Blood Sports (4 page)

The third floor had ten rooms on either side of the hallway. The doors were shut, the hallway filled with the tinny echo of classic rock from a slightly out-of-tune radio station. Willy’s room was the first door to the left, distinctive because he’d spray-painted eyes on his door and the surrounding walls. One of his less lucid states, he’d explained when Tom asked about the eyes that stared, shocked wide and dull.

Tom passed Willy’s room. He walked to the end of the hallway. The communal bath was in the room on the left side, and the toilet was separate, on the right. The window was boarded up to prevent frequent flyers. He flicked the switch. A bulb in a cage lit a room overwhelmed by the rusting, claw-foot bathtub. Tom turned and shut the door, locked it behind him. As an extra precaution, he took three plastic wedges from his knapsack and jammed them under the door.

He unrolled a threadbare towel in the yellowed tub. In the towel, he’d stashed a utility knife, a roll of joint tape, a small can of antiquing wash, a sponge brush, a paint scraper, and a mini-tub of putty. He held the knife in one hand. Stepping up, he balanced himself by straddling the wide rims of the tub. Under the dim light, the walls were the colour of old piss. He ran his fingertips along the wall until he felt a raspy line, and he brought the knife up and sank it in, cutting a square. He eased the piece down, leaning it against the tub’s wall. A fat hook gleamed from one of the wooden struts. He pulled on the thin, silver chain attached to the hook until he brought up a black metal briefcase. He shook off the roaches, and sat on the edge of the tub, resting the briefcase in his lap. He spun the combination locks until the snaps cracked open. The case was filled with money and three keys of coke.

He kept a mental tab of the money he’d “borrowed” the last few years. In all the excitement, Tom wondered if his cousin even remembered the briefcase. He’d never mentioned it. Tom could probably blow all the money and it wouldn’t matter, meaning his precautions – keeping it out of their apartment, hiding it in the wall instead of a safety deposit box – were pathetic, like a loser convinced the government was after him, because it made him feel important. Jer used to wad hundred-dollar bills in his pockets
and give them out at strip clubs. Tom was rationalizing. Jer didn’t particularly care for skimmers.

He had meant to tell Paulie about the briefcase, but he was afraid she’d burn the money when she found out it was Jer’s. And they needed a cash cushion. He didn’t dip much. A couple hundred here or there when his paycheque didn’t stretch. Three thousand for Mel’s baby stuff and the apartment. He wouldn’t dip now, but he wanted Paulie to have something nice to celebrate three years of sobriety. A couple of cans of paint, some money for a haircut. Little things that made the grind bearable. Given the choice of crawling to their parents for crumbs, or having Jer break his leg, Tom would go with the broken leg any day. He could also be inviting trouble back into their lives.

That’s your problem, Jeremy had told him, knocking his knuckles against Tom’s forehead. You overthink things. That’s why deer get run over. They aren’t dazzled by the headlights. They’re weighing their options – should I go back, no, I should keep going, shit, is that the right thing to do? And then their time runs out and, WHAM, Bambi burgers for dinner.

“Willy,” Tom said, knocking on the door. “It’s Tom. Willy?”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Willy didn’t answer. Tom could hear him moving around, the squeak of the springs on the bed, the rustle of clothes.

“Are you up for company?”

Shuffling footsteps grew louder. The door cracked open. Willy grimaced, his lips thinning as he scratched his chin, then stepped back and swung the door wide.

Willy’s redecorating had extended to his room. Tom hated being here at night, when the spray-painted eyes on the walls, the
ceiling, and the floor seemed to move with the flash of the headlights from passing cars. Willy said they were a comfort.

Makes people think twice before fucking with you, Willy had said. People leave you alone if they think you’re more fucked up than they are.

“Hey,” Willy said. His expression was flat, more from the side effects of his schizophrenia medication than from antisocial tendencies.

“Hey,” Tom said.

Willy shuffled back to his bed, sat down, and picked up a smoke burning in the ashtray. The window was open, but it didn’t make the room less stifling. Tom wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“Are you up for dinner?” Tom said.

“Already ate,” Willy said.

“Fair enough,” Tom said. He walked over to the window and stared down at the street. Deranged Jesus, a homeless man in blue shorts and red headband, dragged a twelve-foot plywood cross to the corner, and waited for the light to change. Tom turned his back to the window and leaned against the sill.

“Working tonight?” Willy said.

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Did you bring my meds?”

“Yeah.” Tom rummaged around in his knapsack and pulled out a paper bag with the pharmacy’s logo bright and primary.

“Thanks,” Willy said. “
TV
?”

Tom nodded.

Willy reached over and snapped on the black-and-white
TV
, tuned permanently to the
CBC
, the only free channel that had a decent reception in Willy’s room. Tom sat beside him on the bed. Willy chain-smoked through the evening news, the red and
green dragon tattoo on his neck rippling when he inhaled or exhaled. Their visits often were nothing more than watching
TV
together, but Tom usually came once a week. Paulie thought it was guilt.

“You’ve made amends,” Paulie had said many, many times. “Let him go, Tom.”

When the time came to leave, he stood up and Willy followed him to the door and shut it behind him without saying goodbye. Tom started down the stairs, trying not to think about what he’d taken from the almost seventy thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills and the three keys of coke still hidden in the bathroom wall.

He heard strange voices in the apartment, arguing. He realized it wasn’t his mother coming home. She would never bring home two men. He rolled off the bed, crouching down low. They were in the hallway, looking out the peephole at something or someone. They whispered to each other in furious tones: I saw someone, I saw someone – we’re being followed. Fuck, stop being paranoid. No one’s there. Check the apartment. Make sure no one’s home.

“Shh,” Paulie said, “it’s okay. It’s okay, Tom.”

She patted his head absently, barely awake. He felt Mel’s foot in his ribs, the sheets tangled in his legs. His breathing steadied. He got up and checked the apartment, every room, every closet, every window, every door. Even though he knew it was stupid, he couldn’t stop himself. He thought he was being quiet, but Paulie sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself.

“I don’t like it when you visit him,” Paulie said. “It brings back too much.”

24 JUNE 1998

“Did you get the laundry, Tom?” Paulie shouted from the bedroom.

“No, I’m making the bottles.”

“We’re late, we’re late, we’re late,” Paulie chanted as she hopped by on one foot, slipping a black cowboy boot on her other foot. She grabbed the laundry basket from beside the door and sprinted out.

Mel scooted under her high chair. She dug around and picked up a linty hunk of teething biscuit and jammed it in her mouth, grinning, pleased with herself.

“Gross, babe,” Tom said. He bent over and fished around her mouth.

She clenched her jaw when he pulled the biscuit out.

“No floor food. Look, fresh biscuit. Mmm. Nice and clean. See?”

Voicing her displeasure at a decibel level equalled only by planes taking off, Mel threw the new biscuit down, pointed to
the linty piece on the kitchen table, and kicked her feet, her face flushing. She kept screaming while Tom screwed the bottles shut and put them in the lunch box. In the beginning, they’d meticulously labelled everything, neat printing on masking tape. Diapers in one section with Zincofax, baby wipes, change pad. Clean clothes, sunscreen, and first-aid kit in another section. Now they threw everything in the bottom of the stroller, and they were getting out the door later each morning.

He wanted Paulie to skip a meeting now and then. Maybe go in the afternoons. Ask her to try an evening meeting. Then they could spend the morning chilling. She liked the people in the morning meetings though, said they weren’t as intense as the evening ones. She didn’t go out much. This was her only Paulie-time.

Paulie came back with the laundry, sat on the couch, and started folding.

Tom laughed, carrying Mel to the stroller. “We won’t die if Mel’s undershirts are wrinkled.”

“I dunno,” Paulie said.

“Let’s just go. Okay?”

The day was already a scorcher. Paulie’s hair was sleek and dripping down her back. Mel, skin shiny with sunscreen, clung to the snack tray, refusing to sit back. When she was hard to get down, they’d walk her to sleep in the stroller. She knew their tricks.

“Easy on the O.J.,” Paulie said. “She’s got a red bum.”

“Gotcha,” Tom said.

They kissed. Mel made smacking sounds and Paulie grinned. “See you later, girl. Mwah! Oh, you’re tasty.”

“Hee,” Mel said, hunching her shoulders in pleasure.

Tom was going to miss these kinds of mornings when and if they ever moved. Paulie had ambitions to get them a house in a
“nice” neighbourhood, but Tom loved East Vancouver. He’d grown up here, and yeah, it was a little rough around the edges, but they weren’t exactly pruning roses and taking high tea. East Van’s heart was Commercial Drive, a.k.a. The Drive, a coffee freak’s paradise. He didn’t care for the artsy stores popping up, but he rotated through a wide range of coffee houses that served everything from traditional joe to organic free-trade, shade-grown, bird-friendly beans.

Tom stopped in Turks for his morning Americano. Tom liked laid-back Turks because it was directly across from Grandview Park. Paulie preferred Joe’s, because it had an attached pool hall, where she could rack up a few games with Jazz to unwind after her
NA
meetings. Tom thought Joe’s had really good coffee, but he didn’t want to crowd Paulie. She needed some space and, if he was forced to admit it, he needed not to be teased to death by her raunchy sobriety buddies.

“Morning, Tom-tom. Usual?” Kate said. Today she was wearing an orange bikini top and a sarong skirt, showing lots of latte-creamy skin. Kate studied ethnobotany at
UBC
. She shared a nearby house with six other students. On slow mornings when Mel was asleep, Kate gave him free refills and talked his ear off.

“Morning, Kate,” Tom said. “Yup. Same as always.”

Mel hid her face against the stroller, then peeked out at two girls sitting near the counter.

“Hel-lo, sweetie pie, hello,” the brunette with facial tattoos said. “Peek-a-boo, I see you.”

Mel squealed.

“I’m going to bite her,” the bald girl said. “What’s her name?”

“Melody.” Tom rolled the stroller closer.

“Hi there, Melody. Hi there.”

“Mwah!” Melody said.