Black Rabbit and Other Stories (24 page)

Miguel picked him up at the apartment and drove him to his office. He ran module seven of the Program with a PowerPoint presentation that he projected onto a wall. His use of imagery and narrative impressed Larry. This wasn't as dry as the other modules. This one dealt with the Power Equation. It suggested that the powerful often win battles and wars. Implied throughout the module were two ideas Larry found disagreeable: one, that we were obliged to feel empathy for the underdogs, the victims, the powerless; and two, that the victories of the powerful were somehow tainted. One doesn't naturally feel empathy for weaklings; often one hates them. And if the powerful win contests, if the scales always tip in their favor, why not go with power?

Jean-Guy insisted they find a new apartment. He was willing to pay for the upgrade. Jean-Guy turned out to be a decent guy. You can never go by appearances. He treated Larry's mother better than her other boyfriends. He didn't slap her around or get her to do bizarre sexual things. And he wasn't into cocaine. The man liked his grass, smoked it all day, but he hated the white stuff, called it an ego drug. He liked to sit around smoking herb and listening to Brazilian music. Larry had no idea what the man did for a living, but it must have been shady—he never kept regular hours. When Larry asked Jean-Guy why he liked his mother, Jean-Guy thought about it for a moment and said, Your mother is very sad, very deep. When we met it was sexual— forgive me for saying it. But I feel something else now, something deeper. She needs to get out of this shit-hole and start fresh. You too.

Larry asked Miguel about revenge during one session. Miguel's eyes lit up at the mention of the word. He paused a long while before giving his answer. It is my belief, he said, that in some rare moments—for instance if someone grievously injures a member of your family—a man has to do what a man has to do. That being said, I don't want you
to get the impression that I condone violence. I do not. I repeat, I do not condone it in any way. In no way do I condone or encourage violence or any other criminal activity. Perpetrators must be prepared to face the full brunt of the law. But as I said, in some instances . . . never mind I said that. Miguel grew uncomfortable with the subject and asked Larry how things were going in general, if his injuries were healing. He looked better, and so on. But Larry had only one thing on his mind and this made it difficult for him to suffer Miguel's tactics. I don't like you, Larry blurted. Miguel looked surprised at first, then hurt. You give me mixed messages, Larry said. That's a sophisticated term, Miguel said. No it's not, Larry said. Don't condescend me, I'm not stupid. I've got a legitimate beef and I plan to do something about it. Miguel sighed and cracked his knuckles. Then I'll have to make a report, he said, opening a drawer and pulling out a form. Do what you gotta do, Larry said.

The park near the new apartment spared Larry the likes of Duke and Cayuga. The last he heard, Duke had stabbed Cayuga over money and was back inside. He punctured Cayuga's liver—the guy almost died in hospital and wasn't out of the woods yet. Larry thought he'd go visit Cayuga and find out what went down, also to mock him a little for letting a bitch like Duke fuck him up like that. It was funny. Larry went to the hospital, found Cayuga's room. He was in no mood for a visit but Larry brought chocolate bars and a porn magazine. They ain't feeding me shit, Cayuga bitched. And the nurses are mean. He grabbed a chocolate bar, tore the wrapping off and chewed. This relaxed him. Larry asked him what had happened. I stole twenty bucks off Duke, Cayuga reported. He didn't have to stab me. It did seem extreme to Larry. But twenty bucks was twenty bucks, and the last thing you wanted to do was to start a trend with Cayuga. And what happened to you? he asked Larry. Bam-Bam and Darcy, he replied. Cayuga grimaced. After a moment he said, Thanks for the stuff, man.

Larry spotted Bam-Bam in the mall one day without Darcy. Tattoos riddled his arms and big gold hoops dangled from both ears. He was missing a few teeth and scared people just being in the vicinity, but combine that with cocaine psychosis and a penchant
for hyper-violence, it didn't take him long to clear a room or turn it upside-down. He started screaming at an old guy in a plaid vest near the fountains about something and Larry thought for sure he was going to hit him. Mall security—two porky guys in wrinkled white shirts with walkie-talkies—hastened to the scene but slammed on the brakes when they saw the perpetrator of the disturbance. They came to a halt a safe distance away but that didn't stop Bam-Bam from closing in on one of them and clobbering him across the neck. The guard went down in a heap. The other tried calling for back-up but at the last second lost his nerve, dropped his walkie-talkie and turned on his heels.

Darcy too was busy. Larry observed him one day in a schoolyard beating a skinny kid senseless then taking his Blue Jays cap. When the cap didn't fit his big head, Darcy threw it down and stomped on it. Larry wanted to do something but was afraid that Bam-Bam might come around. The beaten kid got up, badly shaken and bleeding from the nostrils. He retrieved his battered cap, then turned on a smaller child standing there watching. Larry walked home. He had a bigger bedroom now. He spent a lot of time in there thinking, weighing things in his mind. A room. That's all it was, then, a room. He could do three years.

Bam-Bam must have been inside again. Darcy was spotted roaming around alone. His mother, a stripper, lived in a nice little house near the canal, prim and clean, with a white picket fence and a rose garden. You wouldn't think a peeler would live like a schoolteacher. Darcy tried to burn down his mother's house once, on Bam-Bam's orders, so he wasn't exactly welcome there. Darcy was up for trial soon—he'd be going in for a long stretch. He said he could do it. No one would fuck with him inside. Everyone knew Bam-Bam. He used to ride with Hells Angels, he used to be a hit man for the mob. He was a crackhead now, but that made him even more dangerous. On his own, Darcy was nothing. He probably wanted to live a quieter life, but it was too late for that.

And it went down like this one night, not far from Duffy's Billiards—Hey, Darcy. Even though the voice expressed cheer and frankness, Darcy cautiously turned around. His eyes widened when he saw the cast coming for his face. He dropped to the ground with his forehead cracked. Larry fell on top of him. He beat Darcy with the cast and his good hand until his face turned pulpy and he stopped moving. Then Larry sprang to his feet and raised his throbbing hands in the air. Blood dripped off his elbows. What, Darcy? he shouted.
What?
He kicked the body, just visible in the dim alley. He kicked again. Then he went through Darcy's pockets, pulling out two hundred dollars or so in twenties and a baggie of crack cocaine. He threw the cocaine into the gutter. As he walked away, he thought he heard Darcy groan. He stopped and looked over his shoulder, but Darcy wasn't moving or making any sounds.

Bam-Bam went inside for putting an off-duty cop into a coma. Bam-Bam would later die in his cell, allegedly from self-inflicted head trauma. Larry followed Miguel's advice and reflected on his crime—but no matter how he tried to humanize Darcy, he failed to draw a drop of remorse from his heart. He even tried to imagine his stripper-mother bawling her eyes out. But Darcy would have probably given her more grief had he lived. He was a chip off the old block, a growing menace to society. The three years went by as well as they could have. Larry suffered, but he came to know himself better. He read the classics, built up a fine physique. He even learned some French. He planned to attend university when he got out and study journalism, or law, he wasn't sure yet. His mother never came to visit him, but Jean-Guy showed up one day with a tin of cashews and some magazines. He didn't have much to say, only that he was leaving her, she was back on the blow, and this didn't surprise Larry. Despite everything, he felt strangely happy near the end of his term.

He rarely thought of Darcy, except when it got damp and his hands ached.

I killed the headlights of my black Cadillac as I inched down the dead-end to Tommy Sardo's place on the wharf. I could barely see a thing, most of the streetlights blown out or busted except for a small blue lamp shining at the end of the pier. Tommy lived in a converted fishhouse, a soulless and impersonal edifice, the windows uncurtained, the glass sheathed with filth. A dark blue van sat near the entrance, manned by a guy in a Maple Leafs sweater. His face looked encased in pale blue hosiery. He ignored me—or maybe he was sleeping with his eyes open. Maybe he was dead.

I parked in front of the van and put on my black leather gloves, pressing them slowly down between the fingers as I checked myself in my rearview mirror. My eyes looked bloodshot. I took out my drops and applied a few to each eye. That helped. I climbed out of the car. Debris littered the street: crushed cans, broken bottles, fluttering plastic bags. A mangy dog came trotting by, ears pinned back, a fugitive look in its eyes, and hurried down the street, abruptly veering off into a dark alley. Against a wire fence leaned a discarded clothes rack, a dress of pink taffeta still clinging to its bar, an eye-catching garment.

“I'd like to try on that dress,” I said in a falsetto. “The pink one.”

“Oh, what a beauty. It happens to be a size . . .”

I wondered if someone was watching me through a peephole. I stepped toward the van, and the fellow inside it remained motionless. I went around to the driver's window and tapped on the glass
with my car key. Nothing, even though his eyes looked open, or his John Lennon glasses created this illusion. Then I could see from the steady rise and fall of his chest and the drooling mouth that he was sleeping. I tapped harder on the glass. Nothing. I went around the van to the fishhouse entrance, a frame of heavy, water-logged timbers. I walked up to the door, a thick wooden number with an opaque portal window. I searched for a doorbell but didn't see one. When I knocked on the door, no sound issued. I neared my nose to the glass and opened my eyes wide but saw only vague shapes moving around in the interior's yellow half-light.

“Tommy!” I shouted. “Tommy!”

I waited a second, then stepped back and glanced up at the windows. I cupped my mouth with my hands and shouted Tommy's name again. A frog in my throat spiked my voice to a pitchy screech. Pathetic, I must have sounded pathetic. I cleared my throat and retried, keeping in mind what I represented. No one came to the windows. For all I knew Tommy wasn't around. I felt foolish standing there. The damp cold chilled my bones; I clenched my stomach muscles to keep from shivering like a child. I had on my khaki trench coat, a handsome garment, but one unsuited for the damp. I'd have worn my black leather coat had it not been ruined the week before during a messy operation. The mark in question bore a resemblance to a siphonophore, his face a swollen sac of cysts, his hair like jellied tentacles.

Something thudded behind the great door. Then it slowly started opening. I braced myself. When it opened fully I saw a piston-like device attached to the doorknob, maybe an automatic opener of a design unfamiliar to me, industrial in sturdiness and power, perhaps necessary to move such a heavy door.

A small bald man in a tight black suit appeared in the doorway, sallow, serious. In addition to the clean, smooth head, the man lacked eyebrows and lashes, giving him a peeled or parboiled look. A crimson pouf flared out from his breast pocket. His tiny black shoes shone as though they had just been polished. He stared at me with large, moist black eyes.

“Where's Tommy?”

The little man blinked once. “Who's asking?”

“Tell him it's Charlie.”

“Charlie who?”

“Charlie Bacala.”

“You're Charlie Bacala?”

“That's right. Tell him I want to see him.”

“What's the nature of your business?”

“That's between Tommy and me.”

The little man smiled and leaned forward, looking at me with the tops of his eyes. “Tommy's not taking any visitors at this time. Maybe you'd like to schedule an appointment.” He pulled out a small black book, licked his thumb and flipped through it. “Sorry,” he said. “But Tommy's booked solid till next month.”

Funny, I thought. Amusing. “Just tell Tommy I want a word.”

“You don't listen too good, do you?”

“Tell Tommy what I said.”

The little man sniffed and thought about it for a minute. Then he pushed a red button on the wall that released a whoosh of hydraulic pressure; a noise of sucking water commenced, and the door slowly shut.

I wondered how long this would take. I had tried to contact Tommy previously with no luck. He was a man of mystery, difficult to pin down. It took some serious arm-twisting and palm-greasing to gather any information about him, truly testing my resolve. After months of probing, my sources determined that Tommy resided in the fishhouse, a structure not unfamiliar to me. It seemed strange; but when I tried to find out why Tommy lived in the fishhouse no one could say. Maybe I'd soon discover for myself why he lived there.

The air was colder now; stars glimmered in the sky like beige diamonds. A nearly full moon, unusually luminous that evening, hung there like a hideous mocking clown face. Lunatics must have been beside themselves. A dull metallic clanging issued from the dark docks. I stretched my neck to spot its source but could make out nothing. The clanging stopped. The light from the lamp on the pier
hovered there like a small blue cloud the breeze could not diffuse. A treat for the eyes in the gloom. I kicked a pile of salty slush and described a circle before the door, concerned that when this day ended, my shoes would not regain their shine. Salt wounds leather.

After a moment I heard the door opening again. I took a deep breath and steeled myself. The little man reappeared, carrying a small white envelope. He held it out to me.

“Well?” he said, shaking the envelope.