Blood Sports (7 page)

“You met him once,” Tom said.

“After he moved in with you guys, you started showing up to school with bruises and burns.”

“It was a bad year. Jer was the least of my problems.”

“Bad in what way? Illegal bad or personal bad?” Mike said.

“Jer was an asshole,” Tom said. “But he was there for us when no one else could be bothered. I owe him a lot. He and Mom are feuding. I don’t want to play ref.”

After a minute, Mike said, “Fair enough.”

6 JULY 1998

Paulie took the teddy bear off the fruit basket. “What was his name again?”

“Mike McConnell.”

“Old boyfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

“Are you sure?” She held the bear up. “I think he’s sweet on you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, hon, but Mike is so straight he squeaks.”

“And here I was all ready to be jealous.”

Paulie handed the bear to Mel, who was sitting on the floor. She chewed its ear for a minute then tossed it aside and scooted for the tarps they’d piled by the door. Paulie followed her, lifting the tarps out of reach. Mel motored around the furniture, interested in the new arrangement.

“Well? What did Squeaky want?”

“He wanted to catch up.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“He was my height back then. Scrawny. Enough attitude to lift-off the space shuttle.”

“Nope. Nothing.
Mel
. No, baby. Tom, can you get her?”

Tom scooped Mel up before she tipped the garbage over.

“Maybe I’m getting Alzheimer’s,” she said.

“Me and Mike were under the radar in high school. I was anyways until … well, you know.”

“Yeah,” Paulina said. “I know.”

Tom checked the clock above the front doors. Two more hours until the morning shift showed. The security buzzer bleated as a young guy in a baseball cap walked in. Behind the man, Tom noticed the black van cruising into the empty parking lot. The distance from the shop blurred the Crime Stoppers–worthy details like the licence plates, model, and make, but he was sure it was the same van that had been through the lot twice before.

Tom ignored the urge to lock the front doors. There were loads of non-robbing reasons people would wait in a deserted parking lot with their van’s headlights off and the engine running. Maybe this was a lost tourist who kept stopping to check his map. Maybe this was some horndog picking up women. Maybe this was just some dealer waiting for a drop. The van turned out of the lot and disappeared down the deserted street. Tom massaged his temples. Or maybe sleep deprivation was making him bug-eyed.

Tom absently tracked the customer on the security cameras. He was a little taller than Tom, body-builder buff, black muscle shirt and sweats. When he turned his back, he had a thin brown ponytail tied at the nape of his neck. The guy lingered over
the adult magazines, snatched a
Hustler
, and brought it to the counter.

“A 6/49 Quick Pick,” the guy said. “How much is your Internet time?”

“A dollar for twenty minutes.”

“Huh,” the guy said. “Pretty quiet tonight. Is anyone on the computer or are you alone?”

Tom studied him. Overly tanned with wide-set brown eyes in a narrow face. No scars or tattoos.

“We’ve got two computers. Someone’s using one, but the other one is free.”

Stan suddenly said, “Eat that! Yeah!”

Through the security camera at the back, Tom could see Stan leaning forward as he exploded, burned, and decapitated mutant enemies galloping across his computer screen in
Alien Apocalypse IV
.

A young black man wearing shiny blue shorts banged on the window. “We won!” he screamed. “4-2 on the penalties! We won!”

“That’s great!” Tom said.

The man banged the window a few more times then skipped away. The guy in the muscle shirt paid with a twenty and left. Must be a full moon tonight, Tom thought.

The same black van rolled into the parking lot. It parked near the street.

“That van’s back,” Tom said.

“Yeah?” Stan said, distractedly, still focused on his game.

“What if they’re casing the store?”

“Fuck, don’t be paranoid.” Stan craned his head around a pile of canned pop and stared out at the van. “If it turns into a robbery, give them whatever’s in the register. Insurance’ll cover it.”

“Glad we have a plan.”

“Don’t worry,” Stan hunched down, grunting and swaying as he got back into his game. “You’ll get used to it.”

The van waited.

Stan emerged from the back as a parade of cars honked past. The passengers hung out the windows, wahooing, alternately in shadow or brightly lit as they passed under the streetlights. When Tom glanced back at the parking lot, the van was gone. On the hood of the last car in the parade sat a well-endowed topless woman with two strategically placed soccer-ball pasties, her upraised arms flying a large, flapping Brazilian flag. She sang along to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” as it thundered out of the car’s stereo system.

“Wow,” Tom said. “You gotta love The Drive.”

Stan said, munching Cap’n Crunch cereal from the box, “Brazil must have beat Holland in the semi-finals.”

“Beat them at what?”

“The World Cup.”

Tom must have still looked puzzled, because Stan said in exasperation, “We talked about this last week. When Beckham got red-carded. England in flames. Footballers rioting.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said. Afterward, Tom had deliberately kept asking which Spice Girl Beckham was dating because it bugged Stan. Which would be more entertaining if he wasn’t so easily bugged. Still, anything to make the hours pass. “I thought you said it was soccer.”

Stan glared at him.

“Weird time for a game anyways,” Tom said, turning back to his
Enquirer
.

“It’s in France,” Stan said slowly. “It’s a half a day ahead of us.”

“Ah,” Tom said. “Some guy said it was 4-2 on the penalties.”

“Do you even know what that means?” Stan said.

“Nope. Not a clue.”

“It means we missed a fucking great game because we’re stuck in a shitty little hole in the wall, that’s what it means.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for the moon, am I?” Cindy said, tapping her high-heeled foot. “He’s got a fucking forty-thou-a-year job. Bobby’s clarinet lessons aren’t going to break him, right? But, no-oo. Clarinet is a fucking girl’s instrument. Bobby has to play sax. Well, I’ll tell you what. Bobby hates sax.”

A customer came up to the counter, and Cindy gave him a wide, insincere smile. “Twelve-fifty. Thanks, have a nice day.” She turned back to Tom, chewing her gum furiously. “So that asshole won’t pay unless Bobby changes instruments.”

“What does Bobby say?” Tom said.

Cindy sighed. “I haven’t told him. How do I tell him his dad thinks he’s a weenie?”

“What does your mom say?”

“Please. What she always says. You made your bed, missy, you go ahead and sleep in it.” She pulled a compact out of her purse and examined her eyes. “God, I’m so puffy.” She clicked the compact shut. “Destiny’s molars are coming in, and she’s a basket case, an absolute basket case.”

“I should get going,” Tom said. “Paulie’s waiting.”

“How’s she holding up?”

“She’s wrecked.”

“Oh, the poor hon. Did you guys try the clove oil?”

“Yeah. But Mel’s got four teeth coming in and she’s not sleeping –”

“Bauer,” Stan said as he put on his jacket on the way out. “You’re such a girl.”

Cindy popped her gum. “Spoken like a man who hasn’t been laid in years.”

“Shut your pie-hole,” Stan said.

“Stick it in your ass and rotate, perv.”

“You’re begging for it. You’re just begging for it.”

Cindy snorted. “When I want a pencil dick, yeah, I’ll come begging for you, perv.”

“Are you going to let her do your talking, Bauer?”

“You betcha,” Tom said.

“You’re both fired.”

“What-EV-er, perv,” Cindy said as Stan stomped out the door. “I don’t know how you can stand working with him. He’s such a creep.”

“He’s okay.”

“If you think perverts are okay, yeah, I guess he is.”

“See you Saturday,” Tom said.

“Kiss your honeys for me,” Cindy said.

As he walked, Tom swung the plastic grocery bag filled with milk, digestive cookies, and caramels. He wondered if he should get his Americano early or save it. The chill damp in the morning air was already giving way to a humid, glass-shimmering, smog-inducing heat. They’d have to hang out somewhere with air conditioning today, maybe splurge on a movie. Or take a ride to the beach. Sit in the sand and eat ice cream and screw everything else. He had three days off before he had to go back to work.

He yawned, his eyes watering as he fiddled with his apartment keys. Mel had a nasty habit of rising with the sun no matter how late she’d been up. He always hoped to find them both asleep when he got home, but Mel was usually playing on the living-room floor while Paulie sat blankly in front of the
TV
, waiting for
him to come home so she could catch a few zees before taking a shower and heading off to her meeting.

The
TV
wasn’t on, but he heard a telltale crash. The coats were scattered down the hallway and the coat rack was on the floor. Tom straightened it.

“Mel,” he said. “What are you up to, my little monkey?”

She usually giggled when she heard him come in. He frowned. The coffee table was tipped over. The books were tumbled over the living-room rug. The recently reupholstered couch was slashed open and leaking stuffing. “Mel –”

A man popped up from behind the overturned armchair. It was the man wearing a muscle shirt he’d seen earlier in Lou’s. Another man stepped out from the kitchen, grabbed Tom by the throat, and shoved him against the wall. He touched the barrel of a Glock, cool and hard, to the underside of Tom’s chin. Glock Man wore a blue T-shirt pitted with sweat, his boxer’s nose close to Tom’s, half an eyebrow on his left side, greying brown hair, and brown eyes.

The grocery bag fell with a splat as Tom grabbed the burglar’s hands.

“Relax, Tom,” Glock Man said.

“Mel!” Tom shouted. “Paulie! Mel!”

“Shh,” Glock Man said, pressing the gun into his flesh.

June 4, 1998

Dear Detective Pritchard,

Thank you for lunch yesterday. I hope you can help us. The three videotapes I found in Jeremy Rieger’s apartment are lost and all I have are these transcripts. George seemed like such a nice private investigator, and he had such lovely offices. Honestly, he charged so much money to keep the tapes in his safe, I never thought he’d go out of business!

I am terrified of what will happen when Jeremy gets out of prison and no one seems to care! I am including the statement my son sent me in 1994, although I don’t know why you want to see it. I told you it’s all lies. Jeremy has my Tommy so terrified, he refuses to help me and he won’t talk to anyone.

I pray that you find a way to keep my nephew in prison,

Christa Bauer

I, Thomas Eugene Bauer, reside at 943 Victoria Drive, Vancouver, British Columbia. My date of birth is April 3, 1977. My social insurance number is
. I am making the following voluntary statement: