Ghosted (22 page)

“It’s
hot
out there,” said Mason, and glanced around. The man closest to him gave a snort and the barmaid looked over like she doubted it was worth the effort of turning her head. Mason tried a smile and a nod.

“You wanna drink?” she said.

“Please.”

She rolled her eyes. “What drink you wan’?”

“Just a beer,” said Mason. “Make it a Keith’s.”

As she poured the beer, Mason glanced at the men once more and cleared his throat. “It’s friggin’
hot
out …”

“You say that before,” said the barmaid, thudding the glass down in front of him. “It stupid.”

The man who’d snorted now growled. “It’s only eighteen degrees.”

“You drug smoker?” the barmaid asked.

Mason tried to laugh like they were all sharing a joke. Then the man with the hat at the end of the bar called out, “What the hell do you expect? It’s Toronto in the summertime.” Mason picked up his beer and walked to the end of the bar.

He sat down. “You know what …?” But the man in the hat interrupted.

“Mary! Can you turn it up? I like this song.” “Sussudio,” by Phil Collins, was playing.

“Nobody
like this song!” said Mary, but she turned it up anyway.

“She’s right,” said Mason.

“I guess. But now they can’t hear us.”

“That was the worst secret code ever.”

“Who knew the temperature would drop overnight? And anyway, you got it wrong. It was supposed to be
‘fucking
hot out there,’ not
‘frigging.’”
He sounded disappointed.

“Why didn’t you just say, ‘I’ll be the one in the floppy grey hat?’”

“I wanted to check you out a bit first.”

“So …”

“So you seem a bit weird.” The man’s voice was forlorn, like that of a stuffed donkey.

“I
seem weird! ‘Sussudio’! It’s not even a real name!”

“You may be right.” The man picked up his drink. “I’m Seth Handyman.”

“Mason,” said Mason. They clinked their glasses together. “God I hate this song.”

“You play pool?” Seth asked.

As he racked the balls, Mason studied him. The hat was disconcerting—a classic fedora that had lost its shape. It cast a shadow across his face, making evaluation difficult: longish, greyish hair—almost to his shoulders—sallow skin, grey cheeks, unshaven but not bearded, wet and lippy mouth, lanky arms and long hands that moved quickly around the felt. No real fix on the eyes. In general, mid-forties, a bit overweight, and probably not too bad at pool. Mason decided to let him win a few games. “Want to play for a beer?”

Seth looked up, eyes still shaded by the brim of his hat. “Don’t drink,” he said.

“Oh.”

Seth flipped a quarter.

“Heads,” said Mason.

“Nope,” said Seth. He put the coin back in his pocket then turned to select a cue. “I used to drink.” He rolled out the white ball, then broke. It cracked like a rifle shot, one of each down. “I was good at it, too. These guys here—they drink like Finns.”

“What are fins?”

Seth sank a solid, then sighed. “People who live in Finland.”

“Right.”

“You ever been there? Worst drinkers in the world. They’re pretty awful all round, actually: dour, unattractive, dull as dirt, it’s like their grey matter is actually grey—you know what I mean?” He had a way of talking that was incongruous with how much of it he was doing, like it was a chore he had to finish. Man, thought Mason,
this guy is depressed
. And yet there was something else going on—as if this depression was a fairly new development, like he’d spent his life in witty repartee, and now, though partially lobotomized, the banter just kept coming.

“They’ll sit there staring at nothing, drinking fast. Get drunk quick, angry for like ten minutes or so, and then they just pass out.” He missed his next shot.

Mason sank a stripe, then another, then flubbed one.

“Anyway, point is: these guys are like Finns.”

“So why do you come here?”

“Be alone.” He took the duck instead of the position shot, then a tricky combo. “Also, it’s kind of a funny place.”

“Like Finland?”

“Ha!” Seth missed a long bank shot and turned to Mason. “Get this: highest literacy rate in the world
and
the highest suicide rate.
That’s
Finland.”

And so they’d arrived at the subjects of the day: reading, writing and suicide. Mason put his cue down. His newfound (heroic) purpose made it easier than before. He took a breath and spoke directly: “Okay, Seth, this is how we’ll do it: I’ll tell you what I can offer you, and you tell me how it suits you. Okay?”

For a moment the man seemed taken aback. He did, in fact, take a step backwards. Then he leaned on his cue. “All right. If you’ve got something to say …” There was a challenge in his voice.

He doesn’t know you’re here to save him
.

And so Mason explained his business, the same as before but with fewer stipulations—no cumbersome speech about last names and not wanting to know. This time the more he knew, the better.

When he’d finished his spiel, Seth looked down at the floor, then up again. “How do you live with yourself?” he said.

It felt like a gut shot. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just kidding, kid,” said Seth, and laughed. “No, really—this is perfect.”

“Oh … okay then.”

“It’s your shot.”

“We keep playing?”

Seth leaned against the table, as if thinking about it. Then, slowly, he tipped back the brim of his hat. His eyes were baby blue flecked with white. He looked at Mason. “I love games,” he said, in that far-off, mirthless voice.

“Sure,” said Mason.

“Especially one on one.” Seth studied him as he spoke. “Pool, tennis, poker, boxing. People say you play games, you play sports, but you don’t play boxing—as if violence and pain can’t also be a game. But that’s bullshit, don’t you think? You know what’s one of my favourite things?”

Mason looked at him. “Brown paper parcels, tied up with string?”

A smile—a creepy one, sure, but the man actually smiled. “Heads-up no-limit poker,” he said, and looked at Mason as if they knew each other. But before he could respond, the moment had passed. “Come on,” said Seth. “Let’s finish the game.”

“A tenner on it?”

Seth laughed. “God, I love gamblers.” He said it the way Willy said she loved drug addicts. “Tell you what …”

“What?”

“Let’s play for the truth instead.”

And so that’s what they did. One question per ball.

They racked again and Mason broke.

One of each down
.

“Do you work?” said Mason.

“Sure.”

“What do you do?”

“That’s two questions.”

“I sank two balls.”

Seth squinted, then nodded. “Subway,” he said.

“Restaurant or rapid transit?”

“Not the fucking restaurant.”

One in the side
.

“Why did you stop drinking?”

“It gets me in trouble.”

Four down the rail in the end
.

“Have you tried to kill yourself?”

“Nope.”

Mason flubbed a bank shot. Seth took aim.

Eleven in the end
.

“What’s your last name?”

Mason hesitated. “Dubisee.”

Fourteen, same pocket
.

“How many clients have you had?”

“Three.”

Sixteen in the side
.

“How many are dead?”

“At least two.”

A crash. The mahogany coat rack fell to the floor as one of the old guys stumbled over it. Mary shouted, “Fuck you marbles!” or something like that and the men started pounding their fists on the bar.

A bit funny, but not funny ha-ha
.

“What’s the deal with the coat rack?” said Mason.

“It’s not your turn.” Seth missed.

Mason sank the two ball, then asked the question again.

“It’s a sort of sobriety test,” said Seth. “You knock it over on the way out, you gotta give Mary your keys and buy the bar a round. You knock it over on the way in, and you don’t get served—unless you buy two rounds.”

“So we got a drink coming?”

Seth shrugged.

Mason took aim.

Down the rail in the end
.

Instead of asking about the drink again, he looked at Seth straight on. “Are we going to work together?” he said.

“Oh, that was decided long ago.”

Eight in the end
.

“Another game?” said Mason.

“That’s your question?”

Mason nodded.

“Sure,” said Seth, and racked up the balls. “We’ve got a lot to answer for.”

Two days later they were back in Tony’s Happy Daze Bar and Beer, shooting pool and asking questions.

Twelve off the ten in the side
.

“Do you have fear, anxiety or panic?”

“Right now?” said Seth.

“Generally.”

“No. Not generally.”

Mason miscued. The four went into the side.

“It’s still a ball …”

“My ball, my question.”

A shrug from Mason.

“Where is your family?”

Mason hesitated. “The other side of the country.”

Seven cross-corner
.

“What was the name of your first client?”

“Sorry,” said Mason. “That’s confidential.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“One of the rules of suicide assistance?” Seth turned and put his cue back in the rack. “Interesting. Very ethical.”

“What are you doing?”

“This game has rules, too. So apparently we’ve got a conflict.” He picked up his jacket. “I’m leaving now.” He walked towards the coat rack.

He’s getting away
.

“Warren,” said Mason.

Seth turned. “Before you tell me his last name, keep in mind I can just go online: the
Globe
obituaries cover the past two years.”

He wanted to tell him,
Stop making this so goddamn difficult. I’m trying to fucking save you!

“Why do you want to know?”

“So we can trust each other,” said Seth.

Just fucking tell him!

Shanter,” said Mason. “Warren Shanter.”

Seth walked back and picked up the cue. He smacked carelessly at a cluster of balls. The ten went down.

“My ball,” said Mason. Seth stood back. “Did you bring the money?”

“I will next time,” said Seth. Mason looked at him, then he missed a cross-side.

Seth took down the six.

“Have you started on the letter?”

“I will when you pay me.” They looked at each other.

This is a dangerous game, kiddo
.

Seth glanced down at the slate. “It’s a messy table.”

Mason’s balls were all trapped on the rails. And Seth had no shot.

Mason looked at him. “You forfeiting?”

Something flashed across Seth’s face. Then he just looked tired. “I’ll give you one question.”

“All right,” said Mason. “Why can’t you write your own letter?”

“Writing’s like drinking: I used to do it, but now I don’t.”

“That makes no sense.”

Seth shrugged. “It’s the truth, though.” He turned around and headed out the door.

Mason paid his bill, then followed him. A half-block away, Seth’s grey hat bobbed. Mason walked towards it.

Seth turned left on Sudden Street. A minute later, Mason turned too, then crouched behind a parked car. The sidewalk was clear and Seth was only about thirty yards ahead of him, just standing there. He was staring at a tree.

After a few minutes he began walking again. Mason moved slower, still in a crouch behind the row of parked cars.

Three blocks down, Seth stopped once more, in front of a large old house, two plots wide, painted a dark brownish black. There was a chest-high wrought iron fence surrounding the yard. He pressed something on the gate, then waited a moment before pulling it open. He walked up the front steps onto the porch, waited again, then stepped inside.

As Mason studied the large dark house, the door opened once more. Two men walked out onto the porch and lit cigarettes. They began to smoke in silence.