Running on Empty (13 page)

Ethan studied the plastic card in his hand, marvelling again at how authentic it looked. Hornsby had given it to him earlier that afternoon at The Chow Down, and they’d arranged to meet again this evening, at seven o’clock, inside the main entrance of Casino Nova Scotia on the waterfront. More than a little jazzed by what they were going to do, Ethan had shown up half an hour early, and he’d spent the last few minutes memorizing the name, address, and date of birth on the driver’s licence in case someone asked him the information. The birth date made him nineteen two months ago, and the photo Raye had taken seemed to corroborate that fact. Funny how something as simple as wearing a tie and combing your hair could make such a difference in a person’s appearance. And wasn’t his old man forever reminding him that appearances were everything? Who knew he’d ever be right about something?

Ethan hadn’t liked spending half of the six hundred bucks left of his lottery win on the licence, but he’d liked the alternative even less. When he’d first talked to Hornsby a few days before in the diner’s parking lot about making some quick money, the guy had offered to take all of it to the casino by himself and keep a share of the winnings. “Payment for services rendered,” he’d said. Confident guy, that Hornsby, but Ethan wasn’t about to turn his money over to someone he hardly knew, especially someone he’d been warned to steer clear of. If Hornsby was going to gamble with his money, he sure as hell wanted to be on hand to see it happen.

“How old are you?” Hornsby had asked him.

When Ethan told him, Hornsby had pointed out that getting him into the casino would require some cash upfront. “I got a buddy who charges two hundred for a driver’s licence.”

“Already got one,” Ethan had said.

Hornsby pulled the ever-present toothpick out of his mouth exposing the chewed end, then flicked it onto the oil-stained pavement. “One that says you’re nineteen?” While he let that information sink in, he slid a pack of Craven A’s and a lighter from his leather jacket, tapped out a cigarette, and lit it inside cupped hands, no small feat in the stiff breeze off the harbour that afternoon. He took a long drag, then released it and said, “If you’re serious about makin’ some quick cash, the casino is the place to do it. You wanna be on hand to watch it happen, bring me three hundred bucks and a JPEG headshot.”

“I thought you said the licence cost two hundred.”

“It does,” said Hornsby. “The other hundred’s mine. Services rendered, right?”

Standing now in Casino Nova Scotia’s huge foyer, Ethan could easily see and hear the activity unfolding across from him in the main gambling hall. Of course, it wasn’t like he’d never been there before. He and his buddies had walked through the complex last year on their way to the Schooner Room, for a concert by Toxic Rosebud, but as he looked out across the enormous space now, it felt like his first time. The place was probably a fraction of the size of those big casinos in Nevada and New Jersey, but it was impressive nonetheless. Row after row of VLTs whooped and jangled incessantly as people fed them coins; stainless-steel balls clattered against spinning roulette wheels; dealers in tuxedos called for cards at dozens of tables; gorgeous women wearing high heels and very little else carried trays of drinks to players; and the players themselves added to the noise by calling to the dealers and the servers and each other, shouting bets, chattering
on their cells, clinking ice cubes as they drank. Many of them hacked and coughed, clearly craving cigarettes, but they’d have to go to a special room for that since smoking wasn’t permitted in the main area. Not many of these people would want to walk away from a hot deck of cards or a smoking VLT. And if they happened to be losing, their luck had to change soon, right?

Looking at them now, Ethan was reminded of a science project he’d seen when he was in fifth grade: a kid had brought in an ant farm, and for the next few days every student’s attention was glued to the activity under that glass. Watching the activity in the casino was a lot like watching that ant farm, like he was seeing a strange new species perform its daily routines in its own glass-enclosed habitat. The only difference was that the ants’ movements always seemed purposeful and controlled. Here there seemed to be only chaos. And noise.

“You ready?”

Ethan jumped slightly at the voice beside him and turned to see Hornsby, wearing a pair of dark slacks, a blue dress shirt, and a navy blazer. His long hair looked wet, the obvious result of product that held it back from his face, and he’d even shaved. Ethan was grateful to see the transformation since he felt awkward in the clothes that Hornsby had ordered him to wear. In addition to the outfit he’d worn to his interview at The Chow Down, he’d put on one of his father’s suit jackets, surprised that it fit him perfectly. He’d consciously avoided looking at all the glass on his way into the casino, reluctant to see his reflection.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” replied Ethan. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the three hundred bucks that remained of his lottery winnings and another four hundred he’d earned working at the diner, earnings that had accumulated faster since his shifts had increased. Some of those earnings he’d planned to spend on Christmas presents in the next month, but he figured he might as well put it to good use now.

The money folded inside his fist, Ethan dangled his hand casually at his side, then slipped the money into Hornsby’s waiting palm. “Seventy-thirty, right?” he asked.

Hornsby shook his head. “Sixty-forty.”

Ethan shot him a cold glare. “That’s not what we agreed on.”

“We live in uncertain times,” said Hornsby. “Up to you,” he shrugged, extending his hand with the palmed bills. “You wanna do this yourself, go for it.”

Ethan stared at the outstreched hand for a moment as if he really had a choice. “Just win,” he muttered, “okay?”

Hornsby’s face creased in a one-sided grin that seemed more sneer than smile. “That’s what I do.”

It turned out that winning was exactly what Link Hornsby did.

He went straight to the blackjack table while Ethan watched from a discreet distance, occasionally putting coins into a VLT. When Ethan had asked earlier how this evening would unfold, Hornsby had made it very clear what Ethan’s role would be: “You stay outta my way.”

Ethan’s three-hundred-dollar piece of plastic paid for itself in the first five minutes when a security guard approached and asked him for some ID. He held up the driver’s licence, comparing Ethan with the photo, and, satisfied, gave it back to him with a smiling “Have a good evening, sir.” Returning the card to his wallet, Ethan tried to act nonchalant, but he had to work hard to keep his face from splitting into a grin. Fooling that guard had been a hell of a rush.

Ethan had thought Hornsby would choose roulette or craps because those were the games he’d seen most often in movies set in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. After all, what could beat the sheer drama of that ball circling the roulette wheel or those
dice rolling in the pit? Talking outside The Chow Down during Ethan’s break that afternoon, however, Hornsby had been blunt. “Roulette and craps you play for entertainment. Same as the slots.” When Ethan had asked why, he’d replied, “Odds are too much in favour of the house. May as well buy a lottery ticket.”

Ethan was going to remind him it was a lottery ticket that had given him his stake in the first place, but he didn’t. Instead, he listened as Hornsby explained that, while they had their risk, poker and blackjack involved skill as well as luck. “And I’m not just talkin’ about bluffin’ or readin’ tells,” he’d said, referring to the signals that players sometimes unconsciously gave opponents about their cards. “It all comes down to strategy. That’s why professional gamblers play poker and blackjack. No such thing as a professional roulette player.”

Watching now from the VLTs, Ethan wondered if gambling was, in fact, the enigmatic Link Hornsby’s chosen profession. Sipping his drinks—”Whisky, neat,” he’d told the server—the guy sat impassively on his stool, almost as if the whole thing was a frigging bore, and Ethan wondered if the attitude he projected had anything to do with the business of bluffing.

Although there were many things about Hornsby that made him uneasy, he couldn’t help but admire the way the guy seemed to own the table. For part of the time, only the dealer was with him, but as he continued to win, interested onlookers drifted over, and a few of them joined the game. From his position by the VLTs, Ethan couldn’t see how much Hornsby was winning, but judging from the pile of chips in front of him, it was substantial. He didn’t win every hand, of course, and sometimes it seemed like he lost as many hands as he won, but the chips continued to accumulate beside his whisky glass. At one point, a man in an obviously expensive suit came and spoke in low tones to the dealer, and shortly after that, Hornsby pushed away from the table, collected his chips, and headed to the teller’s cage to cash
them in. Ethan followed but took care not to talk to him, as Hornsby had warned.

Once outside the casino, Ethan could hardly contain himself. “So how much did we make?”

Hornsby gave him a casual glance, but the look in his eyes made Ethan uncomfortable. The man walked briskly, forcing Ethan to lengthen his stride to keep up.

Ethan, though, was undeterred. “Not counting the seven hundred I staked you, how much did you cash in?”

Hornsby ignored him, and Ethan fell silent as they continued along the boardwalk beyond the casino, the late November air off the water making him wish he’d brought his winter jacket. Finally, Hornsby turned right into the Park ‘n’ Pay and approached a sleek, black Saab, exactly the kind of vehicle Ethan pictured a high roller driving. But Hornsby continued past it, stopping beside a rusted Toyota Echo with a deep gouge along the driver’s side that looked as though someone had keyed it. In the harsh glare of the overhead light, it made Lil’s Ford Focus look almost classy.

Hornsby unlocked the car and motioned for Ethan to get in, then did the same himself.

Closing the door behind him, Ethan found the inside of the car slightly better than the exterior—only the console was scratched, but everything showed signs of wear. Clearly, Link Hornsby didn’t believe in wasting his money on wheels. The Echo was point-A-to-point-B transportation and nothing more. Ethan thought it best to keep his surprise to himself. “So,” he tried again, “how much did—”

“Look,” Hornsby growled, “let’s get somethin’ straight.”

Ethan nodded.

“This ain’t high school. We don’t compare notes about the big game over a latte or whatever it is you assholes drink nowadays.”

Ethan was stunned by his vehemence. All he’d done was—

“And somethin’ else. I don’t
work
for you. We had a business arrangement. Understand?”

Ethan nodded.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yeah,” he replied, beginning to feel pissed. “I understand. Loud and clear.”

Hornsby nodded. “Good,” he said, shoving the key into the ignition. The Echo churned to life and the heater began blowing cold air that gradually warmed, but he made no move to shift into reverse and back the car out of its space. “I cashed in a few dollars shy of twenty-four hundred bucks. That’s close to seventeen hundred profit. Your share of the winnings is eight fifty.”

“But that’s not a sixty-forty split,” said Ethan. “That’s—”

“Half,” said Hornsby.

“But—”

“Consider it an aggravation allowance.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out the cash, counting out the original seven hundred in the light from the instrument panel and then adding Ethan’s share of the winnings to it.

Son of a bitch!
fumed Ethan silently, but he took the money without comment. Smoothing out the bills, he squeezed the wad between his palms. Over fifteen hundred bucks! Even after Hornsby’s “aggravation allowance” combined with the cost of the driver’s licence and dinner at Carruthers, he had more in his hands now than he’d won with the lottery ticket in the first place. He turned to Hornsby. “How soon can we do this again?”

Hornsby stared ahead as the engine rattled. “You can’t afford me.”

Yeah, like your overhead is killing you
, Ethan thought, his gaze sliding over the car’s interior. “Fifty-fifty
is
pretty steep—”

“Kid, that was a one-time low introductory offer.”

“What?”

Hornsby turned in his seat to look at him. “You think I don’t have better things to do with my time than top up your college fund or whatever it is you Cathedral Estates kids need money for?”

Ethan’s eyes widened at Hornsby’s mention of his subdivision. But that thought was immediately replaced by another. “Look, I need to make four thousand bucks in the next three weeks, and it seems to me you could do that easy.”
Even if you choose to drive a shitbox like this
.

Hornsby’s eyes glittered coldly. “I don’t do
easy
. I do
smart
. You should try it sometime.”

Ethan had no idea why their conversation had gone south so abruptly, but he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. “Okay, you’re right, I don’t always do smart. But, hey, I work at The Chow Down, so you already know that.” Encouraged by the trace of a grin on Hornsby’s face, he pressed on. “I really need that money.”

“Look, kid, I don’t have the time—”

“You said that already. What can I do to change your mind? I need you to work with me just a little while longer.”

Hornsby stared at him for a moment, and what had been a trace of a grin grew into a broad smile. He turned off the Echo’s motor and the sudden silence in the car was nearly palpable. “Could be you don’t need me at all,” he said.

“Where were you last night?” asked Allie as she met Ethan on the school steps. “When you didn’t answer your cell, I called your house and Raye said you were probably out with friends. But Pete didn’t know where you were, either.”

“Pete’s not my only friend, Allie.”

“Yeah, like you two aren’t practically joined at the hip,” she teased, threading her arm through his. “So where were you?”

Holding the door open for her, Ethan said, “Doing some research.”

She looked up at him, and the expression on her face revealed her surprise. “I’m impressed! Is it for your profile assignment?”

Ethan had made up his mind he wasn’t going to lie to her again, but he also couldn’t tell her about the casino, not after what she’d shared about her dad’s gambling problem. “It
could
be,” he said. “I don’t know for sure yet.”

“What were you researching?”

“A business on the waterfront. A guy I met at the diner took me through it. I got to see how it operated.”

“I didn’t think that restaurant of yours was the sort of place where business people ate.”

“Low blow.” He grinned, then added, “This guy’s not your average businessman.”

“What’s he do?”

Ethan was surprised at how easily this next part came. Avoiding her eyes, he said, “He generates venture capital.” He’d
heard that line when the news came on the flat screen in his room as he was getting ready for bed last night. Something about the government trying to kick-start the lousy economy.

“Sounds interesting,” she said.

“You have no idea,” he replied, thinking of the long conversation he’d had with Hornsby in his Echo. Hoping to change the subject, Ethan asked, “How’s your project going? You and Pete haven’t come around to interview my old man yet.”

“Oh, we’ve got lots to do before we’re ready for that,” she explained. “There’s tons of stuff about your dad on the Web and in the library’s media room. We’re watching as much of it as we can before we finalize our questions. It’s pretty interesting stuff, especially the CBC news clips. Did you know—”

“Spare me,” he said, holding up his hand. “I get enough of his life story at home.”

She smiled, understanding in her eyes.

“Hey, Palmer!”

“Just the guy I was looking for,” Ethan called to Seth, who was heading toward them. “Look, Allie, I need to talk to Seth about something. Catch up with you in homeroom?”

“Talk to him about what?”

“Guy stuff. You know.”

“Let me guess. Most of it has to do with cars, and the rest involves the two of you standing around making gross noises.”

“That’s what you get for having such a deep guy for a boyfriend,” he quipped.

She laughed. “Go ahead, have your little car talk. I want to ask Ms. Moore something about the profile anyway. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

She kissed him and moved off down the hallway, clearly unaware of the attention she got from other guys as she passed their lockers.

“What’s up?” asked Seth.

“I got that down payment Filthy wanted. You know where he’ll be this afternoon?”

Seth whistled. “You rob a bank, man?”

Ethan shook his head. “Even better.”

“Hey, Filthy.”

All six feet four inches of Philip LaFarge filled the open doorway of his basement apartment. “Palmer,” he replied. He was dressed in sweatpants and an old wife-beater, both mottled with stains. “Seth said you’d be by. Got the cash?”

Standing in the roofless stairwell, Ethan nodded toward the Mustang in the driveway, its rusted wheels at eye level. “Five hundred will hold her for me ‘til Christmas?” he asked.

“Non-refundable.”

Ethan shrugged. “Not a problem. I don’t plan on defaulting.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills and handed it to him.

“You don’t mind me countin’ it, do you?” asked LaFarge, but he’d already begun flipping through the bills anyway, his mouth moving as he added.

“Go for it,” said Ethan, turning his attention toward the driveway. He much preferred to have his eyes focus on the Cobra than linger on Filthy’s sweats. One of the stains, just above Filthy’s crotch, looked fresh and suspiciously non-foodlike.

“All here,” said LaFarge finally. “You wanna receipt or somethin’?”

Ethan didn’t think he needed one—everyone called Filthy a stand-up guy—but he nodded anyway. “Sure.”

LaFarge stepped back into the apartment and Ethan could
hear him moving around inside. “Got a pen here somewheres,” he muttered. “Might as well come in ‘n’ shut the door. Rent don’t include the heat.”

Ethan stepped through the door and closed it behind him, surprised by what he saw. Although small and sparsely furnished—the single space he now stood in served as kitchen, dining area, and living room—the apartment was clean and tidy, the walls spotless and the cheap laminate floor looking freshly mopped. “Nice place you got here, Filthy,” he said. The moment had seemed to call for conversation, but Ethan suddenly wondered if Filthy might think he was making fun.

Apparently, he didn’t. Rummaging through one of the two drawers in the kitchenette’s only cupboard, LaFarge shrugged. “It ain’t Cathedral Estates,” he said, “but it’s home.”

Just then, a toilet flushed, a door off the dining area opened, and a young woman appeared. “Hi, Ethan.”

“Hi, Shawna,” he replied. He’d known Shawna Oliver for most of his life. They’d started school the same year and were in some of the same classes, but the truth was he really didn’t know her much at all. When she was in the third grade, she’d been diagnosed with a learning disability—dyslexia, maybe, or ADHD, something like that—and had dropped out a year or two ago. She hadn’t changed much, though. Her hair was still brilliantly dyed—purple with orange highlights this time—and there were still at least half a dozen piercings on her face alone. But what made these details stand out even more vividly was her skin, currently the colour of chalk.

LaFarge went to stand beside her and rested one of his large hands gently on her shoulder. “How’re you feelin’?”

She slid one arm around him, stained wife-beater and all, and leaned against his huge body. “Puked again,” she said.

LaFarge looked at Ethan. “We’re expectin’,” he said.

Ethan nodded. “Yeah, I heard.” He wasn’t sure if he should
say “Congratulations” or “Tough luck,” so he offered neither.

LaFarge put his other hand on Shawna’s belly, covered by a long housecoat that had seen better days, and patted it gently. “I’m gonna be a daddy,” he said.

That single action, that simple caress of Shawna’s slightly swollen abdomen, tugged at Ethan’s memory, and suddenly the sounds around them—the water refilling the tank of the flushed toilet, a muffled voice from the apartment above, traffic on the busy street outside—receded, leaving him in a pool of muffled silence. Something about that big hand on Shawna’s stomach. The gentle caress. The shared smiles—

And then the moment ended as Shawna’s hand darted to her mouth and she disappeared into the bathroom again.

“First trimester’s the worst,” said LaFarge, turning to Ethan, who was surprised all over again that Filthy knew the word. Here he was standing in a basement apartment talking with Filthy LaFarge about fetus development. It couldn’t feel any weirder if he were to suddenly find himself standing in that painting Moore-or-Less had hung in her classroom, the one with the watches melting over tree branches. What had she called it—
The Persistence of Memory?
Dumb name. Nothing in it reminded Ethan of memory. In fact, there was something in the centre of the painting that he’d prefer to forget, something Ethan now felt looked a lot like a rotting fetus. Whatever it was, he didn’t think it was something expectant parents should spend a lot of time looking at.

LaFarge turned back to the cupboard drawer and resumed digging for a pen. “Got one,” he said, pulling out a Bic medium point. “Now for somethin’ to write on.”

“Look, don’t bother,” said Ethan. “I know you won’t screw me over.”

LaFarge nodded. “Just so you know, though, I need the rest by Christmas or I’m puttin’ her on Kijiji. We clear about that?”
“We’re clear,” said Ethan. “Thanks, Filthy. See you around.” He went out and closed the door and was surprised to hear it open again, the big guy coming up the steps behind him.

“Wanna check her out?” LaFarge asked, pulling on a jacket. A piece of its lining dangled below the hem.

“Sure,” replied Ethan. He’d already stood looking inside the locked Cobra for several minutes before knocking on the apartment door, but he jumped at the chance to sit in her again.

LaFarge took keys out of his pocket and unlocked the driver’s door, then stepped aside to allow Ethan to slide in.

Settling back in the bucket seat, Ethan put one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the stick, and for a moment he was seeing open road instead of the back of another apartment building, feeling the air rush past the windows instead of blowing in the open door from the northeast. The weather forecast called for high winds and flurries that evening—the first of the season—and LaFarge shivered in his jacket with the ripped lining. Seeing the grimace on his face, Ethan reluctantly pulled himself out. “Sorry. You’re probably freezing.”

LaFarge nodded, but it turned out that his expression had less to do with the cold than the car. “Hate to part with her. I pestered Kyle about her for a long time. She’s somethin’, huh?”

Ethan grinned. “Yeah, she’s something, all right.”

“Don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” said LaFarge, hugging his arms around himself.

Ethan nodded in return, admiring the car’s lines. Even the rust along the rocker panels didn’t mar the vehicle’s classic beauty.

“Ahh,” muttered LaFarge, “it’d be a hassle gettin’ a kid in ‘n’ out ‘a that back seat anyway. Definitely not a family car.”

“You’re right about that,” said Ethan absently. “My mother bought one after she and my old man broke up. Her gift to herself in the separation.”

LaFarge turned to him. “Puttin’ herself back out there, huh?” he asked. “Set ‘a wheels like that would sure do the trick.”

Still looking at the car, Ethan shook his head. “I think it had more to do with pissing off my old man.”

LaFarge grinned. “That why
you
want one so bad?”

Ethan shrugged. “It’s a bonus.”

Later, walking to the bus stop, Ethan thought again about Filthy’s question. Not that pissing off his old man didn’t have its own reward, but that wasn’t the real reason he’d longed for his own Mustang. And not just any ‘Stang. A 1996 Cobra SVT. His mother’s car.

She’d bought it used but in mint condition, a private sale from some guy who, like Filthy, was having his first kid and needed a more practical ride. Ethan’s mother had taken him with her when she’d gone to look at it, and he’d been awed by the way the colour on the car changed. “It’s called a Mystic finish,” said the owner. “Cost me a whole lot extra, but it was worth it.” He’d seen Ethan walking around the Mustang, watched him moving back and forth, back and forth, following the colours of the car as he altered the angle he viewed it, mesmerized as they melded from green into purple and then brown into gold. “Paint’s got the same colour-changing pigments they use in American money,” he explained to Ethan’s mother. “If a person wants to repaint one ‘a these, an inspector’s gotta come and figure out how much paint you need, and then you gotta send back any you don’t use. And the guy who paints it has gotta be Michelangelo if you want it to look good.” He paused. “But you don’t need to worry about that. See?” he said, pointing out their reflections in the gleaming door. “I keep her covered whenever I’m not drivin’ her. And I’ll throw in the cover with the car. I’d hate to think of the sun dullin’ that finish.”

Later, during their drive back to the Herring Cove house his father had moved out of, Ethan had begged his mother to get the
car, but his pleading had been unnecessary. She’d told him she’d already made up her mind to buy it, adding something his eight-year-old brain didn’t understand at the time, something about the Mystic finish being a lot like what her life had come down to. “Nothing stays the same, Ethan,” she’d told him. “The one thing you can count on is that everything changes.”

Even then, even as an eight-year-old, he’d realized she was sharing something important with him, something grown-up, and he’d wanted to pay attention, wanted her to know that he understood what she was saying to him. But he didn’t. All he could think about were those colours, how his reflection looked like it was trapped inside a rainbow.

Not long after, his mother had ended up trapped inside that rainbow herself, the crumpled car like a metal W around her lifeless body.