Fireball (25 page)

The fucking Judas.

40

It took Chris a while to get a feel for the car.

As we drove along Dollarton, he would accelerate, then brake, then swerve back and forth in the lane. Just testing. Around Raven Woods he hit the gas – really flooring it – and we roared down that stretch of road that leads to the Reservation. The speed limit there is lower than anywhere else in the city. That's just how the Natives like it. So Chris slowed down – not because he was afraid of getting a ticket, but because he had this enormous respect for Natives.

I asked, ‘What's the plan?'

He'd been concentrating pretty hard on his driving. He gave this little jerk and glanced over at me, wide-eyed, as if he hadn't quite heard. Also, his nostrils were sort of quivering. He looked exactly like a caged animal, like a cougar or a wolf or a tiger. You know – something that should never have been locked up in the first place.

‘Plan?' he asked.

Obviously, he didn't have one. Then again, I guess he didn't really need one.

41

It seemed like the middle of the night when Chris called me. It was probably only about one o'clock, though. Since I didn't have anything to do I'd gone to bed early. Then, all of a sudden, our phone was ringing. I fumbled around in the dark before managing to find it.

‘Razor?'

‘Dude – what's going on?'

‘Not much. Can you come pick us up?'

‘Now? Like in a car?'

I didn't even have my licence. I had my learner's, but I hadn't learned very much. We never practised because dad was super worried that I'd crash his Civic. Actually, a few weeks ago I did crash his Civic – so he was probably right to be worried.

‘Yeah. Some fucking guy pulled a gun on Karen and we missed the seabus. Julian won't come down because he's being a total pussy.'

For a split second, after he said that, I thought I was dreaming. I thought I'd created this fantasy where they'd gotten into trouble, and I'd have to come to their rescue and save the day. I sort of sat up and looked around.

‘Are you serious?'

‘Yeah, man. I'll tell you later. Karen's running out of credit. Will you come?'

In the background I heard Karen say, ‘Pretty please, Razor?'

She didn't really sound distraught. She sounded like she was enjoying herself.

‘Can't you take a cab? My old man will murder me.'

‘None of them will pick me up. I'm covered in blood and shit.'

This was nuts. They really were in trouble.

‘All right. Where are you?'

‘Oppenheimer Park.'

‘What are you doing in Oppenheimer Park?'

Before he had time to answer, the line went dead.

We hardly ever went downtown.

To begin with, Julian hated downtown. When he was twelve he got jumped by these two huge skinheads who stole his wallet, his cellphone, and his sweater. No joke. After that, he avoided going downtown whenever possible – and without his car, it was a huge ordeal for me and Chris to get over there. We had to take the seabus, which only goes about once every nine hours. But a week before the toga party Chris wanted to do something special with Karen. You know – like a date. He didn't call it a date but that's what it was.

‘Where are you going to take her, man?'

‘I don't know. What do you think?'

We split a couple of Kokanees at my house before the date. He had to come over, anyway, to borrow some of my dad's old clothes. My dad was cool about it. He let us root around in his closet and drawers. We picked out this dark green polo shirt and a pretty sweet pair of khakis. The khakis were a little long, but Chris still looked ten times better than the night we'd gone to that West Van party. He'd even combed his hair – probably the first and only time he did that in his entire life.

‘How about Brandy's?' I suggested.

Brandy's is this super classy peeler bar where all the Vancouver Canucks go.

‘Brandy's sounds pretty randy.'

‘Like stealing candy from a dandy.'

Neither of us could take it seriously. He still hadn't decided where he was taking her by the time Karen showed up. She didn't knock. Nobody knocked at my house. It was every­body's second home. We heard the back door open and then her feet appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Hello?'

‘We're down here.'

We stood up. It was just like a scene in an old movie, when the guy's date arrives for prom. There was Chris, in his polo shirt, and there was Karen, in her dress. I'd never seen her wear a dress before. She'd chosen this red summer dress, strapless and patterned with white flowers. It hugged her breasts pretty tight. Not skanky or anything. Just nice. She floated down the stairs and came to perch on the arm of our sofa – the one that leaks stuffing.

Then she smiled – this very shy smile.

‘Hi, Chris.'

He smiled back, and for a split second, it was like I didn't exist. I'd disappeared. The only thing that mattered was the two of them and their smiles. Then she noticed me and leaned over to tousle my hair, like I was her brother.

‘What are you doing tonight, Razor?'

I yawned. ‘Oh, I've got a party to go to. In Whistler.'

Chris asked, ‘What kind of party?'

‘A huge party. With tons of chicks and weed and free booze. It's too bad you guys can't come, actually. But maybe I'll send you a postcard or something.'

They both laughed politely. I didn't want them to feel bad about ditching me. At the same time, I kind of did want them to feel bad. But just to show there were no hard feelings, I gave them a few bottles of Kokanee for the road. Karen stuffed them in her purse.

‘Maybe we can meet up later,' Chris suggested.

‘Yeah. Okay.'

That cheered me up. Not a lot, but a little. As soon as I heard the door shut, I did something pretty weak. I ran to the window and peered out, like a kid who's been left behind with the babysitter. Luckily, they didn't notice me as they got into Karen's Jeep. I watched them drive off, and kept watching until the Jeep rounded the corner. Then I went and sat on my bed. It was early. I didn't know what the hell to do. I phoned Jules, but he'd gone to a tennis match at the winter club. I think I ended up watching a nature programme with my dad. Later on, in bed, I kept imagining where they were, what they were doing.

It helped pass the time, at least.

‘What was the restaurant like?'

We talked about it a few days after all the shit that went down that night. I think we were getting ready for Julian's toga party, actually.

‘Pretty stuffy.'

‘Nothing but stuffing on the menu, eh?'

‘Like being stuffed in a straitjacket.'

They left her Jeep at Lonsdale Quay and took the seabus to Gastown. Chris still hadn't decided on a restaurant, so Karen suggested one – this place overlooking the water. It was called the Orange Tree, or the Lemon Tree, or some kind of fruit tree. Whatever it was called, it's not called anything now. It's gone. I know because I went down there to retrace their steps. I found the building, but the windows were covered up and half the sign had been painted over. The only word left was ‘Tree.' It looked like a pretty fancy sign, though. Chris said it was fancy, too. Probably the fanciest place he'd ever been. There were little tea lights flickering on all the tables, and classical music floating around in the background.

‘What did you have to eat?'

‘I don't know. A steak. A French steak.'

He meant the filet mignon. Karen told me. She had to help him order, since he didn't recognise most of the stuff on the menu. The food was crazy expensive, too. Chris barely had enough cash – and he'd been saving up for weeks. Karen seemed to enjoy it, at least. But he told me he would rather have lit himself on fire than go back to a place like that.

For one thing, the waiter was wearing a turtleneck.

‘You're shitting me. A full-on ninja turtle?'

‘A total Donatello.'

I just wish he could have lived long enough to see it close down. Actually, there's a lot of stuff I wish he could have seen. Then again, there's also tons of stuff I'm glad he never had to witness. Like his own funeral, for instance. Or Karen's new hairstyle. He would have hated what she's done to her hair. It's harsh butt.

Anyways, after dinner they went looking for a bar that would let them in.

They tried a bunch of different ones, and kept getting denied. Somehow they ended up at the Roxy – this high-end club on Granville Street that charges about twenty bucks in cover. I don't think they really expected to get into it. On the other hand, they didn't really expect some guy to pull a gun on them, either. I mean, in Vancouver, that kind of thing hardly ever happens – but obviously their first date was an exception.

Oppenheimer Park is pretty much the sketchiest place in the entire city. My dad calls it ‘Opium Park' because of all the junkies who hang out there. It's a dirty no-man's land of cardboard boxes and used needles and rotting condoms and broken glass shards. There aren't any trees or shrubs or bushes or anything nice like that. The entire block is covered in dirt and grass, with a baseball diamond shoved in one corner. I don't know why Chris and Karen chose that spot. I guess they'd walked down from Granville, to hide out or whatever.

But basically, that's where I went to pick them up.

For obvious reasons, I didn't ask my dad if I could borrow his car. I just took the keys from his coat pocket and went for it. He didn't catch me, either. I mean, it's not like he's one of those assholes who keeps track of the exact mileage. I made sure not to drive too fast, or too slow. In movies, guys always get pulled over for going too slow. Everybody knows that. So I drove at exactly fifty klicks the whole time, over the Second Narrows and down along Powell. At the park I spotted them right away – sitting on the bleachers behind home plate. Chris was drinking a can of beer and Karen was wearing his hoody. I parked, got out and sauntered over, trying to keep it fairly casual.

The thing is, they weren't alone.

As I came up, I saw a bunch of people sitting with them. The one closest to me was this guy all wrapped in garbage bags, with a giant gash across his cheek. There were tons of others, too – like this girl with sores on her arms and some dude wearing super dark sunglasses and a Chinese lady who had no front teeth. I asked Chris later but he didn't know who they were or where they'd come from. It was kind of like when I went looking for him backstage at the Crazy Dan show. All these people who you hardly ever notice or pay attention to had just appeared and gathered around him.

‘Hey, guys,' I said. ‘What's up?'

‘Not much, Razor. Just chilling.' Chris grinned at me. He was bleeding, too. There was blood caked in his hair, and down the front of his shirt. ‘Thanks for coming, man.'

All the weirdos were looking at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

‘Say hi to Razor, everybody.'

‘Hel-lo, Ra-zor.'

They chanted it together, like a classroom of students. I perched on the edge of the bleachers, trying to remember if I'd locked my car. So much for rescuing him and Karen. I'd expected them to rush into the street and flag me down. But Karen was just leaning against Chris, stroking his arm. She smiled and twiddled her fingers at me. Perfectly content. He had just saved her life, after all – so I guess she was feeling pretty invincible.

‘Do you guys want to get going?'

‘Let me finish this beer first.'

So we waited there. The weirdos and junkies weren't actually talking, or communicating in any way. They just wanted to congregate, I guess. I don't really know. But they all seemed to like Chris. It might have been the beer. He'd bought a six-pack of Wildcat and shared it with them. He also rolled a joint and passed it around. I took a couple of tokes – making sure not to put my mouth on it. I mean, those people seemed all right, but some of them were harsh nasty.

‘Okay, Razor – let's cruise.'

When we stood up to leave, all the weirdos stood up, too. They shuffled along and followed us back towards the car. It wasn't creepy or anything. It was just pretty sad. They trailed a little way behind us, trying to keep Chris in sight – almost like they thought he could take them away, or lead them someplace better.

On the ride back, I got the whole story.

‘This guy had been kicked out of the Roxy,' Karen said.

‘So he pulled a gun – in front of about a hundred people.'

They didn't know what type of gun it was. Chris had never seen a real gun. Neither had Karen. But it was a handgun, apparently. A pistol.

‘And he said, “I'll fucking shoot you, man. I'll shoot all you fucking Canadians!”'

First he pointed the gun at the bouncer who had kicked him out. Then he started pointing it everywhere, at anyone. He was super thin, with a neat little goatee and these red leather shoes. He didn't look that harsh, but he was wired on something – coke or maybe meth. That's what Chris thought, anyhow. He knew right away that a guy in that condition, wearing those shoes, was capable of anything.