The Missing Boatman Part 29

"I'd even consider holding off until the second round is over," H2 said.

Tony was astonished. "Death's a drunk?"

"I didn't say he was a drunk," Lucy was quick to correct him. "I said he's a lush. He likes to drink when he has the time. And when he drinks, he drinks a lot. Like anyone who likes to drink but doesn't do it too often, he doesn't have the tolerance built up, so it hits him fast when he does drink. But he's far from being a drunk."

"I have to wait until Death is s.h.i.+tfaced before I can speak to him," Tony shook his head in growing disbelief.

"He'll be more agreeable," Lucy said.

"He can still be a p.r.i.c.k, though," H2 nodded with a knowing expression.

"As you might have guessed." Lucy said, scratching at the table's surface with a fingernail.

"So I hold off," Tony said, not liking this new information in the least. He didn't want to talk to a smashed Death. He hated dealing with drunks anyway. They were way too unpredictable; either being way too G.o.dd.a.m.n silly or being too G.o.dd.a.m.n violent. There was no middle ground.

"I think it's a good idea," Lucy suggested softly.

And she knew the guy.

"Alright," Tony conceded reluctantly. "When he's a pitcher in."

"Two pitchers, chief," H2 winked and flicked up two fingers. He then dropped one and wagged the finger at Tony. Tony did not need to have H2 flip him the bird. And he hated being winked at. It was gay s.h.i.+t. Yes, Tony figured that, at this particular juncture in time, it was safe to say he hated H2's f.u.c.king guts.

"Yeah," Lucy agreed. "Two pitchers to make sure. That's a safer bet I think."

"So what do we do in the meantime?" Tony asked her. He wasn't going to talk to H2 anymore if he could help it.

"Wait," H2 answered for her. Lucy gave him a stern look.

"And eat chicken fingers," H2 smiled back at her.

Tony sighed heavily. Two pitchers in. Great. It was times like these he wished he had a drug habit. He was in drug country to think of it. As far as marijuana and ecstasy went. He heard crystal meth was pretty popular out amongst the Albertan rig pigs as well. He wondered if the meth had gotten to BC. Music flowed in and around them while he thought his thoughts, but it was low enough that it was still easy to talk. And what day was it? Wednesday? Friday? If it was, he wondered how busy Paradise got going into the weekend.

Then, he started thinking about Frank.

The food came: two serving baskets with a beautiful pile of chicken tenders and two accompanying saucers filled with honey mustard dipping sauce. A pitcher and three frosty-looking mugs were placed before each of them.

"Thank you, Debby," H2 said, holding her gaze. Tony thought the man looked as if he could lick s.h.i.+t up off the floor if he wanted to.

"How did you know my name," Debby asked, a little wary, but meeting his gaze with large blue eyes.

"Heard the bar guy mention you when we came in," H2 answered.

"Oh," she smiled briefly before retreating to the bar. H2 watched her go.

Lucy rolled her eyes. "Struck out there."

"Think so?" H2's brow crocked up in a challenge. "She'll be asking me for my phone number before this night is through. Right now, I'm on her mind."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," H2 said. "And I noticed you didn't say anything about making a bet. Why is that, Lucy my dearest?"

Lucy chose not to answer him. Instead, she pulled a chicken strip from one of the baskets closest to her and dipped it into the sauce. She nibbled on it and sighed.

"Mmmm, try some."

H2 was pouring the beer. He thrust his chin out to Tony. "I see no water in that mug there, chief. Want some of this?"

The beer looked like gold to Tony. The chicken smelled wonderful. His stomach rumbled and never felt emptier. Again, he thought of his mother back in the hospital and the guilt hit. He eventually nodded and slid his mug over to H2, who filled it. One mug would take the edge off.

H2 filled Lucy's and his own mug then, and raised his in a toast. "To Tony there," he said.

Tony was mildly surprised. The p.r.i.c.k remembered his name after all. He did not raise his gla.s.s, though Lucy did.

"To Tony," H2 repeated. "May Lucy blow him sooner rather than later."

He took a huge gulp of beer then, leaving his drinking companion behind.

"Can't be nice for a second can you?" Lucy said as she laid an arm across a rising Tony. She could tell what he wanted to do, and she couldn't allow that right now.

"What do you mean?" H2 asked in defence. "That was nice! Wasn't that a nice toast there, chief?"

Tony drained almost all of his beer.

"Only lookin' out for ya," H2 said, and then to Lucy, "I bet she's a screamer," nodding in Debby's direction.

"Why couldn't you have stayed in the car?" Lucy said.

"What? And miss Debby's victuals? I don't think so," H2 replied, taking a drink. Lucy watched Tony sitting with the last of his beer. He had a nice profile when he turned his head. She grabbed another chicken finger and dipped it. She couldn't really enjoy them under these circ.u.mstances, but she had to give the appearance of some confidence. She had to look calm at least. It would be disaster to look any other way and for Tony to see it. She felt a medicine ball lump of sadness for the man. There was a goodness in him, but it was up to its neck in trouble and bad luck. She liked him and would have to be blind to not to see his growing affection for her. But she had been down that road before. It would never work. She would never tell him that. She hated confrontations of that nature. When the time came, she would just disappear and become a memory. She drank some beer and left half a gla.s.s. G.o.d above, she was worried this time around. Frank was really p.i.s.sed off. She decided to keep quiet and let Tony prepare himself for what he had to do. She told herself to ignore H2.

The Ent.i.ty did not notice her, however.

H2 was too interested in the curves of Debby's jeans.

Chapter 34.

They emerged from the hotel at 7:30, squinting at the sun and a field of freshly fallen snow. Fear watched the men come out into the light. He sat on the hood of the Celica, arms folded. They walked slowly towards him like frozen gunslingers with their hands dangling at their sides, careful of the ice glazing the parking lot. They exchanged looks and regarded Fear at the same time, the puzzlement plain on their faces. This clearly was not on their list of morning things to do.

Well, s.h.i.+t happens sometimes, Fear thought.

"That's my car you're sitting on," the bigger one said, raising a finger.

Fear did not move a muscle. He wanted them both a little closer.

"Would you mind getting off the car?" Danny asked politely. He was feeling the effects of last night's beer. There was potential for a serious headache in his future if he didn't get to a convenience store. The guy on his car did not seem in a hurry to move. Danny sighed. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"He asked you to move," Crew said in a low voice as crisp as the cold morning air. "Now, I'm telling you to move."

Fear smirked.

"What would you call this?" Crew asked of Danny.

"Trouble," the other replied.

"Well, between you and me, I think we gave fair warning."

Danny's chest heaved again. "Yup."

"Let's do a sound check just in case," Crew focused on the sitting man. "GET THE f.u.c.k OFF THE CAR!"

Fear's eyes widened. The little one caught him off guard with the blast.

Crew nodded to himself. He surprised himself as the beer had not hit him as hard as he thought it might. But it did nothing to improve his mood to see an ignorant t.i.t spoiling for a fight so early in the morning. "Well, his hearing seems fine to me."

Crew started walking towards the man, studying him for any concealed weapons. Years of the trade made his skull suddenly buzz with danger, yet he could not see anything. Danny stepped away, instinctively doing what Crew was about to tell him to do. That was good. Between both of them, the joker on the car would not prove to be a problem.

But G.o.dd.a.m.n if Crew did not like the way the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's smile was growing.

Fear watched the men draw closer. He watched them split apart, just in case he was going to shoot them. This was the part he always enjoyed, letting the Mundanes have their way, being as cautious as they wanted to be, just before he unleashed the s.h.i.+t storm. The thought made him smile, and his smile made the men pause.

Too late, Fear mused.

And, without any pity or remorse, the essence that was Fear lashed into the two men with tsunami force.

And swept them both away.

Chapter 35.

That same morning, the Stickman woke up in the backseat of his sunbird. He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He wondered how the heel it got so dirty. He didn't smoke, but what were those stains the colour of phlegm doing up there? He opened his mouth, smacked his lips without shame, and wanted something to drink. His throat was all raw and sore. s.h.i.+t. All he needed was to come down with a cold. With a breath, he propped himself up to a sitting position, heaving away the thick blankets he had brought along specifically for camping out in his back seat. His chest hurt. His face hurt. His windows were fogged up with his breath so bad that a pa.s.ser-by might think he had a hooker inside. He thought about Beverly and wondered where she might be this morning. Probably married now. The girl was a catch for anyone.

Stick inhaled deeply and pushed the thought aside. He rolled down the backseat window. Cold wind clawed at his face, making him squint. Squinting hurt like h.e.l.l. He looked at the Irving Service station and saw they were open. Some cars were already pulling up to the pumps for their morning chug of high priced gas. No one had called the cops and that was good. He figured the money he saved from not staying at a motel would buy him a half decent breakfast in the roadside restaurant of the service station. It was too bad he wasn't working for the government. He once knew a guy who talked of a guy who worked for the province and who always got cash for gas, food, and lodgings when he travelled. If he remembered right, it was something like nine dollars for breakfast, fifteen dollars for lunch, twenty for dinner, and another twenty for 'incidentals'. Then there was money for every kilometre travelled. And that was only the provincial level. The feds got more. Stickman wondered how much school a person needed for a job like that.

Rubbing his chin and feeling the need for a shave, the Stickman got out. He did not want to shave, however. The hurt that Boom put into his face would not allow a clean cut this morning, so he would allow his bruises to sprout roots. He walked towards the convenience shop section of the Irving station. The cas.h.i.+er did not acknowledge his entering, and Stickman ambled past the counter towards a white looking hall and the washroom signs within. There was no one inside the men's room which made him glad. For a few moments, he could pretend the place was his.

He had his morning dump without incident. No one walked in on him. When he was finished, he flushed, exited the stall and placed both hands on the sink to get a good look at his morning face. He snarled at what he saw. Christ, he looked f.u.c.ked up. Black and blue and blood crusted in places. He smiled in spite of it all, and thought about the mess that used to be Boomer. He abruptly jettisoned the thought and got on with his morning ritual. He had brought along his tooth brush and floss, and saw to his dental hygiene. Afterwards, he removed his coat and s.h.i.+rt, and washed his face and armpits. He considered his hair. He had no shampoo. Muttering curses, Stickman regarded the liquid soap dispenser on the wall. The public washroom soap always smelled like s.h.i.+t to him. "f.u.c.k," he swore. He wasn't going to use that. He did not want to smell like cheap-a.s.s soap for the rest of the day. He ran a hand over his dark hair and thought a haircut would be in order. He should have gotten one before setting out on his mission. Oh well, for now, he would run his head and hair under the faucet and clean it as best as he could without soap. The faucet was fixed high enough for him to under it. He ran the hot water, and ma.s.saged it into his scalp as gently as he could. He knew he would have that unwashed hair feeling immediately afterwards. It was enough for him to want to seek out a Shoppers' Drugmart somewhere. Or, s.h.i.+t, he could have checked out the convenience shop out front. They would have shampoo too.

The moment he had the thought, he lifted his head, forgetting his temple was right under the metal edge of the running faucet.

In training with Ninja Bill, who professed to dabble in Jeet Kun Do, Stickman had learned of the one-inch punch. Bruce Lee had mastered the one-inch punch, and Ninja Bill was determined to, one day, focus his chi and produce the same effect as old Bruce: the ability to strike a blow powerful enough to drop a foe without a wind-up and, thus, without warning. To think a punch or a strike from one inch out could render a person senseless was something that Stickman had trouble believing.

When his temple connected with the metal faucet, a firm part of a washroom unit not going anywhere, the idea of the one inch punch exploded in a white light of pain. Stickman grimaced and hissed like molten iron meeting cold water. He pulled himself out from underneath the faucet and stood hunched over the sink, his breath hissing in and out. Christ almighty, he dinged himself good that time. He kept his eyes clenched shut, but when he opened them, he fully expected to see blood in the sink. If there wasn't any blood, there would be another d.a.m.n impressive welt. Despite the pain, he smiled. He wouldn't need any coffee this morning.

After a few moments, the lesson began to subside, and he peeped into the sink. It was still porcelain white. Relief for that little mercy flooded through the Stickman. That was good. Now for the mirror.

There in the reflection, just over his shoulder was a grinning man. A big grinning man with a shaven head. He had a shark's open-mouth smile. A Great White Shark on the hunt like the Stickman had once seen in National Geographic footage.

"Da f.u.c.k y'lookin' at?" Stickman winced. f.u.c.ker must've walked in when he clocked himself under the faucet. The Stickman did not like being surprised, and he did not like big men standing behind him. He whirled to face the intruder, but the big man jabbed a fist into the Stickman's kidneys. The connection robbed Stickman of his breath, and he doubled over. Like clockwork, he doubled over to meet the stranger's powerful uppercut. Stickman's lower back crashed into the edge of the counter and sink. He lifted his arms to defend himself, but they were slapped away and then grabbed. Stunned as he was, his attacker spun him around, pinned his right arm up near his shoulder blade and slammed Stickman's face into the black countertop surrounding the porcelain white. He felt the accordion crunch of his nose, and the star-burst of pain. He tried to free himself, but his attacker locked his wrist, and hooked his armpit with his thumb, forcing him to continue kissing the countertop.

"You okay?" A voice purred into his ear. Stickman felt a groin press up against his backside and, through the fog of agony, the old fear of being raped welled up.

"f.u.c.k you!" Stickman shot back, and squirmed. He still had one free arm. He reached backwards, clawing for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's b.a.l.l.s.

But his attacker gouged his thumb further up into Stickman's armpit, finding a bundle of nerves and drawing a m.u.f.fle grunt of pain from his prey.

"How about now?" the man asked.

The pain made Stickman clench his teeth so fast he could taste blood. "I'm gonna ki-"

The man twisted Stickman's arm and his words strawberry swirled into an agonized growl.

"Okay now?"

"YES!" Stickman blurted out. "I'M OKAY!"

"Good, cuz I don't want to kill you. Understand that? I don't want to hurt you anymore than necessary, and right now it's necessary." The voice took on a matter of fact tone. "I need you. Do you understand that? You're looking for someone, right?

No answer.

The Ent.i.ty known as Pain twisted the arm he held a little more, feeling muscle, already taut, begging not to be twisted any further. But Pain demanded attention. Pain demanded prompt attention, and he would teach this Mundane just that.

"Yeah," came the barely contained reply. Stickman wanted to scream out. Pain could tell.

"Good, then we're going to hunt together. I'm looking for the same man you are."

"You... are?" Stickman asked uncertainly.

"Oh, yes. He's in British Columbia now. I'm going there. You want to come with me?"

"BC?" Stickman panted. "'Ow's 'ee in BC? Chrissakes, y'can leave me me arm!"

"He drove," Pain ignored the Stickman's request.