Hair-Trigger (10 page)

“Priceless.”

“Can you believe it? So then this radio station in L.A. somehow picked up the story. They got my number from the second writer and called for an interview. A news service broadcast it across Canada, the States, Australia and New Zealand, and I started getting calls from radio stations all over North America. I remember this uptight asshole with a British accent from a Victoria station asking me, ‘How do the children respond to you as an etiquette expert? Are they intimidated by you at all?'

“‘No, not really,' I said. ‘Once they realize I'm not some old biddy with a pickle up my posterior, they're okay.' He didn't seem to like that, and broke for a commercial.

“Calgary gave me a hard time. The guy was nice enough to me pre-interview during the sound check, but as soon as he got me on the air live he tried to burn me, saying, ‘You certainly don't sound like an etiquette expert.'

“I shot back, ‘I guess you could say that Doctor Ruth Westheimer doesn't look like a sex expert.' That shut him up. There was dead air for five or ten seconds, then he sort of warmed up a bit.”

Rowe said, “You're famous, then.”

“No . . . I didn't have a book or anything to plug to compensate for my time, so the novelty started wearing thin after a while. When I moved I got an unlisted number.
A couple of months later, Channel Nine tracked me down through the institute and asked me to be on a show about kids and manners, but I turned it down.”

As the streetcar approached the downtown core, Bella looked out the window at the dingy, two-bit businesses and the flotsam and jetsam from a mission who were hanging around the corner of Sherbourne or lying in the park across the street. “I haven't been on the TTC in ten years,” she repeated. “Hey, what did you say your name was again?”

They got off at Yonge and went down into the subway, passing a kid panhandling at the bottom of the stairs. Rowe slid their transfers under the glass of the ticket kiosk and followed her through the turnstile. There were other people on the platform. They walked over to a red bench in the Designated Waiting Area and sat in a pool of light beneath an overhead camera. Opposite, on the tiled wall, there was a mural of the Eaton Centre.

By the time the train hit the St. Clair station, it had been about forty-five minutes since they'd left the last bar. Holding her by the arm as they went up the escalator, he said, “It's only about ten minutes from here.”

“We've gotta
walk
now?”

“Unless we see a cab. We're almost there.”

On the bridge he stopped to draw her attention to the expanse of black valley and the faintly starry sky, then kissed her to try to recover the giddy, over-aged naïf who'd told him how cute he was.
They held hands as they continued along the sidewalk into the familiar district of trees and older, well-to-do homes. Some were covered in ivy, faced by stone or cast in lamp light. East of Mount Pleasant where St. Clair narrowed, the neighbourhood would become more affluent in the maze of streets culminating in a dead-end at the Moore Ravine.

“You're not poor, are you?”

“Look around,” he said. “Does this look like a poor area to you?”

“Well, you don't live in a rooming house, do you?”

“No, it's a one-bedroom apartment.”

At the traffic light, Bella looked at the three-storey building on the southeast corner with the big antenna on its roof. “Wait—you don't live
there
, do you?”

“Yeah, why?”

“My
lawyer
owns it. This is too much.”

They crossed the street. Despite its plain architecture he thought the abundance of hedges and bushes around the property helped present an attractive address, overall.
Too bad the flowers seemed to have been dug up. “My
lawyer
owns this place,” she said again. “Going out with a guy who lives in one of his buildings. Wow.”

Rowe wasn't sure what to make of her tone; she sounded as if she felt she was compromising herself. He gave her rump a slap. “So what's your point? Is he supposed to be a slumlord?”

She waited while he fished out his keys. “I just don't know what he'd think.”

The ledge and floor beneath the panel of metal boxes in the small foyer were littered with junk mail. When they walked down the hall, he noticed all the fingerprints on the door to the stairwell.

She seemed to survey his apartment as they hung up their jackets, looking around at the grey sofa and overstuffed armchair, the plants, dinette set and shelving unit with his magazines and paperbacks. A framed poster with the familiar image of a sailor kissing a girl on V-Day hung on the wall near another of a painting of two prize fighters by George Bellows.

Rowe came over with a cellophane bag of marijuana and a bong fashioned from a toilet paper roll, and sat down beside her on the couch. He sprinkled some weed into the aluminum foil bowl and held the short cardboard tube to his mouth, his palm covering the other end while he lit it, then lifted his hand while inhaling.

“Your taste is just so . . .
different
from mine,” she remarked.

After a moment he said, “Yeah?”

Bella brushed her hair back as she waited for him to refill the pinpricked foil, then took a toke. She coughed and said, “Yeah . . . I mean
really
.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, everything. Like this cheap little coffee table, for example. It's just so different from anything I'd ever buy.”

Rowe understood that he was being insulted. “Do you want a beer or something?”

“A beer. Okay.”

He got up and walked into the kitchen. As he took a bottle from the refrigerator, he heard her talking again. “You just rent this place, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you're forty-five, right?”

“Forty-four.” He twisted off the cap and walked into the living room, skirting the TV rabbit ears. “Why?”

“Wow,” Bella said softly. She looked around as she took a sip, and seemed perplexed.
“Well, look at this place. You've just fucked your life away, haven't you?”

Rowe couldn't quite believe what he'd heard. It was like a clap of thunder. He looked at her as if for the first time, trying to distinguish idle teasing from this sinister revelation which until now he'd only suspected. A total stranger without any agenda had travelled all this way to be with him, and immediately zeroed in on a fact so elementary that it had to have been obvious to anybody who'd ever visited him and secretly scorned, among other things, the coffee table that he'd assembled from IKEA and since burned with cigarettes.

It also seemed to him that this self-involved cunt had morphed into a monster. He drank some beer. “Say what?”

“Well, really. You've pretty much fucked your life away. You're forty-four, you don't own anything. . . .” She waved her hand. “This is it.”

“Well, how did you get your house?” he asked. “You probably married into it.”

“No, I'm in real estate.”

He thought about it as he raised the bottle again. It was both strange and enlightening. Even though he was all over the news, sort of, he didn't have much to show for it.

“Oh, anyway,” she said, brightening, “how many cigarettes do you have? If you can rustle up enough, I'll stay overnight.”

Rowe smiled unpleasantly as he stood up. “No, you're going home. I'm calling you a fucking cab.”

He walked into his bedroom and was flipping through the telephone book when Bella came in and sat down beside him cheerfully. “Hey, you must be really mad at me. I'm sorry about what I said; it's just the way I am—I'm half German and half Russian. I just have to say whatever comes into my head.”

“That's fine,” Rowe said, “but you still have to go.”

“Wow . . . you probably want to hit me.”

He glanced at her as he picked up the phone. “No, I don't give that much of a shit. You were probably right.”

“I don't know if I have money for a taxi.”

“Well, you'd better start looking, because I'm not giving you any.”

13

J
ack Lofton saw a doctor about his sprained ankle after his fall outside the bank, and was given a cane. He'd been drinking for days and had taken to carrying the Beretta in his leather jacket with a full clip. His memories were sketchy, but he knew that he'd been refused service at the liquor store for being inebriated, had lost his bandanna, been too drunk to fuck, and that an alarmed tenant in his building, perhaps thinking he was dead, had alerted the superintendent after seeing his legs sticking out from under the stairs where he'd crawled and fallen asleep.

In periods of hung-over clarity he understood that his money was still safe and he hadn't been arrested. Also, that O'Hara's guy died too, and that as far as he knew he hadn't confessed to any strangers or shot anybody else.

After one of his sporadic sleeps and some leftover pizza, Lofton felt comparatively revived and went down to Marva's basement apartment with a bottle of rye, intending to do himself proud before he got into the sauce. He had too much on his mind to stay sober. Sitting on her sofa in a sleeveless black T-shirt, he smoked a cigarette while she talked on the phone from the adjacent chair. He found her barely recognizable when she dressed sloppily and went around without make-up, especially when her hair was knotted up in those rows.

A door down the hall opened, and a white guy came out. Lofton had almost forgotten about the roommate. What a fucked-up arrangement.
A greasy-looking character in his late twenties walked past the sheet cordoning off her pretend bedroom, and said hey. He nodded to Marva, who gave him a wave on his way out the door.
She kept talking. Lofton got to his feet and took his bottle of Canadian Club into the kitchenette. Aside from a few unwashed dishes, she seemed to keep the place fairly clean and probably wasn't a bad cook if the books and recipes he came across while hunting for a glass were any indication. He flicked his ash into the sink and poured himself a drink with ice and a splash of water.
After a long swallow, he freshened it.

When he returned to the living room, Marva said to whoever she was talking to, “Look, I've gotta go now, okay? Right. Okay, see you . . . yeah. Bye.” She hung up, and tugged her sweat pants as she crossed her legs. “That was Jacqueline. It doesn't look good about her getting her kids back.”

Lofton butted his cigarette. “That's too bad. Listen, this roommate of yours . . . did you say you two ever got together?”

She looked at him in surprise, and laughed. “Tony?
No
. He's not my type at all.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I've got higher standards.”

Lofton reflected on the implicit compliment. “Well, he must have thought something like that'd probably happen when he moved in. He's at least come on to you, hasn't he?”

“No,” she said, looking at him oddly. “Why are you asking? Are you drunk again?”

“No, I'm not
drunk
again.”

He hesitated before lifting his glass.

“When Tony moved in, I told him how it had to be. I hardly ever see him.”

“It's just a strange set-up, that's all.”

“He pays his rent on time. That's all I care about.”

After a pause, Lofton nodded to the coffee table and said, “There're some nice pictures there. I like that one of you in the tank top that looks like it was shot in a studio.”

Marva glanced over. “Oh, yeah. I had this pile of pictures when I took modelling.”

“You were a model?”

“Well, I took a course and got some catalogue work and stuff, but I didn't make enough money to keep doing it.”

Lofton had another drink before he got up from the couch and walked over. He didn't feel entirely sure of himself when he sat on her armrest and leaned down to kiss her. She tilted her head without expression but seemed responsive, so he put his hand on the side of her face and Frenched her.

She drew back and touched his chin. “Your beard scratches.”

They were going to make it this time. He kissed her more gently as he caressed her through the sweatshirt, expecting a bra, and got a lift from the immediacy of her breasts. Firm showbiz tits on the other side of the
NIKE
logo. She put her hand over his, cautioning or helping him, it wasn't clear, while he massaged her and tweaked the definition of a large nipple.

Marva turned her head away. “So, are you just playing, or is this serious? It doesn't matter; I just want to know, that's all.”

He'd been roller coasting from omnipotence to depression and missed having a real confidant, a woman with whom he could share the same kind of rapport he'd had with his ex. At least before things went bad and she told him she was afraid of him.

“I'm serious,” Lofton said, getting off the chair and going onto his knees in front of her. He pulled off her slippers. “I like you a lot.”

“What are you—hey!” She laughed and yanked her foot from his hands.

“Relax,” he said, and gripped her by the ankle, bringing her leg up. He tried to work as many brown toes as he could into his mouth, and sucked them.

“You're crazy
.
”

The Grim Reaper looked at her over the barbed wire circling Lofton's biceps. Lightning bolted up the insides of his arms as he held her calf, licking her sole and instep. “You need this,” he said with a quaver in his voice, maddeningly susceptible these days to every flitting emotion.

“That tickles
,
” she giggled huskily, wiggling her foot.

“Hold still.” He grasped her other ankle and licked between her toes. Then nibbled the baby for good luck.

“This is the first time for
this
,” Marva said.

Lofton got to his feet and took her by the hand.

“Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

He led her down the hall and pushed the sheet aside. Marva crawled onto the bed beside him and lay down. “You're not the kind of guy who always wants to have sex, are you?” Her hand was against his chest as he leaned over her. “Like, you don't get mad if a girl doesn't want to sometimes, are you?”

“I don't know.” He had to stop her from talking, and blocked her next query with his mouth. Her arm slowly went around him. Even though his hands were on her breasts, she rolled over when the telephone rang. Lofton lowered his zipper and adjusted his prick, and watched her face go from half-dazed and sexy to blank again as she talked in that annoying, zombie way.

“I got a friend here,” she said into the phone.
“Remember, from before?”

He leaned on his elbow and waited.

“Here,” she said, holding out the receiver. “It's Tyrone. He wants to talk to you. When he phoned here yesterday I told him he shouldn't be calling anymore.”

Lofton tensed, and formed a scowl as he moved up against her and took it. “What the fuck do you want?”

“You better get the fuck outta there,
bitch
, 'fore I be blowin' you away.”

The line wasn't very clear. He hoped Marva couldn't feel his heartbeat as he saw everything ensnaring him in a vast conspiracy of shit. As steady and threatening as possible, he said, “You're the faggot with the one-inch dick, right? I'm about to fuck somebody the way she
likes
to be fucked, then I'm going to get my Beretta and fucking shoot you a new asshole if you ever fucking call here again. I'm going to ask her right now where you live.”

“
Fool
! My posse's gonna waste your white . . .”

Lofton handed the phone back. Marva laughed incredulously as she hung up. “With the one-inch
dick
? I could not
believe
what you were saying!” Then, remembering to take it off the hook, she turned over and said, “And you're going to shoot him a new
what
?”

He got up to take a leak, then find his drink and cigarettes. Maybe that would be the end of Tyrone, but he doubted it. Having finished most of his rye and water, Lofton walked slowly into the kitchen to refill his glass, and then crossed the hall to find that she'd gone to the washroom herself.
He eased onto her bed without spilling anything, and looked at her rack of dresses and the hats on the overhead hooks. He could be shot to death as easily in a cramped basement in Parkdale as anywhere else. Could be, motherfucker Ty-
rone
had hisself a key made, or just had to knock and he'd be inside.

When Marva came in, he leaned on his elbow and asked, “So, where's your ex-boyfriend living now?”

“You mean Tyrone? I don't think he's got a regular address. If he's not at my friend's place, he's still somewhere around Jane and Finch most likely. I don't think he's up there right now, though,” she added, stretching out beside him.

“How do you know?”

“He was on his cell. They're probably out cruising or buying crack, or something stupid like that.”

Lofton tried to put it out of his mind and get back to business. Taking another drink, he put his glass on her chest of drawers and turned over to kiss her. She was responding less passionately as he put his hand on her side and went under the top, sliding over an outline of ribs to the warmth and curve of her breasts. He was pulling her sweatshirt up over her nipples when Marva stopped him. “Look, I'm sorry, I'm fucked up,” she said, adjusting herself. “I . . . I don't know if you want to forget me and go home or what, but I find sex disgusting.”

Lofton sat up and reached for his glass. “Jesus fucking
Christ.
”

She looked at him defiantly.

“What
is
this shit? The first time, you told me you wished we weren't doing it.”

“That's because nothing works out if it happens right away. I explained why.”

“You seemed all right the other times,” he said, “when I wasn't drunk, I mean. Were you just faking it, or what?”

“No. Never. How can you ask that?”

He was at a loss. She was too much. He lit a smoke and decided to start drinking seriously.

“I think I'm going to be a prostitute,” Marva said. “That's all guys seem to want anyway. . . .”

“You're saying you did come with me, though. At least once you had an orgasm.”

“Yes!”

“So then what do you mean, you find it ‘disgusting'?”

She sat up and folded her arms. “I might as well start making money since my relationships are always fucked up. I didn't want to go out with black guys anymore because they're so unreliable, but with everyone there's the same shit.
And look how you were talking about me to Tyrone.”

The rye was sluggishly alleviating his hangover. After another couple to stabilize him for the road, he'd be gone. “I was insulting him—obviously. He was threatening to fucking kill me.”

There was a short silence. “So, how were you going to shoot him?” she asked. “You were just kidding, right?”

He took a weary drag from his cigarette. “Baby, I never kid.”

“So, have you got a gun or what? Because he does.”

“Maybe.”

She was skeptical. Lofton took in her dark eyes and wide nose, her broad cheekbones and the thick lips. She certainly seemed different with her hair in those funky ghetto twists. There was something definitely not right about a stripper wearing sweats and playing virgin. “Do you want to see?” he asked patiently. “First pour me another drink with ice, a third water. And bring the bottle.
Please
.”

When she padded off to the kitchenette, Lofton got up and walked to the closet. He liked the leather fragrance of the coats. As he reached into the pocket of his spiked jacket he considered a shoulder holster, or one that strapped around his ankle in case he was frisked. But then he'd need baggy pants, and it'd still be too hard to draw if some faux Ice T tried to take him out.

He wasn't going to hang around much longer, no matter what she was angling for. His nerves were too uneven with all the bullshit going on. There was a feeling that gangstas were going to be at the door any minute.

Twenty minutes later, with his rye in a bag beneath one arm, Lofton went down her dark driveway between the houses with his cane. He wasn't drunk, but he wasn't feeling as much pain in his leg either.

As he neared the sidewalk he noticed some black males in a vehicle by the curb farther down the block. He couldn't make out the details without looking directly at them, and felt for the Beretta while he headed north towards King, glancing over his shoulder as he crossed the street for the cover of parked cars. He made it to the other side before they pulled out into the road behind him. Lofton recognized what appeared to be a type of assault weapon poking out the window as they accelerated. He dropped awkwardly to the sidewalk behind a minivan, breaking his bottle as the air was cracked by a succession of bullets raking the cars and shattering glass above him.