Blind Luck (12 page)

“Oh my god it burns.”

Dave moved toward the sound as fast as possible. “Dad?”

“Oh my god it burns.”

Dave entered the living room to find his dad’s pleather easy-chair tipped over, and Jack’s legs dangling over the leg rest.

“Oh my god it burns.”

A nineteen-thirties movie played on the television. Dave turned it off and hovered over his dad, whose eyes swirled as he looked up at the ceiling with his arms splayed over his head. A flask lay beside him.

“What’s going on, Pop?”

“Oh my god it burns.”

Dave leaned down to take the flask away from him and noticed white foam spilling from his dad’s mouth. Thoughts of alcohol poisoning or a drug overdose flashed through his head until he saw a toothbrush a foot away.

After Dave’s mother had died, his dad had started brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink. He was drinking so much, it was simply easier to stumble to the kitchen then negotiate the stairs. That night he’d picked up his muscle relaxing cream instead of his toothpaste, and minutes later, he was lying on his back with a burning mouth.

Dave knew taking his dad’s flask wouldn’t stop the man from drinking, but making him think he’d lost his favourite flask was a punishment, and after finding him in such a pathetic state, he’d wanted to do something to ensure Jack would remember the night.

Amy returned the flask, and Dave snapped back into the moment. “Have you always been lucky?”

The question annoyed him, but a closer examination of her eyes revealed a belief he couldn’t say he had in anything, and it felt good to be the object of such hope.

“If you knew how average my life has been, you’d know why I’m smiling at that statement.”

She looked at him like there was a better chance of her believing he could fly and reached into her oversized bag. “I got you a present.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded, pulled out what was clearly a wrapped record and passed it to him. Dave looked at his reflection in the silver wrapping and wished he didn’t look so tired. He tore open the top right corner and pulled out the record to reveal a twelve-inch of Crowbar’s “Too True Mama”. Excitement ran through him, and despite the crowd of people around them, he looked at her like she was the only person on the planet.

“Thank you.”

“That’s the song your mother used to play, right? I was sure it was, then I panicked and thought it might be ‘Oh What a Feeling’.”

“This is the one,” he said, holding the record high.

“I’ll hold it in my bag for you, so you don’t have to carry it.” He passed her the record and gestured to the bar. “Are you up for a shot?”

She nodded, and he started through the crowd.

As soon as he turned, the comfort Amy enjoyed began to dissipate. She took a deep breath in an effort to stave off a gag and pivoted to open up the room, when she felt the hard stare of a man with close-cut brown hair.
He’s not looking at you,
she told herself.
It’s in your head.
She turned away and looked back to see him moving through the crowd in her direction. A thick moustache robbed his mouth of expression, and his eyes were solemn and over-intense in their focus. A quick glance at the bar for Dave could have relaxed her, but all she saw was a sea of bodies.

She moved along the front row, and the man moved with her. A gag forced her jaw to clench, and the man stepped in front of her. She started to scream when the man held up a police badge at eye level.

“Please come with me to the back room.”

He gestured to a red exit sign to the left of the stage, where a woman with dark hair and glasses stood looking stern:

“I don’t understand.”

She looked for Dave again but couldn’t see him.

“I’ll explain when we get to the back. Let’s not draw attention.”

He put a hand on her elbow and steered her toward the exit sign.

“I really don’t understand. I’m just here for a concert.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Dave gave a bartender with heavy blue eye make-up and a face like wax a five dollar tip and was heading back to the front row with two shots of tequila when he saw Amy being escorted out of the room. He handed the shots to the closest guy and bee-lined for Amy.

In the back, the detective with the moustache spoke first. “May I check your bag?”

“For what?”

“May I, or are we going to the station?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We’ve been watching you three months, Crystal. We know everything.”

“Crystal? I’m not Crystal.”

“Of course you’re not.”

“I’m not Crystal. My name is Amy Leonard.”

“Then show me a license and your health card, and you can enjoy the concert.”

Panic sent a wave of tension through her head that made her eyes hurt. “I don’t have my wallet. I’m afraid of losing it, so I gave it to my date.”

“Show me your bag.”

Amy passed her bag to the detective just as Dave entered the room.

“What’s going on?”

“You can’t be back here, sir,” the female detective said.

Dave gestured to Amy. “We’re on a date. I came here with her.”

The male detective looked at his partner, who dropped her head to a photo stuck to a clipboard. The woman’s eyes narrowed for a moment before she nodded.

“What’s her name?”

“Amy Leonard.”

“Do you have ID?”

“I have her ID.” Dave removed Amy’s wallet from his jacket and passed the male detective her license and health card. The detective showed his partner, whose eyes bugged.

“Incredible.” He passed Amy back her identification. “Please accept our apologies, but the resemblance is uncanny. We’ve been watching this woman for months. She’s one of the city’s biggest ecstasy dealers.”

He held up a photo of the woman they’d mistaken Amy for, and Dave stared at it in shock. The features were not just similar, the two women could have been twins. Both had slightly swollen upper lips, brows that gave them a perpetual look of worry and the purest blue eyes he had ever seen.

The crowd erupted, and within seconds, the guitar riff of “Kick Out the Jams” vibrated through the room.

“Once again, we apologize. I hope you understand. Please enjoy the show,” the detective said and extended an arm to the door.

They left the room, and Amy turned to Dave. “You see?”

“I’m sorry that happened. That was crazy.”

“If you weren’t here, I’d be on my way to the station.”

“I got mistaken for a guy who was breaking into cars when I was at university.”

“Did you look like him?”

“Enough to get stopped on the street.”

“Did you see how much I look like that woman?”

“They say everyone has a doppelganger.”

“And mine’s a drug dealer.”

The crowd erupted at the end of the first song, and Dave smiled. “We’re still at an MC5 concert. Let’s have a drink and enjoy the moment.”

“I want to go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m never going to a concert again.”

Fifteen

The phone woke Dave on the third ring.

“Hello?” he said, doing his best to hide that he’d been sleeping. He looked at the clock and saw eight forty-five. He’d slept four hours. Regular patterns had eluded him since the accident, so he’ decided to simply sleep whenever exhaustion allowed him.

“May I Speak with Dave Bolden, please?”

Dave looked at the rain splashing against his window pane. The voice was too alert for such a dull day. He sat upright.

“This is Dave Bolden.”

“Oh hi, Dave, I didn’t recognize your voice. It’s Cheryl Reid from Vatic Media.”

Dave didn’t respond. Vatic Media had been a client before his place of work was destroyed. The name conjured thoughts of his colleagues’ shattered bodies.

“Dave?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“We’re sorry about your tragedy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m calling because we want to offer you a job.”

“A job?”

“You’ve always done great work for us. I’m hoping you can come in today to discuss things.”

“What time?”

“As soon as you can.”

“How about lunch?”

“Lunch works for me. Do you know where we’re located?”

“I do.”

“Okay, I look forward to seeing you.”

He hung up, surprised by the call. A job. He considered the details: Vatic Media, mid-sized company, growing, and comparable pay to what he’d earned with Richter Accounting. The opportunity should have excited him, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the fifteen thousand he’d paid Otto. It would take him three and a half months just to clear fifteen thousand at Vatic Media, let alone have fifteen thousand left over for his dad’s care. Thoughts of sixty-hour work weeks, performance reviews, managers, the hustle for clients, and the wrath of clients left him anxious. In truth, he didn’t want to work any more, not yet anyway. A new feeling washed over him. Part of him wished that Thorrin was right, and he did have the power of luck on his side.

Dave put a tie around his neck for the first time since the accident. He flipped to channel twenty-six, where two stock ticker tapes ran across the bottom of the screen in opposite directions. Maybe if he hit the library, took out every book on the stock market and obsessed over the business channel, he could get competent enough to have a good run with Thorrin. The thought lasted as long as it took the screen to change to a commercial. Numbers always came easy but the market’s science eluded him. He looked at the screen as though what he saw was in a different language, and the host spoke in a code that made him feel inferior—up, down, street names, warrants, EBITPA, ask and bid, short selling, book value, resistance levels and poison pills.

Partnering up with a broker that would give him recommendations in return for fifty per cent of Thorrin’s kickbacks was another option.

But the gains weren’t worth a broker’s risks. Between insider trading and the risk of losing a guy like Thorrin’s money, there was no incentive for a real broker to enter such absurdity.

The first thing Dave noticed at the interview was that Cheryl Reid looked older than he remembered. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and her lips were locked in a smile so toothy, it looked cartoonish. She hugged him for a three count. “We’re so sorry.”

Dave wanted to say “Be sorry for my colleagues, they died,” but he managed to squint with his lips raised in a weak smile.

“Let’s start with a tour.” She led him through a hallway with dull lighting to a cluster of cubicles. “This is the main space.” She knocked on the side of a cubicle, where a woman with short hair faced a computer screen. The name tag read: Ann Hemple. Ann turned her chair to face the knock. “Hi there,” Cheryl waved. “This is Dave Bolden.”

The two exchanged a quick handshake before respectively wiping their hands. Dave wiped his hands because they were sweaty, and Ann probably wiped hers because she wondered where his hands had been.

“Ann is doing all the accounts by herself right now, so you’d be working closely with her if you come aboard.”

Strike one, Dave thought.

A phone buzzed, and Ann spun towards it as if it couldn’t have rung soon enough. She wore an oversized hunter green suit jacket and slacks, and her eyes looked medicated. Cheryl waved goodbye before continuing the tour.

The next stop was a kitchenette with a fridge, a microwave and a plate of morning glory muffins. Ann pointed to a calendar marked with yellow happy faces.

“We have group softball on Tuesdays in the spring and summer, yoga in the fall and winter. And Fridays after work we usually get together at the pub to start the weekend.”

Dave caught himself staring at a sticky note reminding everyone to ante up for the weekly office lotto tickets. This wasn’t a place he wanted to work. He didn’t want to work anywhere yet, and maybe never in an office again.

“I’ve got to be honest,” he said, slowing her momentum. “This is all a little much right now. I mean it’s wonderful for you to make this easy for me, and it looks like a great place to work, but I need some time away from the workplace right now.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Well, we respect that, of course, but we need assistance as soon as possible, so I can’t promise you the job will be available at a later date.”

“I understand.”

He couldn’t get out of the building fast enough. The overhead lighting, the smells of photocopier fluid and cheap coffee, the constant clicking of keyboards and hustling on phones filled him with the need to see what remained of his former workplace. He’d spent more time at Richter accounting than anywhere, and that reality hit him hard as the cab stopped in front of what was left of the office.

“They should put a pizza place here,” the driver said with a gesture at the hollowed-out front. “The neighbourhood needs a pizza place.”

Time seemed to slow as Dave stepped out of the cab. People passed him in both directions, but none of them did more than glance at the broken storefront. He inspected the orange plastic fence someone had unravelled over the perimeter. The sagging in the middle proved the fence hadn’t done its job. He imagined squatters smoking around the rubble that had once been his office or teenagers smashing whatever they could find that wasn’t already destroyed. Other than dust and dirt, the front door looked like it had the last time he’d walked through, which surprised him considering the devastation just a foot away.

A car honking pulled his attention to the road, where a minivan almost pulled into a Lexus SUV. For the first time, he noticed a man watching him from three storefronts down the street. The man didn’t smoke or take it all in while he waited for someone, he just stared at Dave.

Dave looked at the man long enough to notice his black bubble vest, jeans and Maple Leafs hat. The stare made him uncomfortable, but the office’s shell drew his eyes back to its frame. What if it became a pizza shop like the cabbie wanted? The thought frustrated him. People would remember the space for pizza, and his place of work, the place where four of his friends had been killed, would disappear except from his memory. No one else had survived. No one else knew the place for what it was, so while the family members of his dead colleagues might remember their loved ones’ stories of the office, he was the only one left who’d known the place intimately.