Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (11 page)

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“Meh. I feel
fine.”

“It’s only been
nine days!”

“That’s nine
days where my mom’s had to fend for herself. Nine days where I
needed to get things done around the house and didn’t.” I stepped
back up to her, close enough to be looming. It was a dirty tactic,
one that I tried never to use unless absolutely necessary.
Especially on women. Cathy had to lean her head back in order to
keep eye contact. “You gonna rat me out to the nurses?”

She paused for
a long moment before finally shaking her head. “But I won’t have
to. You’re practically a hospital celebrity. Every nurse on the
floor is keeping an eye on this room.”

Shit.

I hadn’t
thought of that.

I frowned.
Debating with myself as I stared down at my old classmate while the
cheap halogen light tubes flickered over our heads. Preference
versus necessity. Which way was I gonna go?

Please.

Necessity wins
every time.

“You said you
wanted an interview?”

“My boss wants
one.”

“Fine. Go to
the nurse’s station and start being a TV celebrity. The ladies
there should eat that up.”

“Why should I
do that?”

“So I can slip
out the back stairs.”

Cathy’s lips
pursed flashing her dimples again. From pursed lips? That happens?
“Why should I do that?”

I pulled
a ratty old Jets cap out of my coat pocket and jammed it low on my
head. “Because I am heading over to the Norwood
Sals’
for lunch. And I could use the company of
an old friend who wants to talk.” My stomach rumbled loudly again.
“And because I’m broke so you’re buying.”

Chapter 9

My
grandmother’s favorite admonishment whenever I made a pig of myself
at the dinner table was always; “You can’t have two sets of
manners, Joseph. Now sit up straight and use your fork.”

With all
due respect to my grandmother, you don’t use a knife and fork when
you’re devouring a
Salisbury House
triple nip platter.

Salisbury House
restaurants are an institution in
Winnipeg. Founded back around the Great Depression it branched out
from one small diner to a full formed local franchise. Specializing
in great breakfasts and one of the first twenty-four hour
establishments in the city,
Sal’s
is the ultimate greasy spoon.

And perfect for
a big man nine days removed from his last real meal.

Many a night
was spent in one of those old fashioned, vinyl booths after a night
of bouncing. Swapping stories, checking out drunk patrons and the
occasional hot assed waitress. Chowing down on burgers and fries
while pounding hot coffee until the sun came up.

Good times.

Cathy sat
across the table, sipping on a Diet Coke and watching me with faint
amusement. Her notepad was open on the table, a pen stuck behind
one ear.

So far nothing
had been written down.

Hard to talk
through a mouthful of awesome.

I leaned back
in my seat and sighed contentedly. My stomach was still gurgling,
but the shock of honest to goodness real food had hit me like cold
water in the shower. I wasn’t full, far from it actually. But after
days of sparse meals and lots of broth it just felt good to
eat.

“Better?” Cathy
asked, smiling behind the brim of her soda.

“Much,” I
grunted in return, popping a sweet potato fry into my craw and
reaching for the coffee pot. Cream and sugar in equal doses,
liberally applied to turn the black java into smooth Columbian
goodness.

“I thought you
weren’t supposed to have coffee.”
“I’m also not supposed to be out of the hospital.” I savored a
mouthful of coffee, the delicious sweet bitterness just this side
of scalding. “Seems a bit late to be worrying about rules.”

Cathy put down
her plastic glass and removed the pen from her ear. Apparently we
had passed the pleasantries part of the meal.

Her first
question surprised me.

“How did you
slip by the news crews out front?”

I motioned with
my head out the diner’s front window. “You see that garbage bin
across the street?”

Cathy craned
around in her seat, peering across the parking lot and the busy
intersection. It gave me a great view of her top stretching across
her bosom. Not that I was noticing.

“The blue
one?”

“Yeah.”

“At the Norwood
Hotel?”

“Yeah.”
“What about it?”

“It’s having a
fire sale on gently used get well soon bouquets.”

Cathy blinked
and turned back to me.

“What?”

It had been a
tense moment stepping into the street. I’d wanted to take back
hallways out a staff entrance, or preferably out the Emergency
entranceway near the parking lots on Tache Boulevard. But there was
too much activity there for me, my packed gym bag and the three
biggest bouquets to slip past without getting busted. So I took the
fire stairs down to the main floor, tucked my cap low over my eyes,
brought the flowers up in front of my face and pretended to be
talking to someone on a cell phone in a horrible British accent as
I walked right past the small crowd of newsies chatting amongst
themselves.

After that it
was easy. I took the long way up the Tache sidewalk, crossed across
Goulet and finally turned right on Marion. I slipped behind the
hotel and walked through their parking lot until I got next to the
dumpsters.

Heave ho and
away the flowers go.

I shrugged.
“Nobody questions delivery boys.”

Cathy leaned
back, her gaze thoughtful. “Huh,” she grunted in a very unladylike
way. Not a question. A statement.

“I know right?
I look so dumb.”

She put down
her pen and leaned forward on her elbows. “Why are you working so
hard to avoid people, Joe?”

“Not people.
Media.” I drained my mug and picked up one of the sweet potato
fries, scraping it through the dregs of the chipotle sauce.

“But why?”

Why indeed.

Part of it was
Mom. She’s been through so much and was so weak, I didn’t want the
extra attention forced upon our little family. God only knew how
she was handling being on her own while I was in the hospital being
doted on. Any extra stress in her condition was a very bad
thing.

But that wasn’t
the whole reason.

“Hard to
explain,” I began pouring myself another mug of coffee. My stomach
gurgled in anticipation. “I’ve always tried to avoid attention.
Growing up big and clumsy, seemed like every time I turned around
people noticed me. Usually doing something stupid. Something
embarrassing.” I shrugged slightly. “So I started to avoid
attention as much as possible. Low profile.”

Cathy made a
small note in her pad, frowning as she did. “But you were in media
college with me. Everything we do draws attention. The whole
industry is about drawing attention to things”

“Everything
you
do draws
attention,” I clarified motioning towards her with my mug. “You’re
a weather person. One that’s obviously striving for the anchor’s
desk.” I don’t remember her blushing that easily in school, score
two points for the big guy hunting for the Battleship of truth.
“What you went to college for was to be
on
TV. To gain attention.”

She adjusted
uncomfortably in her seat. “Kinda makes me sound egotistical.”

“Of course it
does. But everyone who wants to be on TV is egotistical. You have
to be in order to do the job.” I stirred the last creamer into my
mug and took a sip. “I just wanted to write.”

She blinked.
“Write?”

“What, a
bruiser like me can’t enjoy writing? I read too, by the way.”

“So like, you
wanted to be a reporter?”

“Columnist.
Blogger. Sports writer. Academy Award winning screenplay auteur.
Hell, I’ve got the outline for an epic swords and sorcery series
written down on a napkin at home. It’s in a box on the bottom shelf
of my desk. I was gonna release it in three separate
trilogies.”

Cathy stared at
her notepad for a moment before looking up at me, laughter
twinkling in her eyes. “Did you ever write any of it?”

“Yeah, but it
sucked.” I grimaced playfully and gave a faintly theatrical sigh.
“Eighteen year old boys should live a little before they try to
talk about love and heartbreak.”

A
waitress came by to clear my empty dishes. I handed her the empty
coffee carafe and asked for a slice of
Sal’s’
famous red velvet cake. Cathy looked at me
thoughtfully as I sipped more coffee.

“We’re getting
a bit off topic,” she admonished.

“It’s
your dime.” I motioned my fingers in a
give
it your best shot
gesture. “Make your boss
happy.”

Cathy’s lips
pursed again, bringing out her thinking dimples. She glanced at her
notepad and flipped back a few pages, reading old notes.

“What do you
know about your attackers?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“What’s to
know?”

Cathy looked up
from her notepad again, surprised. “You didn’t know these people?
Never had contact with any of them before?”

I racked my
brain for a moment, scanning recent memories just to be sure. “Some
of them might have tried to get in the club once or twice. It’s
hard to be sure.”

“Did you
know they were gang members?”
“Sure. I recognized their patches.
Native
Posse
. Rough crew.”

“What about
Keimac Cleghorn?”

“Who?”

“Keimac
Cleghorn?” Cathy repeated, giving me the same hand gesture I’d used
earlier. “The man who shot you?”

I sputtered
around the lip of my mug, reaching for a napkin. An old timey
jukebox off in the corner skipped a beat, static hissing for a
moment over the tinny speakers before righting itself. “Man?
There’s no way that kid was eighteen.”

“Twenty-one
according to police,” Cathy corrected, consulting her notepad.
“Cleghorn’s got a long list of priors and a lifelong association
with street crime in Winnipeg. Obviously his juvenile record is
sealed to the public but the implication is very strong that this
guy is a career criminal.”

Twenty-one?
Unbelievable.

“My eyes must
be going. Figured for sure that kid was sixteen, seventeen at
best.” I rubbed at my eyes as the scars on my chest throbbed
slightly, my painkillers starting to wear off.

“I assume he’s
been arrested?”

“Of course he
was arrested. Right there on the scene.”

“I was a little
preoccupied after the whole getting shot thing.”

“Well sure. But
it’s been all over the news.”

“Oh. Yeah,
makes sense.”

“Didn’t you
read it? See our coverage?”

“Not yet.”

“What?”

“I haven’t read
it yet.” Cathy stared at me like I’d grown another head. “Don’t
look at me like that, I just told you how I hate attention. I’m
waiting until I’m ready. When things settle in my head. In my
life.”

Cathy
leaned back in her booth, still staring at me. The waitress came
back with my precious cake, a refilled coffee carafe and more
creamers. Then she gushed over Cathy, telling her how she “watched
CTV every night for her weather cast” and how “all the ladies in
the city are
so
jealous of
her.” Like a pro, Cathy turned on the big TV smile and made
pleasant chit-chat for a few moments, making the waitress’ day
before she moved on to her next table.

“See that,” I
said as Cathy turned back to me with a small, satisfied look on her
face. “That’s why I just wanted to write. That sort of attention’s
good for people persons like you.”

Cathy laughed
quietly. I ate cake. Cream cheese icing, thick full fat loaded with
sugary goodness. Definitely hospital disapproved.

Cathy put down
her pen and pushed the notepad aside, leaning forward on her elbows
again. Reporter mode off, intimate conversation mode engaged.

“It
is
good to see you,
Joe. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

“Life. It
happens.” I shrugged again and shoveled in more cake. Heaven.
“Don’t be sorry.”

“We all
wondered what happened to you. One day you were there in Kaye’s
advertising class. The next …”

Delicious cake
suddenly tasted like ashes in my mouth. The jukebox speakers hissed
again while the lights overhead flickered, like a power surge had
just swept through the strip mall.