Candy strutted onstage dressed in black leather and chains, possibly a last-minute change in the program due to the guests of honour, who were currently hooting and breaking glasses in the front row.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Becker said to me. He turned to Morrison. “Why the hell did you bring her in here? Are you out of your mind?”
“She has something for you. I didn’t think it could wait, seeing why you’re here and everything.”
Candy was doing some very interesting gymnastics and had appropriated a beer-bottle from one of the bikers. I stopped looking.
“What couldn’t wait until tomorrow? I was just getting some information from Jed Sheeney that could have wrapped that money-issue right up.”
There were shouts from the front table and I glanced over at the stage just in time to see the beer bottle disappear. I felt like throwing up.
“Isn’t that illegal, you guys? I mean, geez,” I said and knocked back my draft, which tasted like weasel piss.
Morrison moved over, so that my view of the stage was blocked. I can’t say I minded much.
“Yeah, Ms. Deacon, it is illegal. Like some other things,” Becker said, “but there’s no point trying to do anything about it. Know what I mean? Strippers keep these guys off the street, where they could do real harm. What’s so urgent? You still can’t keep out of it, eh?” He moved in a little and I stood my ground, reached into my pocket and brought out the money, which I held out to him. It occurred to me that, while Morrison had been worried about being seen to accept money in the Tim Horton’s, Becker had no such compunction about it in Kelso’s. He grabbed it.
“What’s this?” he said, taking off the rubber band and counting it.
“It’s John’s four hundred bucks,” I said. “The moneyissue you wanted to tie up. I found it in a bag of dog food I took from Travers’ kitchen when I picked up Lug-nut. Morrison said you were here trying to find out who John owed money to, and we thought it would help if you actually had it.”
He was turning it over and over in his hands, then he stashed it away in his leather jacket. It was a nice jacket. Made him look just like one of the boys.
“When did you say you found it?” he said and caught my eyes and held them. It wasn’t a look that had anything to do with his question. I didn’t know what he was asking, but I felt a vague fluttering of something that could have been optimism.
“I found it this morning, Mark,” I said, “just before I went over to give it to Francy.” I had a sudden flash of him naked. Ouch. Then it was juxtaposed with the memory of Fancy, hanged. I flinched. He was staring into me, and I suddenly realized he was wondering if I was high. The questioning glance had nothing to do with sex. It was that other thing. He would always wonder that, I decided. No matter where we met, no matter what the circumstances, he would always wonder.
“You found it before you found her, you mean,” he said. “And you didn’t tell us until now.”
“I meant to tell you, but I kind of forgot,” I said. Okay, so I’m sorry for trying to hit you for being a dink, I didn’t say.
“Good timing,” he said and turned toward the stage and Candy.
“I was kind of freaked out, Becker,” I said.
He didn’t look at me.
“I did find it just before I went over and found her hanging from a rafter in the kitchen,” I added. He still didn’t take his eyes from the stage. Boy, was I ever wasting my time. Nothing makes a woman feel more alone than the sight of a man watching a stripper. “I found it just before I phoned in a bomb threat and held up the convenience store in Cedar Falls.” Nothing. The police officer was fantasizing about being a beer-bottle, maybe. Illegal is as illegal does. I turned to Morrison.
“Something tells me this could have waited until tomorrow,” I said and found that my throat was a bit tight. He nodded. The ferrety man had reappeared from the washroom area and was making his way towards Becker. Becker glanced back at me for the briefest of moments, then pushed away from the bar and moved towards him.
On our way out, Grub reappeared in front of me.
“Leaving so soon?” he said. “You find your cousin?”
“Yeah, we did,” I said, doing my bimbo-impression again. “He’s the same asshole he always was. Jail didn’t change him none.”
“It never does,” Grub said. “Hey, if you ever need any accounting done, though, here’s my card.” He handed me a square of cardboard. “Miles Gruber, Chartered Accountant,” it said, and gave an address in Hamilton.
“You’re an accountant?”
“Yup. The bike’s a hobby, eh? Me and the boys come up here to get away. So, like, if you ever need your taxes done or anything, just give me a call. Take care, now.” Grub patted my arm affectionately and walked away, the chains on his boots clanking like Marley’s ghost.
Morrison and I grabbed each other and ran, giggling like schoolkids, the whole way out to the parking lot.
Twenty-Six
Were all trying to harness faith,
the sun you gotta worship
to be warmed by.
—Shepherd’s Pie
After I dropped Morrison off at the police station, I headed home. The Kelso’s experience had left me feeling a bit queasy, partly from the bad draft, partly from Becker’s coldness, but mostly from Candy and the beer bottle. On top of the murders, it was just too much. I had read about stuff like that from time to time, but I’d always figured it was the result of some fiction-writer’s diseased imagination—something to say “eeew, gross” about and then turn the page. There would be no page-turning for Candy, though, and thinking about her and how she got to where she was, doing what she was doing, made me feel rotten. And helpless. What could I do when even the police said there’s no point in trying?
I entertained a fantasy about going to Kelso’s the next morning, finding the stripper and having a good heart-to-heart with her, then helping her to a new life feeding goats, eating healthy foods and living in George’s house. Fat chance. She’d just tell me to piss off and mind my own business, which would be about what I deserved. The bucolic life I’m so fond of touting as the answer to everything isn’t the answer at all for most people. Candy and other people like her, would probably choose beer bottles and bikers over goat poop any day.
When I got back to George’s place, his town car, an elderly Toyota, was gone, so I figured he was at Susan’s again. Poe was half-asleep on his shelf and croaked rudely at me. I left a note for George on his kitchen table telling him I’d fed the cats, which I proceeded to do. At least, I put food in their bowl, which usually brought them running, but there was no sign of them. Then I went down to the barn to check on the goats before going home.
They were all settled in for the night and I found the cats curled up in a ridiculously photogenic bundle with the new kids, all warm and toasty next to Erma Bombeck.
“From sleaze to saccharine in one fell swoop,” I said, but the sight did actually make me feel a bit better. Erma bleated at me and I bleated back, then turned out the light.
I smoked a little dope when I got home, but didn’t have the heart to work on the puppet. A friend of mine had died, I’d been stupid about a man (again) and rather than fill me with creative energy, as a toke usually did, it just made me more depressed. What was the point, anyway? The puppet would get sold at the Artists’ Consignment Depot, I’d