Jump Cut (7 page)

FIFTEEN

As King Kong and the old man shuffle in one door of the service center, I pull back and pick up AmberLea, GL and a bulky guy coming out another. The guy's in a Toronto Maple Leafs cap and a green T-shirt with white blobs that spell
Ontario Rocks
. Mister Bones stops growling. I zoom in tight this time. Ontario Rocks is Al. What was left of the mustache is gone. Mister Bones perks up right away and starts yipping. Al's head swivels, and they come over to us.

“Whattaya filming?” Al asks suspiciously.

“Is my hair right?” says GL. “Never shoot without setup, Stanley.”

“Just getting some
real life
.” I make it sound as sarcastic as possible.

“Lemme see.” Al peers at the screen. GL crowds in with him. I play it back. Al's eyes widen as the black Lincoln comes into focus. As the old man gets helped out of the car, Al blurts out some foreign words that I'm pretty sure are obscene.

GL says, “Well, what a coincidence. There's Rocco Wings. You'd think the old devil was following me.”

It hits me that it's the old guy from Erie Estates, only without the big glasses. Did she arrange this too? Wow, it's getting complicated.

“He's not following you.” Al is practically hyperventilating as he looks over to the
SUV
. “He's following
me
. Those are the guys who wanna ice me.” I have to hand it to him: he's a good actor; a little over the top maybe, but good.

“Rocco?” says Gloria Lorraine. “So you
are
mobbed up. I knew it. Why didn't you say so? I'll talk to him. He eats out of my hand. He's seen
Blond Trust
eleven times.” She turns toward the service center.

“No!” Al grabs her arm. “You can't. It's complicated. See, I was supposed to, uh, pick up something for him—for them—just as a favor, you unnerstand.”

“I'll bet you were,” says GL. “Something that looks a lot like icing sugar?”

“Well, yeah. But the delivery guy never showed up. Only they don't believe me.”

“I'm not surprised, given what's in your trunk.”

“Aw, for the luvva—” Al smacks his own forehead. “I told them, I told you, I keep
tellin'
everybody, that's not—Aw, never mind. Point is, they think I tried to double-cross them, steal their merchandise, so they wanna ice me. Those two guys are Rocco's sons, Vince and Tiffy; they snatched me and Mistah Bones this morning. Said the old guy wanted to do me personal. He's extra mad because they need the classic right now. Word is, they're doing some kind of three-way deal, with some fancy-named gang—not even a “gang,” a whaddyacallit—and a bunch of bikers, all outta state…guns, drugs, cash, the usual. I don't know more than that and you don't wanna. They kept me out of the loop.”

Classic?
I wonder. Maybe Al's right; I don't get out enough. Before I can ask what “classic” is, GL cuts in, waving a hand.

“Rocco shakes so much he couldn't put a bullet in a barn. He'll be in a better mood after he uses the restroom. Prostate problems. Look, he's coming out now.”

Sure enough, the old guy is shuffling back out with King Kong Wings. “Get down!” Al hisses. He crouches behind me at the picnic table.

I sigh. For a second there I was into it, but there's a little problem with this scene. Casually I say, “So, how did they know to come here?”

“Who knows?” Al moans, from somewhere behind my knees. “How did they know where I was this morning when I went for the pickup?”

AmberLea lifts her shades to the top of her head and looks at me, dead-on, for the first time. “A
GPS
transmitter,” she says. “Like in—”

“
Red Means Go
,” I finish for her. “Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie, Jeff Bridges, 2008.” I can't help it, it's a movie. “And they tracked the guy by a
GPS
attached to—”

“The dog,” she finishes for me. AmberLea scoops up Mister Bones and grabs at his collar. He struggles and yips. I reach over and feel along the leather. There's a bump under the metal buckle. I reach under and twist at it and off pops a button-sized something. What the…?

“I bet it's a magnetized transmitter,” says AmberLea.

“Ditch it,” Al babbles. “Whatever it is, ditch it,
fast.
”

“I'll do it,” says AmberLea. “Nobody's seen me.”

She takes the thing from me, puts Mister Bones down and starts across the parking lot toward an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser. Meanwhile, Adrian Brody Wings has finished gassing up. He's moved the
SUV
closer to the service center doors. He and King Kong Wings are putting Rocco Wings back inside the Lincoln again.

“Maybe they'll just go.” Al is peeking over the picnic table. “If they get ahead of us, we're golden.”

“They won't go as long as the
GPS
tells them they should be here,” I say. Then I remind myself not to believe this junk. For a second there, I was into it again. It's hard not to get sucked in.

Sure enough, KK Wings scans the parking lot. Now AB Wings heads for the service center. In his navy blazer he scuttles through knots of tourists in bright summer clothes like a cockroach in a candy store.

I look the other way. AmberLea is at the OPP cruiser, one hand resting on the roof as she bends down to the driver's window. I rethink my position on her butt being too big for skinny jeans.

“No cops!” Al hisses.

“Hush,” says GL. “Trust me. Police are not her favorite either. Do you really own a bakery too?”

“Yes, I own a bakery!” Al sounds genuinely hurt. “I'm the King of Cannoli.”

“So you're just a gangster on the side.”

“Hey, let's just say I'm diversified. I got innaresting friends.”

“Or family.”

“Call them cousins.”

AmberLea starts back toward us as AB Wings comes out of the service center. Behind her, the cruiser starts up. Now AB is looking around. He begins walking a slow sweep of the parking lot. For now his view of the Caddy is blocked by a Chevy van with cheesy-looking wolves painted on the side. He turns the other way. As he does, he reaches beneath that blue blazer and gives a little tug at the small of his back. Anyone who's ever seen an action movie has to think, Gun. Oh, please. I roll my eyes.

“At the very least,” Al croaks, “lemme have the piece and you get outta here before someone gets hurt.”

“I can't,” GL says, lighting a smoke and posing at the picnic table. “I left it in the toilet tank of that donut shop at the border.”

Al groans and mutters more foreign-language swear words. I turn on my camera. What else is there to do?

“That's more like it. Remember, left side only,” Gloria Lorraine murmurs, looking away and not moving her lips. “And keep the damn light behind you.”

AmberLea joins us as the cruiser rolls past. “Easy,” she says. “I asked how long to Torrance 'cause I got texted there was an accident up the highway. She's going to check it out. I left the transmitter up by her light rack. Now the
SUV
will follow it.”

“Right. Unless they spot the Caddy first.” I must sound too sarcastic. She looks at me and does the disappearing-chin thing. I'm tempted to make sure they spot the car. Then they can act this out and maybe I'll be home by suppertime.

Sure enough, AB Wings turns back toward the Caddy. As he does, two things happen at once: the wolf van backs out, blocking his view; and there's a shout from KK Wings at the
SUV
. AB looks back. KK is waving frantically. Beyond him, you can just see the OPP cruiser accelerating onto the highway. AB Wings starts to run. When he hops in the
SUV
, it barrels away too. How the heck did they do that? I wonder. Is this—? It can't be for real. Can it?

Behind me, Al blows out a big shaky breath and stands up. “Good move widda GP thing. I owe ya.”

“You already owe us for this morning,” says Gloria Lorraine, stubbing out her cigarette on the picnic table. “Now let's get going. AmberLea, honey, primo move. Help me up. And no filming while I walk. My fans don't need to see me totter.”

I follow them back, still puzzling it all out. We get back to the car and something else hits me: that's a real bullet hole in the windshield. I totter a little myself. Now I don't know what to think.

SIXTEEN

AmberLea drives. We take Highway 11 north of Barrie. I sit in the back with Al all the way to Gravenhurst. Al smokes a cigar. I try to figure out what's going on: real or fake? Did Grandpa plan this? And if he didn't plan it, did he know something weird might happen? But how could…? And if they…? In the end, it's too complicated. All I can come up with is, Go with it. Maybe it is a movie. In the movies they always go for the ride. And as soon as I think that, I feel lighter. I'll take the ride.

On the way to Gravenhurst we don't see any black Lincolns, but everyone notices how the land gets rockier. “We're getting up north now,” I call over the wind.

“North?” GL laughs. “Don't kid yourself. This is barely even south.”

Americans think they know everything.

We hit town around four thirty. GL calls for a grocery stop. “Dinner and breakfast,” she orders, pulling out American bills.

“You prob'ly couldn't cook your way outta a paper bag,” Al says. “The kid and I will deal widdit. Where we goin'? Full kitchen?”

“Play it safe,” says GL. “Think barbecue.”

When Al and I come out of the store, GL is yapping into a cell phone, AmberLea has her chin tucked in again and Mister Bones is just yapping. “Well, I need her,” GL snaps. “Really? I raised
you
didn't—all right, Consuela raised you. Be glad I paid her; she earned every penny…It's nobody's damn business…Monday…they won't even know she's been gone…How? They're not the damned FBI, they're just a two-bit…Oh for god's sake, house arrest is
nothing.
Little Moe used to…Listen, I'll talk to them. She can call it community service. She has to do that too, doesn't she? We'll be in touch.” She shoves the phone at AmberLea, who shuts it down.

Al's ears have pricked up at
FBI
and
house arrest.
Mine too, actually. There's a kind of embarrassed quiet as we stash the groceries in the trunk. Then GL says, “Let's go.” She looks tired. “I need a martini. And a Dependable.”

We take Highway 169 out of town. Torrance turns out to be a bundle of houses about fifteen minutes away. The
GPS
takes us past a church and a little community center. Then we turn and cross some railway tracks and chug along a gravel lane away from the houses. We cross a little channel and suddenly see a lake and cottages, and then we're in trees. The number marker for 1050 is blue with white numerals, like at Grandpa's. We turn down a dirt track. The trees have homemade wooden signs with family names on them. Beyond you can see cabins and cottages and a couple of places as big as AmberLea's house. “Look for Karpuski,” GL orders.

“Karpuski?”

“An alias. For privacy. Didn't want fans nosing around back when I bought this. And put the top up as soon as we stop. The bugs will be bad.”

We pull in at the sign. There's another one on the tree below it. It's got the name of a real estate company on it and it says
SOLD
.
There's a parking spot in the trees, beside someone's golf cart. “Bought this in '53,” GL says. “Not even your mother knows about it, Amby. Haven't been here in years. I pay a local to look after it and rent it out. I told him I was coming up for a last visit. It should be ready for us.”

The first mosquitoes have started their bombing runs as the top goes up. AmberLea helps her grandma out of the car. Al and I grab the groceries.

We stumble along a path, past a woodpile and a rickety-looking outhouse painted white and green. The wooden cabin is painted brown, and the wood has been rounded to look like logs. There's a key behind the electric meter. We crowd into the little back kitchen, one step ahead of the bugs.

“Old-timey,” Al puffs. And it is; not fancy either. I slide past him. The front room is all wood, with big saggy chairs and a couch and a huge stone fireplace. Out front is a screened porch with a hammock and a picnic table. Outside I can see a giant rock perched on a slope that goes down to the dock and lake.

It's so familiar it's weird. “This is exactly like my Grandpa's cottage,” I say. “He said a cottage was for showing up, not for showing off.”

“Exactly,” GL says behind me. “They built this place from a kit you could buy, back in the thirties. There were a lot of them. Where is your grandpa's?”

“Port Carling,” I say. That much I know. “Bala is near here, right? We go there sometimes.”

“I'll be damned.” GL shakes her head. “All those years, all he had to do was look in the phone book.”

“Wouldn't it say
Karpuski
?”

“Well, so—Oh, yes. I see what you mean,” she says and turns away. She's headed for what I see is a bathroom at the back of the cottage. I'm glad we don't have to use the outhouse.

Al pops out of the kitchen. “Okay, the groceries are put away. Now there's gotta be swimsuits here somewheres. C'mon, kid.” Suddenly he's Susie Homemaker. I go along anyway. All at once I feel how dusty and sticky I am. Sure enough, there are a couple of suits hanging in the back bedroom. I pull one on. I'd never do this at Grandpa's. This is different, somehow. The suit is pretty big, but I don't care—until I remember AmberLea. I wrap a towel around me and hustle out. Schwarzenegger I'm not. The dock is in sunlight, so the bugs aren't bad. Al is already in the water, just his head and hairy shoulders sticking out. “Jump in,” he says. “Water's good.”