineteen-year-old kid from Houston with a fascination for Harleys and a romanticized image of the
Wild Ones.”

“What?”

“The Stanley Kramer movie?”

A blank look.

“Marlon Brando?”

“I’ve heard of Brando.”

“Never mind.”

“I’m just feeling free. Having some fun.”

“So is a dog with its head out the car window. Until it leaves its brains on a utility pole.”