In Plain Sight (8 page)

“I . . . I . . .”

“CIA uses clear bags. People tear open black ones, but the clear ones — no one touches those. It's psychological, I suppose. You panic and your mind goes into a primal sort of thinking. You can see through the bag, so your brain doesn't register it; it focuses on the hands and body first. That shit doesn't matter though. Dead is dead no matter what your mind-set. You have to think clearest when you're dying. That's when you have to keep your head, or else someone else is going to take it. What good is thinking if you forget it when you need it most? School's out for today. Get to the gym.”

I walked out with my head low, the lesson burning in my cheeks. There were other tests after that, but I never lost my head again. I stayed calm when I needed to, and I stayed conscious — most of the time.

* * *

Morrison's forearm worked under my jaw. He rotated the bone back and forth using his whole body to pull his limb against my windpipe. I ignored the pain, and the arm, choosing instead to dig a thumb into his eye. He screamed in pain, and the hold loosened a fraction. My other hand found his balls, and I squeezed hard. The choke came loose, and I rolled away. I was on my feet before he was; Morrison wasn't using his hands to stand — they were holding his face and his crotch as he tried to get up. He saw me coming, and he covered up as I had, but I circled around his guard and pounded a kick into the base of his spine. He yelped, and his hands left his front in favour of his back as the impact shot up my leg. I saw his eyes focus through the pain and knew he wasn't done. We both drew on each other at the same time.

“Noise isn't what you want,” I said.

“Fuck you. You don't know what I want,” Morrison said as he got to his feet one shaky foot at a time. In his fist, he held a snub-nosed revolver.

“Using your drop piece?” I asked.

“Seem to have misplaced my service issue. Where'd you pick up the .
45
?”

“Yard sale. Why are you here?”

“I'm here to see the players. I love it when shit doesn't go their way. I had to take a personal day just to get here.”

“You let them see you?”

“Nah, I'm not suicidal, mate. Rubbing it in is bad business. I'd end up on the business end of a drive-by if I rubbed it in at a funeral.”

“So you saw me and . . . What the fuck happened to your eyebrows?”

“Fucking tape you put on my head took off my eyebrows. I had to fill 'em in with a make-up pencil. It's big laughs at the station.”

I chuckled, but the gun never shook. “So you saw me, and you figured it was payback time?”

“That's right, fuckwit.”

“You'll just be a dead cop next to a cemetery full of suspects.”

“Not if I shoot you first.”

“Then you're an off-duty cop using his drop piece on his personal day next to a cemetery full of police cameras and Russian gangsters. How many questions would come out of that?”

Morrison thought about it.

“Climb back over the fence and watch the rest of the show. You can see everything fine from behind the tombstones. You stay here, it's gonna get loud,” I said, dusting off my suit with one hand; the other kept the .
45
aimed at centre mass.

“We ain't done, mate. We're gonna settle up somewhere private. Just you and me.”

“It's hard to look threatening when your eyebrows can't furrow.”

He took a step towards me, but I waved him away with the .
45
. “Go, funeral is about to end, and neither of us wants to be here when that happens.”

Morrison slid over the fence quicker and quieter than I thought a man his size ever could, making me think the judo claim was no joke. I'd spent so much time trying to figure out what Morrison wanted from me that I'd underestimated him. He might have been a little crooked, but he was more than a bruiser. He was a good cop. I never saw him watching me in the cemetery. He got through my radar and almost crushed my throat. I had to remember that even off balance Morrison was no slouch. As soon as he disappeared, I jogged out of the yard, crossed the street, and went through two backyards before I set foot on the street. I was far enough down the road to make the church hard to see. But that meant it was hard to see me from the church. I found the court where I had parked my car and slid behind the wheel. I drove over to the street where Igor's yellow
BMW
was, backed into an empty driveway on the opposite side of the street, and waited.

The cars on the street began moving fifteen minutes after I parked the Volvo. Igor's yellow eyesore stayed put for another twenty minutes. His car was the second to last left on the street when he came sauntering around the corner. Tatiana followed in his wake — stumbling every fourth or fifth step. The way he let her trail behind told me that seeing her like this wasn't new. She stumbled coming out of another stumble and turned her ankle. Tatiana went sideways into a bush just as Igor unlocked the car with his key fob. He stamped his foot, marched back to her, and yanked her out of the shrub. He slapped her with his left palm and dragged her by her left bicep to the car. One of her feet kept rolling off its sole and dragging sideways on the pavement as he pulled her. She didn't seem to notice the pain, and Igor didn't notice, or care about, the extra drag. He pushed her against the rear door and held her up against the car with his hip while he opened the passenger side. She laughed and said something to him before he shoved her ass first into the car. He bent and crammed her feet inside before slamming the door. Igor ran a hand through his hair and looked around for witnesses before walking around to the driver side. On the curb, half in the gutter, lay the shoe Tatiana had been dragging sideways on the pavement.

The engine of the yellow car started, and I watched Tatiana's window roll down. Her hand came out holding a cigarette until the car screeched ahead and she had to sacrifice it for a steadying hold on the window sill. I started the Volvo and rolled after the
BMW
.

Igor drove like an asshole — too fast on residential streets and hooking in and out without signalling on busier roadways. All he achieved was getting to the stoplights faster than anyone else. I stayed far back and let him blaze a trail, knowing there was no way I was going to lose sight of that bright yellow car.

We raced into the core of the city and joined King Street. Igor bobbed and weaved until he screeched his tires onto Bay Street North. The street had cars parked on both sides, leaving only one lane for through traffic. Igor raced down the centre lane, forcing oncoming traffic to swerve into vacant parking spaces for cover from the yellow blur flying at them. Igor put some distance between us while the honking motorists pulled out of their temporary hiding places. I waited for my turn to use the street and then sprinted, pedal to the floor, down the pavement. The Volvo reacted fast, and the power of the engine surprised me. The souped-up machinery under the battered hood came to life like a waking animal — its guttural growl turned into a roar — and went zero to sixty in a few seconds. I caught up to Igor fast, and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid getting too close. He had slowed from his breakneck speed to turn into a driveway. I pulled to the curb twenty metres away and watched Igor once again drag Tatiana. She fell onto the driveway, not being able to keep up with only one high heel on. Igor used her arm and hair to get her vertical and kept his grip to get her the rest of the way into the house. He dragged her inside and slammed the door. I left the curb and turned the corner without looking back at yet another abandoned high heel, this time on the doorstep.

B
ayfront Park was across the street from Igor's house. From a parking lot behind a seasonal ice cream shop, I could see his yellow car in the driveway. The ice cream shop had probably closed a few months ago after the kids went back to school. Most of the graffiti on the back of the small shack was new and done in a variety of mediums. Gang signs and love notes were temporarily etched in paint and marker all over the wall. The spot was a good choice because I wouldn't have to worry about a cop checking on the car — joggers used the Bayfront all the time, so there were always a lot of cars parked nearby. It was
4
p.m., and I had no idea how long I was going to have to wait for Igor to come out of his house. I figured I had some time and pulled out of the lot. I drove into the city, found a Middle Eastern restaurant that advertised shwarma, and went inside.

The restaurant was dark, and the walls were without decoration. There were no tables, only booths lined with a dark maroon vinyl. One booth at the back was loaded with kids. A white kid, a black kid, a Filipino, and an Arab sat yelling loud jeers and obscenities to each other across the tight booth.

“I own you in Runescape. I pawn you like a noob every time.”

“Sure, sure, George. That's why I sold my points to Matthew for fifty bucks. You suck, George.”

I knew they were speaking English, but I had no idea what was being said. I walked past them and smiled at the woman behind the counter. She looked at the kids and rolled her eyes.

“What do you want today?”

“What do you eat?”

“Pardon?”

“What do you eat when you eat here?”

“Oh, I get the shwarma dinner with the garlic and hot sauce.”

“Give me two and an iced tea.”

The woman got to work filling Styrofoam containers with salad, rice, and chicken. She then topped the meat and rice with two heavy sauces. The kids quieted as two of them broke from the pack and stood in line behind me. They gave me tough stares when I looked in their direction, and I resisted the urge to show them the butt of the .
45
.

“Do you like Runescape?” the blond kid with braces and a sideways hat asked. He laughed to his friend as soon as he asked the question, thinking he was embarrassing me.

“What do you want?” the girl behind the counter demanded to know from the boy.

“Could I have a can of Mountain Dew?”

“Go sit down and leave my customers alone. I'll bring it to you when I'm done.”

The girl finished my order and took my cash.

“Where's my Mountain Dew?” the blond kid asked again the second the money touched the till.

The girl sighed and turned, leaving the till open, to get a can from the lowest rack of the fridge. She banged her head on the open drawer as she stood, and the boys all laughed at her. She followed me out on her way to the boys' table. I left to the sound of the boys asking her if she liked whatever Runescape was. My .
45
stayed in my jacket, and no one watched me leave.

Outside, I put the food on the floor of the back seat, where it would be held in place by the small space on the floor behind the driver's seat. I looked back at the restaurant, through the window at the kids, and ground my teeth. Being forced to work for Morrison made watching the bullies impossible. The big cop was using me just like the kids were using the girl behind the counter. I needed an outlet — something to release the pressure before it came out all on its own. It was then that I noticed the bikes leaning against the wall just below the window. No one else was visible in the lot, so the bikes must have brought the four assholes to the restaurant. They weren't locked up, just left in view from the window. I got in the Volvo, adjusted the mirror, and put the car in reverse. With a sudden bump, the car backed over the curb. There was a metallic crunch and then grinding as the bikes compressed under the old steel bumper of the Volvo. The bumper was worn and dented, so I didn't worry about any new dings standing out. I shifted back into drive and left the lot as the kids from inside ran out to stare at their bikes. I was around the corner too fast for my plates to be seen and lost in traffic before they could call anyone to complain.

I drove back out to Bay Street North and parked behind the ice cream shack again. The yellow
BMW
was still there. I spent an hour eating and waiting until I had to piss. I dumped what was left of the iced tea and used the bottle. I wasn't leaving again without Igor, so the bottle was the only option.

At
6
:
30
, Igor left the house and started the
BMW
. Tatiana stayed inside, and her shoe stayed on the porch. Igor tore out of the driveway and headed towards downtown using Barton Street East.

He changed lanes every few seconds and kept the car a few kilometres over eighty the whole way. I pushed through traffic relying on the red lights and the colour of the car to keep him in sight. Ten minutes later, he turned a quick right on Mary Street and parked the car in a lot behind a commercial property. The spot he took was near the rear exits, and it had a sign above it that I couldn't make out from the street. I kept going, then turned onto a side street where Igor wouldn't see me turn around. When I looped back onto Mary Street, Igor was walking to Barton. I crept up the street with my lights off, watching him cross the street and go left at the corner. I gave him a few seconds before I pulled the car to the intersection. I watched until he turned into a doorway of a strip club. The Steel City Lounge was a low-end joint that catered to the off-duty prison guards from the nearby Hamilton Detention Centre. I swung my head right and looked at the detention centre a couple hundred metres down the street and knew it was looking back at me. The building was like a predatory beast always on the prowl. The Barton Jail was a maximum security facility that held the worst and the dumbest. I flipped off the building from the car, checked the rear-view, and reversed back down the street to a curbside parking space.

I pulled the keys from the ignition and followed Igor's trail to the Steel City Lounge. I passed the building, looking inside the open entrance. If there were bouncers frisking anyone, I would have to put the guns back in the car. What I saw made me happy. There was no cover, no dress code, and a sign proclaiming that everyone was welcome.

I walked around the block looking at the side and rear fire exits and at the fence surrounding the parking lot behind the property where Igor had parked. There were several holes in the perimeter of the fence and one portion around back that was almost falling down. It looked as though a car had backed into the fence and no one had bothered to fix it up.

When I came back around, I loosened my tie and walked right inside. I wasn't at all worried about being spotted. I had been invisible for over a decade. As a teen, my first lessons in invisibility started early. Invisibility was a necessity. Until I learned to blend in, I had been barraged with questions about why I was out of school.

At first, I just didn't look people in the eye; it warded some people off, but it didn't make me invisible. The hard men and women my uncle associated with just shoved me and demanded to know why I wasn't where I should have been. It wasn't that they were concerned about my education; they could give a shit about the three R's. They knew that a kid hanging around attracted attention. Someone else would want to know the same thing they did, and if I didn't have an answer, any job I was on would be spoiled like milk left in the sun. At first, I tried to tough my way around my inquisitors, once going so far as to tell a safe man to fuck off when he questioned me. He didn't respond, he just looked at my uncle and then knocked me out — chipping a tooth in the process.

That night, while I sat with a bag of frozen peas on my jaw, my uncle asked about my mouth. I told him it was all right because of the peas, and he assured me that it was as sure as fuck not. He said it was too saucy for such a green kid. I told him about the question and how I thought going on the offensive would make it go away. My uncle laughed. “You can't be mean every time. That will usually just bring on whole other sets of questions. You can't let them see you, boy.”

“You mean stay in the car?”

“You can't always stay in the car. You have to be able to walk around in plain sight. What I'm talking about is being invisible in front of everyone's eyes. You have to learn to be a ghost, and not like Casper. I mean fucking gone.”

“How?”

“It's all in your head. But you won't believe me until I show you. Get your coat.”

We drove to west Hamilton and parked in a lot that housed a variety store, a fish and chips restaurant, and a pool hall. We walked down the steps to the pool hall, and my sinuses were all at once struck with the smell of dirt, smoke, and spilt beer. My uncle took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He put an arm around me and pointed to a row of pinball machines and video games.

“These here are mob-owned, boy. I once saw a local tough guy put a pool cue through one. Next day, a leg breaker shows up to cart away the machine and to find the guy that broke it.”

“What happened to the guy?” I asked.

“Darndest thing, the truck that was hauling the machine away hit him in the street.” My uncle laughed as though he had just heard a particularly funny joke instead of a tale of street justice. “Here's ten bucks. Have some fun.”

I forgot about being invisible and spent an hour playing Golden Axe. There were three characters to choose from, a big Conan-looking guy all muscle and sword, a beautiful warrior woman with a sword and implants, and a dwarf with a big axe. I chose the dwarf with the axe because hardly anyone ever picked the dwarf. The game had spent years killing the barbarian or the broad, maiming their digital good looks long into the night. In my mind, everyone was scanning for the next buff hero — no one would see the dwarf coming until the big axe spoke up and said hello in its brutal language. Time flew by, and on the hour my uncle put his heavy hand on the back of my neck. His fingers dug hard into muscle and nerves as he spoke in my ear. “Lesson's not over, boy. You've been here an hour, what's the guy behind the counter look like?”

I instinctively tried to turn my head, but the calloused mitt on my neck wouldn't let me.

“Speak up. What's he look like?”

“I don't know.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't look at him. I was busy.”

“Son of a bitch might as well have been invisible, eh? That's the first trick. When you don't want to be seen, you have to be where the person's interest ain't. The guy behind the counter pulled it off without trying because you're young and stupid, but there's a science to it. You have to notice everything around you. Take in everything that happens and everything that don't. You want to be unseen, you move when other things happen. You pick your spots. You can be nowhere in plain sight as long as you feel what's around you. You move with the room, and it's like you're not even there. Understand?”

I nodded my head as much as the hand on my neck would allow, but my uncle wasn't finished.

“It's different when you're in a room with one or two people. Then you're part of the room because you're a focal point. There's nowhere to hide in the spotlight. You sit quiet in that spotlight long enough people feel like they have to say something to fill the void. And our kind of people don't know anything polite. If you make them wonder, they're gonna dig at you until they find something they understand. Only your words will make you invisible. You got to make people uncomfortable, make them want to look somewhere else. And I'm not talking about the ‘Fuck you' shit you tried. When you want to stay invisible, you have to use remarks that put people on the defence. Put something mean and uncomfortable out there, then fade back. People will be glad to ignore you then. But what you put out comes from observation. You have to watch how people talk, how they stand, what they look at. You need to find something that will rattle them in the few moments you have, then you go at it with precision, not brute force. If you put out anything that sounds like a challenge, everyone will get your scent. A challenge is primal. Every animal recognizes it and instinctively pays attention to it. You challenge someone in our world everyone will see you, because they'll be trying to put your lights out. Understand?”

It was a week before someone else on the job asked me why I wasn't in school. I had studied hard, and I was ready. “I thought you said this guy was a pro, Uncle Rick. You sure this is the guy we need to see?”

There was silence in the room until my uncle spoke. “Are you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, Rick. I was just making conversation. Let's get down to business.”

No one spoke to me again that whole afternoon. No one even looked my way even though I was three feet away from the conversation the entire time. When no one was looking, my uncle rubbed my head. Rare praise from the man who raised me to become a ghost.

That night, my uncle took me to one of the big box electronic stores in Ancaster. On the way in he said, “What you did today was good. Now I want to see if you can move with the room. Each of these minimum wagers inside here works on commission. They're hungrier than sharks and less decent. I'm gonna move around the store for fifteen minutes, and you're gonna come with me. If we get stopped, it won't be because of me. It'll be because you couldn't flow with the environment. Don't screw up, boy. Understand?”

We spent twenty minutes in the store. The last five were spent moving within feet of the bored employees. I moved with my uncle for a while, until he seamlessly shifted behind me and began following me. The automatic doors were the only thing to recognize our departure. There was no head rubbing this time — only a small compliment and a big criticism.