Death's Last Run (19 page)

RICHIE

As they shook hands, Richie held Wade's grip firmly. He eyed up Avalanche's cramped office and wondered where his desk would go. They'd have to clear out one of the filing cabinets to make room. But it was a nice problem to have.

Wade clutched the envelope Richie had given him. “Welcome to Avalanche. Looking forward to working together.”

“Yeah, man, I'm stoked, too.” Richie heard himself talking like a snowboarder. “Especially to get Avalanche Nights back on that stage.”

Wade smiled. “You've never heard us play.”

“Yeah, but you guys
are
this place. You and Chopper and Norris. You got any
CD
s kicking around from your glory days? We can sell those at the opening gig. Unless . . . did they even have
CD
s back when Avalanche Nights was touring?”

“We have
CD
s. But Norris will never agree.”

“Norris will come around. Should we take the check to the landlords together? I'm free now if their office is open.” Richie eyed the walls. At least one of the Grateful Dead posters could come down; Jay-Z could go up in its place.

“Oh, you can leave the landlords to me,” Wade said. “We don't need to tell them about a new shareholder immediately.”

“No?” Richie fixed Wade with a hard stare. “I'm smelling something off here, Wade.”

Wade took a gulp from a coffee cup that probably had something stronger in it. “I want to ease this by Georgia first — before I tell my landlords and she finds out from someone else in town.”

“You mean our landlords.”

“Of course. I mean our landlords.”

Richie shook his head. “What's to ease by her? It's your business, ain't it?”

“Of course Avalanche is mine. Do you see my wife pouring draft at one in the morning? But she's not thrilled that I have to take on a partner. She sees it as a sign of failure that I couldn't make it on my own.”

Richie's heart was starting to crash and burn. His dreams might not be as close as they seemed. Just like fucking always. “Do you own this business or not?”

Wade frowned. “Technically, Georgia owns the company. It's for tax reasons — in name only. So yes, it's my business.”

“So Georgia's my partner.” Richie wasn't sure how he felt about being in business with a stuck-up broad like Wade's wife. Like being a slave to the advertising business made her some kind of expert on everything. It was a business full of pretenders. Richie thought his own work was a lot more honest.

“No. I mean, yes, technically. But effectively, the partnership is between you and me.”

“Shouldn't she be at this meeting?” Not that Richie relished the patronizing glances Georgia would give him, like she was scared of him pulling out a gun but didn't want to admit that she was racist.

“She's not interested in running the bar. The closest Georgia comes to making management decisions is telling me which sauvignon blanc to stock for when she stops in after work.”

Richie kissed his lips. He didn't give a shit if the gesture seemed ghetto — Wade was the one who should be interested in making the good impression. “So it ain't official. Gimme back that envelope for now.”

Wade drew the cash closer to himself. “She'll sign off on this. I'm going to take her out for dinner, talk about old times, explain how having a partner would mean I could leave the bar in good hands for a week or two so we could have a life again —
and
be more profitable. It's win-win, and she'll go for it — there's no doubt.”

“Great. So there's no doubt I'll pass you that cash back tomorrow. Tell her I want her at the meeting.”

“She won't come to a meeting. I'll bring you the documents after she's signed them, though, if that would make you feel better.”

“You planning to forge her signature?”

“Of course not.”

Richie shook his head. “Call a meeting with all three of us. I can wait until the weekend if she don't want to meet on a work night. Shit, and here I thought we were this close.”

“We
are
this close. You wanted to talk about the waitresses' uniforms? Let's talk.”

“Not yet. I want to do this in the right order.” Richie picked up his envelope and left the room. He wasn't sure if there even was room for a second desk.

WADE

M
otherfucker
. Wade watched Richie leave.
That close
to saving Avalanche. He took a large gulp of cheap whiskey and phoned Georgia.

“Hello?” Joni Mitchell was singing in the background and abruptly stopped. “Sorry. I'm driving. Hello?”

“Are you on your way home?” Wade asked. “I thought we could have dinner tonight. Umberto's.”

“I love Umberto's. But we're severely strapped for cash.”

“I did a deal to save the bar. Fifty grand for twenty-five percent, plus my new partner has promotional plans to get sales up all through the year. Exciting, huh?”

“Very. I can't wait to hear all about it. Not Richie Lebar, then?”

Wade focused on a poster of Mick Jagger making love to his microphone onstage. “It's Richie. But with twenty-five percent, he has no control. He's basically free labor plus a massive cash infusion. Win-win.”

“No.”

“But you said . . .”

“I said I'd think about it. And I have: my answer's no.”

Wade let a moment of silence go by before saying, “I know why you're hesitating. But Richie's decent. He's been wanting to go legit for a couple of years now.”

“How nice. Let him go legit for a couple of years first,
then
get into business with him. Even that would be inadvisable, but better than this. I'll stop in Squamish for groceries, since we're not actually loaded.”

Wade's phone pinged with a text. He pulled it away from his ear briefly to see that the message was from Jana:
Can't work tonight. Maybe food poisoning or really bad flu. Vomiting every five minutes. Sorry!

“Lying bitch,” Wade said out loud. He put the phone back to his ear.

“Excuse me?”

“My bartender. I can't do dinner tonight — I'm now stuck covering the bar. But I could arrange a meeting between you and Richie — at Avalanche, so I can pop over and join you when it's quiet. He'd really like to meet you.”

“I don't think so.”

“Give him a chance. You can still say no after the meeting. He looks like a rapper — and he sometimes talks like one — but he's smart. He's also my only option.”

“It's not fair to him if we meet. I'd be wasting his time and mine.”

“Please? I don't want to lose this place.”

“Why? You don't even like running a bar.”

“A bunch of reasons . . . your parents' money . . . the music . . . plus I don't know what else I'd do.” What Wade didn't say was that as leaky as Avalanche was, it was the only scrap of boat between him and the big stormy sea — without it, he was sure he'd drown.

“You're smart, you're educated, you're under forty. There are jobs out there for guys like you in any economy.”

She didn't get it. Sacha got it. That's why she'd been helping Wade write songs — so he could produce them, release them on YouTube and iTunes or even find a record deal, and give his dream one more shot. Even Richie got it.

“With a partner,” Wade said, “I'd have time to do other things — not just wake up and come to work and fall into bed exhausted at four in the morning. You and I could take vacations. We could go back to Morocco.”

“Morocco was fun once. I have no desire to go back. Especially not now, with all the troubles in the Middle East.”

“There were troubles then, too. I guess you used to be more adventurous.”

“I used to be young and stupid.”

“Just one meeting? How about if I ask Richie to come by around ten or eleven?”

“That late? I'm working tomorrow.”

“He's a late-night guy — another good thing, because it would mean I could do mornings and he could close up nights. More couch time for you and me.”

“Right. And while we're curled up watching Leno, Richie could rob you blind by playing with figures at the end of the day.”

“He's not that way. He has honor — more than most businessmen I've met.” Wade couldn't tell Georgia how he knew this, of course — that he and Richie had already been in business together for several months.

“He's a criminal, Wade. They steal because they think that if they don't, they're wasting an opportunity.”

Wade tried not to laugh out loud. “I think you'll find as many businessmen who think that way as criminals.”

“I'm nearly in Squamish, so I'm about to pull off. But fine, I'll come meet Richie. Apologies in advance for wasting his time. I can tell you now the answer is going to be no.”

CLARE

Snow had started coming down again. The falling snowflakes looked like individual pieces of wonder, sharp and defined, like they'd jumped out from an illustrated children's book. They also looked terrifying — like they could burn a hole of cold right through your skin if you let one land on you. Clare was starting to feel the acid, she was pretty sure. She was glad she and Jana were arriving at the base in Whistler Village.

Jana skidded to a stop and unbound her boots from her board. Clare pulled up behind her and did the same.

“You tripping?” Jana asked.

“I think so.” Clare's mind felt crystal clear, but she was noticing things she didn't normally. “Is the hill always this friendly or does it sometimes get angry?”

Jana laughed. “It stays happy unless you piss it off. You were getting really good, toward the bottom of the slope. Slicing edges like a pro. Did you notice you didn't fall once?”

“Hey, yeah.” Clare realized Jana was right. “You want to do another run?”

“No, because I don't feel like walking up. The lifts are closed.”

Clare looked at the motionless gondola and said, “Oh yeah.”

The sky was beginning to darken. Like the snowflakes, the looming night felt both ominous and beautiful — like it could protect you or ruin you, depending on the tone of your approach.

“The village lights . . .” Clare pointed toward a block of shops — a souvenir store, a café, a rental shop. “They're trying to say something.”

“Yeah? Like a message?”

Clare nodded solemnly.

“Is it about Sacha?”

“I don't know. I don't speak light language.” Clare realized she would sound ridiculous to a sober person. But at the same time, she was intrigued by what these lights had to say.

“Come on.” Jana started walking toward the lights. “Let's drop off our snowboards at home. Can I call you Sacha tonight?”

Clare shook her head so hard she was surprised her helmet didn't burst free of its chinstrap and fly off her head. “No. That freaks me out.”

Jana shrugged. “So I'll say it in my head.”

In the village, Clare pressed her nose against the window of the Aveda salon. Inside, a woman cut another woman's hair. The hairdresser's face was delicate and pretty, but as Clare watched, it flattened into a bland pancake — Clare could see she was vapid at her core. Clare switched focus to the woman having her hair cut. Her lips were tight; she looked smug and middle-aged, but the harder Clare stared, the more attractive the woman in the chair became. She began to look warmer — so warm, in fact, that a slight orange glow began to surround the woman's head and then her body. Clare wanted to go inside and meet this woman, have a conversation and learn about why she felt the need to put on a sour face for the world.

Jana tugged at her. “Come on, slowpoke. I know this is all so fascinating, but you can dawdle all you like once we've unloaded these giant boards we're lugging and changed into comfortable boots.”

Clare looked back into the salon as Jana dragged her away. “But it won't be the same. When we come back, that scene will be gone forever.”

“We'll find magic someplace else. I take it you like the Mountain Snow.”

“I love it.” Clare wondered what Amanda had been so worried about — what she herself had been so worried about. She wasn't out of her head — she was in it, more deeply than ever. Pot was more dangerous — it made her paranoid, lethargic, out of it — more likely to say things she shouldn't. Clare was excited to share this observation with Amanda — oh, but she couldn't admit she'd been tripping because then she'd lose her job.

Clare wished she could help Amanda out of her shell. She imagined a chisel that she passed to Amanda — a designer chisel, of course, in yuppie pink.
Here
, Clare said in her head.
Use this to free yourself, to see how fun life is outside your invisible box.
Because really, Clare liked Amanda — she just didn't like the bossy bitch on the outside.

It was when they arrived home and walked through the door of their apartment that something went wrong with Jana's face.

“You look freaky,” Clare said.

“Really? How?”

“Like a turtle trying to poke out of its shell. But, like, a serpent turtle. A little bit evil. Are you evil? Hey, can you drink beer on acid?”

“You can, but there's no point. You'd be better off with juice. I'm not a serpent turtle, don't worry.”

Clare wasn't so sure.

“You want to see the letter from Sacha?”

Clare nodded.

“First, juice.” Jana pulled the carton from the fridge. The picture of the orange on the box looked like it had the power to nourish them from the toes up. It took all Clare's patience not to stick her mouth under the stream as Jana poured.

When she finally had the glass in her hand, Clare took a massive gulp of orange and mango awesomeness. She was about to ask Jana for more when she saw that she already had a full glass.

“It's liquid magic,” Clare said. “The glass refilled itself as soon as I wished for more.”

Jana laughed hard. “You only had a tiny sip. Your senses are heightened; things taste bigger.”

Clare swirled another sip around her mouth. She closed her eyes and felt like she was on a tropical island, drinking oranges and mangoes right out of a coconut. There was a man with her — Noah. She smiled at Noah and asked him if he was going to be a prick or if he wanted to stay on her island. He took her coconut and had a long sip of juice. He was about to answer when Jana grabbed Clare's arm, startling her.

“Let's go get Jules!”

“Whoa, I don't have any jewels, though,” Clare said before contemplating if Lucy hated jewelry as much as she did. Luckily, Clare realized, Lucy was even lower maintenance than she was.

“
Jules
,” Jana said. “Jules the
Bear
.”

“Right.” Clare held her index finger straight up in the air in front of her. “Wait. Why?”

“Because in Sacha's note, she says the answer is in Jules.”

“The answer to what? Hey, you said you'd show me the note.”

Jana peered into Clare's eyes like she was appraising her soul. She took Clare's hands and held them a moment before saying, “Okay. You pass the test.”

Clare laughed. “What test?”

“You're cool. You're here to help, not to hurt anyone.”

“Oh.”

Jana grabbed Clare and pulled her into her bedroom. The bed was unmade and clothes were all over the floor — exactly like on Clare's last visit, though she had the presence of mind to pretend she'd never been in the room before.

On the wall, Jana had a framed Picasso print — a ragged blue man slumped over a guitar.

“Where did you get this painting?” Clare said, walking up to the print and peering at it closely. She wanted to be in the room with the man, in Europe all those years ago, but she shuddered when she realized she might not be able to climb back out of the painting — and the world back then seemed bleak and full of social injustices. It would be horrible to be stuck in a less enlightened time. She turned away and looked at Jana's mess again.

“It's Sacha's. But when she started dating Wade she said the man in the picture depressed her, so we moved it to my room.”

Jana reached under her pillow and pulled out a folded sheet of lined paper. Clare thought it was funny, why Amanda wouldn't have just shown her a copy. She wasn't angry anymore — she felt like she was watching the situation from above, where no anger could exist because the issue wasn't that important.

Jana handed the note over solemnly. “Read it.”

Clare unfolded the page.

If you're reading this, pretty sure I'm already gone. I know I'm probably a danger to myself. But I can't stop. I'm following the only path that makes sense to me. I'm so sorry to leave you like this. If people wonder why I died, you can tell them the answer is in Jules.

“That's it?” Clare said before she could stop herself. Half of her brain was wondering why Jules was with Jana, why Sacha's parents hadn't insisted on having Jules shipped back with her things. The other half answered that Sacha's parents were grieving too hard to think clearly. Jules had slipped through the cracks, and only Jana was vigilant enough to notice.

Jana said, “Sacha was cryptic. This note is probably code. I've been too freaked out to try to decipher it, but tonight — with you here — I feel like I can do it.”

“What do you mean by code?” Clare said. She glanced at the page, tried reading every second letter, then every third, but a hidden message didn't emerge.

“I don't know. That's why I need your help.”

“Hm . . . I guess the first thing to rule out is the literal meaning. Is there physically an answer inside Jules? Like, hidden in his fur or something. Or inside that zippered pocket where the note was?”

Jana smiled indulgently. “She would hardly need code if her meaning was literal.”

“Yeah, but maybe it's not code.”

“Fine, we'll look, just to satisfy you,” Jana said.

Clare followed Jana into Sacha's old bedroom — Clare's room, for now.

Jana picked Jules up from the dresser and poked him in the missing eye. “Ow! Jules bit me.”

“From his eye? Maybe he doesn't like being poked there.”

Jana pried back the eye socket just enough to peer inside. She held the small brown bear up to the light. “I think it's a camera.”

Clare took Jules and peered inside the eye socket. It could be a camera. It could also be a beady little bear eye, dislodged and pushed back into the stuffing. She squeezed strategically and felt two different hard places — one right behind the eye where the maybe-camera was, and the other in the middle, near the back. She flipped Jules over and saw the zipper. “You think Sacha would mind if I opened him?”

Jana shook her head. “Tonight, you are Sacha.”

Clare stuck her hand into Jules' back. Jana was right: he felt empty. As she was about to pull her hand out, though, she felt a small ridge. Could be the seam in the lining, but it felt more like a second zipper. She moved her finger along the seam until she found a zipper tab. She unzipped it, reached further inside the bear, and felt a thin piece of plastic.

She grinned at Jana. “Score, I think.”

Jana watched gravely as Clare opened Jules up wide enough to see a memory stick connected into the bear by some kind of wire. Clare wished she was sober so she could know for sure what this was — but a camera or even an audio recorder was looking pretty damn likely.

Clare looked at the alarm clock in her room: seven p.m. They'd dropped just after four. That meant around five more hours of being insanely high.

“Do you have any
TUMS
?” Clare asked. “Or Pepto Bismol?”

“I don't think so. Why?”

“I want to be sober to crack this bear puzzle.”

“What would
TUMS
do?”

“It's an antacid,” Clare said. “It should neutralize the effects of
LSD
.”

“Of course! You're so smart, Lucy. All the times I've dropped and I never figured out the secret. Should we go find a pharmacy? I mean, I don't want the trip to end, but we can always drop again. It would be so cool to find out if that works.”

“No.” Clare's shoulders slumped. She set Jules down. “It's a stupid theory. I don't know why I even thought that.” She felt her veins throbbing inside her, like they were contemplating exploding. She felt her eyelids fall heavily and flutter as they stayed mainly closed. She felt Jana's hand take hers and lead her to the bed to sit down.

“You're okay.” Jana's voice was warm, but Clare did not feel safe. “The drug does this sometimes.”

Clare opened her eyes to meet Jana's. They looked friendly enough — not like an evil serpent turtle, anyway. More like a turtle fairy godmother. “Am I having a bad trip?”

“Just a bad patch. You'll be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Mountain Snow is powerful. If you try to fight it, it fights back. It probably didn't like your antacid suggestion. But if you go with it, it will pick you up again. Here — drink your juice.”

Clare felt the cold juice glass as Jana placed it in her hand. The juice tasted good — maybe not desert island awesome like before, but strong, nourishing.

But all Clare could think about was how stupid she'd been to swallow that tab, how Amanda had been right — had been trying to protect her — and Clare had thrown all that away by being her stubborn, contrary self.

Clare's mind started spiraling. Down, into the darkest part of her brain, where she asked herself, was she a fatally flawed fuck-up like her father, with no hope of ever rising above that fate? They both loved fixing cars, riding motorcycles, smoking cigarettes . . . maybe they were the same and there was no escape for Clare. Or was she like her mother — wearing blinders to the bleak reality all around her?
Have another cup of tea, dear. Oh, don't be angry — your father's just out for a walk — of course he isn't smoking. You're leaving already? But I've baked these lovely cookies.
Clare shuddered to think of the two of them, sequestered in their trailer in their
folie a deux
, her father slowly dying and no one willing to say it out loud, like if they didn't name the disease he could stay alive indefinitely . . .