The Man Game (60 page)

Swing low, she cried, Remember he a shorty.

He ran out the door straight at Campbell. Campbell fisted both hands in defence, and when he chucked a punch Moe Dee snatched it at the wrist and dragged him two-three-four steps through the mud and shoved him through a pirouette down one arm, catching him, then spun him across his body and pirouetted him down the other arm, this time not catching his fall
{see
fig. 13.1
}
.

That's my
first
point, said Moe Dee very loudly. I'm in the man game, he hollered. A lot of noise was made to celebrate this, most of it made by Moe Dee.

Nice addition to the Pisk, said a connoisseur, the clean white sling on his arm explaining to one and all why he, brave though he was, and so expert in the qualities and nuances of the man game, could not himself partake.

Trying to deke Dee out, Campbell lurched around and swooped in to take him. In Moe Dee's peripheral he saw Campbell start to drop, gently, like a maiden in front of him. He raised his arms above his head to exculpate himself from the obvious fainting spell that landed Campbell flat on his back in the mud again.

FIGURE 13.1
The Pisk, alternative sketch,
moment of release

The Campbell, cried those who recognized the flop {
see
fig. 13.2
}
.

I told your owners you were no good, said Moe Dee while everyone else laughed.

A different cloud's rain fell on their heads. It was a new day according to the lean moon's place in the sky, past midnight with cumulonimbus on the run. Campbell smashed his fists into the black muck. It's going to work, he said.

Who the fuck invited the po'? said one fellow shouldering his way quickly through the crowd, looking over his back as he ran.

Before anyone had a chance to react, the po-lice came a-running behind him with billy clubs and whistles.

Ah, shit-fuck, said Campbell.

The po-lice tied three spectators to the fence and chased Moe Dee and Campbell through the house to the top floor of Wood's where they lost both. Opening door after door, all they found were shocked johns and yawning whores, but no sign of Moe Dee or Campbell. When they got to Peggy's room, she was sitting in the bath. Problem, sirs? she asked the po-lice, while she lathered her slim arms.

Smells like pipe smoke, said the po-lice.

Who are you hiding? said the po-lice, crumpling up the covers and looking under the bed.

I'm right over here, baby, she said, nearly shrieking. Are you here to arrest me, or just to look through my delicates?

FIGURE 13.2
The Campbell, alternative sketch

There ain't no buddies here, said the po-lice, opening the wardrobe and fingering her clothes indelicately.

Madam, said the po-lice—she knew them well—tipping their hats, shutting the door, and running back into the hall looking for Moe Dee and Campbell.

When Peggy bent to raise herself from the tub she pressed her buttocks right on Litz's chest, and he couldn't hold his breath any longer. Flailing his limbs in desperation, he sucked in full lungs' worth of RH Alexander's bathwater. He threw her off him and leaped up, collapsed over the tub, splashing all over her valuable rugs as he fell to the floor and gagged and vomited and convulsed in all directions, unable to breathe, suds oozing from his mouth, nose, and eyes. Peggy watched him, laughing.

Thanks to Peggy's good thinking, RH was long gone through the secret staircase before the po-lice even got in the house. It took him from the second floor of Wood's straight to the coach house in back. There, he went behind the gambling room and found the hidden switch that opened a door to the narrow corridor leading to the ladder that took him down into the tunnels under the city. Knowing this maze better than his own convictions, RH was at ease down here in the candlelit tunnels and, before he knew it, he surfaced again behind the wall of his private bathroom in Hastings Mill, and after a cursory look through the papers on his desk, proceeded home to his wife in a foul mood.

Moe Dee and Campbell weren't far behind him. When Campbell reached the entrance to the corridor in the coach house he turned to Moe Dee, out of breath, and said: You're part a the man game now, so I got to show you this, too.

Just hurry up, said Moe Dee. They were both naked, and Campbell was dirtier than a river rat. The po-lice were still on their tail.

In the liveliness of the moment Moe Dee had mistaken the secret staircase in Wood's for a normal architectural feature, so when he found himself in the coach house he was confused, he was alert, he realized that the entrance to the tunnel was a secret. A secret lever opened the panel in the wall to a crevice
that he was expected to enter, very narrow, as narrow as the space between Peggy's bosoms. For Moe Dee to even get in there he would have to take a deep breath and put his hands above his head. It was a completely unlit narrow hallway that led straight into the wall, and, if he could trust Campbell, to a ladder that went straight down into more dark.

You ever been in the mines? asked Campbell.

Hells, yeah, said Moe Dee.

Shh, keep your voice down, for Christ—

I'm twice your age, you little—

Quit breathing over me, said Campbell. Goddamn. We're safe, man. Don't worry, loosen the reins a little.

'The fuck's that supposed to—

Shh. We wait down here till the coast is clear. This is a secret a the man game, kumtuks? You don't tell nobody aboot this.

Moe Dee was uncharacteristically silent.

Campbell guided him to the first lantern in the tunnel where they talked as it flickered against the hard earth. The cavernous, dripping earth was supported by massive lumber beams. A trickle of metallic water fell off the ceiling straight into a puddle and was absorbed just as monotonously. A white worm seethed out of the wall and necked its way into the cold emptiness.

Campbell said: You're good, Moe Dee. Where'd you learn to do that? You want to practise with us? We're looking for more players.

Is that right? You and your owners?

Yeah, you heard me, eh, said Moe Dee. I beat you fair and square. One-nothing.

You don't kumtuks the ins and outs, do you? Bah, he said. Campbell washed his hands of this guy. He added: Do you even know what you're doing? Who's your coach? Ha ha. Furry and Daggett told me you called me out at the Sunnyside Hotel. I thought you might know the man game, but you were just being your same-old loudmouth self, eh? Ha ha.

I
beat
you.

I can't bel
ie
ve I lost to an amateur. Goddammit, my luck.

I got to forget aboot this damn move, because I know I can beat you. I know I can.

Toronto brought Sammy a telegram in an envelope. Sammy asked him to open it and show him. After he read the telegram from his father, he had Toronto throw it straight into the stove. It said:
BROTHER DEAD STOP MA DETERIORATES STOP
.

His father was always so parsimonious, Sammy thought, even when doling out tragedy. Ever since Toronto mentioned that his brother had stayed at Wood's, he couldn't get the scene out of his mind. When his mind should've been on accounting, it was instead on salacious details. Scandalous venereal possibilities. The Whore Without A Face. The egg-white sky lacked its yolk, as if this clouded gesso had swept clean the canvas of all previous solar and lunar mistakes and started the atmosphere over. Nowhere did it look like weather. Preweather. People's moods could be equally indiscernible.

Upon Molly's arrival home, Sammy confessed: I heard from my father.

Molly said: What did he demand you do this time? Divorce me? She took off her shoes, unleashed her scarves, and came with a flourish into the living room, kissed her husband lovingly and went and slumped on her stomach across the sofa, with paper spread in front of her, illustrated with figures.

Who drew those? he asked, distracted enough by her activities to forget to answer her question.

Her eyes lit up. Calabi, she said. I never even asked. Can you imagine?

Toronto went to the hearth and balanced a log on the ashing fire.

Yes, I suppose I can.

She said: It's such a kind gesture. Both he and Yau are the string that binds us all, they're connected to everyone in town, aren't they?

In a manner a speaking, said Sammy cautiously.

Those beautiful pastries. Pure inspiration. Just a girl on a sofa, she kicked her legs in the air behind her as she leafed through the illustrations made for her by the ever-dextrous Calabi. She arched an eyebrow at her husband, said: … What was it you said aboot your father?

Yes, ah, more news aboot Dunbar. Apparently, he became deathly ill almost immediately after leaving Vancouver, said Sammy, drawing conclusions.

A single eyebrow ticked in her expression. He watched carefully, studying her for the blush of deceit. She said: With what?

Rampant venereal disease, he said flatly, waiting for her reaction to his conjecture. Sammy looked at his wife with an expectant glare.

Is that so? she said, unsurprised. Hm …, serves the philanderer right, then, one might argue.

You would?

Darling, death's a pity. You have my sympathies.

You pretend to be upset. Why? Why even pretend? Did you—did you send him to his death? he blurted.

Me? Why, whatever do you mean?

Sammy wept. After nearly a year as a man without power over his body, it was as if he'd finally lost control of his head as well. He was helpless to contain his blubbering lips and streaming tears. In a single movement she was beside him, kissing his neck.

I didn't know your brother, Sammy, but it still affects me, Molly said. It's my loyalty to
you
why I fail to muster your deep sorrow. You were his brother. He did not even attend our wedding. What I know a him is only that he tortured you. I see he tortures you even in death.

Alas, said Sammy after she daubed off his tears with a kerchief, you're right. I don't feel any sorrow, either. Oh, I'm sorry. I only thought that—well, perhaps if I could draw you a fine picture, or make you a delicious pastry, or dance in the street for you … never mind.

Oh, these are trifles compared to thee, she sang. My hard work is all for you.

Likewise, he said. Sammy decided not to pursue her strategies any further, for now. If he was going to find out, he realized he would have to investigate this from other angles. The only way to understand Molly's motives was to approach them slantwise. Pick up the trail left behind the wheels of her machinations, and draw conclusions based on the circularity of the path. He calmed himself and said: Perhaps I even feel like a knot a anger has disentangled. Yet. While he was in town, I wrote in my journal that I wished him dead. And today it's so. What do you think?

Oh, my dear, warm-hearted Chinook, she said and petted his hair, kissed his face, landing her warm, swollen bottom lip over his, the telltale sugar on her breath. My love, she said.

Her pink cheeks brought out the epic in her eyes. The blue-flecked green of islands, earths. Sweet Sammy, she said, and nested her head under his chin. He was stranded on her, and content, though certain he'd just been deceived.