Fireball (10 page)

We took turns shouting shit at the pedestrians we drove by, trying to impress her. Julian tore up and down all these little side streets. At every corner he'd gun it and pull a huge fishtail. Then we hit Marine and saw the lights – blue and red in the rearview.

‘Shit.'

‘Pull over, man.'

Julian did. For whatever reason, he'd headed back towards Taylor Way to get on the Upper Levels, which meant we were in West Van – and everybody knows that West Van cops are the most insane fascists you'll ever meet. No joke. They're always shooting poor people for carrying pellet guns or cap guns around. Their mission is to keep the district rich and white and crime-free. They even shot this one teenager for answering the door with a remote control in his hand. The cop who did it claimed he thought the remote was a gun, which was a total lie. He just wanted to get rid of that kid. Those jokers shoot more kids than almost any other police force, except maybe the corrupt ones in third world countries.

‘Ditch that booze, Razor.'

I had a mickey of rum in my hand that I'd completely forgotten about. I looked at it stupidly, like the guy in a movie who's picked up the murder weapon just as the detective comes in. I was pretty hammered, actually. We all were, except Julian. That was one thing about Jules. When it came to drinking and driving, he happened to be extremely responsible.

‘Here,' Karen said.

Snatching the mickey from me, she leaned forward and tucked it into the back of her jeans. Then she pulled her shirt down to cover it and the rum disappeared, like a magic trick.

‘Everybody be quiet.'

The cop got out of his car, leaving the emergency lights on. All we could see was this spooky silhouette marching towards us through the red and blue beams.

Then I saw his face as he passed my window.

‘Hey,' I said. ‘It's Bates.'

Karen asked, ‘Who's Bates?'

We didn't have time to explain. Bates was right there. I don't know what a North Van cop was doing in West Van. Maybe he was already bucking for a transfer. He had a flashlight in his hands – one of those heavy duty Maglites that doubles as a nightstick. He used it to rap on the driver's side window. Julian pressed a button by his armrest and the glass whirred down. Just before he opened his mouth, I had the feeling Jules was about to say something super stupid.

And he did.

‘What's the problem, Batesy?'

Batesy. No joke. That's what he said. Bates did a little double take, and there was this moment when you could tell he'd recognised us but didn't really know how to react.

Then he said, ‘Licence and registration, please.'

That was it. He had this super severe expression on his face, too. Before then, I'd just thought he was a bit of a treat. That was the moment I realised he was a total marzipan.

Jules handed over all that junk and Bates flipped through it.

‘This isn't your car.'

‘No, it's my dad's.'

Bates smiled, as if establishing that Jules didn't own the car was a major personal victory. Then he rested his hand on his holster and peered around the car. Mostly he looked at Karen. He looked her up and down in this really sick way – totally perving out.

‘Do you know how fast you were going?'

He said that to Jules, but he was still eyeballing Karen.

‘About fifty?'

‘That's what you should have been doing. You topped eighty back there.'

‘Sorry about that, officer.'

‘You kids been drinking tonight?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Then you won't mind breathing into this, will you?'

Bates whipped out his breathalyser, super fast, and shoved it right in Julian's face.

‘What do I do?'

‘Just breathe.'

Jules opened up and blew. We waited while Bates checked the reading.

‘Stay right here.'

It was total crap. Jules had been drinking pop all night. But Bates wanted to jerk us around a little. He went back to his car and sat inside it for about three hours. I could see him fiddling with the radio and poking at his computer screen.

‘What's he doing in there?'

‘Pulling his goalie,' Chris said.

Julian laughed, but it was a fake laugh. He had both hands clenched tight on the wheel and he kept glancing anxiously in the rearview mirror. Totally wetting the bed.

Eventually, Bates came strutting back.

‘You passed your breath test,' he said. ‘Doing eighty in a fifty zone still counts as excessive speeding – but I cut you some slack and charged the minimum fine.'

He held out a slip of paper. Julian stared at it, sort of bewildered.

‘You're giving me a ticket?'

‘That's right.'

‘Oh, this is great,' Jules said, getting all flustered. ‘Just great. Last week you gave me a medal and now you're giving me a ticket. Thanks a lot, officer. Thanks a lot.' His voice trembled a little, as if he was having a hard time keeping it from breaking.

‘You're lucky it's only a hundred, hero.'

‘You know what this is?' Julian muttered. ‘It's bullshit.'

That surprised me, actually. I didn't think Jules had it in him.

‘What did you say?'

Jules kept his head down, his hands on the wheel. ‘Nothing.'

Bates smirked. ‘That's what I thought.'

He hitched up his pants, like a cartoon cop. You could tell he really thought he'd taught us a lesson. Then, just as he turned to go, those words came out of Chris's mouth.

‘Let's remain calm, here,' he said – sounding exactly like Bates when we'd dragged Mrs Reever out of the water. ‘Everybody just remain calm.'

Bates froze, as if he'd been stabbed in the spine. Then Chris started laughing. So did Karen. She didn't even know why it was so funny but she laughed anyway. That got me going, too. We were all cracking up. The only one who didn't laugh was Jules. And Bates, of course. He just stood there, looking like he wanted to pull out his gun and shoot us.

He probably would have if he'd thought he could get away with it.

The weirdest part of all is how Bates ended up being the hero. After Chris kicked his ass, Bates got the same treatment as us: interviews, talkshows, the whole deal. They probably even gave him a medal. If they haven't given him one yet, they should. Seriously. They should give him a medal for being the biggest dickhead on the entire planet, and the biggest liar in history. He's told his story so many times he probably even believes it by now. I bet he actually thinks that he helped save Mrs Reever, instead of standing around like a crash test dummy. And you know what? I couldn't care less. Not any more.

My dad wrote a letter for me, and mailed it to all the papers and networks. He loaded it with complicated references and legal terminology, so it sounded totally professional. Then he got his secretary to type it on official letterhead, just to scare the shit out of them. The letter said he was working on my behalf, and if they printed any more bullshit we'd sue their asses off. It was pretty sweet. He also filed a formal complaint with the police department, questioning Bates's actions. Nothing happened to Bates, of course. Actually, something did happen to him – he got promoted, and transferred to West Van. He got all of that, and he got away with what he'd started by giving Julian a ticket: he punished us for doing what he couldn't that day at the beach.

After Bates left, Jules drove along Marine Drive at about thirty
clicks. He gnawed on his lip and wouldn't look anywhere but
directly ahead, at a fixed spot on the windscreen.

‘What a total asshole,' Karen said.

Nobody answered.

Then it happened. Julian emitted a little, choking sob – like a child. We all sat there, frozen. I don't think I've ever been more embarassed for a guy in my life. Part of me knew exactly how he felt. It was pretty shitty and hypocritical for Bates to turn around and do that. At the same time, one thing I wouldn't recommend is crying in front of girls. It doesn't go over so well. I mean, sure, we all have to cry sometimes. I still cry myself to sleep thinking about Chris. That's not the same, though. Nobody ever sees me cry – especially girls.

Karen reached over and patted him on the knee. ‘It's okay, Julian.'

You could tell she was a little disgusted, though. That's the thing about girls. They hate cry-babies. They might say they like sensitive guys, but that's a lie. What they really want is somebody who wouldn't think twice about fighting six people at once, or staring down a guy with a gun, or beating a cop half to death.

That's what she wanted, anyways.

17

When we were younger, another thing we did was make movies.

We used my dad's video camera – this bulky old camcorder he'd picked up at a garage sale. I must have been about two or three when he bought it. I can't really remember. It was a little while after my mom died and I guess he wanted to capture a few memories. He took some footage of us at the wading pool and me riding my tricycle around the yard and a bunch of other typical things, but the best stuff he shot was during my fifth birthday party.

In the video, we're getting ready to eat my cake. My dad must have baked it himself, since the icing is all lumpy and messy. But he made up for that by covering the cake with army men – those green army men that stand on plastic bases. When the lights get turned off, everybody starts singing happy birthday. In the darkness, you can see the faces of my friends gathered around the table, watching as I blow out the candles. Jules was super thin and pale back then. He keeps poking his finger in the icing and licking it off. Chris is sitting beside him. I don't think he had many birthday parties of his own. He's got this extremely solemn expression on his face, as if blowing out candles is the most important thing ever.

I loved to bug him about that.

The novelty of the camcorder wore off pretty quick. It disappeared until Julian, Chris and I dug it out of the attic, a bunch of years later. At first we just screwed around with it. We'd put on my boxing gloves and pretend to be heavyweight champions, or film ourselves belly-flopping into Julian's pool. Eventually we started making skits and little scenes. The skits were always about cops who wore huge sunglasses and busted Mexican drug dealers.

‘What's in the bag, Pedro?'

We thought all Mexicans were named Pedro.

‘Just some clothes, hombré.'

‘Clothes, huh? We'll see about that.'

‘Back off, gringo – or I'll pop a cap in your ass!'

‘He's packing heat!'

It always ended in a gun battle that nobody survived.

Later on we began stringing scenes together. We'd copy our favourite creature features and make our own versions. The best one we did was called
The Worm
. It's about this giant worm – obviously – that goes around eating people. Jules was the worm. We stuffed him in a mouldy sleeping bag and shot him up with his dad's paintball gun. It was pretty awesome, until Jules started crying. We also made this film called
Bloodlines
, about a were-chicken. It was basically an hour-long rip-off of every werewolf movie we'd ever seen. Except with one of those rubber chickens you get at novelty stores. Come to think of it, I don't think we even finished that one. We sort of skipped to the finale, where the chicken gets killed. We jammed a brick of Black Cat firecrackers down its throat and blew it up in slow motion.

Most of the time I ended up filming. Chris and Julian were no good at it. Also, they only wanted to be in front of the camera, and thought anything else was boring. Not me. I liked it. I really got into it. I'd plan out the shots and tell them where to stand. My dad showed me how to record from the camera onto our computer, so I could cut out the stuff we screwed up. Eventually I learned to keep track of all the scenes in my head. We'd even shoot them out of order, just like they do for real movies. At first it felt weird to start with the ending then go on to the beginning and finish with the middle. I got used to it pretty quick, though. Sometimes I'd decide to cut the scenes together in a way we hadn't even planned. I mean, going from start to finish isn't the only way to tell a story.

There's at least sixty different ways.

18

‘Promise. Promise me you won't get in any fights tonight.'

‘What if somebody starts shit?'

Karen put her hands on Chris's waist and looked him in the eyes. The three of us were standing in front of my house, sharing a beer, waiting for Julian to come pick us up.

‘Just promise. Please?'

‘Okay. I promise.'

She had no idea how big a favour she was asking of him. Neither did we at the time. We just knew that we were going to some party near Caulfield, in West Van. Somehow, Jules had roped us into it. This was a few days after he'd cried in front of Karen on the way home from the Avalon, and I think he was trying to compensate for it. He wanted to be the big slick for a night, and me and Chris were forced to come along for the ride. Karen didn't make it any easier on us. Her and her promises. To Chris, promises were sacred. He never broke a promise in his life.