The Carpenter (17 page)

After the visit to the hospital Lee went back to Union Street. He got supper at a small diner he hadn’t visited before and then, walking home, he saw Speedy cruising that part of town in his wreck of a car on God knows what kind of errand. Speedy saw him and stopped the car and said it was good to see him, never mind the way they’d parted at the North Star. Speedy wanted to know what Lee was up to that night. They went to the Corner Pocket from there. The conversation with Dr. Vijay stayed in Lee’s head but after a couple of drinks he felt alright.

He’d been a drinker through much of his prison sentence. There were cons who made a wicked homebrew out of fruit
scraps and whatever else they could get their hands on, sometimes potatoes. If it was a bad brew, it could blind you, or worse. But if it was a good brew, and it was generally alright, it could help you forget where you were for a little while. It could help you feel big if you needed to. He’d sobered up later, after he’d been working steadily in the woodshop for a few years and the possibility of an early parole had started to take shape. Writing back and forth with Barry had helped. His sobriety put him in good stead with the parole board once his time to be heard came around, but they did not impose it on him as a condition. Maybe they’d thought he could go straight. Maybe they’d seen that in him, even before he’d seen it in himself.

—Lucky to run into you this aft, said Speedy.

Lee chalked the tip of his cue and drank his rye and cola. He broke the balls on the table and studied where they’d moved to.

Speedy talked about the latest spree his woman had gotten involved in. Across the poolroom was that sharp-featured man again, shooting pool with a buddy. When Lee saw the man, he felt a niggling pull of familiarity.

—So how’s this gal of yours?

—What?

—Your lady friend, said Speedy.

—She’s good. She’s doing some kind of card game with her girlfriends tonight. They read cards that tell you this or that about a person. Their fate.

—There’s just all kinds of crazy nonsense out there.

Lee deftly beat Speedy. They had some more drinks and played a few more games. Speedy maundered on about other topics. He asked Lee how work was going. Lee told him about the island where they’d torn out the kitchen.

Speedy did not remain much longer. He stayed only long enough that Lee wondered if it had been deliberate that they’d met up in the first place. Lee was a little bit drunk, loosened up. But he could feel clearly that Speedy was up to something.

—Say, Lee, how’s about we go run us down some better action than here.

—I don’t know what kind of better action you got in mind.

—Some of them friends of mine.

—What, those boys I met?

—Sure. On a Saturday they like to have a bash out there. What do you say.

Lee bent over his cue and tried a bank shot but he scratched it.

—I guess I’d just as soon stay around here, said Lee. You know.

—Sure, Speedy said after a moment. Well, you know where we’re all at. If you want to steal a car and come on out. I’m only kidding you.

They shook hands and Speedy gathered his jacket and left. Lee put his cue down on the felt and went over to the bar. He and the barman exchanged some words of conversation. Lee got another drink. He wondered briefly how it might be out at the roadhouse, he couldn’t deny that, but he was also relieved that Speedy was gone.

He went back to his table and racked himself a new game. Then the sharp-featured man and his buddy drifted over to him. The buddy had black grease lining his fingernails and was wearing a Penzoil jacket with a name tag on the breast that read
Clark.

—How about a game? said the long-haired man.

—There’s two of you.

—We’ll take turns. Us and you.

—What, you want to stake some cash on it?

—Let’s play a friendly game first, said the man. Then we’ll see if we want to stake some cash on it.

They set the balls and Lee lined up his cue and broke. The sharp-featured man was studying him intently. Lee took a long drink and rubbed the back of his neck.

—Do I know you? Are you one of the subtrades that Clifton Murray brings around?

—I seen you around, said the man. Once at the Owl Café.

That was it. Plain as day—the long-haired man, down-filled vest, snapping his fingers to try to get Helen’s attention, the first day Lee had met her.

—Oh, said Lee. Okay.

They played halfway through a game. They were not bad but Lee was better. He was down to the last two stripes and the eight ball and there were still four solids on the table. The two townies finished their jug of beer and the man with the Clark name tag went over to the bar to get another.

—I seen you talking to Miss Helen at the café, said the sharp-featured man.

—Is that a problem?

—No. Why would you think that?

Clark returned with the jug of beer. Lee clipped the cue ball hard. He took a quick look around the poolroom.

—I think you’re by yourself, said the man. How is Helen treating you anyhow?

—Kind of my business, don’t you think?

—She was treating me pretty good for awhile.

—You’re starting to get on my nerves, buck.

—Well, I wouldn’t want to do that.

Lee breathed. Then all at once he dropped his pool cue on the tabletop. He said: Fuck this.

—Hey now, no reason to get like that.

The two townies were grinning. Lee walked over to the bar, feeling the pulse in his eyes. He sat on a stool and paid off the table and ordered another drink.

—You know them guys? said Lee.

—Who, said the barman. Over at the table you had?

—Yeah.

—I’ve seen them around, I suppose.

A man came up and asked the barman for something and Lee worked on his drink. After a few minutes he looked back over his shoulder. The sharp-featured man and his buddy were gone.

Lee left the Corner Pocket a little before eleven o’clock. He went out the back door and hopped over a concrete knee-wall and cut through the lot of Dutch’s Chevrolet Pontiac Buick, New And Used. He turned up the collar of his new jacket and it was only because he stopped to light a cigarette that he saw them coming for him.

Their motions were reflected dully in the flank of a used Skylark. They were coming quickly down the narrow space between the cars. He turned just in time to see the man with the Clark name patch bearing down in the lead, swinging something. Lee bobbed sideways and the thing Clark was swinging crashed into his clavicle. Pain flashed down through his body and his arm went numb and for just a second Clark and the sharp-featured man, crowding in behind him, looked like maybe they weren’t sure what they were doing. Then Clark took another step and just as he put his weight down, Lee swung his steel-toe boot into the side of the forward knee. Clark dropped and let go of what he’d swung. A long wool sock with a pool ball rolling out of it. The ball rolled to rest against the Skylark’s tire and the sharp-featured man gaped at it. Lee kicked him in the groin. He dropped noiselessly and Lee kicked him again, first in the ribs and then across the jaw. Lee was breathing heavily now and was acutely aware of the pain in his shoulder. He looked. Clark was kneeling on his good knee, groping for the pool ball. Lee stomped the man’s fingers against the pavement and bent over him and punched him a number of times in the face. The man fell over.

Lee slammed a dent into the Skylark with his boot. It seemed there wasn’t enough air he could pull in. The men on the ground were breathing but they weren’t making any motions to get up. Lee walked backwards until he was out of sight of them.

When he got home he turned on the lamp and looked at his hand. His knuckles were swollen but not opened up. His shoulder was tender where the pool ball had struck it. He took off his new jacket and laid it on the table and inspected it closely for
damage to the fabric, for blood. There wasn’t any. He hung the jacket in the closet. He went to bed and lay awake for the rest of the night.

A few days later, after work when Lee was walking home with a bag of groceries, he became conscious of a vehicle tracking along beside him. At first he thought it was the police car again but then he saw it was a GMC Caballero. The vehicle angled to the curb beside him and the driver-side window came down. That big man with the glasses from the roadhouse. Maurice.

—Looks like you could use a lift.

—I’m okay. My place isn’t real far.

—If you say so.

A pause.

—I’ll see you, said Lee.

—Hold up, said Maurice. Word was you had some trouble on the weekend.

—Whose word is that?

—Doesn’t matter. Just thought you’d like to know there isn’t nobody going to be talking about it. Like so it would get back to the cops or your parole officer.

—I don’t have trouble with anyone.

—No, that’s true. You don’t. And if you did have trouble with anybody, say, a couple shithead town boys, then maybe you’d like to know these same shithead town boys have had certain things told to them.

—Okay, said Lee, not knowing what else to say.

—Shitty how them things happen to a guy from time to time, said Maurice. You sure you don’t want a ride?

—I’m okay.

—See you around, Lee.

E
Z Acres was five miles down the highway south of town. The sign at the gate showed a cartoon fat-man snoozing in a hammock. The park had thirty-five campers sited on the shore of a circular catch-basin called Lake Albert. The office was one of three permanent buildings on the property. The park was seasonal and Stan didn’t know if anybody would still be around or not, but as he walked towards the office, a husky rose from the ground and barked twice.

A short woman with cropped grey hair came around from behind the office and told the dog to shut up. She had a splitting maul over her shoulder. She said: Can I help you?

—I guess you folks are closed up, said Stan.

—We open again on Victoria Day.

The husky trotted over and hung close to the woman’s leg.

—I thought you’d maybe be able to point me in the right direction, said Stan.

—What direction would that be?

—A friend of mine, he’s been in the hospital for awhile. He’s not in good shape. His doctor wanted to have a word with my friend’s niece who’s been keeping an eye on his property. It’s been hard to get a hold of her, the niece, but I heard she had a friend who worked here.

—Well, there’s nobody here now. Just me. We had two or three guys on seasonal but I let them go when we shut down after Thanksgiving. What was his name?

—I believe it’s Colin Gilmore, said Stan.

—Right, Ballin’ Colin. Last time I seen him was a week ago when I had a couple hours’ work in the hydro-cut. I don’t know if he’s still around or not, but up the highway there’s a truck stop where they got this roadhouse. The North Star. You know it? Colin was drinking there when he was around.

Stan thanked her and started to head back to his truck. He got on the highway and drove to the North Star. He knew of it but he’d never had reason to visit it before. He parked at the back
of the lot and got out. A cool breeze was carrying small sharp granules of dirt across the asphalt. Stan went up to the front door of the roadhouse and went in. Past the entry, the interior was garishly lit by overhead lights. On the riser at the back, a man was plugging an electric guitar into an amplifier. The drone of the amplifier filled the whole room. Closer to the front door a man with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows was unstacking chairs at a table. The bar was shuttered. The man looked at Stan.

—Bar opens at seven. The band goes on at eight.

—Okay, said Stan.

—Which is to say we’ll see you then.

Stan went back into town and had supper at the Owl Café. He took his time reading the newspaper. The minutes were a long time passing. After seven o’clock he got up from the booth and went over to the counter to pay. The big-haired waitress was distracted, involved in some conversation with an angular man, wearing jeans and a Carhartt jacket, down at the end of the counter. The man she was talking to, there was something familiar about him. Stan had seen him before, but he couldn’t think where or when. The man noticed Stan looking at him and he said something to the waitress. She nodded and came over to collect Stan’s bill.

There was a pay phone at the back of the diner. Stan dialed Dick’s house and Fran answered. She said she was happy to hear from him, said how they would have him over for supper anytime.

—Dick’s not home, is he?

—I’m sorry, Stan. Dick’s down at the drill hall with Richard Junior. Brian’s getting sworn in to the Air Cadets tonight. Dick’s wearing his Europe medals for it. Do you want me to tell him you called?

—No, that’s fine, Fran. So long.

It was close to eight by the time Stan was back at the truck
stop. There were some rigs pulled into the lot for the night and a dozen or so cars and pickups parked in front of the North Star. Inside, it was cigarette smoke and music from the jukebox. Thirty or thirty-five patrons. The band was clustered in discussion at the back of the riser. They were talking to the man with the rolled-back cuffs Stan had seen when he’d come in earlier.

For the first time it occurred to Stan that he had no idea what he’d say if he actually made Gilmore’s acquaintance. Maybe it was just a matter of knowing the face attached to the name. Stan took a stool at the bar. The sheer weirdness of this situation overcame his thoughts. A drunk barfly two stools down gave him a big friendly nod and offered a hand to shake.

—These boys put on a good show, said the barfly. Just you wait.

The bartender came down to Stan. She was young and had a streetwise comeliness to her. Stan could see how she lifted her eyebrows a little when she took him in.

—What will you have?

He ordered Coors in a bottle. Draft didn’t agree with him any more. She came back with a bottle and set it on a coaster in front of him. The barfly two stools down pushed a bowl of pretzels in Stan’s direction.

—Say, said Stan to the bartender. Does a fellow named Colin Gilmore hang around here?