The Man Game (19 page)

That was true, thought Toronto.

Coffee?

Toronto decided he would have a cup. He sat down on a swivel stool. When Calabi was satisfied with his work polishing the glass he returned to his station behind the counter, where he automatically served Toronto a plate of
three blackberry Calabi&Yaus and poured him a cup of coffee from a brass thermos the size of an outhouse.

Toronto hunkered down to his pastries, ate one very fast, and tested his coffee, which was rich and thick and oily. He saw Yau sweating in the back room as he hoisted plates of dough into the astonishing Dutch oven. God was merciful in saving this pastry kiln, this blazing womb of pure goodness. He waved goodbye to the bakers and was back on the street avoiding the huge puddles and mudholes. Everywhere around him the world looked a little greyed out, a little paler since September had rolled around, more anemic, or undead. In fall when it rained it was as thin as pins, and when the sun shone it always felt like it was for the last time.

When Molly learned that he'd relayed her message to Pisk and Litz, she immediately set about preparing to leave the house for the afternoon. She would leave her husband alone in the study while the Chinaman in the kitchen finished preparing that night's ham quiche and Toronto transcribed more of Sammy's diary for him. Normally a man in his position, neutered to the limit, would be wary of letting his young beautiful wife explore the streets unaccompanied. The muddy, rapacious streets of Vancouver least of all. He'd no more stop her if he wasn't paralyzed.

You take care and watch yourself. I love you.

I will, she said daintily, halfway out the door, a toe in the air. I love you, too.

There's the mugger, remember.

I remember.

The sun chopped a cloud in half and fanned itself through the space, pushing the cumulonimbus farther and farther apart until Vancouver was rewarded with a brief show of blue sky, so blue, so unlike clouds that the blue didn't look real. September was the last month for a chance to see clear skies in 1886.

Business on the street was brisk. Say you were a Chinaman, you could sit on a stump, put a fish on a piece of newsprint in front of you, and sell it within the hour. Gambling too was claiming a tenacious hold on lives. The fan tans in Chinatown were all doing hourly lotteries. The boardwalks teemed with men on errands.

She travelled in balletic steps among the men as if they were no more than phantasms and she the only person on the road. In a sense this was true, and in a sense so was the opposite. They were the nameless men who toiled to make Vancouver a home for more ladies like herself. She was a vision of the future these men had yet to grasp. They wanted that life, the life they believed she represented. They yearned hard for that life especially on those nights when the cold and rain got right into your bones, seeping in through the joints and freezing you from the inside, nights when the only bed in town was at a Methodist rooming house on a mattress with three other jobbers like yourself. She was a stark contrast to the day-to-day agony of making a decent wage.

Seated atop his horse, holding the reins in his one hand while the other arm sleeve was folded up flat and pinned to his shoulder, there was Clough, leader of the chain gang, prison guard for the ditch-diggers, cheroot smoker. A beard in need of a trim starting to take on a life of its own, a greasy, wide-pored nose the colour of your thumb after you hit it with the hammer. The tobacco smoke poured out both his wide hairy nostrils and eventually dissipated into the late September day.

When Clough saw Molly coming down the path, he shifted his rifle from his lap back to its holster on his carriage then wiped his face cleanish. Instinct drove him to feel around for his flask, make sure it wasn't in view. He coughed and cleaned his throat of debris in hopes of sounding somewhat presentable. No matter the tumour that was his nose and the sulphuric reek of
halitosis, let alone the cloacal whiff of his twopenny cigar, his bloodshot eyes, and his earlobes hanging halfway down his jaw.

Moe Dee was in the trench with the rest of them—for starting something at the Sunnyside as usual. Dee was a talker. He never stopped. Even while he shovelled he gassed on like that.

Know who you remind me a? Clough said to Dee. You remind me a prisoner I once knowed who served twenty-five years for mouthing off to the wrong bohunk. You in that gulch for fighting or yakking? Now I want to see this whole block done by sundown or I'll keep you guys another day.

You're not the law, said Moe Dee.

I'm your keeper. I let you out when I see fit.

See fit. Put in the drunk tank so many times they make you warden. Whoever heard a that?

Now listen close, Dee, because I mean what I'm aboot to say. For every word that comes out a your mouth starting now you get another day. If I make myself clear nod your damn stupid head.

Dee nodded his head, and having not yet seen Molly coming down the road, set to work on the ditch like it was Clough's own face.

And that goes for the lot a you. Clough was seated on the metal spoon on the front of the carriage that had brought the chain gang to the ditch. To dig like animals, like badgers tunnelling to make a sewer system. The earth seemed to gasp and suck with every shovelling, like a swimmer up from a long dive in icy grey water. He listened to them dig and watched her swaying towards him.

She, in complete contrast, walked as if on stilts, long steep steps down the lane faster than Clough thought a lady should walk, and yet her poise was musical and persuasive, her skin a translucent white. As sights go in Vancouver, she was as brief as blue sky. With his voice cracking on his introductory syllables, Clough raised his hat, said to her: Why, ha-ll
o
, how do you do, Mrs. Erwagen? Lovely day all a sudden, wouldn't you say?

You think?

I don't need the sun to feel warm, said Clough.

Moe Dee laughed to himself, but Clough heard him well enough.

I hardly care for the sun, either, she answered gaily. One of the spotted mutts that followed Clough everywhere got up from the ground where he'd been asleep next to the carriage and walked over to Molly to sniff her dress. Hello, dog, she said and refrained from touching him, seeing that fleas bounced and popped off him like little cannons in all directions.

You want to know how a man such as myself makes do around here? said Clough in a conscious effort to sound authoritatively sober. Ma'am, you see me up here in charge a the ditch-diggers, well, that's one occupation I can claim. Po-lice put a lot a trust in me, why, so much so that they gave me the standard-issue rifle and let me … well, trust. See, Mrs. Erwagen, let's just say it could be
me
down in the muck with these gents, eh. But I got the trust a the community, Mrs. Erwagen. For instance, when your home was being built I was one a the men on the job.

Thank you again, yes, I recall you saying so that day in the Sunnyside Hotel.

Eh? What day was that? said Clough, who thumbed his shirtsleeve, fidgeting with a black hole in his memory.

The day that great brawl took place outside on the street when the man Pisk stripped down.

Oh, oh, ma'am, don't tell me you saw all
that
. I got to apologize for this town sometimes, most a the times.

Not at all.

Well, anyways, as I was saying, the other things I do around here is I light the street lamps, you may a seen me do that past your home. And poundkeeper. I'm an expert at trapping. If ever you see a stray horse, cow, goat, anything, or a dog, like this one here, you notify me and I'll come collect him. Sound good?

She shooed the dog away.

I won't make too much a my crippledness on account a your own husband's situation … the extra I got to do simply
to get by. One arm or two, though, I'm still a great trapper. Ever any a these guys try to escape, they can rest assured that freedom won't last long. You hear that, boys?

The chain gang groaned, took this moment to lean on their shovels, stand at rest in what was becoming a mass grave of their own making, and stare at her and mouth-breathe.

Get back to work, Clough shouted, then laughed privately to Molly, to show her that being the disciplinarian was a mask he could put on and take off at his choosing. If there's anything I can d
o
for you …

Another time, perhaps, she said, waving goodbye.

Say klahowya to your husband for me.

She floated away. He watched her recede into the landscape, become a shadow shaped by fog and haze. He wanted to do something for her, like catch the mugger, but he also felt a great anxiety over the presence of such a fine lady in his vicinity. The safer the town got, the more ladies like her would come to live in Vancouver, and the harder his life was going to get.

Not an hour later, the chain gang was once again interrupted from their task by Furry and Daggett, who came running at full keel down the road with broadaxes crossed over their plaided backs and beards still drizzling with beerslosh, hollering: You seen Litz and Pisk?

Hell, no, I haven't seen em, Clough called back, taking off his hat for the second time and mopping his brow. Remembering to unholster his rifle again, he shouted down to the chain gang: Any a you boys know where're Litz and Pisk at? Nah, not a snitch among em.

Daggett said: We heard from the Greek they're around.

Pindar, eh? Where'd he see them two?

Hiding out in Chinatown, he says.

Well, what are they doing around there?

How the fuck am I supposed to know that? said Daggett.

How the fuck am I supposed to know what you know and don't know? said Clough.

Well, I don't know what the fuck they were doing in Chinatown.

Why didn't you just say so?

Jesus, Clough. You're goddamn aggravating.

You're the one who's aggravating, said Clough.

Well, if you see them, said Daggett, you tell them we're looking for them.

Sure will, said Clough.

The two beastly handloggers took off at a sprint in no particular direction, scaring strangers on the street with their questions. To the men on the chain gang, Clough said: Get back to work, you flea-bitten minks.