Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (44 page)

Mom met me at
the door, her expression beyond disappointed. Wordlessly she handed
me a note and refused to turn away until I took it from her. Once I
did she spun on her heel and stalked to the living room.

Shame flooded
my senses again, adding to the guilt I was already dealing with.
Thankfully I had the cure to those feelings in the cardboard case
shipped directly north from Mexico just for me. Jamming the note
into my pocket I stumped back down the stairs to my self-imposed
hideaway in the dark and stocked the spare fridge with my beer.

Time sort of
became meaningless for the next few hours. Daytime soap operas
faded into dinnertime sports preview shows. Beer and nachos were my
only friends that day.

At least until
the phone rang again, snapping me out of my drunken stupor. The
jangling of the old model phone on the side table next to my couch
jangled insistently.

My hand lurched
towards it unsteadily, orange Dorito dust covering my fingers as I
pawed at the handset. I was on autopilot, trying to keep the phone
from waking Mom and not even considering who was on the other
end.

The earpiece
smacked into my temple in my rush to answer, adding to the
throbbing pain in the back of my skull. I smacked my dry lips to
work some moisture around before mumbling into the phone something
that might have resembled a greeting in Caveman Speak.

“Hello?” Cathy.
Shit. “Joe, is that you?”

My other hand
came out of the mostly empty family sized bag of nachos it had been
resting in and wiped down over my face in frustration. Way to go,
dipshit. You’ve only been avoiding her calls for two days.

“Joe?”

“Yeah,” I
mumbled, blinking my eyes at the digital clock over the TV set.
Shit, six-thirty PM? I have to make Mom’s dinner.

“Well it’s
about time. Why haven’t you been returning my calls? I was getting
worried.”

I rubbed at my
face again, undoubtedly getting grease and crumbs all in my
unshaven beard.

“What do you
want, Cathy?”

She paused on
the other end of the line. Clearly taken aback.

Couldn’t really
blame her. Just three days before I had called her for info on
street gang hideouts full of piss and vinegar. After surviving that
debacle I had gone into hiding. Looking at things from her
perspective …

Ugh, that made
my head hurt. I reached for my beer bottle me even as my stomach
protested.

“Okay, now I’m
really worried.”

Shit.

“Look, Cathy.
I’m dealing with some stuff right now,” why is it that everyone
who’s tried to come up with a plausible sounding lie for why they
don’t want to talk on the phone always uses some derivative of that
line? “So if there’s nothing crazy going on I should really get
back to it.”

“Some stuff?”
Cathy asked, her voice disbelieving. “Stuff?”

“Yeah.
Stuff.”

Noises were
happening frantically in the background. Was she at the studio?
Something frantic was … wait, six thirty? Cathy should be in the
middle of the nightly broadcast by now. Why was she …

“Fine. Go deal
with your stuff.” Cathy huffed, her voice now distracted and more
than a little annoyed. “I have to get back to work anyways. I just
figured you’d want to know that Keimac Cleghorn’s body was found
beaten to death in Central Park about half an hour ago.”

Chapter
42

I made it to
the TV studio fifteen minutes after the broadcast ended.

Immediately
after getting off the phone I lurched into motion, leaving
everything where it lay and hauled ass up the stairs. I frantically
scribbled a note for my sleeping mother while slipping on my
battered boots and hoodie, grabbing my keys and flying out the
door.

In retrospect I
probably could’ve taken five minutes to clean myself up before
rushing out the door like a madman. Next time I’m in a similar
situation, I’ll make sure to do that.

My poor
Windstar was not happy with how hard I pushed her. Air whistled
through the gaps in her chassis making a whining sound in the
chilly, wet air.

I found a
parking spot on Portage Avenue about two blocks from the studio and
slewed into it dangerously fast, cutting off a cab driver in the
process. I began jogging over to the studio, ignoring the
frustrated honking of other drivers as I weaved across the still
busy street. My mind was on high alert and it had pushed my body
onto auto pilot. The tingling sensation at the back of my neck was
present but only faintly. I didn’t want to worry about that
craziness at the moment and was intentionally pushing it away.

I rounded the
corner onto Graham and hustled past the arena towards where
cameraman Jimmy was waiting for me at the entrance to the CTV
Studios. His expression turned bemused as I got closer.

“Damn, I almost
mistook you for a homeless guy.”

“Where’s
Cathy?” No small talk today.

Jimmy blinked
once, taken aback. “Upstairs, but she’ll be in a post-production
meeting.”

I nodded once
and started up the stairs.

“Crazy thing,
right?” Jimmy asked, his voice sounding curious and sympathetic at
the same time from behind me as we climbed the stairs. “What are
the odds of the same gang member who shot you getting killed within
a few weeks.”

Lousy. Very,
very lousy.

“Man, I wonder
what that guy was into.”

Prostitution.
Intimidation. Probably a lot more than that.

“Hey, you okay?
Shouldn’t you be happy about this?”

Shouldn’t
I?

“Joe?”

Getting out
onto the main floor I strode past the reception area without a word
back at Jimmy and scanned the nearby studio for Cathy. I saw a
number of other reporters chatting amongst themselves along with
their co-workers, but no Cathy.

The detached
and rational part of my mind noted how calm everyone else in the
room was behaving. To them, this was just another day. Gang member
killed, tax hike coming from lying politician, infrastructure
deficits a major topic among urban families and as the Jets Season
comes to an end what are their plans for next year? All that and
more tonight on “News at Eleven.”

To them the
news was work. It wasn’t something that happened to them or even
really affected them at their core anymore. It was a headline. A
ratings point. Just another day on the job.

But not to
me.

Not this
time.

More than one
CTV employee was giving me a funny look as I approached. Given that
I looked like a recently unearthed caveman probably contributed to
those glances. Funny thing, I was certain I’d seen more than one of
these reporters running stories about the plight of the downtrodden
and homeless in Winnipeg, but now that – as they saw it – one of
those downtrodden was upon them, the look of disdain and fear was
hard to ignore.

Listen to me,
getting all philosophical and shit in my old age.

One of the male
reporters – Jordan something or other – started to make his way
over to where I stood with Jimmy but stopped cold when I met his
eyes. Clearly he wanted to look all macho in front of the pretty TV
staffers but decided it wasn’t worth the potential violence hiding
just out of sight behind my gaze.

After he turned
away I forced my fists to unclench themselves. The veins in my
forearms began letting blood flow again, reducing the cramping
sensation I had been feeling.

Jimmy no longer
tried to engage me in talk. He merely stood off to the side with a
smartphone in his hand going through items or apps or whatever the
hell people went through on their smartphones.

Visuals
flickered on a screen in the distance. I turned to look. Editors
were skimming over the footage from the recently completed
broadcast, likely looking for ways to repackage it for the late
news.

On the screen
was Keimac’s angry face, complete with the dream catcher
tattoo.

I strolled
across to the editing bay, keeping a firm grip on the tingling
sensation at the back of my skull. As I neared the computers and
editing equipment the thrumming sensation in the air around me got
thicker and more tangible. I gritted my teeth and continued until I
was standing behind the skinny young man sitting in front of the
screen and making notes on his time card.

On the screen
was Jordan Scaredypants standing in a grassy park, buildings and
police tape behind him.

“…
all
that is known for certain at this time is that Mr. Cleghorn’s body
was found here in Central Park at around six o’clock this evening.
While Winnipeg Police have not yet confirmed cause of death,
sources close to the situation have indicated that this was most
likely a gang related incident. A result of some initiation trial
gone wrong.”

My blood ran
cold as B-Roll footage showed images of EMT’s loading a shrouded
form into the back of an ambulance. A left to right pan of the
scene revealed displaced grass underneath a dense shrubbery
surrounded by yellow tape and evidence ground markers.

The audio
shunted over to an on the scene interview with one of the witnesses
but my ears tuned it out.

The spot where
Keimac’s body had been found was maybe ten feet from where I’d
woken up after my own spectacular beating.

Give or take a
couple of feet.

Gang
initiation?

Hell no.

Shit.

Was this Parise
and his crew trying to send me a message? Were they trying to
outright kill me that night and Central Park is just a good place
to dump a body?

My could feel
my fingers trembling again. I clenched my fists to keep them under
control.

The tingle at
the back of my neck nearly got out of my control when Parise’s face
appeared on the screen. I didn’t think it was possible for my fists
to clench any tighter.

“There is
very little information that we can share at this time. This
incident is part of an ongoing investigation into the ground swell
of violent street criminals calling themselves the
Native Posse
. When we have more news
for you we shall …”

“Okay buddy,
it’s time for you to go.” Said a gruff and bombastic voice from
behind me just before a hand clapped me on the upper arm.

I spun away
from the contact, my arm flashing up and smacking the hand away.
The skinny kid at the editing suite jumped up out of his chair with
a yelp. Behind me was Jordan McWhatshisname putting some distance
between myself and him, holding his smacked hand up against his
chest. Fear in his face.

Cameraman Jimmy
came rushing over, followed by Kurt and a few of the other
staffers.

“Seriously,
what do you want here?” Jordan asked, his voice strained and more
than a little scared. Seeing we suddenly had an audience consisting
of technicians and attractive female reporters he cleared his
throat and tried to regain some composure. “This is a TV Station,
not a soup kitchen. If you need help we can …”

“I’m waiting
for Cathy,” my voice growled.

Silence.

Complete and
uncomfortable silence.

Jimmy and Kurt
came over and got in between me and Jordan. Uncomfortable glances
were still being exchanged amongst the gathered crowd, though
Jordan’s expression regained confidence once his skinny cameramen
suddenly became an obstacle for me to overcome.

His voice
followed me as I was led away from the editing suite, something
about “people like him need help” and “that’s guy’s lucky I’m a
gentleman otherwise …” Typical preppie jock bullshit.

“Jesus, man.
Are you trying to get yourself arrested?” Kurt gave a glance back
over his shoulder at the gathered staffers. “You can’t just barge
in here dressed like a hobo and start being all attitudinal. It
makes people nervous.”

Jimmy chimed
in. “People are jumpy enough now that we’re working downtown. Never
know who’s gonna be around the corner.”

I held up both
palms in surrender and forced out a calming breath. “Sorry. I’m
cool. Where’s …”

“Oy Gevalt, Joe
did you mug a derelict for that outfit?”

Cathy stood
behind me dressed in casual street clothes, obviously done work for
the day. Her eyes were tight and full of mixed emotions, an
oversized handbag slung over one shoulder.

Cathy kept her
voice overly cheerful, just shy of falsely so. “Between your van
and those clothes you are seriously in need of a makeover Mr.
Donovan.”

Over her
shoulder I could see the crowd of CTV employees dispersing slightly
but still keeping a close eye on me and now Cathy as well.

She was putting
on a show.

“Yeah,
well when the rest of the society pages catch up with me you’ll be
calling my choices
avant
garde
.” I replied, a touch louder than was likely
necessary.