The Missing Boatman Part 4

Crawford had become a monster, and the Stickman a thing of prison legend. No one dared cross the man for fear of seeing the huge, s.h.i.+t-eating grin and award-winning sympathy act. If you owed the Stickman money in the can, you paid as soon as you could, and always before the due date. After the death of Burr (where the authorities could find no witnesses to testify against the Stickman) most of the inmates walked carefully around the man. One Freddie Austin had borrowed cigarettes from him, and even ordered in a couple of playboys from the Stickman's outside connection, yet when delivery time came, Freddie had simply smiled and shrugged, promising the Stick to pay up with interest in a week. Stickman had smiled back. He would allow the doubt. A week later, when he revisited Freddie and saw his smile, a condescending smile someone would give another person unaware of being run around, the Stickman simply smiled back again and offered another week.

Freddie was dead the next day. Slipped on some soap was the word. Broke his neck. The puzzling thing was that both of the man's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es were evidently crushed in the same mishap.

The word became borrow freely from the Stickman, but only if you could pay him with certainty. Go ahead and order some fun from him. But when the time came to pay, pay the man. Have his fee ready when he came to collect, otherwise he would smile at you if you didn't, and tell you not to worry; he would return next week to settle up. If he told you not to worry, it meant he would see you when there were no witness around, and the settling would be made in blood, to the sound of bones and joints being twisted in directions that defied the original design.

Shuckfort took in a kid and released a killer. He went into the service of Badger. Badger had liked what prison had done to his boy. The Stickman became his terminator. His private cop. His angel of everlasting medieval agony if someone became b.a.l.l.sy enough to f.u.c.k around with him. Badger, himself, was scared s.h.i.+tless of the thing coming out of the cage, unsure of whether or not the man would remember who his employer was. Stickman did, though, and convinced Badger to further fund the man's training. He hired "Ninja" Bill Dutton, the local Kempo karate instructor who was also a rare discipline of Black Dragon Kung Fu and a fan of MMA. That all meant squat to Badger, but he was quick enough to have his killer trained by the best Halifax had to offer.

And the Stickman learned.

Badger never asked about the training. Never asked about the bruises on the man's arms or legs or face. There was no point as he could never fathom what Ninja Bill imparted upon the Stickman. He just paid for his soldier's lessons and kept him close by. It was comical at times as Badger was a full head higher. If the Stickman walked ahead of the other, it was as if a brick wall was protecting Badger's lower body. He praised his enforcer constantly, for in truth he was hugely impressed with the young man and the way he was turning out.

The Stickman owed it all to Badger. He was a father to him. He took care of the man's needs and all he asked for in return was to have his back. To cover his a.s.s. Mind his interests. The Stickman looked down at the smashed form of his father ... who would be unluckier still if he regained consciousness. He studied the casts holding him together and pursed his lips. He couldn't even hold his father's hand because it was f.u.c.king crushed. So the Stickman gripped the metal railings of the hospital bed with both hands and squeezed.

Badger had gone alone that night. He didn't have to, but he told the Stickman to get out and get laid that weekend. Have a good time. Meet some woman at the Palace and talk her up. Badger never mentioned what his plans were, and Stickman thought he was going to merely stay home and watch the Discovery Channel. He never questioned the wisdom of his general.

Now Badger was here.

And generals died in bed.

Stickman's knuckles were white now, and he had taken to twisting his hands slowly around the bars.

Badger was laughing in his mind the night before this happened. Badger was still able to laugh then. If he laughed now, the man would probably pa.s.s out from the pain of having a shattered jaw and cheekbones.

The Stickman's hands tightened further. A knuckle made dull popping noise. A second knuckle did the same, the sound punctuating the stillness of the room.

The hospital was the second to last place he had called. If Badger hadn't been here, the police would've been the last he would have called. But he found Badger in the hospital. He would have found the man eventually if the man was anywhere in Halifax. Or Nova Scotia for that matter. He would have found him.

The door opened, and a young nurse stepped through it. She had been on the job for all of five years now and had seen her share of sad stories: affection, hope and despair, and she always continued with her job. But the look she received from the man hovering over her patient's bed stopped her dead in her tracks. That one look spoke louder than any scream produced over a jacked-up, ultra-expensive sound system. Her breath caught in her throat, and she squeaked out an apology as she backed her a.s.s up in reverse out the way she came. She would have slammed the door on her way if not for the pistons mounted above the frame to prevent such disturbances.

Stickman was glad she got the message. He might've done something stupid if she had come any closer ... like trading the railing for the softness of her neck, the hardness of the bone inside it, and continuing his slow twisting squeeze until her f.u.c.king eyes popped out. That would have been cool, at least, because now the Stickman found himself in the role of avenger. He would find out who had done this to the man he owed so much to.

A third knuckle cracked. Stickman grimaced upon hearing the noise. His jaw clenched. Impossibly, his grip increased.

He would find the perps. Anywhere between here and h.e.l.l itself and under every rock along the way, he would search. And when he found the c.o.c.ksuckers...

Another one of his knuckles creaked, and the Stickman let his breath out in a hiss like a locomotive of old just starting to pick up momentum.

Chapter 7.

It was 5:00 when Tony left his mother's side and the hospital. The walk back to his car would not be remembered, not with his mind in such a numb state from hearing his mom's voice. The sight of her in his head, a husk of tight skin drawn over a skeleton. He wanted to cry, so he lowered his eyes, adjusting the peak of his hat just in case he did. Her eyes were dim and gla.s.sy like old marbles, and yet she knew where she was and why even though she was on enough pain killers to stun a herd of cattle. Unnatural strength, the doctors marveled in sorrow-filled tones. What they didn't say was that they wanted her to go as quickly as Tony did. To give up the fight and just... go.

It was 6:35 by the time he got back to his apartment. He had stopped off at the Atlantic Food warehouse and picked up two quick bags of groceries. It was a miracle that Tony managed to buy anything at all, but he forced himself with the reluctance of a person about to shove a needle into his eye.

Tony stowed the food away into cupboards, closed them when he was finished and cooked nothing. He probably would only eat in the morning when his body began gnawing on its own ribs for something to nourish itself with. To eat so soon after seeing his mother would fill him with a terrible sense of betrayal. His thoughts whirled around his head, and he flopped down on the sofa, placing both of his hands over his eyes as tears came and his breath hitched in his chest.

Outside of his apartment, across a narrow street and standing still against a lamp post that did not come on with the arrival of darkness, were two figures dressed in heavy winter clothes. They had followed their man since the hospital and waited for him while he was in the supermarket. They knew which apartment he lived in from the flickering life of lights as he entered his home. They said nothing as snow fell around them in huge lazy fluffs. They watched, unmoving, and if someone were to peer in their direction from any of the apartments, the onlooker would not be certain if they were even looking at the building. But Tony did not check, would not even look out the window, and the two strangers watched in silence. Somewhere in the city, a motor revved and moved away. Once the sound faded, there was little else except the hush of falling snow covering the concrete in white, making those fortunate enough think of Christmases past.

Darkness within darkness. The watchers did not stir, even after the light in Levin's apartment winked out, and the silence following midnight settled in. They did not move until morning.

At 10:00 p.m. exactly, with Suzie performing her very physical routine in front of a comatose scattering of patrons, Danny started thinking of getting home and getting a decent night's sleep for a change. The beginning of the week was always dead, but Tigh kept his office open. Sometimes the pay, which was pretty decent considering his and Boomer's workload, just didn't make up for the boredom.

The lights jetted over the tongue of a stage, and Suzie arched her back along its length, pus.h.i.+ng her bare pelvis forward to give the onlookers in pervert row an eye-popping view of her clean shaven goods.

Danny idly scratched his cheek and glanced towards Tigh's office door. His boss was watching a hockey game in there, Detroit and Toronto. Boomer made his way back from behind the kitchen counter with his hands holding a full tray of munchies and a couple of cans of Moosehead. Boomer threw a look in Danny's direction and mouthed, "Thirty minutes" before giving him a maniacal grin and disappearing into the office.

"f.u.c.k," Danny mouthed back after the big man had gone. Boomer said thirty, but they both knew how a period of hockey sometimes went. His eyes went over the empty seats, ignoring the half dozen or so full ones. He straightened up against the doorway. Dead night. Danny yawned into his hand and did not remove it until he had finished. Suzie wouldn't appreciate it if she caught him yawning during her act. She wouldn't understand. Danny thought she was a pretty girl. Beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But after seeing the same show night after night, it just didn't do anything for him anymore. Even her ample handfuls failed to interest him tonight. Danny wondered if she was feeling the drag of the winter, too. Suzie was a pro, but even she was straining to keep her face pouted and hungry for the customers. Tigh had some university students coming in Thursday night, apparently for a private audition. That would be interesting to see for all of a minute. They were usually too nervous to drop their drawers and shake their a.s.s or too sloshed to get it into proper gear. Tigh didn't want drunken dancers on his stage. But every now and again, he came across some raw talent. You just never knew.

Danny yawned again into his paw of a hand and cursed himself. He was too d.a.m.n jaded for this business.

The outside door opened, and even though the inner door was shut, Danny felt the stab of cold air rus.h.i.+ng in through the cracks. He'd have to put some insulating stripping down there somewhere. He didn't need a half dozen strippers complaining to him about how cold it was getting. He moved through a side opening which was the coat room. Tigh didn't charge a formal entry fee, but he did charge a $3 coat hanging fee, whether you had one or not. The face standing before the bouncer was a familiar one, and he declined to have his faded denim jacket checked but paid the fee anyway to enter. Danny allowed him, searching his memory for a name.

He remembered.

Danny opened the inner door. "Stickman," he muttered and dipped his head.

The Stickman nodded back. His eyes went immediately to the stage and Suzie's white a.s.s jutting into the air.

"Here for the show?" Danny asked. He didn't care for the little big man in the least, and he sure as h.e.l.l didn't like the way he was sizing up Suzie's pie. There was something grotesque in the way the Stickman regarded women, especially one on a stage. And Danny remembered how the girls would talk about how f.u.c.king creepy the Stickman was when he was watching. It was like he was jerking off right there without the meat and the motion. The women were right. They usually were.

"Hey."

Stickman blinked at him. "Wha?" he asked with a thick Newfoundland accent.

"What cha want?" Danny asked with a glare.

"`Ere t'see Mr. Tigh," came the reply, but his eyes were still on Suzie. Suzie felt the stare and noted him. Her eyes flicked away as if she had seen a b.u.m begging for change.

"Ee in?" Stickman asked, an Exxon smile spreading across his features. He was liking Suzie a little too much for Danny's tastes.

"I didn't hear of an appointment with Mr. Tigh," Danny informed him with a hard look.

"Don't 'ave one, brudder," Stickman said in a distant voice. "Figured I could get in an' see da man. Find out oo bagged Badger y'know. Ee's inna 'ospital. Better off dead if'n ye ask I."

Suddenly Stickman was all Danny's. Suzie's package on the stage was forgotten.

"Da least ee could do I figures," Stickman said with a smile that would have made a shark give pause. Danny did not comment. The silence between the two thudded with the heady beat of Suzie's selected music, and each boom matched the quickening of Danny's heart.

"Don't cha tink?" Stickman said, and his smile abruptly disappeared. He sensed wrongness here. He could see it in the bouncer's obvious attempt to keep his expression neutral, and in doing so, he gave everything away. And the big man was taking too long to answer him. Stickman wondered why that was so. He read in an online article that liars sometimes took their time answering. They would take their time in collecting their thoughts and would not stare you straight in the eye like Danny Boy was now doing.

"Badge's done a s.h.i.+tload of work for da the big man, y'know. Maybe jus' as much as I's done for Badge. Like to talk to 'im, is all, 'im bein the boss an' all." Stickman kept his unblinking eyes on the bouncer before him. He bunched up his shoulders and felt something pop. Danny's lack of eye contact was beginning to make him wonder about things. Stickman knew the man's reputation. There weren't too many around that didn't know of Danny and Boomer, the Twin Towers of Power, and Stickman didn't want to start anything on only a suspicion. Not yet, anyway.

Danny turned around and started for the door Stickman knew to be Tigh's office. This was more like it, and he began to follow when Danny whirled on him with an open palm raised. "Wait here," he ordered in a low voice.

"Sure ting, by," Stickman answered, as Newfoundlanders usually p.r.o.nounce boy, meant in the same context as a casual buddy. "Sure ting." He felt gladness for the break in the impa.s.se and returned to ogling the stripper on the stage. That glazed look returned to Stickman's face.

Lord above, Danny did not care for this little s.h.i.+t, and he made sure there were a few chairs and tables between him and the Stickman before turning his back. He knew the Newf's reputation, and he didn't like it. The Stickman was dirty in a way Danny couldn't quite put his finger on but suspected it was in the way a dog could turn on you in a flash the minute you stop feeding him like some kind of wild animal some people insisted on keeping as pets. He did not like the man, and he didn't like the way the Newf kept him on guard. You just couldn't trust freaks. He hoped Suzie wouldn't give him s.h.i.+t later for leaving the Stickman unwatched.

Stickman continued watching Suzie grind out her act on the stage that looked like a tongue. He figured that women probably had to watch their footing up there. His lips were moistened now and slightly parted. His tongue darted to and fro. He wondered if those b.r.e.a.s.t.s enjoyed being bitten-playfully, of course. He thought about Suzie having her arms outstretched and tied down to his bench press just like Christ on the cross. She probably had already done that before, though, so if Stickman offered up his c.o.c.k to her gasping mouth while she was in that predicament, there'd be no hesitation to suck him off. Yeah, he was sure she had been tied up once or twice in her life. So what could he do to liven things up for her?

On the stage, Suzie had no idea that the f.u.c.king song was as long as this. She had just stripped off her panties and covered herself with a blanket, which she would use to lay her back on as she spread out across the stage. The stage got to be as cold as f.u.c.king ice in the wintertime. She flicked her long legs up and out to keep the boys in perverts' row happy, but she knew she was being watched by him. Being watched in that way that made every dancer s.h.i.+ver and wish for the bouncers to throw the maggot out on his a.s.s.

On her back, she closed her eyes and cupped both of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and vowed to have both Danny and Boomer walk her to her car after work.

Stickman was wondering where he could buy some copper wire when Danny beckoned him over to where he stood before Tigh's door. His face was unreadable as the Stickman approached. Stickman took the opportunity to stare straight up Suzie's flexing crotch when the angle was at its best. That was one picture he would save in his mind for later when he was in the shower.

"Hold on here." Danny told him went inside.

Stickman could do just that, turning back to Suzie's act.

Chapter 8.

Tigh's office was a small rectangular box filled with a leather sofa that ran against the far wall. A matching leather recliner was just to the left of the door, opposite the sofa and in front of the Mr. Tigh's desk. At a glance, it looked like an office out of one those high rises in Purdy's Wharf, one of the cla.s.sier business towers in Halifax. The desk was made of redwood and shone like slick ice in the light. A desk organizer was on top with p.r.i.c.kly pens and pencils waiting to be used. Tigh was on the couch, while Boomer was in the recliner. Both men were hunkered over a coffee table covered with an open pizza box, the remains of a meat lover's extra-large, and a growing row of empty beer bottles. Both men were chewing and watching the wall mounted thirty eight inch wide screen LCD TV. Neither man seemed to notice Danny.

"That guy's got s.h.i.+t in his eyes," Boomer blasted over a half-eaten slab of pizza. "I saw him the other night ref'in' a game between LA and Was.h.i.+ngton."

Tigh nodded emphatically, chomping on his own and keeping his eyes on the hockey game. "Who won?"

"Was.h.i.+ngton. Good game, too. Anyways, he practically let Lindeman get speared right in from of the net. Cheap s.h.i.+t. I bet he's suckin' off the Bettman just to stay in the league."

"Gary?" Danny interrupted when he saw the chance. Tigh looked up from the TV, still chewing.

"You decided on who's going to work for me on Wednesday?"

"I'll give Levin a call and see if he's interested." A small piece of something flew from Tigh's mouth. "If he's not, I'll get Hillman. He's good."

Boomer straightened. "Not Roy Hillman, Gary?"

"Yeah, Roy Hillman. What's wrong with him? He's okay, ain't he?"

"Can't stand the guy," Boomer declared. "The man talks to his d.i.c.k."

"What?" Tigh breathed in disbelief, wondering why Boomer always brought up such subjects while he was eating. "f.u.c.k off, he does not."

"He does," Boomer nodded. "Swear to G.o.d. Ask Danny. The man talks to his d.i.c.k. His own meat."

"Calls it 'Leonard,'" Danny said quietly.

"See," Boomer exclaimed, pointing a finger at Tigh. "A sick pup if'n you ask me. I was in the can one night last year when he was filling in, and I heard him come in. He was taking a leak, and I heard him talking to his p.e.c.k.e.r. 'C'mon out Leonard,' he's goin', 'help me out here.' h.e.l.l, his f.u.c.kin' bug eyes are freaky enough without having to listen to that. Talking to his own gear!"

Tigh almost choked on his pizza. He managed to control himself and swallowed. "You ain't going to be in the can with the man for Christ's sake. You'll be makin' your regular rounds."

"Yeah, but just knowin' he does that sorta creeps me out, y'know? I mean, jokin' only that's fine, but he didn't know I was in there until I flushed the can," Boomer finished in a conspirator's tone.

"What a dude does in private is not my concern," Tigh levelled at his bouncer, his eyes s.h.i.+fting to the hockey game.

"That's just it! It was in public! It was in the washroom Gary! Our washroom! I bet he was just getting ready to grease ol' Leo up and have at 'im when I sent my chocolate torps out to sea."

"I'm eating here!" Tigh grated and regarded the man with wide incensed eyes.

"What? I can talk about a guy's d.i.c.k and that doesn't bother you? But I mention I was squeezing some pipe, and you get all offended?" Boomer fired back, struggling not to be embarra.s.sed by this breach of protocol.

"I don't wanna hear about d.i.c.ks or s.h.i.+t or c.o.c.k-sucking or anything!"

"Who said anything about c.o.c.k-smoking?" Boomer threw out.

Tigh fixed the man with a look. "Boomer. f.u.c.k off. Now. I mean it."

Disgruntled. Boomer switched his attention back to the game. "What about Lorne then?"

"Adam Lorne?" Tigh almost went into a spasm. "You want to work with that deranged perv? Jesus Christ, I wouldn't let that f.u.c.k walk my f.u.c.kin' dog in the rain, Boom! That guy makes chickens nervous. I don't need the knots in my tables punched out by permaf.u.c.k. He's all over the girls. You forget the s.h.i.+t we went through last time? Half the reason I don't have him in here no more. All I need is another revolt by the girls." Tigh chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Still, I don't have to pay Lorne to work..."

"And he doesn't talk to his d.i.c.k," Boomer added.

"Surprised the man still has a d.i.c.k. If he does, it must be hangin' on by a thread of meat. f.u.c.k. Now, you got me grossin' myself out." Tigh threw his pizza down.

"Gary?" Danny asked from the door.

"What?" Tigh looked up. Danny gestured to the closed door.

"Right," Tigh muttered and wiped his face with his hand. "So you won't work with Hillman?"

Boomer rolled his eyes.

"Why do you have to be so G.o.dd.a.m.n particular?" Tigh demanded. "Jesus Christ! It's only one night! Alright. I'm calling in the House and I don't wanna hear not one G.o.dd.a.m.n word about him. Be f.u.c.king professional."

That made Boomer feel just great. He shook his head slowly and let out a defeated sigh. He had traded in the whacked out Hillman and the living d.i.c.k for the war child. House wasn't the kind of man you brought in for crowd control. He was the one you called in when you had a bad case of squirrels under your roof. He was a mark or two above Levin for the fact that the man had gotten too much of the taste for hurting others, l.u.s.ted too much after the power of dispensing pain. Boomer thought the man was borderline wacko.

Maybe even psycho.

"What cha want Danny?" Tigh asked through a fresh mouth of pizza.

"Stickman here to see you," Danny answered, and gnawed lightly on the inside of his mouth.