A skinny Asian woman was leaning on the bar, facing (yet seeming to ignore) her patrons. They were all men, in various degrees of slump, each separated from the next by a vacant orange stool. One of them had a cane by his side, the one on the end wore a hat.

"It's hot hot out there," said Mason, and glanced around. The man closest to him gave a snort and the barmaid looked over like she doubted it was worth the effort of turning her head. Mason tried a smile and a nod. out there," said Mason, and glanced around. The man closest to him gave a snort and the barmaid looked over like she doubted it was worth the effort of turning her head. Mason tried a smile and a nod.

"You wanna drink?" she said.

"Please."

She rolled her eyes. "What drink you wan'?"

"Just a beer," said Mason. "Make it a Keith's."

As she poured the beer, Mason glanced at the men once more and cleared his throat. "It's friggin' hot hot out ..." out ..."

"You say that before," said the barmaid, thudding the gla.s.s down in front of him. "It stupid."

The man who'd snorted now growled. "It's only eighteen degrees."

"You drug smoker?" the barmaid asked.

Mason tried to laugh like they were all sharing a joke. Then the man with the hat at the end of the bar called out, "What the h.e.l.l do you expect? It's Toronto in the summertime." Mason picked up his beer and walked to the end of the bar.

He sat down. "You know what ...?" But the man in the hat interrupted.

"Mary! Can you turn it up? I like this song." "Sussudio," by Phil Collins, was playing.

"n.o.body like this song!" said Mary, but she turned it up anyway. like this song!" said Mary, but she turned it up anyway.

"She's right," said Mason.

"I guess. But now they can't hear us."

"That was the worst secret code ever."

"Who knew the temperature would drop overnight? And anyway, you got it wrong. It was supposed to be 'f.u.c.king 'f.u.c.king hot out there,' not hot out there,' not 'frigging.'" 'frigging.'" He sounded disappointed. He sounded disappointed.

"Why didn't you just say, 'I'll be the one in the floppy grey hat?'"

"I wanted to check you out a bit first."

"So ..."

"So you seem a bit weird." The man's voice was forlorn, like that of a stuffed donkey.

"I seem weird! 'Sussudio'! It's not even a real name!" seem weird! 'Sussudio'! It's not even a real name!"

"You may be right." The man picked up his drink. "I'm Seth Handyman."

"Mason," said Mason. They clinked their gla.s.ses together. "G.o.d I hate this song."

"You play pool?" Seth asked.

As he racked the b.a.l.l.s, Mason studied him. The hat was disconcerting-a cla.s.sic fedora that had lost its shape. It cast a shadow across his face, making evaluation difficult: longish, greyish hair-almost to his shoulders-sallow skin, grey cheeks, unshaven but not bearded, wet and lippy mouth, lanky arms and long hands that moved quickly around the felt. No real fix on the eyes. In general, mid-forties, a bit overweight, and probably not too bad at pool. Mason decided to let him win a few games. "Want to play for a beer?"

Seth looked up, eyes still shaded by the brim of his hat. "Don't drink," he said.

"Oh."

Seth flipped a quarter.

"Heads," said Mason.

"Nope," said Seth. He put the coin back in his pocket then turned to select a cue. "I used to drink." He rolled out the white ball, then broke. It cracked like a rifle shot, one of each down. "I was good at it, too. These guys here-they drink like Finns."

"What are fins?"

Seth sank a solid, then sighed. "People who live in Finland."

"Right."

"You ever been there? Worst drinkers in the world. They're pretty awful all round, actually: dour, unattractive, dull as dirt, it's like their grey matter is actually grey-you know what I mean?" He had a way of talking that was incongruous with how much of it he was doing, like it was a ch.o.r.e he had to finish. Man, thought Mason, this guy is depressed this guy is depressed. And yet there was something else going on-as if this depression was a fairly new development, like he'd spent his life in witty repartee, and now, though partially lobotomized, the banter just kept coming.

"They'll sit there staring at nothing, drinking fast. Get drunk quick, angry for like ten minutes or so, and then they just pa.s.s out." He missed his next shot.

Mason sank a stripe, then another, then flubbed one.

"Anyway, point is: these guys are like Finns."

"So why do you come here?"

"Be alone." He took the duck instead of the position shot, then a tricky combo. "Also, it's kind of a funny place."

"Like Finland?"

"Ha!" Seth missed a long bank shot and turned to Mason. "Get this: highest literacy rate in the world and and the highest suicide rate. the highest suicide rate. That's That's Finland." Finland."

And so they'd arrived at the subjects of the day: reading, writing and suicide. Mason put his cue down. His newfound (heroic) purpose made it easier than before. He took a breath and spoke directly: "Okay, Seth, this is how we'll do it: I'll tell you what I can offer you, and you tell me how it suits you. Okay?"

For a moment the man seemed taken aback. He did, in fact, take a step backwards. Then he leaned on his cue. "All right. If you've got something to say ..." There was a challenge in his voice.

He doesn't know you're here to save him.

And so Mason explained his business, the same as before but with fewer stipulations-no c.u.mbersome speech about last names and not wanting to know. This time the more he knew, the better.

When he'd finished his spiel, Seth looked down at the floor, then up again. "How do you live with yourself?" he said.

It felt like a gut shot. "Excuse me?"

"I'm just kidding, kid," said Seth, and laughed. "No, really-this is perfect."

"Oh ... okay then."

"It's your shot."

"We keep playing?"

Seth leaned against the table, as if thinking about it. Then, slowly, he tipped back the brim of his hat. His eyes were baby blue flecked with white. He looked at Mason. "I love games," he said, in that far-off, mirthless voice.

"Sure," said Mason.

"Especially one on one." Seth studied him as he spoke. "Pool, tennis, poker, boxing. People say you play games, you play sports, but you don't play boxing-as if violence and pain can't also be a game. But that's bulls.h.i.t, don't you think? You know what's one of my favourite things?"

Mason looked at him. "Brown paper parcels, tied up with string?"

A smile-a creepy one, sure, but the man actually smiled. "Heads-up no-limit poker," he said, and looked at Mason as if they knew each other. But before he could respond, the moment had pa.s.sed. "Come on," said Seth. "Let's finish the game."

"A tenner on it?"

Seth laughed. "G.o.d, I love gamblers." He said it the way w.i.l.l.y said she loved drug addicts. "Tell you what ..."

"What?"

"Let's play for the truth instead."

And so that's what they did. One question per ball.

They racked again and Mason broke.

One of each down.

"Do you work?" said Mason.

"Sure."

"What do you do?"

"That's two questions."

"I sank two b.a.l.l.s."

Seth squinted, then nodded. "Subway," he said.

"Restaurant or rapid transit?"

"Not the f.u.c.king restaurant."

One in the side.

"Why did you stop drinking?"

"It gets me in trouble."

Four down the rail in the end.

"Have you tried to kill yourself?"

"Nope."

Mason flubbed a bank shot. Seth took aim.

Eleven in the end.

"What's your last name?"

Mason hesitated. "Dubisee."

Fourteen, same pocket.

"How many clients have you had?"

"Three."

Sixteen in the side.

"How many are dead?"

"At least two."

A crash. The mahogany coat rack fell to the floor as one of the old guys stumbled over it. Mary shouted, "f.u.c.k you marbles!" or something like that and the men started pounding their fists on the bar.

A bit funny, but not funny ha-ha.

"What's the deal with the coat rack?" said Mason.

"It's not your turn." Seth missed.

Mason sank the two ball, then asked the question again.

"It's a sort of sobriety test," said Seth. "You knock it over on the way out, you gotta give Mary your keys and buy the bar a round. You knock it over on the way in, and you don't get served-unless you buy two rounds."

"So we got a drink coming?"

Seth shrugged.

Mason took aim.

Down the rail in the end.

Instead of asking about the drink again, he looked at Seth straight on. "Are we going to work together?" he said.