Running on Empty (12 page)

“Got a minute?” asked Ethan.

Link Hornsby looked at him over the remains of his Spaghetti With Meatballs, his garlic toast untouched. Few customers ever ate the crusty bread, but it was included with the Number 7, and Ethan had gotten used to carting it back into the kitchen along with the dirty plates. Hornsby nodded. “Maybe even two minutes.”

Ethan wished there were more people in The Chow Down so their conversation would be covered by clatter, but Lil had taken her break and there was only Boots, sitting at his usual place. Ethan hadn’t expected to see the old guy for at least another week, but he’d told Ethan when he’d come in ten minutes earlier that he’d found a bag of bottles that had fallen off a garbage truck. Having cashed them in for a few bucks at an Enviro Depot, he was celebrating. With a Western Sandwich, no tomato.

Which made Ethan feel even guiltier about what he was doing now.

That afternoon before coming to work, he’d deposited the money he’d won in the bank, including the four hundred fifty bucks he promised Allie he’d share with the old man. He’d had every intention of following through on that promise. In fact, he was carrying in his wallet a cheque for that amount, which he’d made out to “McLaughlin,” leaving a space for the first name he didn’t know. But Link Hornsby had walked in at the beginning of Ethan’s shift, and thoughts of sharing his windfall
had taken a back seat to an idea that he’d been mulling over.

Ethan glanced toward the little man. “Anything else you need, Boots?” he asked.

Boots shook his head. “I’m fine, Ethan. Don’t worry about me,” he said, biting into the second half of his sandwich.

Ethan thought of Allie, knew how she’d respond to what he was about to do if she found out, but shrugged it off. How could Boots miss something he’d never had? And besides, if things worked out, the old guy might get the money yet. Ethan turned to Hornsby and lowered his voice. “I still have some of that money left.” He paused. A few minutes ago, he’d planned out in his head what he was going to say, but suddenly it all seemed like lines from a bad sitcom.

Something like a grin played at Hornsby’s mouth. “You lookin’ for a gold star?”

Ethan flushed. “I was wondering if maybe you could, you know, tell me what I should do with it.”

Hornsby settled back in his chair and stared at Ethan for a few hard seconds before replying. “Buy low and sell high.”

Ethan blinked. “Seriously? That’s your advice?”

“I look like an investment broker to you?”

Ethan shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about investing.”

Hornsby took a long swallow of his Coke, wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, then set the glass on the table. “Why’re you askin’ me?”

Ethan hesitated. “You had a lot of”—he lowered his voice even further—”cash on you the other night.”

Hornsby pulled a toothpick out of his leather jacket, wiped a piece of pocket fuzz off it, then stuck it in the corner of his mouth. “Tryin’ to quit smokin’,” he said, then nodded at Ethan, signalling for him to continue.

“Look,” said Ethan, “I don’t mean to offend you, but—”

“Never a good opening,” said Hornsby, bringing his hands up and locking his fingers behind his head. The movement pulled the sleeves of his leather jacket back, and the inked undersides of his arms seemed to writhe under the diner’s fluorescent lights.

Leaning back like that, his face lit by those glowing overhead tubes, Hornsby suddenly looked older than Ethan had previously thought. Maybe it was the long hair that had thrown him off before, but seeing him up close now, Ethan could tell the guy was closer to forty than thirty. His father’s age, which nearly made Ethan laugh aloud. Link Hornsby clearly didn’t spend his life obsessed with rules, like Ethan’s old man. Link Hornsby looked like the kind of guy who’d never met a rule he hadn’t broken, a thought that sent a sudden undercurrent of excitement through Ethan. “Like I said,” he began again, “I’m not disrespecting you, but you look like someone who knows how to make a quick buck.”

“I do, do I?” asked Hornsby, deadpan.

This was turning out to be even harder than Ethan anticipated. He glanced again at Boots, who seemed oblivious to both of them, then turned back to Hornsby. “Look,” he said, “if you can help me, great. If you can’t, sorry I wasted your time.” He took Hornsby’s plate and cutlery but left the half-empty glass of Coke. “You want anything else?”

The man reached for the glass again, drained it without removing the toothpick from his mouth, and passed the empty to Ethan. “Nah, I’m good,” he said.

Ethan waited a moment, but when Hornsby offered nothing more, he turned and carried the dishes back to the kitchen. When he returned with the check, Hornsby didn’t even glance at it. A twenty-dollar bill lay on the table in front of him. “I’ll get your change,” Ethan said.

Hornsby waved it away. “Keep it,” he said. Then, “How serious are you about makin’ some money?”

Ethan grinned. “Very.”

Hornsby studied Ethan for what seemed like a long moment, his cold eyes almost glittering, then pulled himself to his feet and nodded toward the door. Ethan followed him, glancing again at Boots, who was finishing the last bite of his sandwich. “Back in a second, okay?” he said. Boots nodded and smiled.

In the parking lot, Hornsby asked, “You willin’ to take some risks?”

“Just take the picture,” said Ethan.

Raye let the camera dangle from its strap. “Not ‘til you tell me what you need it for.”

Ethan sighed. “I told you already. It’s for a project I’m doing in English.”

“Oh, yeah,” drawled Raye. “The project that’s not due for, what, at least a month, right?”

“How do
you
know when it’s due?”

“I saw Allie at the library this afternoon.”

“Liar,” said Ethan. “Allie left right after school. She went away for the weekend with her family.”

Raye shook her head. “She found out her dad was running late and they wouldn’t be leaving the city until after six, so she thought she’d get a jump on her English assignment. She told me all about the profile, Ethan. She also said Ms. Moore gave you ‘til Christmas to do it.”

“Maybe I’m getting a jump on
my
work, too.”

Raye rolled her eyes. “Like I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Doesn’t matter to me what you believe. Besides, what were
you
doing there?” Raye, he knew, never went to the public library. Disciples of Winnipeg Joe hung out at All Things Vinyl, his hole-in-the-wall music store on Argyle.

Raye stuck her chin out. “I was working on a science project.” After a brief moment, she added softly, “With Brad.”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “The Bradster, huh? How’d you arrange that?”

A grin slid across her face, and then she frowned at him. “Don’t change the subject. You’ve never started working on a school assignment this early in your life.”

He grimaced. Raye knew him, all right. “First time for everything,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And what’s with the tie? The last time you put one of those on was—” She paused. “I can’t
remember
the last time.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that even your tie?”

He ran his hand over the expensive Armani silk, a pale grey that seemed to shimmer in the white landscape of their living room. Ethan had needed something plain for a backdrop, and nothing was plainer than those Brilliant Cream walls. “It’s the old man’s,” he told her.

“And since when do you part your hair? More to the point, since when do you
comb
it? You always just run your hand through it.”

Ethan was losing his patience. He wanted to finish here before Jack and Jillian got home with even more questions. They were at a hospital fundraiser, an event their father’s media consultant recommended Jack be seen—and photographed—at. And Jillian, of course, would do anything for a chance to get her picture taken, even if it meant drinking watered-down wine and moving stale canapés around on a paper plate. Ethan could usually depend on them not returning from a public function until late, but their father had been even more irritable than normal when he’d gotten home from work, so who knew when they’d be back? “Just take the damn picture, okay?” he snapped.

Raye sniffed. “Jeez. Touchy.” She held up the camera. Ethan
saw her squint and bring the LCD screen closer to her face before snapping the picture.

“Take a few more,” he said.

She took seven altogether before handing Ethan the camera.

“Time’s running out,” he said as he took it from her. “If you don’t tell him about your eyes soon, I will.”

Raye frowned again. “Just wait a couple more weeks. If Brad doesn’t ask me out by then, screw him.”

“You know,” said Ethan, “you could always ask
him
out.”

She shook her head. “Might be too soon after the Celia thing. I don’t want him thinking I’ve been stalking him, waiting for my chance.”

“Which you
have
,” said Ethan.

She grinned. “Yeah, well, whatever. I just think it’s better if he asks me.” She turned and headed toward the stairs, then stopped and looked back at her brother. “Ethan, you’re not doing something you shouldn’t, are you?”

Ethan raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

She sighed. “I’m not an idiot. I know this picture isn’t for any English project.”

He looked at her for a moment, once more marvelling at his sister’s perceptiveness. “No,” he lied, “I’m not doing something I shouldn’t.”

Later, paging through the headshots on his laptop, Ethan thought about Raye’s question:
You’re not doing something you shouldn’t, are you?
Why shouldn’t he? Didn’t everybody? Who didn’t tell a lie or misrepresent themselves in some way? Hell, that’s what resumés were for. He thought again about the politician his father was defending: if a public servant could drink and drive, get filmed doing it, and then deny it before everyone in a court
of law, what was so bad about what Ethan was doing? Besides, hadn’t Moore-or-Less told him it was time he stepped outside his comfort zone? He figured what he was doing now certainly qualified.

Paging through the images a second time, he chose the first picture Raye had taken, his expression serious but not pained like in the others, when he’d been increasingly self-conscious. He wondered how his old man handled being in front of the cameras so often. Not everyone was a photo-slut like Jillian.

Looking at the picture again, he was surprised by how much he looked like his father, probably because of the tie and how he’d combed his hair. Funny how photographs could hide the truth—he was, after all,
nothing
like his old man. They were oil and water, fire and rain, any metaphor where Jack Palmer was the drizzle to Ethan’s dry day.

He rooted around in his desk for a flash drive, deleted everything on it, and saved the image, then slipped it into his jacket pocket so he’d have it on him when he saw Hornsby on Monday.

“What’d he say?” asked Allie after she’d kissed Ethan hello. She’d been away with her family all weekend at her uncle’s wedding in Prince Edward Island and hadn’t gotten home until late the night before, but she’d texted him several times, and was dying to know if he’d seen Boots at The Chow Down. Following his reply—
saw him
—she’d sent one final message:
cant wait to hear
. Which was an understatement. Standing in the school corridor, she was nearly vibrating with excitement.

Ethan shrugged. “He liked it.”

“That’s all?”

“A lot,” he said. “He really liked it a lot.” He groped for something more. “And he thanked me. He kept saying ‘thanks’ over and over. It was embarrassing.”

“But in a good way, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, in a good way.”

Allie put her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him again. When she finally pulled away, she said, “I know how much you wanted that money for your car, Ethan, but it was the right thing to do. I’m so proud of you.”

Ethan hated lying to her, especially after she’d used the L-word with him. But what else could he do?

“Hey, buddy!” Ethan said over her shoulder, relieved to see Pete loping toward them. “You got time to shoot some hoops later this afternoon?”

Pete glanced at Allie and then back at his friend. “Uh, sorry, Ethan. I’m tied up.” He looked at Allie again.

“Pete’s working with me this afternoon,” she said.

She might just as well have said Pete was manning a mission to Mars. “What’s up?”

“You know Ms. Moore said we could do the profile assignment in pairs if we wanted, right? As long as we cleared it with her first?”

Ethan
didn’t
know that—something else he no doubt missed during Moore-or-Less’s scintillating lecture last week—but he nodded anyway.

“Pete and I are doing ours together,” she said.

“How’d that happen?” he asked, then wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t just the question but the way he said it that made him sound like he was jealous, which was dumb. Hell, who could you trust to work with your girl more than your best friend? Answer: Your
gay
best friend.

“We just decided on Friday,” Pete said quickly. “I was in the library and ran into Allie and we got talking about it. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Ethan wondered why the earth wasn’t shifting beneath their feet, wondered why tremors weren’t already radiating from the unnatural collision of forces too bizarre for mere mortals to comprehend. Pete in the public library. On a Friday afternoon. Christ!

“We were both there checking out information in the media room,” said Allie, “and it turned out we had the same idea for our subject. Didn’t make sense for two people to do two different profiles on the same person, so we emailed Ms. Moore to ask if we could work on it together. She was okay with it.”

It made perfect sense, sure, but a part of him—maybe the same part that had lied to Allie about Boots—was still having
trouble with it. “You could’ve asked
me
to work with you,” he said, hating the tone of his voice. He sounded like a ten-year-old in gym class watching teams being chosen.
Pick me! Pick me!

“No, I couldn’t,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“Because of the person we’re profiling,” Allie explained.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Your dad.”

“Why in hell would you want to do your profile on my old man?” asked Ethan, taking his physics book from his backpack and shoving it into his locker, replacing it with his English binder. Several loose pages snagged on the zipper, but Ethan jammed the binder inside anyway, ignoring the sound of crumpling, tearing paper. Allie would have remarked on it if she’d still been there—she was on an environmental kick and hated to see anything wasted, especially paper—but she had an appointment with the guidance counsellor before homeroom, and she’d just left.

“Why not?” Pete replied. “Your dad’s always in the news. And this latest trial he’s involved in? The one with that politician who was driving drunk? Man, that’s a powder keg. Lots of people want to see how that one turns out, including me. And besides,” he added, “your old man’s running for office in the spring. Who knows? If the political thing works out, he might even become the premier of Nova Scotia one day. Hell, maybe even the prime minister! Who
wouldn’t
want to do a profile on the guy?”

Ethan knew Pete had a point. At breakfast that morning, Raye had told him that a reporter was coming to their house to hold a sit-down interview with their father for an upcoming television spot. What Ethan
didn’t
understand was why Pete and
Allie hadn’t said anything about the project before. “When were you going to tell me?”

“We just decided Friday afternoon. You went to work right after school, and we didn’t see you again ‘til this morning.” Pete stopped, his face reflecting sudden awareness. “Look, man, me working with Allie isn’t going to be a problem for you, is it? The only reason we’re doing it together is—”

“I know,” said Ethan. “‘Course it’s not a problem. You’re my buddy, right?” He raised his arm and they fist-bumped in the hallway. “Look,” he said, “I know I’ve been tied up with this job, but …” He struggled to finish the thought, suddenly wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. He sucked at the whole share-your-feelings crap.

“What?” asked Pete.

Ethan looked at the floor—
Just do it!
—then forced a smile. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I hope so,” said Ethan. “I mean
anything
. Anything at all. I’m there for you, man, no matter what. Okay?”

Pete glanced down the hallway, and Ethan could see his buddy’s ears and neck turn bright red.

Ethan clapped his friend on the back, then turned to get the rest of his books ready for morning classes, the clang of metal lockers opening and closing along the hallway making everything normal again.

“So,” Pete asked a moment later, “you decide what you’re going to do about the Cobra?”

Ethan nodded. “Giving Filthy the down payment.”

“That’s great, man! You think you’ll have that much in time?”

“I’ve got it now.”

Pete looked puzzled. “I thought you were giving most of it to that old guy who bought the ticket.”

Ethan looked around, lowering his voice. “I’m going to, but …”

“But not yet,” finished Pete.

“Right.”

“Does Allie know?”

Ethan shook his head. “I told her I already gave it to him.”

“You
lied
to her?”

Ethan scowled. “I’m
going
to give it to him,” he said. “Eventually. I just need some time to grow the dough.”

“And how are you planning to do that?”

“I’m meeting a guy later today about it. Somebody I know from the diner.”

“What makes you think he can help you?”

“Look,” snapped Ethan, suddenly pissed, feeling like he was being grilled by his old man, “save the questions for Jack Palmer, okay? Or are you doing a second profile for extra credit? If you are, you’d better let Allie know.”

“You might want to take your own advice,” said Pete. “The letting-Allie-know part, I mean.”

Ethan watched as his friend turned and headed toward homeroom and wondered what the hell had just happened.

Moving down the walkway amid the throng of bodies leaving school that afternoon, Ethan saw Link Hornsby sitting on the bench just beyond the school property. To the city’s credit, the bench had actually been green for two days during the past month, but right after both “repairs,” anonymous artists had covered the fresh paint with their own creations. This latest was clearly by the same artist whose trademark spackles, when viewed from a distance, merged into faces. Walking by it this morning, Ethan had recognized the features of the politician who was on trial for drunk driving, and now Hornsby was leaning against an image of an enormous cellphone pointed in the direction of that bleary face.

“Yo,” said Ethan as he stopped in front of the bench.

“Keep
walkin’
, asshole!” Hornsby hissed.

Confused, Ethan did as Hornsby told him. In a few moments, he was beyond sight of the school, wondering what to do next. He didn’t have to wonder long. Hornsby materialized wraithlike on the sidewalk beside him.

“What was
that
all about?” Ethan asked, the two of them continuing along the street.

“There’s always at least one plainclothes prowlin’ that place at the end ‘a the day.”

As at most high schools in recent years, uniformed police were often seen in and around John C. Miles looking for drug dealers, investigating gang violence, or just making their presence known, but the thought of plainclothes officers there surprised Ethan. “Weren’t you worried about them seeing you?” he asked.

Hornsby snorted. “Free country. Guy’s got a right to sit on public property,” he said, referring to the bench. “Which, I gotta say, takes graffiti to a whole new level. Quite the political commentary there.”

Ethan shrugged. “Yeah, whatever.”

“You got it?” asked Hornsby.

Ethan was reaching into his pocket when Hornsby snarled, “Not here!” He glanced furtively at the traffic moving past them, then jerked his head toward an alleyway between a real estate office and a dry cleaners.

Ethan turned into the alley and walked toward the rear of the buildings. Seconds later, Hornsby appeared. Ethan reached into his pocket again—this time hearing no complaint—pulled out the flash drive, and handed it to Hornsby, who just stared at him.

“You forgettin’ somethin’?” he asked.

Ethan frowned. “You want the money now?”

“This ain’t Sears, kid. I don’t do COD. Money upfront or no deal.”

It was a good thing Ethan had returned to the bank and withdrawn the money. Opening his wallet, he pulled out three hundred bucks and handed it to Hornsby, who counted it and slipped it along with the flash drive into his jacket. Then he turned, heading toward the alley’s back entrance.

“That it?” Ethan called after him.

Hornsby didn’t look back. Didn’t even break his stride.

All Ethan could do was watch him and his money walk off. And think of the warning Lil had given him:
I’d steer clear ‘a the guy if I was you
.