“It’s all right, I know you didn’t mean anything, but I’m sensitive about that sort of thing.”
Young stopped shaking his head. “But weren’t we talking about Shorty? We weren’t talking about you.”
Trick gave him a look. “You were talking about dick size.”
The forkful of Yorkshire pudding finished its journey, and Young chewed. “Okay, so let me see if I got this right: from now on I can only discuss things in front of you that don’t involve dick size.”
“Or sex in general.”
“Are you nuts? How am I supposed to know where some topic of conversation’s going to go? How did I know talking about Shorty would lead to a conversation about dick size?”
“Shorty’s lucky,” Trick said darkly. “His troubles are over. Mine have barely started. I’m looking at the rest of my life like this.” He waved his left hand over his wheelchair, his useless right arm, his useless legs. “I could live another forty years.”
“Your troubles have barely started, is that what you said? You’ve been in that wheelchair three fucking years, I would’ve thought by now—”
“By now what? I’d be used to it? How’d you like to piss in a bag all the time and not even know you’re pissing? It’s humiliating. And sometimes I smell like piss.”
“You do not.”
“Don’t tell me I don’t. I know I do. I can smell it. At first I think it’s somebody else, and I say, ‘What the fuck?’ and then I realize it’s me. That’s a good feeling. I’m sure you’d enjoy that feeling. Believe me, brother, it’s not something you get used to.”
The waitress returned and placed four bottles of Labatt’s Blue on their table.
After she left, Young put his fork back down on his plate and said, “So, basically what’s happening is you’re feeling sorry for yourself?”
“Damn right I am.”
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, get used to it. And while you’re getting used to me feeling sorry for myself, I’ll get used to smelling like piss.”
Young took a deep breath, then said, “You need another interest.”
“Another interest?” Trick said. “Oh really. Like what, for instance?”
“Like, I don’t know, like”—Young waved his arms around—“like computers.”
“Computers?”
“Well, I don’t know. There must be something.”
“Computers?” Trick shook his head. He was so angry his black face glowed. “You don’t get it, do you? Everything I was I’m not anymore. I was a good cop and I was good with the ladies. Now I’m neither.”
“You can still do both. You just won’t be able to do as much.”
Trick’s mouth fell open. “I can still do both? How? How can I still do both? I can hold their hand? Camp, when I see a naked woman in a movie, I still get sexual thoughts, just like any other guy, but down below there’s nothing happening. It kills me. And how can I still be a cop? Arrest guys from my wheelchair? ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind stepping over here so I can cuff you?’”
“Bateman offered you a desk job. You could still be involved.”
“Yeah, on a computer. I’d rather shoot myself than sit at a computer.”
“What’ve you got against computers?”
“I don’t know. It’s like ... it’s like playing old-timers hockey after you’ve played contact all your life. I can’t sit at a computer and call myself a cop, no thank you. It’s all or nothing for this mother’s son.”
“So what you’re saying is it’s nothing. Since ‘all’ is no longer available, you’re choosing ‘nothing.’”
Trick looked away.
“All I’m saying is,” Young said, in a quieter voice, “the offer was there. It’s probably still there.”
“Right, and they also offered me permanent disability insurance, which as you know was a whole whack of money which I wouldn’t have got if I went back to work, which is why I took it.”
“Right, so now you’re a rich man who mopes around all day watching TV and telling his friends what a shitty hand you got dealt and being pissed off for the next, what, forty years?”
“You should talk. A few years ago, you were ready to pack it in. You could hardly wait to retire. They offered you a package, too.”
“Yeah, well, that was then. After you got hurt, and after I almost lost Debi and Jamal, things changed. I regained my ... I don’t know, I started to care again ... about my work. So, when the time came, I turned the package down.”
“That’s the difference between you and me. I never stopped caring about my work, and I’m the one that can’t work anymore. I’m the one that got fucked.”
“Yeah, but what I’m telling you is maybe you can work again. You’d just be doing something different is all I’m saying.”
Trick was silent. Then he said, “I was never a complainer before this happened. I never complained.”
“I know that.”
“But it’s hard, brother. I think about police work all the time. It was my life. And I think about sex, too.”
“Sex isn’t such a big deal.”
“Maybe for you it isn’t. You probably haven’t got laid in a year.”
“A year? I haven’t got laid in three years!”
Trick laughed. “You’re not serious.”
“Hell, I am! I haven’t got laid since the old Polish woman that cleans for me fell asleep in the La-Z-Boy.”
Someday Prince made a late kick, but the pace was slow and the horses in front of him didn’t back up. He finished fourth. A small slice of the purse for Doug Buckley, wherever he was, but no photograph for Debi, and the large amount of money Trick and Young wagered wound up in the coffers of the Ontario Jockey Club.
Monday, June 5
Young had just sat down in his cubicle and was peeling the lid off his coffee cup when Wheeler arrived.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
He followed her down the hall. “How was your weekend?”
“Not bad, how was yours?” She opened the door to the half-fridge that stood beside the coffee maker and placed her lunchbox on the top shelf. “Is this your banana in here?” she asked. “It’s all black.”
“No, it’s not mine. Me and Trick—”
“How about this bagel? The one with the mould.”
“Nope, not guilty. Me and Trick lost about two bills each at the track.” He wasn’t looking at her. He blew into his coffee. “Listen, sorry about Saturday night. That phone call. Did I say anything stupid?”
She took off her HOYAS ballcap and shook out her short blonde hair. “I wish people would be a bit more responsible. It’s like living with animals.”
“Wheeler—”
“Yes, you said plenty.”
“Like what?”
“That’s