Heroes (26 page)

Potato chips and Hickory Sticks fortified with a can of root beer (for Bill) and a paper cup of black coffee (for Bayle) to do the washing down, two Snickers bars — shared favourite-candy-bar coincidence — to be saved for later, for dessert, Bayle and Bill with their salt and sugar loot horsed around, pushed and shoved each other past The Range's unoccupied front desk, Bayle the horsing-around instigator.

Bayle paid for the whole thing, for both of them. It had taken a solid ten minutes to get what they did, mainly because every time Bill went to punch in the numbers of the item he wanted, Bayle would attempt to foil his junk-food plans by trying to push a different number, Bill straining to keep him away with one hand while labouring to hit the right numbers with the other. They were going up to Bayle's room to listen to Bill's favourite rock station. Bayle bet Bill a dollar they'd play a Canadian band before they were done eating. Bill said two dollars. Bayle said okay you're on. The bulky manila envelope sticking out of mail slot belonging to Bayle's room behind the counter stopped him cold.

“Hold on,” he said. He leaned across the desk and pulled out the packet. AIR MAIL. REGISTERED. IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS WITHIN. Return address: Johnson, Johnson, and Bailey, Barristers and Solicitors, 194 Bay Street, Toronto, Ontario.

“Looks important,” Bill said.

“Bad news usually does,” Bayle replied. Pistol-waving Ronald Reagan in the movie still on the wall over the desk would know how to deal with this, he thought. Easy for you: you're armed, on horseback, and have never met Jane Warriner when she's thoroughly pissed.

“Bayle.”

A voice, somewhere from above; a voice, Bayle turned to see, attached to a body hurtling down the stairs two steps at a time upon seeing Bayle at the bottom of them.

“Hey, Ron,” Bayle said. “Ron, I don't know if you know James Duceeder's son —”

“We need to talk,” Ron said, ignoring Bill's raised-hand “Hi”
and grabbing Bayle by the coat sleeve, pulling him back down the hallway into the darkened and deserted diningroom. The dull glow of the empty coffee urns on the banquet table on the other side of the room gave off The Breakfast Corral's only light.

“What the fuck is going on, Bayle?” Ron said, taking a quick pull from a litre-and-a-half plastic bottle of Coke Classic. And scratching his cheek. And rubbing his left eye. And scratching his right ear. And blinking. Blinking fast.

“Are you all right, Ron? Maybe you should slow down on the caffeine. You seem a little —”

“Fuck what
seems,
Bayle, what I want to know is what's my shit doing in some old guy's house over in — Did you just say that that kid's father is James Duceeder, the dude with the Warriors, the guy that just got busted? Look, I'm only going to ask you one more time, and I want some answers: What's going on?”

“How did you know Duceeder was arrested?”

“I know people who know people, all right? I don't need to buy the fucking
Eagle Beagle
to find out what's going on in this dump.”

“But how do you know it was the drugs you sold me that they caught Duceeder with?”

“How? How Bayle?
Because not too many people keep their fucking stash in a fucking peppermint tin mail-order imported from fucking Vermont, that's how.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes, Bayle, oh, yes. And guess how many people who've cruised through this hotel over the last ten years and seen that same peppermint tin on that front desk out there can positively identify it as the exact same kind that's right now plastic-bagged and labelled at the crime lab downtown?”

“But that's not true. Your aunt's got nothing to do with any of this.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But once it takes them about two seconds to figure that out, who do you think they're going to start leaning on around here? Look at me, Bayle. Who do you think?”

Greasy shoulder-length hair. Motley Crue concert shirt. Pock-marked face. Torn black jeans. Yep, Ron sure did look like a drug dealer.

“I don't know what to say,” Bayle said. “I can't tell you how bad I feel that it worked out like this. It wasn't supposed to, though, I can tell you that much. I feel bad for you, Ron.”

“You feel bad for
me?”
Ron said. He stepped through the darkness, nose almost touching Bayle's. “You might want to save some of that sympathy for yourself, Bayle. I'm a businessman, you understand? A businessman with expanding commercial interests that extend far beyond dealing shit in this hole of a town. I'm a fucking entrepreneur with his sights firmly set on riding that information highway right to a media conglomerate's motherfucking motherload! And you've potentially complicated all that, Bayle. Potentially complicated that big time.” Ron took a last, desperate guzzle from the pop bottle before slam-dunking it into the aluminum garbage can near the door.

“But I haven't gotten myself almost to the point where I need to be by working this hard for this long, nickel-and-diming twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, at every all-night coffee shop and freezing cold park in the middle of winter in this miserable little town just to get hung out to dry because some stupid Canuck fuck is playing some kind of sick joke on the old man of that kid out there.”

Running his fingers through his long hair, calming himself as best as his caffeine-cranked system would allow, “Like I told you, Bayle, I'm a businessman,” Ron said. “If my business happens to suffer a loss because of some other business, you can be sure that I'm going to retaliate just like any other smart businessman would.” Then, this time with the tips of their noses actually meeting, “But I always make sure to employ other people to do my retaliation for me,” he said. “That way, I know if a specialist does the job, it'll get done right.”

Ron's running shoes softly padding away down the
carpeted hallway, Bayle was alone. Alone with a mind involuntarily set upon churning out one scene of organized injury to his person after another, each successive image more menacing than the last, crow-bar attack to his knees giving way to pistol-whipping to his head giving way to fatal drive-by shooting while sitting-duck waiting at the bus stop.

Bayle stepped into the light of the hallway and leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down into an uncomfortable squat. Bill approached cautiously from the reception area.

“What's that guy's problem?” he said, thumb-pointing down at the end of the hall at the rampaging Ron kicking and muttering a losing fight to the pop machine.

“Too much Coke,” Bayle said.

Bill nodded.

“C'mon,” Bayle said, standing up, throwing his arm around the boy's shoulders, “I'm going to get washed up and you're going to put on this supposed kick-ass radio station of yours. And get your two bucks ready, buddy. You can't keep a good Canadian song quiet for long.”

After a long, soapy shower and after changing into some of his cleaner dirty clothes, and with a bite, maybe two if the bites were small left in Bill's and his Snickers bars, and just as Winnipeg's own The Guess Who saved Bayle two of his few remaining
Toronto Living
dollars, Bayle by the small window of his room grinned Bill a toothy chocolate-covered victory smile and gave an energetic thumbs-up to playfully rub it in. Then looked out the window and blanched at seeing Warren and his red Ford Ranger pull up in front of The Range.

Chewing his own bar, sitting on the edge of the bed, Bill wasn't ready to hand over his two dollars quite yet. “No way,” he said. “Listen to the words. It's about an
American
Woman.”

Bayle didn't listen to the words of the song or even hear Bill tell him to; heard only the argument in his head that said: It's okay, Warren is a friend — But did Warren know about the stash? — But how could Warren know? — But if Ron
knew, Warren could know — But Warren's not Ron — That's right, that's right, Warren's not Ron — Warren is a friend — A friend wanting to know where in the hell his cocaine-addicted friend Bayle was at seven p.m. tonight instead of at his crucial first counselling session.

Argument into action, Bayle sprinted to the door and locked the dead-bolt and chain, killed the lights and radio, and ordered Bill to be quiet, not a word, not a single word.

Not knowing why, but talking in a whisper and squatting down in the dark beside Bayle on the floor anyway, “What's going on, Peter?” Bill said. “Is it about the music? Was the music too loud?”

“Sshh. No, it's not about the music.”

“What is it, then? What's going on?”

“Sshh, quiet now, nothing. Nothing's going on. Just be quiet, all right? Please?”

Bill shook his head yes, mouthed an unspoken okay. Bayle smiled, patted the boy on the shoulder. Bill waited. Bayle waited. Bill waited for what Bayle was waiting for. Bayle waited for Warren's knock. Seconds into years. Squatting. Waiting. Bill waiting. Bayle waiting. Waiting. Bill noisily slurped his root beer.

“Little fuckhead, I told you to be —”

BOOM BOOM BOOM

“Peter,” Warren said. “I knew you were in there. Open this door at once.”

BOOM BOOM BOOM

“Obviously I underestimated the severity of your problem, Peter. I thought I could trust you to be at the church tonight of your own volition, but clearly I made a misdiagnosis. That's a mistake that won't happen again. But that's behind us now, isn't it? And now it's time for us to get ourselves on the road to recovery. How about we go somewhere for a cup of tea and start in on that path together?”

Nothing.

BOOM BOOM BOOM.

“I say, Peter, you come out of there this very instant or
I'm going to go downstairs and get the pass key from Ron. Either way, we're going to start getting that monkey off your back. Tonight.”

Still nothing.

One last BOOM BOOM BOOM.

“Very well then.”

Warren's footsteps down the hall to the elevator. Elevator ding, door opening, closing, Warren going downstairs to get the key.

Bayle rubbed the tips of his fingers over his forehead up and down hard; closed his eyes and hurried to think of what to do next; hurried to no apparent end. Wasn't aware of the silent tears running down Bill's face until he heard the boy unsuccessfully trying to noiselessly lick them away, hands occupied with chip bag and can of root beer.

“Bill,” Bayle said, “it's okay. Really. Don't worry. It's okay.”

“I want to go home now,” Bill said, tears still trickling down his checks. “My mom and dad ... they'll be home by now, right? My mom and dad will be home now won't they, Peter? They'll be at home waiting for me by now won't they? You said you'd take me home, Peter. I want to go home now. You said you'd take me home.”

The elevator dinged its arrival. Bayle looked at Bill, Bill looked back at Bayle, the boy wiping his running nose on the sleeve of his Warriors sweatshirt.

So long, American woman. Bayle took out his wallet.

“Here, take this,” Bayle said, pulling out a five-dollar bill and sticking it in Bill's hand. “Ask the guy who's going to come through that door any minute now to drive you home. He's a nice guy, don't worry. Tell him this is for gas money. And tell him ... tell him I'm sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Bill said, sniffling, taking the money.

Bayle thought for a second. He could hear the elevator doors open. “I don't know,” he said. “Just tell him I'm sorry.”

He grabbed his leather bag and laptop and pushed open the small window as far as it would go.

“Where are you going, Peter?”

Bayle threw one leg over the window frame and tested his footing on the rooftop. He could hear Warren putting the key in the door.

“Home,” Bayle said. “I'm going home too.”

W
HEN HE
called from the payphone at the gas station it seemed like Gloria already knew something had gone wrong. Didn't seem upset, though; didn't even want to hear about it right now. Just asked him where he was, told him to stay there, not to move, and said she'd be there to pick him up in ten minutes.

Bayle stepped out of the phone booth and pulled up the collar on his suit jacket and stuck his hands deep in its pockets. So hot for so long, the cold wind that was snapping tight the Texaco and American flags flying high over the gas station took a minute to work its way from body to brain. But when it did, a deep instinctive whiff of damp night earth and the shiver of alive that only a northerner can know. When Gloria beeped her arrival from the other side of the pumps Bayle was leaning rumpled against the phone booth looking like he'd just blown his load.

“How about this weather, eh?” he said, throwing his gear in the back seat, the V.W.'s windows rolled right up and dry heat blowing out of the plastic air vents. “It's like it came out of nowhere.”

“You high, Bayle?” Gloria said, giving him a good going-over.

“What do you mean, “'Are you high, Bayle?'”

“Well, you're acting like you are, for one thing.”

Bayle frowned. “Does a person have to be high on drugs to be happy for two seconds?”

Gloria put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. “Might not have to be,” she said, “but it sure does seem like it helps sometimes.”

They were sitting at the kitchen table at Davidson's house. No music played from the boombox on the counter and Davidson wasn't sitting in the wooden chair that stood empty between them.

Judging that it looked like he needed it, Gloria had taken Davidson's bottle of Wild Turkey down from the cupboard and splashed out a generous shot or two for him. Untouched the entire time Bayle recounted the evening's events, the glass sat there in front of him, like a dare. He told her everything, everything including how in deference to Ron's aunt potentially painfully incriminating peppermint tin Bayle was taking the first flight out of town
tomorrow morning. Everything, in fact, but how there'd been no Duceeder-led insurrection after all. Bayle didn't have the heart.