Chris asked me what I was doing. I didn’t answer, just set my teeth and shifted into third gear. For once, he did not overrule me. I suppose there wasn’t time.
Sirens below us, too. A major road looped the two largest lakes, Banook and Micmac, and I could tell that police cars were coming up toward the mall from that direction as well. So I turned right on the last street above the school and gunned it. We both knew it was a dead end.
What you got in mind there, pal? Chris asked.
I wasn’t sure if I had anything in mind, if there was any mind to it. I did know that we were being pincered from two directions, and probably from a third, and that there was no conventional access road out. Maybe, in retrospect, I’d intended only to park and duck down, pretend it was an empty car, or abandon the car altogether and run. I’m not sure when I remembered, or how I mentally measured the space requirements, but at some point, some fraction of a second during that drive, I thought of the path up from the highway that we sometimes took as middle school students, when we had, for whatever reason, wanted to avoid the overpass. The path was gravel and steep but it ran directly down onto the highway next to the pillars of the overpass. I could not recall a ditch or any other impediment. I remembered only a smooth transition to blacktop.
This was the path I had walked up the day Dusty broke my arm in a fight.
I did not slow down until the Fiero was on top of the incline. I remember Chris reaching over with his seat belt and punching it into the clasp, then leaning back and bracing himself with both feet planted on the floor. I tipped the car nose over and felt the tremendous angle threaten to somersault us, but I geared down at the same time, and the tires bit into the gravel. We slid all the way down, fishtailing, swooping, and grinding. I kept us from toppling by twisting the steering wheel this way and that like I was playing an arcade game. We were almost sideways when we reached bottom. We were also facing the right direction. I pulled onto the road and accelerated.
It happened so fast, I’m not sure any witnesses would have even believed their eyes.
My
expert driving manoeuvre made Chris feel extra satisfied by the entire undertaking, and he suggested we celebrate big time. Instead of counting the loot in a basement or at the shed, we decided to get a suite at the nicest hotel in Halifax, the Sheraton. I was good with this. It seemed right. Something about participating in an active way had changed the game for me a little. I was still ragged and heavy but there was a part of me that had enjoyed myself.
First we had to stop by Chris’s house for a new pair of jeans and to return his father’s gun. The acid-washed jeans were ripped along the side, and Chris’s leg, from hip to mid-thigh, was scraped bad and oozing blood. I was relieved it was only a scrape, having assumed, from the blood stain and the awkward way he stumbled out of the forest, that he had been shot. But no, that wasn’t it.
Chris had a bit of wonder in his voice.
I was running faster than I’ve ever run before, and when I got to the high grass that sinks down the hill before the forest, I just kept going and jumped like I was jumping off a cliff.
I was a little alarmed at the idea that he could be so filled with bliss as to try and fly.
I expected to land on dirt, Chris continued, but there’s all kinds of shit down that hill. I think I hit a shopping cart, a concrete block, and a truck tire before I stopped rolling. Not sure how I scraped the thigh. I was so adrenalin-pumped, I didn’t
even know it happened. I was a little off line and couldn’t find the path, so I kind of threw myself into the blueberry bushes and cut straight over. And then—he paused—you’ll love this part.
I knew I wouldn’t.
When I finally crossed the path, I immediately came across these two kids walking up from the lake.
I felt myself go cold.
What are the odds of that? Chris asked. They must have been swimming, and then they were heading home through the woods. They were barefoot and still dripping. And we just kind of stared at each other for about five seconds, before I crashed through the woods to the street and found you.
Fuck, I said. It was this kind of thing, an impossible-to-predict occurrence, that I knew would be our downfall.
Don’t worry, Chris said. I had my helmet on. They didn’t see squat.
Never tell a heavy not to worry. Naturally, he’ll do nothing but.
Chris
paid for the hotel room with cash he pulled out of the duffle bag. This seemed inadvisable to me, but the clerk at the desk acted as though it were done all the time.
The room was a hell of a lot nicer than the dump in New York. Two king-size beds. A desk and a couch and a giant TV. A view out over the city. Some kind of steam shower in addition to a humongous bath. Two toilets, one without a lid, which Chris explained to me was a special washing kind for French people.
I felt an incredible pent-up urge to take a dump, and
announced that the bathroom would soon be uninhabitable. I left the door half open and my grunts and other sound effects actually echoed within. I heard Chris laughing in disgust, and then he tossed something in, like a package of a half dozen bars of soap or some plastique.
At least do something useful while you’re in there, he said.
A block of twenties sealed in grey plastic. I leaned over, stretched out, and picked it up. The heft on my bare thighs was remarkable. I had nothing to cut it open with so I gnawed through, like a hyena tearing into the sinews of some carcass. When I finally ripped the plastic, the bills spilled out like cards from a new deck, slippery and distinct. It was the freshest money I had ever handled. I sat for the next half hour and counted, laying the stacks on the floor at my feet.
Eight thousand even, I said when I emerged, my pants still around my ankles.
I’m assuming you washed your hands before counting, Chris said.
Holy shit, I said, seeing more piles of money all around him on the bed.
I just got to ten thousand, he told me. Maybe another thousand still to go in small bills.
I noticed a green Heineken bottle between his knees.
Where’d you get the beer?
Mini-bar, he said. Nothing but imported shit.
I leaned over and pulled out a green bottle.
Grab me a pack of those six-dollar smoked almonds too. I’m feeling flush.
We
were drunk without having had much to drink. We’d stacked the bills and divided them accordingly, six thousand for me, the rest for him, and about nine hundred loose bills left for the night. We ordered room service and had surf and turf, though neither of us were big lobster fans. It was, however, the most expensive entree on the menu. We watched TV while we ate. Some pre-Olympic track meet was on, and the announcers were very excited about the one hundred.
I wonder if I started training for real if I could make the Olympics, Chris said.
I snorted.
No, man. I bet I ran as fast as any of these guys today, running across that parking lot.
I could tell he was serious.
Maybe if sirens are going off while you’re running, you might not finish dead last.
He threw a lobster tail at me.
We were both bored soon, exhausted, and yet utterly amped.
Problem is, Chris said, I just don’t feel like going out.
I seconded that.
He picked up the phone and took the receiver off the cradle.
Let’s see if Susan wants to come over and party.
Oh, great, I said.
He called the restaurant where Susan worked. No personal calls were allowed, but he convinced whoever answered that it was a family emergency. A minute later, Susan came on and he told her to calm down, that everything was fine.
I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down. I listened to Chris telling Susan some bullshit story about how we’d come
into money. Some rich family from Saudi Arabia with about thirty people had ordered rickshaw rides for the evening nonstop and then tipped a thousand bucks. Yes, a thousand bucks. And now we were splurging on room service at the Sheraton.
All right, he said. Great. See you around eleven.
He hung up.
She believed that shit? I said.
A woman will believe pretty much anything, he said.
Well, I guess I got until eleven before I find myself a taxi home, huh.
I had been hoping to rage all night, but I was tired enough to go home.
Nah, brother, she’s going to bring a friend from work. You might just get lucky or something.
We
both fell asleep. When I heard the pounding on the door and the voices outside, my first thought was that the cops had arrived. But then I could tell it was not cops, and I stumbled over and opened the door wearing only my jeans.
Room service, Susan said.
She was wearing her work skirt and the golf shirt that went with it, and plastic flip-flops.
This is Rebecca, she added. We cocktail together.
Rebecca was taller and bigger-haired but dressed the same way.
I can’t stay long, Rebecca said.
Chris called them in. I stepped aside, still sleepy but aroused. Rebecca was not my type but how could I complain?
Susan walked by me, surveyed the room, and then slid onto the bed next to Chris, also shirtless, sockless, and tussle-haired.
So what have you two really been up to? she asked.
Just like I told you, baby, Chris said. Arabs and rickshaws. I’m a Ben-Hur motherfucker.
The girls were hungry so we ordered nachos and chicken wings, just before the kitchen closed. We also asked for two bottles of champagne.
Saudi guy insisted we get champagne, Chris said.
I think I need a Saudi guy, Susan said.
Sheik Abdullah at your service, Chris said.
He offers very special magic carpet ride, I added.
By the time the food arrived, we were all sitting on beds, Rebecca on the edge of mine, which I took as a sign that she could barely control her lust for me.
We had a weird energy going on, as a group. Susan was more sarcastic and critical than normal, but also flirty and awkward. At one point, she picked up a chicken wing and drew on Chris’s chest with the barbecue sauce. He told her to fuck off, so she hopped off the bed and drew on my chest too. I did not protest as much, though the odd-shaped appendage was a creepy, if not stomach-turning, pen. Rebecca put her feet up and mentioned her sore legs, so soon I was massaging her calves. Then she flipped over and I was massaging her shoulders and lower back, and I had a full and upright erection poking through my jeans, clearly visible to Susan and Chris, but they made nothing of it, just watched us as we all continued to converse.
Wait, Susan said.
Wait what? Chris said.
Isn’t this the hotel with the indoor-outdoor pool? she asked.
Chris picked out one of the brochures from the fancy leather folder and said, Yeah, the one and only.
I want to try it, Susan said. She told Rebecca how cool it was. You can swim indoors, but if you want to go outside, you swim under a barrier, and you’re on the roof so the view is amazing.
One problem, I pointed out. I don’t think any of us have any swimsuits.
Ain’t anyone swimming right now anyway, Chris said. Pool’s got to be closed.
So let’s go! Susan said.
I don’t think so, Chris said.
Why not? Susan hit him on the chest.
I fell today and scraped the shit out of my thigh.
Where? Susan asked.
On the concrete sidewalk.
I mean where on your thigh. Not too high, I hope. She started to undo his button fly.
Chris stopped her. Last I knew you weren’t a nurse.
Oh, you want your mother or something?
Jesus, why don’t you go swimming?
He was joking, I think, but it sounded a bit harsh.
I’m up for investigating the situation, I said.
For once, I was more sober than Chris. That explains my cunning.
So Susan, Rebecca, and I headed out for the pool. We left Chris with the remote control, flipping channels.
The hotel was utterly silent, except for our hushes and giggles. The elevator opened up, and although the room was dark,
we could smell pool and see the filtered green light of the water, glowing. We stood on the deck and Susan pointed out how the edge of the pool was blocked by a window, but if you swam below the window, you were outside.
So who’s going to swim? she asked.
I don’t think so, Rebecca said. No suit.
What’s the difference between bra and panties and a bikini? Susan asked.
Rebecca shrugged.
Suit yourself, Susan said, and she pulled off her shirt, winnowed out of her skirt, and stepped into the water like Aphrodite returning to the surf.
I eyed Rebecca and encouraged her to do the same.
I can’t, she said.
Someone better come in, Susan said, treading water.
I pulled off my shirt and dropped my jeans. I wanted to cannonball but refrained, and merely jumped feet first.
It’s nice and warm, I said.
Susan turned around, and with two dolphin kicks, she was under. I saw her faint undulating form swimming away, toward the glass wall, and shimmering under it, as though she had passed into a dream.
I’m going back down, Rebecca said.
Whatever, I thought, and followed Susan under the water.
When I emerged on the other side, I could not find Susan at first. The water was flat and undisturbed. I felt some alarm, as though I had indeed been chasing a dream. Then I saw that she was out of the water and perched on the roof ledge, knees hugged into her chest. She was looking out at the harbour.
I swam close to her and hooked my chin on the edge of the pool, then floated with my arms and legs free, as nonchalantly as I could manage.
Nice view? I asked.
There was a full moon that night, or nearly full. It cascaded upon the harbour and us. Susan was wearing a black bra and red panties, and the moonlight on her skin made her the most beautiful sight I’d ever witnessed.
You still hate me? she asked.
I blew at the water like a horse. The noise seemed inappropriate, like making a rude sound in church.