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  “The Old Man.”

  “Of course The Old Man. Who else is going to beat up a gangster’s son? Poppa was always wailing on Tommy — in private, you understand, never in front of me or his crew — trying to knock some sense into that shaggy head of his.” Grover shook his head. “I don’t think it worked.”

  I resisted the urge to grab Grover’s scrawny body and throw his ass overboard. “That shit never works.”

  “It’s in the Bible, Jack. Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

  “Since when did you find religion?”

  “Oh, I’ve always believed in God, Jack. Look around.” Grover threw his arms open wide, encompassing the lake and the boats and the birds. “You think all this happened by accident? All things move according to a divine plan.”

  The sun hit my face and I squinted. “Yeah, well, Tommy’s divine plan is to seize The Empire. He wants me to collect on his dad’s debts.”

  “His dad’s debts? That’s going to be tricky.”

  “I know.”

  “The Old Man’s in the hospital. He’s in a coma, Jack.”

  “I know.”

  Grover fished a long, thin joint from his front pocket and sparked it up. “So what’s your end? Two percent? Five?”

  “We haven’t talked money.”

  Grover shook his head. “Jack, what I’m about to say I’m saying as a friend, okay? This guy Tommy, he’s got his hooks in you. He’s hooked you and you’re dangling on his line. You know what comes next?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Grover squinted. “You get gutted.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The receptionist, Sylvia, peered at me over the top of her glasses. “You’re hear to see Mr. Mezell?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Tell him it’s regarding the two guys who came to see him the other day.”

  “You really should make an appointment. Mr. Mezell is a very busy man.”

  “Would you do me a favour? Could you see if he can squeeze me in?” I turned on what I thought was a charming smile. Sylvia reeled back like I just threw dung in her lap.

  “Wait here.”

  One hushed conference behind closed doors later, Sylvia emerged from the inner office and held open the door. “Go on in.”

  Joey put his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers. “So, you’re back.”

  “I’m back.”

  “I must say, I’m surprised to see you here. Can I offer you a drink? Mineral water?”

  “No thanks.”

  Joey leaned back and waited for me to explain myself. I didn’t. I sat straight and stared right at him. Finally Joey Machine grinned. “That’s a good trick. The ol’ Silent Treatment. But I’m afraid I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want.”

  “I told you what I want. Tommy’s money.”

  “You sure I can’t offer you a drink? Espresso? Tea? I believe I’m going to have a little something.” Joey Machine leaned into his intercom. “Sylvia, could you send in some tea, please?”

  “Right away, Mr. Mezell.” Only one wall separated us but Sylvia was in another dimension. A dimension of tax forms and appointment books, wall calendars and clocks. Joey Machine and I lived in a different dimension. A dimension of blood.

  I waited until the hit man finished stirring his tea. Then I kept waiting.

  “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time …”

  “Jack.”

  “I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Jack. Say I was this person you think I am. And say this person had debts to this young man’s father. Tommy, was it? Tommy’s father. If that was true, then any debts that may have accrued are to Tommy’s father, not Tommy.”

  “Tommy doesn’t see it that way.”

  “No.” Joey Machine smiled sadly. “I suppose he wouldn’t.” Joey started to stand, so I stood, too. I kept glancing down at the hit man’s hands. The Chief taught me that years ago. “Always watch the hands. They can’t pull something on you if you’re always watching the hands.”

  The old man laughed and held up his liver-spotted hands, palms facing me. “Nothing up my sleeves, either. Jack, you seem like a competent guy. Why are you really here?”

  “Just trying to pay off a debt.”

  “Mine? Or yours?” Joey’s eyes narrowed into slits. “They’ve got something on you … I wonder what. Did they threaten your family? No, no, nothing like that. You’re not a family man. In fact, you hate your family. Oh yes … I’m right. You live alone in a small apartment. You own almost nothing. You move through this world like a ghost.”

  Joey stepped closer. I stepped back. I kept watching his hands.

  “In some ways we’re a lot alike. All this …” Joey gestured to his office, “all this is nothing. A house made of smoke. One puff and it disappears, and so do I.”

  “And Sylvia?”

  The hitman smiled. “A generous severance package. She’ll never have to work again. She’ll spend her time with her bridge club, talking about the nice old man she used to work for.”

  I nodded. “That’s real sweet. And here I thought you would just kill her. Abandon her in a shallow ditch. Move on to the next person you can use.”

  Joey’s face went hard. “You can think what you want.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve been wrong before. You’re the hit man with a heart of gold — why not?”

  Joey Machine stared at me with flat, cold eyes. Snake eyes. “Your information is wrong. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You say you’re a nice guy — I believe you. I believe you’re nice enough to help me help a son make his old man proud. Let’s clear the air. You give me the money, I give it to Tommy, he gives it to The Old Man, everybody’s happy. The Old Man’s happy because he got his money and his son did a good job for once. Tommy’s happy because The Old Man is happy. I’m happy because Tommy is happy. And you … you’re happy because you’ve done the right thing.”

  Joey suddenly smiled again, his Dapper Old Man mask once again clamped tight against his skull. “I would love to help you spread the joy, Jack. But as I’ve said, this is a case of mistaken identity. I’m not who you think I am.”

  So this was how he wanted to play it. All song and dancey. An elegant, elaborate routine, a magic show complete with smoke and mirrors and a glued-on goatee. “Well … as I’ve said, I’ve been wrong before. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “Not at all, not at all.”

  I walked sideways toward the door, keeping the hit man in my line of sight. At the door I turned. “Just one more thing.”

  Joey Machine looked annoyed. “Yes?”

  “Say you are who I think you are. And let’s say you do in fact owe Tommy’s dad some money. If that’s the case, then you owe that money to Tommy now. He and his business associates are not going to let that slide.”

  “I’m sure this man Tommy realizes there’s certain costs to doing business. In any business there are write-offs. In my business we call it Goodwill. If Tommy is smart, he’ll write this off.”

  “Let’s say for the sake of argument that Tommy’s not that smart. Then what happens?”

  The hit man leaned back. “You know, Jack, when you get to be my age you’ve learned a few things. I like to think of myself as a student of history. Fascinating subject. The study of history is the study of epic conflict. The grand cavalcade of human experience rampaging across the earth. Armies clashing in the night. Empires rising from the dust. Amazing if you think about it. First a collection of tents by the river, or maybe some mud huts. Then someone steps forward and says, ‘the people who live in those huts across the river … let’s go get them. Kill the men, enslave the women, steal the horses, steal the grain.’ Then you do that again, and then you do that again. That’s how empires get built. It’s been said that Peace brings Prosperity, but that’s wrong. Peace brings Death. To achieve prosperity, you have to take it. You form an empire from blood and swea
t and mud, one brick at a time. I’ve learned this in my studies. Do you know what else I’ve learned?”

  “Tell me.”

  “No empire lasts forever.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I wanted to get the fuck out of Dodge. Hail a cab, pass the driver a hundred, and tell him to floor it. Leave a trail of burnt rubber across the city, CN Tower looming on the horizon. Rush into the bar and grab Suzanne with one hand and an ice-cold bottle of vodka with the other. Call Tommy from a roadside stop and tell him to go fuck himself. Then Suzanne and I would nestle back in our hotel hideaway. We’d eat pancakes with sausages and syrup in the morning and make love all afternoon as the big rigs blared by, rattling the windows. It’d be a good couple of days, maybe weeks. Then there’d be the knock on the door. Would Tommy come himself? Yeah, probably. Him and a couple of guys. They’d shoot first, and if they were lucky they’d get me in the stomach or the knee. That would take me down but not out. I’d still get to hear Tommy’s nasal voice drone on about Loyalty and Betrayal. If they missed, though … that would be it for them. No second chances. I’d paint the room with blood.

  In the end, I’d still be dead. The knock on the door could come at any time. Why fear it? To be happy one must accept the inevitable. What do they say in AA? “The serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

  The situation with Tommy, though. That I could change. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. This game would end with Tommy shaking my hand and wishing me well. Then I could walk off into the sunset with a briefcase full of cash and the woman of my dreams.

  To get the dream payoff I would have to hustle. I would have to collect Tommy’s dad’s debts and I would have to do it fast. Joey Machine was going to pay up, he just didn’t know it yet. I’d be back for him, but for now there were plenty of others on Tommy’s list.

  The racetrack was like a video game except no one was tossing barrels as you advanced up the levels. First floor you’ve got your hoi polloi, guys with five o’clock stubble and rumpled shirts. Air electric with anticipation, the crowd surging forward as the trumpet sounds. Next level up you’ve got a central bar and fat guys with florid faces drinking G&Ts from plastic cups. There’s a few women here and there and shorter lineups at the betting booths. To access the next level you have to go through a turnstile and pass by a security guard. Still no barrels. This next level is pretty swanky: a nicer bar, women in dresses and sun hats, guys in suits drinking red wine. The crowds thin out up here. Then there’s another set of stairs leading up to an even nicer bar, wood-panelled and totally enclosed, isolated from the rest of the racetrack.

  A jockey about the size of a sack of potatoes was perched on a stool at the bar, drinking whisky and talking to a beautiful brunette in a low-cut black dress.

  I tapped the jockey on the shoulder and he didn’t even look up. “Sorry … no autographs.”

  “Tommy will be so disappointed.”

  The jockey jerked at the sound of Tommy’s name. That’s the reaction I was looking for. None of that Who’s Tommy bullshit I got from Joey Machine.

  The jockey put his tiny hand on the brunette’s exposed knee. “Sorry, darling. I’ll deal with this and then I’ll be right back.”

  The brunette looked confused. “Who’s Tommy?”

  “A guy I know. Business associate. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  With a flick of her hair the brunette glided away. The jockey swivelled on his stool. I could tell he was nervous, but he was trying to play it cool. “Look, man —”

  “Jack.”

  “What?”

  “The name’s Jack.”

  “Uh … look, Jack. I told Tommy he doesn’t have to worry. He’ll get his money.”

  “I’ve got some bad news for you. If I’m here, that means Tommy’s worried.”

  “No, seriously. Trust me.” The jockey’s arm darted up and the little prick threw his glass of Scotch at my face. I deked to the left and the heavy glass tumbler sailed on by, splashing me with amber drops of booze. I reached out and tried to grab the jockey, but he was fast, faster than me. He vaulted from the bar stool and skittered off down the stairs.

  I was off and running before I even realized what was happening, taking the stairs three at a time and then cutting through the crowds, eyes fixed like lasers on the jockey as he disappeared beneath a flock of sun hats.

  I caught the back of the jockey’s suit and shoved him into a bathroom. I pinned the little prick against the wall and held them there, wriggling.

  “Tommy wants his money.”

  “Fuck Tommy!”

  I shook my head. “There’s two ways we could’ve done this. The hard way and the easy way. You picked the hard way.”

  “Fuck you!” The jockey’s foot lashed out, but I caught it before it slammed into my groin. It was over in seconds. I flipped the jockey backward into the wall. He got acquainted with the concrete face-first, blood spraying against white paint. There was a sharp cracking like the splintering of wood as I broke both the jockey’s arms. The heel of my shoe ground down on the little man’s hands. Another kick to the chin and he went down for the count, lying against the wall at an awkward angle, blood bubbling from his mouth, a dark stain spreading on his fine white shirt.

  “Hold it right there!”

  I bolted, plowing through the security guards at the door. Outside a woman screamed. There was blood on my shirt. I bumped into a guy carrying a hot dog: yellow mustard smeared my shirt and mixed with the blood. Someone threw a random punch and I blocked it, running purely on instinct. I saw specks of bobbing blue in the crowd ahead: the cops closing in.

  I dodged past the bar and ducked through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I jogged through concrete corridors, pipes twisting overhead, a faint tinny radio blaring from somewhere. Up ahead a door said EXIT and I was free.

  I took two cabs, a streetcar, a subway, and another cab. I walked the remaining four blocks to Suzanne’s bar. She grinned as I stumbled in.

  “Back for more, eh? What is it about this place? The ambiance? Must be the ambiance.”

  “Ambiance is everything,” I croaked as I eased myself down onto a bar stool. My hands throbbed. “Do you have any rubbing alcohol?”

  Suzanne shot me a sly smile. “Sorry, Jack. We don’t serve that stuff here. If you’ve hit rock bottom, you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

  “Not to drink. I ran into some trouble down at the track.”

  I hauled my bruised and bloody mitts up from my sides and Suzanne winced.

  “Jesus, Jack. What the hell happened?”

  “I beat up a jockey.”

  “Did he come in last?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Suddenly Suzanne looked sad, so sad. Eyes wet, she turned away. Her eyes said it all. For her I was just another violent man in a long line of violent men.

  “Babe, look at me. That man I beat up … he attacked me. I didn’t like hurting him, but he was a bad guy.”

  “And you’re not.”

  “No. I’m just a guy trying to do what’s right.” I held up my bloody hands. “Some day all of this will be over. We’re almost there. I just need a little more time.”

  “How much time?”

  “A month, tops. A couple of weeks. Soon. Very soon.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.”

  Suzanne watched me, weighing my words. “You promise?”

  “I do.” I reached out and took her hand in mine. My hand was warm from heat and blood. Hers was cool and pale. Blood slid from my hand to hers, raspberry on white linen. “I promise. Soon all this will be over, and you and I will have the lives we deserve.”

  She smiled, her eyes lighting up the bar’s twilight murk.

  We headed back to her place. On the couch I tried to kiss her but she turned away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Suzanne hid her eyes. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone before. I come from a violent family. M
y dad, my mom, my brother … screaming matches, hurled bottles, broken windows. My dad, red-faced drunk and sweating, my brother and me screaming and crying as he loomed over us with a belt in his hand. You see these scars? Cigarette butts. My mom was a smoker. I made the mistake of telling her once what my brother was doing to me late at night. She blamed me …” Suzanne choked back a sob. “The first time I ran away from home I was twelve years old. I got as far as the truck stop about half a mile from my house. These two truckers … I threw sand in their eyes and kicked one of them in the crotch and ran. Back at home I wanted to go to the doctor but Mom wouldn’t let me. ‘Just wait until your father finds out,’ she kept saying. That night my dad beat me so hard I shat blood for a week. My brother thought it was funny. He kept sneaking into my room at night. One night I told him to stop but he wouldn’t so I hit him with a water glass. Cut him pretty bad. He hurt me worse. I ran away again six months later, but this time I brought my dad’s gun. It wasn’t easy, but I’ve been on my own ever since.” Suzanne fell silent. She glanced at me, her eyes shining with moonlight. “At the bar you talked about ‘the lives we deserve.’ I don’t deserve to be happy.”

  “Bullshit. Of course you do.”

  Suzanne laughed a horrible hollow laugh. “You deserve happiness. You deserve someone … better than me.” She brushed away a tear.

  I took her hand. “These things that happened to you … they’re terrible things. They don’t make you a terrible person. Your parents, your brother … they’re terrible people, and they will burn in hell. You went through something that no one should ever have to go through, ever. You’ll always bear the scars and the memories, but in time even the worst scars fade. You’ve been through some bad times, but you’re not a bad person. You hear me? It’s not your fault.”

  Suzanne laughed through her tears. A snuffly laugh but a real one. “The way you say that, it’s almost like you believe it.”

  “I do.”

  That night we tossed and tumbled, once again moving from her living room to the bedroom, buttons flying from my shirt as she yanked it open, her own shirt long gone, black lacy bra barely containing her milky-white breasts. I spun her around and got my hands around the waistband of her jeans and panties and yanked them down, jeans and panties around her knees, my hands gripping her fabulous alabaster ass as I gently pushed her toward the bed.