Blood Sports (6 page)

Tom and Paulie shared an iced coffee, hung out on a sidewalk patio to escape the oven they called their apartment. Paulie nodded off in her chair, a quick nap. Mel had long since passed out in her stroller. Tom waited as long as he could and then gently shook Paulie awake.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “Duty calls.”

The first fireworks thumped in the distance. Paulie frowned, turned her head to the
TV
inside. The waitress had switched channels to show the Canada Day festivities.

“You’re really late,” Paulie said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Lucky Lou’s won’t fall apart without me,” Tom said.

Tom walked them home and, despite Paulie’s protests, right up to their apartment.

“Don’t forget milk,” she said, before she closed the door behind him.

Tom listlessly flipped through an old
Enquirer
. A woman in Kentucky, he read, had hired a priest to perform an exorcism on her toaster, because it left the mark of Satan in every slice. Apparently, the Prince of Darkness had his slow shifts, too.

Even though the coveted daytime shifts paid less and had a steady, irate flow of harried commuters, graveyard was the least-loved shift at Lucky Lou’s. At night, after the neighbouring stores and coffee shops closed, Lou’s glass wall overlooked a deserted, unlit parking lot on one side, and Commercial Drive on the other. Tom always felt like he was in a glowing fish tank and, given that Lou’s had been robbed four times in the last two years, he doubted that the excellent lighting was a deterrent.

None of the women would work overnight. First, there was the safety issue, and second, there was Stan, the owner’s tattooed and pierced nephew with a penchant for battle fatigues and semi-automatics. He’d originally run Lou’s, but had been demoted until he was in charge of the graveyard. Stan tended to take hour-long breaks with damp and wrinkled mags like
Shaved Slaves
or
Commando Gang Bang
, which he left around the bathroom when he finished.

Not many of the guys liked working with Stan either. Tom hadn’t been given an option for shifts since he had the least seniority. As fellow insomniacs went, even though Stan didn’t pull his weight, even though he spent most of the time in the back on the
coin-operated Internet computers playing games or visiting porn sites, at least he didn’t give a shit what you did either.

Tom noticed a black van in the parking lot. He wasn’t sure why he noticed it or why it gave him the creeps. It was a black van like any other black van, parked and dark, the driver hidden behind tinted windows.

5 JULY 1998

“Knock, knock!” Mike’s voice boomed.

They’d left the door open to air the place out between coats. Mike walked in, carrying a large fruit basket with a teddy bear on top. Tom stopped washing his brush and stood.

“Hey,” he said, surprised. He’d thought the catch-up-with-you-later thing was a politeness. He hadn’t expected Mike to call and certainly not to show up.

“Bad time?” Mike said, looking around at the tarp-covered furniture and the freshly painted walls.

“No, no. We’re finishing up. Paulie! Company!”

“What?” Paulie shouted back.

“We have a visitor.”

Paulie wandered into the living room, her baseball cap askew, her face smudged with Lemon Zing and smeared eyeliner. She stopped when she saw Mike.

“Paulina Mazenkowski?” Mike said.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Mike McConnell. We went to high school together.”

She stared at him, frowning. “Sorry. Don’t remember you. Mommy brain, I guess.”

“This is from my partner, Greer,” Mike said. “She insisted. I was all for beer and pizza.”

Paulina stared at the basket. “Hey. Thanks. This is nice. Do you want something to drink? We’ve got Pepsi, apple juice, or milk.”

“I’m fine, thanks. Where do you want this?”

“The kitchen would be great. Thanks.”

“How you holding up?” Tom said.

She groaned. “Stick a fork in me, I’m done. I’m going to go crash with Mel.”

“Got your keys?” Tom said.

She jangled them, walking away without looking back.

Mike returned, shaking his head. “How the hell did you hook up with Mazenkowski?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Huh. Never saw her as the, uh, settled-down type.”

Tom shrugged. “People change.”

Mike looked around. “Where’re you guys sleeping tonight?”

“The couple down the hall’s letting us crash in their living room. Back in a sec. I need to scrub off a few layers of smell.”

Tom took a bird bath in the bathroom sink. He towelled off and threw his shirt in the garbage. There was no saving it after the marathon weekend of priming and painting in the summer heat. He grabbed a relatively clean T-shirt from the bedroom, and a Pepsi from the kitchen, where Mike was sitting at the table.

“So,” Mike said. “You’re a dad now.”

“Yup.”

“How’s that?”

“Not bad.”

“What else are you up to these days?”

Tom popped the Pepsi. “Paulie’s got the reno bug.”

“I can see that.”

Tom sat across from Mike, who pushed the fruit basket to the side.

“Where’d you go? You dropped off the map after Grade Ten.”

“We moved around. How about you?”

“Bummed around Europe after high school. Bartended down under.”

“Nice,” Tom said.

“Yeah. Starting second-year psych.”

“Bull fucking shit,” Tom said. “You’re going to be a shrink?”

“I’m thinking I’d make a pretty good shrink.”

“Seriously?” Tom said. He waited for Mike to break out in his hee-haw laugh. “You’re yanking my chain. Right?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“What happened to Rage Against the Machine, the suits are killing us, the –”

“All right, all right. I was a kid. I was mouthing off.”

“What does your aunt say?”

Mike grinned. “Lots. She’s trying to steer me into law. Civil. Corporate. Anything with a high snore factor.”

“Good God.”

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Tom said. “You could article with Evan’s firm.”

“They got divorced.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, they waited until my grad year to have their big blow out. Fun times.”

“What happened?”

“The usual. Hey, how’s your mom doing?”

“No clue. We haven’t talked for a while.”

“Oh.”

“You’re too young to have kids … you’re ruining your lives … blah, blah, blah.”

“Oh.”

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Any beer?”

“You’re shit out of luck, bud. We’re a dry household. Paulie’s on the program and booze fucks up my meds. You can grab some beers though. There’s a liquor store –”

“Pepsi’s fine, Tom.”

Tom got Mike a Pepsi from the fridge and tossed it to him. He stood in front of the fridge, wishing he could climb in and sit there.

“Are you going to school?” Mike said.

“Got a job at Lucky Lou’s.”

“Christ, Bauer. Why are you wasting your time in a corner store?”

“The shifts are flexible, and the store’s right up the street. What are you up to these days?”

“Security guard at
UBC
.”

Tom started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Mike said.

“After all the shit you pulled on the mall cops, don’t you think it’s ironic?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

A rumbling roll started downstairs, sounding like a bowling ball going down its alley over and over.

“Oh, boy,” Tom said.

“What the hell is that?”

“The apartment below us has some skater kids. They were reasonable until one of them pulled up the carpets. They’ve turned it into a skate park.”

“Have you complained?”

“Everyone’s complained.” He walked to the living room, taking the tarp off the
CD
player. He turned the speakers so they were facing the floor. “As long as the kids pay their rent, the owners aren’t doing anything. The police already visited them a million times. The kids laugh it off.”

“I’ll go down and talk to them.”

“No, no, Mike. Relax. We’ve got it covered.” The phone rang. “Yellow.”

“I have Albert on my cellular phone. He says he’s ready,” Mrs. Tsing said in her stately, carefully enunciated speech. “My stereo is cued as well.”

“Just a minute. I can’t find the
CD
. Up, here it is. Putting it in the drive, aaaaand I’m good to go.”

“Shall I count down?” she said.

“Be my guest,” Tom said.

“Three, two, one, and play.”

After a second of silence, Celine Dion began crooning “The Power of Love.” Loud boos from the apartment below, followed by banging and shouts of, “You losers! You suck!”

“Heh, heh, heh,” Tom said. “Any of the divas are skater-repellents, but no one can touch Celine. Come on. Let’s watch the rats desert the sinking ship.”

They walked to the front window. Celine began to build. The skaters pumped their own music, but Celine rose above it, furiously passionate, slightly out of sync on three different stereo systems.

Tom leaned out the window, talking louder over the crescendoing offensive: “Paulie was in favour of an old-fashioned smack-down, but this way is surprisingly effective. There they go.”

“You fucking losers!” The tallest of the boys shouted up at them from the lawn. “I’m going to kick you in your hairy cunts!”

“Come here and we’ll see who kicks who, punk!” Mike yelled.

“Suck me off, motherfucker!” He grabbed his crotch.

“I’ll kick your ass into tomorrow, you little punk!” Mike said, his face going heart-attack red.

“Fuck you!” Skater Boy said.

“Weird, huh?” Tom said, suddenly feeling nostalgic. “Five years ago, everyone was calling us the punks. Now we’re the grown-ups.”

“That was never me,” Mike said, scowling.

Tom grinned.

“Hey, dickless wonder,” Skater Boy said, “yeah, I’m talking to you, Bauer! You gonna sic your psycho bitch on me?”

“What?” Tom shouted, cupping his ear. “Did you say you’re a Celine fan, too?”

Skater Boy pointed at him. “You’re dead, motherfucker! Do you hear me? You’re dead!”

“She’s on tv tonight!” Tom said. “I’ll tape it for you!”

“Faggot!”

“What? You want to hear this song again?”

“Go to hell.”

“One more time for the Celine fan on the lawn!” Tom said.

The skater boy’s friends nudged each other, having a chuckle among themselves.

Skater Boy went rigid with rage, his voice lifting an octave. “You goof! You fucking goof!”

“That’s the spirit! Sing along with Dion!”

“Tad likes Di-on, Tad likes Di-on,” his friends teased.

Tad chased his friends, who took off, howling.

“Tad’s going to stomp you,” Mike said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“He’s okay. He has no taste in music, but he’s okay.”

They pushed the furniture from the centre of the room back into its usual position. Mike did most of the heavy lifting while Tom acted as guide. Finally, they pushed the couch in front of the
TV
and flopped down. Tom studied the walls. Lemon Zing had a Day-Glo-green undertone that hadn’t been noticeable in the swatches. Tom hoped the Zing mellowed when it cured. If it didn’t, they’d have to put up lots of pictures to tone it down, because he wasn’t painting again for a long, long time.

Mike checked his watch. “I should head’er.”

“Drop by for dinner one night,” Tom said. “We’re not fancy cooks, but the food’s hot and there’s lots of it.”

“We’ll take you up on that. Greer hasn’t mastered anything beyond the stir-fry,” Mike said. “And I’m still working on
KD
.”

Tom laughed.

“But seriously,” Mike said. “If you need help with people bothering you, just call and –”

“They’re good kids,” Tom said. “They’re just acting out.”

Mike nodded, his eyes shifting around the room. “I hear your cousin’s getting day parole next week.”

Tom stopped smiling. “How’d you hear about that?”

Mike sighed. “I ran into your mom. She’s worried.”

“Forget it, man. You know her deal better than anyone. She wants attention, that’s all.”

“I remember Jeremy was a number-one freak show.”