I nodded and turned to get my windbreaker again.

"I didn't mean that you should do it now."

"No time like the present."

Outside, it had started to drizzle and I raised the collar of my jacket and wished it was a little warmer. It took me ten minutes to walk the distance and when I was near, I paused and checked the store out. I could see two shoppers through the window so I waited 'til they left before going in.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Marquez."

He looked up when the door closed and his hand flashed down and came up with a length of pool cue. I raised my hands and let my back touch the door while his voice trembled with rage and fear.

"Get-the-f.u.c.k-OUT!"

He ran his words together and they rose to a scream.

When I answered, my voice was calm and level. This level of aggression was something I understood. It made me feel comfortable. "Sure. Right away. Immediately."

I just stood there and didn't move. When Marquez's hand stopped shaking, I went on. "Why am I being fired?"

"Why? You're a f.u.c.king thief, un meutrier, un apache! un meutrier, un apache!"

French was not my strong suit. I could order a beer, a hooker, and tell someone to open a safe, but that was about my limit.

"Well, I understand thief and murderer but what's the last one?"

The pool cue trembled with his pulse as he answered. "A gangster. I found out you belonged to a motorcycle gang."

I didn't say a word and he went on. "So it's true, right?"

My eyes were loosely focused on the cue as I answered. "Most of it. I never belonged to a gang, though. Not much of a joiner, I guess."

Marquez's fingers whitened and I knew he was about to start swinging. If he did, I'd take his shots and then move around into the register area and tear him apart. I'd been hit before and just thinking about the pain and release made me feel better. He must have seen something in my face because he flinched and lowered the stick a bit. "But the rest was real?"

The whole discussion was pointless and I turned to leave. For some reason, though, I stopped and answered.

"Yes. It happened, I did time. Now I'm just trying to get by."

His brows furrowed in thought. "But, you were a criminal, right?"

His voice cracked like he wanted to believe something and my head throbbed. All of a sudden I wished for about eight lines of good c.o.ke and twenty ounces of Grand Marnier, and that scared the living s.h.i.t out of me.

"f.u.c.k you. Here, tell you what, I remove from you the necessity of ever believing anything can ever change."

Marquez didn't say a word and I went on in a gentler tone. "Never mind. You owe me for two days. Mail it tomorrow."

And I left. The rain had let up and I could see for miles in all directions. There were no tall buildings nearby and the rain had cleaned the pollution out of the air. The prairie sky stretched out all around and shrank the city and my problems down to nothing at all. For a second I longed for a fight, someone to swing at and someone to swing at me. Bones to break, people to hurt, blood to spill. Then that feeling faded too.

At random I chose a direction and began to walk. The showers began again and the rain splashed hard on the concrete and bounced up past my ankles. Out of curiosity, I reached out with the tip of my tongue and tasted some of the rain and it was sweet and clean, like tears. When I started to get angry again, I walked on a little farther. When I was done thinking about fire and blood and razor blades, I turned back on my path and walked home.

18.

Claire got angrier than I had ever been. She ended up in a mood more suited to an employee of the Spanish Inquisition. "f.u.c.king a.s.shole. I'll skin his d.i.c.k and use it as a cape."

And I'm the one with the reputation and sheet.

"What a colossal jerk-off."

She was in the same kind of mood as one of those giants from fairy tales. You know, "I'll break his bones to make my bread." I was still smiling about it when she glared at me. "Why are you smiling? Why aren't you p.i.s.sed?"

"Nothing I can do about it. Also, I was p.i.s.sed on the walk home. I got over it and now I'm just curious."

She paused and sat down on the floor. Renfield took this as a sign and came over for a belly scratch. When she didn't understand exactly what he wanted, he responded by rolling over and waving his legs about until she understood the message. As she scratched, I sat down and she relaxed, dogs are good for that.

"Curious about what?"

Renfield moved towards me and I started to scratch him behind his ears as his doggy smile grew wider and wider.

"Mostly about who told Marquez about me."

"Whoever sent the notes, that's obvious."

"Right. But I still think more than one person sent the notes. Also, there's the tape, which requires skill and equipment. And a vulgar imagination."

"All right. Let's think about this."

We both sat there and mauled the dog and then she went on.

"The possibilities. Someone from your past, the cops, and friends of the guys you killed. Am I forgetting anything?"

"No."

"Now for motive. Someone from your past acting for revenge or profit (how they'd get profit out of this, I don't know), friends of the guys you killed for revenge, and the cops to discredit you."

"Skip profit. There's no way to make money here that jumps to mind. That leaves us with revenge and discrediting me. Revenge is self-explanatory and I'll look into that."

I thought about it all and continued. "Now, the cops have a good motive. If I leave town for whatever reason or get discredited, then the cops go scot-free."

Renfield rolled onto his belly and I continued scratching while Claire went and found a dog brush. She brushed for a few moments and then yawned.

"Where did the term 'scot-free' come from?"

"Huh?"

I looked up stupidly and she repeated the question.

"Oh. It's Old English. A bill in a tavern used to be called a 'scot' and if the keeper forgot to charge you, then you didn't have to pay."

"How do you know that?"

"Tons of time in jail to read. What did you think I did with all that time in there?"

She rolled the dog onto his side and then pulled the clumps of gray and white inner coat hair from the brush.

"I figured you m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.ed, tried to escape, smuggled dope, cooked shine, messed with the screws, got into fights ..."

I interrupted her before she could go on. "Yes, all that, but there was time for the finer things. So we have three possible suspects."

"Tell me what Marquez said."

I did, as close to word for word as I could.

"So Marquez knew about the things you went to jail for, is that it?"

I realized that my past had become a sore spot, then I pushed on.

"Right. He called me a killer, a thief, and a gang banger. Now I killed here, in self-defense, and in other places for other reasons, but I was never nailed for those. A thief, well, most of my time inside was for that. Bad guys know both. But a gangster? I danced around the edges but never wore a patch, never wore colors. People from my past wouldn't call me that. Some of them could do everything, the notes, the booze, and the bugging."

"Okay."

She pursed her lips and I thought about kisses but she was still working.

"It's pretty safe to say that Marquez was not visited by friends of the dead kids. They wouldn't know about your past, it was a long time ago, and in a far-off land. Friends of the deceased might have the ability to leave the notes and the booze. And maybe bug a hotel room and do some editing."

Claire looked at my face and patted my knee before leaning across the dog to kiss me.

"I shouldn't call those thieves 'kids.' Think about it this way, if the you of today found the you at sixteen years of age, breaking into the house, what would the today you do?"

"Lousy grammar."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Yep. I'd shoot me. I guess. I'd still feel guilty about it."

Claire patted me on the knee again. "Right. I'm b.l.o.o.d.y-minded, though. I would have killed those guys if I had had the chance. I just don't think I would have had a chance."

"Thanks. I think I was just d.a.m.ned with faint praise. Still, our note dropper and b.u.g.g.e.r is probably not a friend of the dead kids. It's probably not someone from my past, because all my criminal friends think I'm going to f.u.c.k up on my own and don't need any help. Changing the subject gently, he asks, what about your family?"

Claire chose not to respond immediately. Instead, she went back to brushing the dog before speaking. "My family loves me, period, and through me they tolerate you. Right now I'm concerned with your old friends, the ones who hate you. I think they'd shoot you if they were mad at you and this whole thing seems awfully complicated. Making you lose a job is kind of pointless."

"Right. Okay, now we're on to the cops. The Crown will be watching them carefully and they won't want to do anything too stupid. They'd have access to my record and could do the rest with no problem. The records mention gang-related activity, from way back but it's there, sales of this and that to gangsters. Buying this and that."

"Wanna be more vague?"

She was grinning and I rolled my eyes.

"In Edmonton I was selling hash oil, LSD, gra.s.s, and crystal meth. With the cash I was buying guns, paper, and jewelry, which I'd move east or west and take a profit. In Vancouver I was moving gra.s.s south to a.s.sorted independents and picking up guns to move back for sale in Edmonton. A nice three-way trade. Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Then we come to the cops who are in trouble. They could have access to the records and a need to use them. Discredit you and they go free. They could also do the booze, the notes, and maybe the bugging."

She thought it through. "The booze. I knew I wasn't thinking about this right. Whoever left the booze knew you had problems. Who knew about you and the booze?"

I laughed but it sounded kind of shaky, even to me. "Well, everyone from my past."

"Right. But didn't you say most of them think you're faking going straight?"

Then it clicked. "Yeah. They all think I'm still drinking. For them, leaving the booze would mean nothing. Whoever left the booze knew I wasn't drinking and knew it would hurt me."

"Right. Now, the cops knew that, right?"

She went on. "But. Friends of the dead kids and people from your past wouldn't know about your problems with booze."

She finished it briskly. "That means that the cops are the ones who are doing this s.h.i.t."

"Why do you figure that? I'm not arguing, but why?"

Claire patted my arm gently as though to say, you're not really dumb, just slow.

"The simplest solution is always the right one. Except when it isn't. The cops are the simplest solution."

"Well. Cops, in general, are pretty simple." I thought about it and finally nodded. "The idea makes sense."

"Of course it does." She paused. "Maybe not plural, maybe singular. One person could do all the stuff we've been talking about. So, it could be one cop."

"Gee. You're good. Logical, even."

She accepted the praise modestly and I stood up and took her hand in mine.

"And, as a reward, I hereby award you with an hour of oral s.e.x."

She followed me upstairs to the bedroom and watched while I took my clothes off. "Two things. What about Fred?"

I grinned and she started to unzip her pants. "Let him get his own date. What's the second thing?"

She covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with one arm and blinked wide eyes at me.

"Well, sir, am I getting or giving that hour of head?"

[image]

Later Claire kissed my forehead and patted my back.

"Not too bad for an old man."