"My mistake man, here, maybe I have a ten on me," Sleepy searched himself and came up with the cash fast. He offered it to the Stick.

Badger stepped in closer. "You, walk on now, and forget this. If you give us a reason to, you'll spoil our night and by f.u.c.k, I'll make G.o.dd.a.m.n sure you'll never do something like this again. Get the f.u.c.k away from me now, and don't try this s.h.i.t again."

There were no bouncers in sight, and Sleepy Eyes looked alone and scared. He looked caught. He backed away from the pair of men, and the crowds swallowed him whole.

Badger shook his head and yelled in Stick's ear. "Pretty f.u.c.kin' good scam if you ask me. f.u.c.k knows how often he pulled that s.h.i.t in the past. Mistake my a.s.s. Should've slapped the p.r.i.c.k's b.a.l.l.s for that. I was watchin' him the whole time. He pulled that fiver outta his pocket. He figured you were too wasted to notice."

Stickman remembered he was.

"But I saw him. You can count on old Badge, son. I got yer back. I got it," and he grinned then and pulled Stick close by the scruff of his neck until they tapped foreheads together. "Never worry about that, young man!"

Stick never did.

"Now, that reminds me, hold on," and with that Badger disappeared, leaving the Stick to mull over his Moosehead.

Badger came back five minutes later, dragging the G.o.ddess with him.

Her name was Beverly.

Stickman remembered that night, dreamed about it in the back of his car while a winter gale howled around him. He saw the shadowy form of Badger in his head. Body broken. Machines beeping. Sadness welled up. He did not have Badger's back. He could only do the next best thing.

"Always count on ye, Badge me son," the Stickman mumbled in his sleep, coming very close to waking.

"Always."

Chapter 24.

Danny and Crew rose at seven a.m. the next morning. They had stayed at a Comfort Inn Motel near the border of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Danny paid for the rooms out of Gary's emergency fund, and both men were grateful to get off the road. They ate breakfast in silence, not looking forward to the hours that lay ahead, perhaps hoping that somehow luck would give them a break and they would find their quarry soon enough. They finished their meal, collected their bags and stepped out into the maw of March's winter. The sun was bright but cold. There was no wind, and the roads were dry.

They checked the parking lot the night before, but they checked it again in the morning. Crew met Danny back at the Celica.

"You see anything?" Crew asked squinting in the sun's light.

Danny shook his head.

"Can't be many blue Mustangs around here," Crew commented. Danny noted how dark the man's eyes looked, a hunter's eyes.

"Just thank G.o.d for the TCH man," Danny said.

"The yellow asphalt road?" Crew looked in the direction of the nearby highway. "Goes from ocean to ocean?"

"Coast to coast," Danny affirmed with a sigh. "If Tony's going to BC, he'll take this. And the Stickman will, too."

"Why do they call him the Stickman anyway?"

"Because he's built like a brick s.h.i.thouse."

"Oh." Crew said. He could appreciate the contradiction.

The morning traffic streaked by, and the noise of the pa.s.sing cars sounded liked low flying rockets. Crew watched it for a moment, and then snarled at the sun. "Alright let's get going then. Starting to freeze here."

Danny's expression hardened. "Ain't cold at all. When you can feel your nipples, that's cold."

"Yeah, well, my nipples could cut gla.s.s right now."

They got into the car, and Danny fired up the engine. He allowed a little smile when Crew jacked up the heat as far as it could go. He let the motor warm up before pulling out into traffic. "You get used to it," he said to his pa.s.senger.

"Jesus, and I thought New York was cold," Crew muttered. The car wasn't heating up fast enough for him.

"You from New York?" Danny asked casually.

Crew did not answer, and the sudden tension in the air made Danny feel as if he had done something wrong.

Crew clarified his feelings right away. "Listen, don't ask me about where I'm from. No personal questions at all. Nothing. Okay? The less you know, the better for both of us. That cool?"

Danny never took his eyes off the road. "Cool. Gonna be a pretty boring drive then, if you don't want to talk."

"You can talk. I'll listen."

That made Danny chuckle. "See, I'm usually the one that listens. Never was one for talking. Even with the ladies. Maybe that's why they like me."

"Got a woman do you?" Crew asked. He was scouring the sides of the road and traffic for an old blue Mustang.

"Yeah. A good girl, too." Danny shrugged. "Least, I think she's mine. We're just starting out. I got a good feeling about her. She's studying to be a chiropractor. That's a good job. Things work out, I'll never have to worry about my back again."

Crew gazed out at the wintery road ahead. The sun was strong and Crew wished he had some sungla.s.ses. It hit Danny as well, and he popped open the compartment at his elbow between the seats and fished out a pair of wire frame sungla.s.ses. They looked like goggles to Crew. They also made Danny look incredibly monstrous. And ruthless.

"She a stripper?" Crew asked.

Danny nodded "She had a couple of shows. 'S how we met. But she only worked for her tuition. She's a waitress now. Makes good tips all round. I tell her I'll drop by in my leather sometimes. Freak her out. Wouldn't though. The thought of her getting mad at me scares the s.h.i.t outta me."

"Chiropractic." Crew was impressed. "Good area to get into."

"Mmhmmm," Danny agreed. "Nice to have someone with goals like that."

They drove by some snowy-looking houses and one or two people shovelling out their driveways.

"Got a question for you."

"What did I say about asking questions?" Crew said in a neutral sounding voice.

"Nothing about you," Danny a.s.sured him.

"Alright, then. What is it?"

"How you going to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Kill Stickman. Or is that a personal question?" Danny kept his eyes on the road.

Crew thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, it is. But I'll tell you anyway. When we find him, I'll decide then."

"No guns or knives?"

Crew studied the man's profile. "No guns or knives."

Danny thought about that for a moment. This guy wasn't like any of the hit men he had seen on TV or the movies. h.e.l.l, in some stories, you'd see hit men operating in packs or alone but with all the latest high-tech hardware. Hardware that would make Danny look s.h.i.t up on the internet and see if he could actually find the make of the guns he saw in the picture. Guns, knives, that funky strangling wire that one guy wore around his wrist like a piece of jewellery. Thin knives that one guy would stick down the crack of his a.s.s. One guy had a boot that he could click off the other and a four inch blade would pop out of the toe. Those were the international killers who really took the cake in Danny's book. Then, there were the mob guys who went around in packs with suitcases filled with combat shotguns they would piece together before going to work. One flick he watched had a four-man hit squad with bags go into a hotel and rent out a room two doors down from their target. Once there, they pulled out shotguns, handguns and guns that looked like mini-Uzis. A Hollywood-style hit squad. They later tore into the suite where their target was waiting with his bodyguards. In the end, the hotel needed a s.h.i.tload of screen doors and windows.

Anyway, those pros all seemed to be carrying something.

Yet Crew did not.

Or he kept it hidden well enough.

"You study some sort of martial art?" Danny asked him.

"I did."

"Which one? Kempo? Taekwondo? That one where a guy tries for your leg or arm and hauls you to the ground before f.u.c.king you up?"

"There are lots like that," Crew said disdainfully.

"How many are there then?"

"Lots."

"Which one you know then?"

Crew sighed. "It's a good thing you're the quiet type. I'll tell you I don't know Taekwondo."

"No? Why?"

"It's an Olympic sport for one," Crew explained. "Second, in close quarters, it's too flashy. Useless."

"No good for the street?"

Crew shrugged. "I think it's okay for the street depending on who you're fighting and how many you're up against. And whether or not the other guy knows how to fight."

Danny leaned over. "My buddy and I watched mixed martial arts on pay-for-view."

"Me too," Crew said.

"Yeah, it's from the states. Anyway, you don't see many straight boxers in those fights. I mean, like, never. Zero. You see some, but they get their a.s.ses kicked pretty bad."

"It's not like Hollywood, is it?" Crew threw in.

"No, it's not. s.h.i.t, there's some quick knock downs. But anyway, we'd be watching and got around to asking why."

"I've seen a few, but they wind up like your sumos."

"Why is that then? Boxing is tough, man. The conditioning is h.e.l.l." Danny glanced left and right out of his windows, watching his blind spots. The heat was really coming through now, and he turned it down some. "Your belt? Is it black?"

The American was silent for a moment, and Danny felt then perhaps he had spoken too much. But the s.h.i.t was interesting to him. He wasn't pumping the man for information. After a few moments, Crew decided to speak. "Yeah, it's black," he said and decided then he had talked enough. "What about you? You're a bouncer. Ever have training of any kind?"

Danny kept his face straight. "Boxing. Only a bit, though. Not really any good at it. But against drunks and someone who don't know what they are doing, I get the job done."

Crew was nodding. "And it helps to be the size of a house, too. Ever face anyone with training of some kind?"

"Tyke Ki Do."

"What?"

"Tae Kwon Doers," Danny glanced in his rear view mirror. "Boom and I call them Tyke Ki Doers. Lots of 'em in and around Halifax. I don't think I came up against anyone that was any good though. Maybe a yellow belt. Or green."

"The worse kind," Crew commented and meant it. "So what happened?"

"Thursday night. Average crowd, but one of these lanky guys got into his beers a little too deep. You always get one in a week, but chances are not much will come of it. This guy though must've just signed up for his Tyke Ki Do lessons. A little beefy. Average height. Like a smaller version of Steven Segal. Even had the pony tail.

Crew could picture the type. Christ.

"Anyway, he starts mouthin' off at the women on stage. The usual s.h.i.t: 'I love you'; 'Your s.h.i.t is bad'. Whatever, but he keeps on and starts to p.i.s.s the ladies off to the point where they start looking to me. So, I move a little closer and start watchin' him, just off to the side where he can see me. Usually that's enough. Just to let you know you got my attention, and the smart ones usually shut up. But this one doesn't. h.e.l.l, he gets worse. Starts calling the girls b.i.t.c.hes and s.l.u.ts and wh.o.r.es.

Crew winced. "Once knew a woman that said the worst thing you could call a woman was a s.l.u.t."

"She got it right then, but this little Stevie didn't stop there. He keeps right on goin' and starts shouting louder, well, even worse than before. Gary's pretty strict about that kind of s.h.i.t. I mean, the girls get up there and show off their goods to Lord knows what kind of individuals, including university f.u.c.ks and losers in business suits. They expose themselves daily to that kind of s.h.i.t, but they don't have to take no verbal abuse from them."

"Customers know that?"

"Sign right by the coat check. Anyway, the second he starts going on about seeing some f.u.c.kin' t.w.a.t, I put my hand on his shoulder and tell him 'Sir, that's not necessary,' to which he says 'What, a.s.shole?' 'Swearing at the dancers,' says I. 'These f.u.c.kin' salt flaps are dancin'?" he says back to me and I give him the look."

"The look?" Crew asked, glancing sideways at Danny.

Danny winked back. "Warning look."

"Show it."

"Naw."

"What? C'mon, show it here."