Ghosted (18 page)

“First rehearsal’s tomorrow,” said Mason.

Soon looked pleased. “I’d like to be a part of it.”

“Well, we haven’t made the idol yet—so in its absence you could represent that which will represent you in your absence.”

“Perfect,” said Soon. “I’ll work on a costume.”

The rehearsal was a fucking disaster.

Mason had told Soon to get there around noon so they could get started when the Cave closed. He had planned to get some rest, but at 10 a.m. he was still playing poker, popping poppers, doing lines. Willy was with him, and for a change he was stacking up chips.

Then Bethany showed up. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and put her hands on the back of Willy’s chair.

“No,” said Willy.

“What?” It came out like a gust of wind. Mason felt her breath on the back of his neck. For a moment all was quiet.

“He’s winning,” said Willy. Mason turned to look at her. She was smiling at him.

“This
fucking guy?” said Bethany. “He ain’t winning shit. Not with a pair of threes.”

The table erupted into swearing, players slamming their cards on the table. Mason could see the bouncers across the Cave, busy with something in the bathroom. Chaz was out of sight. “Get the fuck out of here, lady,” said the guy across from Mason.

“That’s what I’m doing,” said Bethany, and she tugged at the wheelchair. Mason grabbed a hold of it too. “She wants to stay,” he said.

“Don’t you speak for her!” said Bethany. Chaz was coming through the crowd now.

“I want to stay,” said Willy.

Bethany still tugged, glaring at Mason. Then, “Fine!” she said. “You take care of her!” She shoved the chair forward.

Willy hit the table—chips, cards and drinks exploding into the air. Chaz grabbed onto Bethany. Mason got a hold of Willy and pulled her away from the mess. Bethany was screaming now, the players were shouting, and the bouncers were crossing the floor.

“Are you okay?” said Mason.

But Willy didn’t answer. She didn’t say anything until Bethany was gone.

Chaz tried to avoid barring people. That was how booze cans got raided—some asshole, sore from being kicked out, went to the cops for revenge. But everyone agreed: wrecking a high-stakes poker game by throwing a handicapped girl at it was definitely a barring offence. But what to do with the game? Three thousand dollars in poker chips scattered across the floor? In the end they were redistributed, but to no one’s satisfaction. Chaz gave the players drinks on the house then agreed to stay open for two extra hours.

While all this was happening, Willy smoked her dope in the bathroom stall, Mason cutting lines on the counter.

“You okay?” he said.

The smoke rose, a thin cut above the door. “You were doing so well.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. I want to see you win.”

“All right,” he said, and did a line. “Then I guess it’s time I win.” They went back to the table and Willy sat beside him. He huffed and he puffed, and by noon there was fire on the felt.

When Soon saw the Cave he almost fled. But he spotted Mason through the crowd, and charged onward with trepidation, as only a sober, impatient artist in a midday speakeasy could do. Then he just stood there, looking at the gamblers. People started to grumble. Mason was intent on taking this pot down, and didn’t even recognize Soon in a long purple coat of leather and suede, dark eyeliner beneath Buddy Holly glasses, a po’ boy cap and a Fu Manchu. Even for the Cave, Soon was sporting a creepy look.

Mason glanced up. “Play or walk,” he said.

“It’s time for rehearsal,” said the weird purple stranger. Chairs scraped the floor.

“Soon?”

But Soon had begun to sweat. He opened his mouth to speak and the Fu Manchu fell across his mouth. Someone yelled, “Narc!” and then, once again, things got messy.

Mason pulled Soon away from the table.

“Why the hell are you dressed like that?”

“You wanted a representation of my representation!”

“And this is it?”

“And also a disguise—so the Soonies won’t recognize me.”

Mason shook his head like he was trying to get bugs out of his brain.

“I thought about it a lot!” said Soon. “And anyway, you said this place was going to be closed!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Are you on drugs?” said Soon.

“Yes, a lot of them. But just relax, okay? I’m going to get you a drink. And then I’ll round up the Saholes.”

“Soonies.”

“Right,” said Mason. “I even made you T-shirts.”

    
37. To give is a blessing.

38. I’m sure there’s life on other planets.

Just after 2 p.m., Detective Flores descended from street level with two patrolmen. He’d known this place existed and wasn’t going to bother with it. But now there were assault charges pending, laid by an angry girl with a pink scrunchy in her hair.

As he adjusted to the dark, Flores identified an illegal poker game, a non-licensed bar, open use of contraband narcotics and stimulants … but that was all in the background, barely interesting compared to what was going on right in front of him.

Twenty or so people in purple T-shirts, with
Soon has already happened
on the front and
!!!
on the back, were chanting,
“Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah! Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah!”
over and over, though apparently not quite loud enough … For in their midst, standing on the back of an occupied wheelchair, stood a young man (who Flores thought he recognized) bellowing this same chant and
waving his arms like a conductor. The rhythm improved and the young man shouted: “Cry! Now everyone start to cry!” The girl in the wheelchair beamed.

Suddenly, above all this, rose the opening verse of “Take My Breath Away” (which Flores
definitely
recognized from the
Top Gun
soundtrack). And into the spotlight on the stage came six stumbling men carrying a folding table, on top of which sat a bespectacled swami with a taped-on moustache.

“Sa-ha-la. Sis-boom-bah!”
chanted the purple people.

“Cry!” shouted the young man on the back of the wheelchair. “You’re heartbroken! Cry!”

When he finally saw Flores, Mason stopped shouting. The detective appeared to be mouthing something to him—something like, “What the hell, Mason? It’s 2 p.m. on a Wednesday!”

Then there was a crash as Soon Sahala tumbled from the stage.

“It could have gone worse,” said Soon.

“How exactly?”

Two of the Saholes (even Soon was now calling them this) had been arrested for outstanding warrants. Booze, drugs and poker winnings had been seized. And Soon had sprained his ankle. “Well,” he said. “I could have broken it.”

“True.”

The cops had let them go after a cursory search. It hadn’t been easy getting Willy up the stairs to his apartment with Soon limping
like that. Once they did, she’d fallen asleep on the couch. Mason didn’t want to wake her, so now here they were: out on the roof, keeping an eye on the back alley. Mason had left the wheelchair in the Dogmobile. Chaz, he assumed, was eating beans and listening to Gowan.

Soon began to sing:

“First is the worst

Second is the best

Third is the nerd with a hairy chest.”

Mason pulled out a dime bag.

“Can I try some of that?”

Mason thought about saying no, but he was high and wired and eventually he just shrugged. He poured some out on his brand new Ontario health card and passed it to Soon with a rolled-up bill. “Plug your other nostril and draw in hard.”

Soon did so, then caught his breath. “Just two more months,” he said, and pointed at the downtown skyline.

“What?” said Mason.

“In two months the CN Tower will no longer be the tallest free-standing structure in the world.”

“Dubai. Right?”

Soon nodded. “I had a plan, you know? To save it from second place.”

“You had a plan to make the CN Tower taller?”

“No, not taller. It was about embracing things.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Art,” said Soon. “Something for the entire city. I brought an idea to the lighting designer guy, and he actually liked it: ‘The CN Tower of Babel’—languages not of sound, but of light.” He moved his hands in the air like his fingertips were fireworks.

It occurred to Mason that Soon’s third breakdown shouldn’t be happening on his roof. He looked at the tower. “So what happened?”

“When ‘The Wings of Hope’ failed I kind of blamed everyone. The collaboration ended. Who knows? Maybe he’s still working on it?”

The sun was starting to set.

“What do we do now?” said Mason.

“About what?”

“About our plans.”

“I like the T-shirts,” said Soon. “And what about that chant!”

“Well, we can’t do it now. My cover’s blown.” Mason took a hit.

“I can still do the jump.”

“We’ll see. We can figure it out when we’re sober.”

Soon appeared to think about that. “Can I have another coke?” he said.

“That’s not how you say it.” Mason passed him the baggie.

Soon tried to take a hit, but ended up sucking air. Mason took it back.

“It’s rare, you know,” said Soon. “People who jump off bridges.”

“Not rare enough,” said Mason.

“No, I mean percentage-wise. It takes a special kind of person to do it that way. Most people kill themselves in really depressing places, like garages and alleys and things like that. That’s just fucking sad.”

Mason looked at him, and started to laugh.

And then Soon was laughing, too. “Man,” he said. “Cocaine is really good.”

They looked at the skyline, laughing.

    
39. The night sky is blue, not black.

40. Pain is a psychic construct.

Soon was gone. Willy was awake. She was shaking. Mason held her in his arms.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know.”

Sometimes everything is terrifying
.

“What would help?”

“Water,” she said.

“I’ll get you a glass.”

“No, I mean
being
in water. Do you have a bathtub?”

He didn’t answer for a moment. He wanted so much to make her all right.

“How about whisky?”

“Okay.”

He stood up to fetch a bottle and stumbled a bit.

“You’re all fucked up,” she said.

“Yeah.”

She was shaking so much. He spilled the whisky as he poured. He did a line and went to the closet.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He unfolded the suit he’d worn to Warren’s funeral.

“I’m taking you out.”

When he was dressed he lifted her onto his back. It was a long, steep way down and Willy wasn’t light. “Reach out,” he said. “Hold onto the railing with me.” They started the descent.

Almost halfway, his body began to shake. His legs were burning.

You’re going to lose her
.

You’re both going down
.

His heels slipped and he grabbed at the railing, wrenching his shoulder as they dropped—but thank God, backwards—just two stairs down, thudding onto the landing.

They sat there, crumpled, catching their breath. Mason felt trapped—it was down to the bottom, or all the way back up.

You can’t do either
.

He muttered apologies and they started the second flight on their butts—one stair, two stairs—a gutless midnight descent.

You haven’t changed a bit
.

You coward
.

Then, just like that, he was up with Willy in his arms and barrelling down the stairs. She yelled with surprise and terror—much better than fear. They burst through the door and onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, my God,” gasped Willy. “What the hell was that?”

He felt good all of a sudden. Powerful. And it wasn’t just being high.

He sat Willy down in the alley then collected her chair and a bottle of Dewar’s from the Dogmobile. He put the bottle in her lap and buckled her in.

“You plan on racing?” she said, and then they were off—flying down the street.

What the hell was that?

It had almost got him, but he’d dug in his heels and leapt.

You’re going to crash
.

It was true. He’d been up for two days. But now he was flying. And feeling all right … At a steady run they were there in twenty minutes: up the ramp, across the rotunda, to the sparkling entrance of the Sheraton Plaza Hotel.

He nodded to the doorman, who had on a red coat with faux gold buttons, and the doors slid open. In the lobby he waved a quick hello to the desk then headed for the elevators. He pressed the up button, and a moment later they were in.

He pressed the button marked R.

“What does R mean?”

“Rooftop,” he said, and they began to rise.

Willy floated naked beneath the night sky, thirty-one storeys above the ground. Mason held her head and stroked her left side. The water was warm, the air cool, stars pulsing above them.

“What if someone comes out here?”