Читать книгу Lucky Strike - Pat Wilson - Страница 7

After several weeks in my idyllic hideaway, I began to feel familiar with my new environment. Gone were the mega-malls, the vast libraries, art galleries, concert halls, museums, the restaurants and theatres of my past. Gone also were Wal-Mart, Cineplex, Costco, The Bay, Blockbuster Video and Yakamoto’s Take-out Sushi.

However, I soon found that the local ValuMart did supply my basic dietary needs, the Irving Gas Station did rent videos (albeit a little dated), and the library (in the basement of the Fire Hall) opened three afternoons a week. Take-out came from either Ralph’s Pizza or Akbar’s Donairs. Sit-down dining did not exist except at the Harbour View Motel, the sole restaurant in Cormorant Harbour—“fish and chips our specialty”.

My life settled into a comfortable routine. In the mornings, I followed the example of the great writers, settling myself at the keyboard for several hours of work. Although the program people saw my writing as a cover story, it meant much more than that to me. For them, it represented a convenient way to explain my presence and lack of gainful employment. Truth to tell, I didn’t need to be gainfully employed. The generous reward money for my information on the Bacciaglia gang, coupled with the conversion of my modest investments, kept me in reasonable comfort.

I recognized that I might never be published, given my circumstances, and even if by some miracle, my work did appear in print, I knew that any kudos it received would have to be anonymous. My face could never appear on any dustjacket, nor could I accept the Governor General’s Award for Literature in person.

My afternoons were spent in more leisurely pursuits—long walks on the beach, shopping forays into the Harbour, the occasional visit to the library and the discovery of the dubious joys of gardening.

I no longer saw every shadow as a threat, or every person I met as a member of the Mob. I had replaced my earlier tendency to panic with a calm but vigilant watchfulness. I tried to obey the strictures of the Program to the letter. I still remembered the ominous tone in my agent’s voice as she laid out the rules: “Whatever you do, don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t rescue anyone from drowning, don’t save any little old ladies from muggers, don’t pull children from burning buildings, and never, ever, leap tall buildings at a single bound. Anonymity should be your watchword at all times. Try to blend in. Keep a low profile, that’s crucial. It’ll be years before the Mob forgets you, and even then, someone may be holding a personal grudge. If, for any reason, you suspect that your cover has been blown, get out and call me.” Despite her anger with me regarding the lay readership incident, I knew she had my best interests at heart. They’d chosen my hideaway well. Although I’d seen a number of strange characters in my perambulations around Cormorant Harbour, I doubted any of them concealed a Mafia hitman.

My little cottage had become my home. Having always lived in high-rise apartments, I had never experienced the joys of home ownership. Now, I took pride in my abilities on the maintenance front. Despite Kevin Jollimore’s disparaging remarks about my handyman skills, I found myself quite capable of mowing my own lawn and keeping the place tidy.

I saw far more of Kevin than I needed. Each day, he stopped by for one of his “neighbourly chats”, which led up either to a blatant bid for work or a request for a “small loan”. I always declined both, but that didn’t deter his visits. Ricky continued to use my property as his own private path to the beach, and after several unsuccessful attempts at blocking his way, I gave up. I had yet to meet the elusive Arleen; however, her voice haunted my dreams at night and shattered my concentration several times a day. I hoped that one day I would be able to tune her out as successfully as Ricky and Kevin did.

Thank heavens, the older Jollimores were all late risers. Ricky vanished each morning on the school bus, but Kevin seldom appeared much before eleven, leaving my writing time undisturbed.

One morning as I sat in my study, a front room of the little cottage once designated as the spare bedroom, gazing out of the window in search of inspiration and finding little in the dirt road and shambles of the Jollimore establishment, I wondered again if I’d been too hasty in my decision to overlook the road rather than the ocean. However convinced I’d been that the beauty of the ocean would prove to be too much of a distraction, I couldn’t help thinking that my present view might deter the muse within. I had tried writing out on the patio, but soon found that blackflies, an ever-present stiff westerly breeze and fog that would waft in without notice were more than even Hemingway would have been able to tolerate.

I made myself a pot of my special blend and took it outside, hoping that the caffeine and a stroll in the fresh breeze off the ocean would clear my brain. Twinkles joined me, tail held aloft, queen of all she surveyed.

“Howdy, neighbour!” As I rounded the corner of the cottage, I saw Kevin and a stranger sloping across the road towards me. Twinkles, in her usual way, melted into the shrubbery. It was only nine a.m. I couldn’t imagine what would bring Kevin out of his bed at such an early hour. “Someone here wants to meet you.”

I took in every detail of the stranger now standing on my patio and felt my heart lurch. Short and powerfully built, with a thick mustache and several days growth of whiskers obscuring most of his face, he had black, wiry hair that sprouted from under a greasy ball cap. I could see several gold chains entangled in the dark mat of hair on his barrel chest. Even the backs of his powerful hands and forearms were covered in hair. Aside from the hair, his short stature and massive shoulders gave him the appearance of a gorilla. His face sported a broken nose and one eye that wandered off to the left, so that I couldn’t tell where he was looking.

I had seen his type before. Everything about him screamed “Mafia goon”. Heaven knows, there’d been enough of them in the courtroom to recognize the species. He favoured me with a twisted smirk that revealed he’d lost a front tooth, no doubt in some previous life-and-death battle. I wondered how he’d latched onto Kevin Jollimore, and even more, how he’d found me.

I wanted to run, but where would I go? High tide covered the shingle beach. The stranger stood between me and the road. I thought about fleeing to my little cottage, but no door would be a barrier to him. If only I’d opted for a dog as my animal companion. A rottweiler or German shepherd might leap to my defense. With shaking hands, I put my coffee cup on the patio table, took a deep breath and resigned myself to whatever would happen next.

“This here’s Arleen’s brother, Clarence.” Kevin introduced him with a proud grin. “Used to be a prize fighter. Good, too, until his last couple of bouts. Up from Lower Cormorant to give us a hand. I was tellin’ him all about you. Says he’s never met a computer whiz before.”

I tried to cope with the sudden surge of relief that flooded my body. Not a hitman. Not a mobster. Not even a goon. Not here to do me harm. I swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. “How do you do . . . Mr . . . er . . . Clarence.” A huge, hairy paw closed over my trembling fingers.

I disentangled my hand and tried once more to explain to Kevin my occupation. “Not a computer whiz, Kevin. I just use the computer for my writing.”

“Whatever.” Kevin dismissed my explanation. “Like I was saying, Clarence here is gonna give us a hand. Arleen wants to do a bit of redecorating, so we got to get stuff outta the house.”

I drew a blank at the idea of Arleen redecorating, but if she did wish to give rein to some unsuspected Martha Steward tendencies, I couldn’t for the life of me see what it had to do with me.

“So, we was wonderin’ whether we could use your shed for storin’ stuff. Just for a couple of weeks, eh?” Kevin looked hopeful.

I felt so relieved to realize that my worst nightmare of being discovered by my former adversaries had not materialized, that I would have agreed to anything.

“Oh, yes, well, of course. Why not? There’s nothing much in there at the moment. It’s all yours. Go right ahead.”

“C’mon, old son, let’s get the stuff shifted. Arleen’ll want to get going on her redecorating, eh?” I saw Kevin give Clarence a broad wink. A private joke, I decided.

I left them to it and headed inside to the kitchen to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee.

For the next hour, I watched Kevin and Clarence ferrying various items from the Jollimore residence to my shed. The eclectic nature of their burdens surprised me. Not the contents of a room as one might imagine for a redecorating project, but rather, a miscellany of esoteric items such as clothing, a television set, a microwave oven, various components of a VCR and CD system, a collection of hunting rifles and fishing equipment, some plates, a couple of pictures, a large family Bible and a photo album.

At last their labours ceased. They took their well-earned rest on the discarded freezer that graced the end of the Jollimore driveway, where they lounged bare-chested in the sun to enjoy a couple of bottles of beer. The sight fascinated me, and I found myself unable to decide which looked more repulsive: Clarence’s furry front or the grey pudge of Kevin. An ear-shattering, “Kevin! Where the hell are you?” ended their idyll.

After the morning’s excitement, the muse had left me, so I packed up my writing for the day. I decided my hair and beard needed a trim. Although the new beard had developed very well, I felt it now required professional attention. In Toronto, I had frequented Quentin’s, a rather upscale salon in the downtown core that catered to business professionals. I knew I was vain about my hair, but unlike most men of my age who were battling receding hairlines, I still had the thick, wavy mane of my youth. I thought that the few silver strands in it gave me an air of distinction.

I had looked for a barber shop in Cormorant Harbour, and having seen none, resigned myself to a monthly trip to Halifax. However, St. Grimbald’s organist, Boris Monk, a large, flamboyant individual given to hairy ties and baggy corduroy trousers, a man with an endless supply of local information, had recommended a woman called Sherri.

“All the local ladies go to her, but Sherri caters to the guys, too. Sets ’em up in a little room in back. Does a good job, too. I’d go to Sherri any time. Although,” he continued as he fingered his thick, black beard, “nobody touches this baby but me.”

Following Boris’s instructions, I ventured into one of the small side streets in Cormorant Harbour. As he had said it would be, I found the large house trailer set back from the road. If Boris hadn’t told me what to expect, I would never have assumed this to be a place of business. I hesitated before climbing the rickety wooden steps. I found it hard to imagine a man like Boris frequenting such an establishment. Taking a deep breath, I pushed open an old screen door, which screeched and slammed with a bang behind me. Inside, someone had transformed the narrow living room of the trailer into a hairdressing salon by painting everything in a most virulent shade of strawberry pink. Photos of various models with outrageous hair styles adorned the walls. Every horizontal surface was strewn with the paraphernalia of the beautician’s art.

The small room was crowded. On my entrance, all activity ceased. A very large lady sat under one of the dryers against the wall. Another occupied the styling chair, her head bristling with brush rollers. The third, her head a mass of curls, sat in a wicker chair in the corner. Their eyes assessed me with curious stares.

“Hello.” A younger woman, very pretty, with blonde hair teased into an impossible pouf on top of her head, turned off a small blow dryer as she came towards me. “You must be Mr. Trenchant. Boris said you might drop in. I’m Sherri.”

I had a moment of shock as she spoke my name, then realized it wasn’t a sign of possible danger. Of course she’d know me, since I was the only new face in Cormorant Harbour. “I’ll just show you through to the back,” she continued. “It’s the bingo tonight, so I’m busy this morning, but it won’t take long.” The three customers continued to stare. I thought I recognized a couple of them from the church services at St. Grimbald’s, but no names came to mind. I allowed Sherri to lead me through the main area, redolent of hair spray and shampoo, into a small cubbyhole off to one side.

This area, barely big enough to hold a styling chair, had been designed with the male customer in mind. The beige walls were soothing after the strident pink of the main salon, and here were adorned with masculine pictures of yachts, antique cars and horses. Sherri seated me in the styling chair, poured me a cup of coffee, then handed me a magazine to read. I felt trapped, but I didn’t think I could bear to walk back through the assembled company and return another day. I cast a desultory glance at the magazine, Body Builder. My eyes were assailed with numerous semi-nude male bodies of unbelievable brawn and girth. I didn’t need this reminder of my own unprepossessing 148 pounds, so I laid the magazine back on the counter. As I waited for Sherri, I noticed I could hear every word being spoken in the front salon. My ears pricked when I heard the name “Mildred”. They had to be talking about Mildred Barkhouse.

“ ’Magine that Mildred taking over the Auxiliary the way she has. No one would run against her. Get on the wrong side of her, and you’ll know it. A little more fluff on the top, please, Sherri. I do like a little height. Makes me look like I got some hair left up there.” I thought the high-pitched, almost girlish voice must be coming from the lady in the styling chair.

I heard Sherri murmur some encouraging words. Another voice cut in, this one deep and gruff, obviously shouting over the sound of the hair dryer on her head. I had a memory of her in the choir at St. Grimbald’s. Vi something . . . I thought. Father Donald’s introductions, laced with extraneous information, made it difficult to get names straight. “Mildred Barkhouse is meaner than a wet cat. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but acts worse ’n weasel. I’ve known that woman for nearly sixty years, and she’s always been the same. How poor Bev can live with her, I’ll never know. Poor girl can’t do anything right. She’s no life of her own. Everyone knows that the only time she looked like getting away from her mother’s clutches, Mildred scared the poor lad right out of town. Isn’t that right, Etta Fay? And all the life Bev has is three afternoons a week stuck in the basement of the Fire Hall. It’s a sin!”

I realized that they were talking about the librarian, a mousy slip of a woman with a whispery voice and persistent post-nasal drip. Now I had a name to match her face: Beverly Barkhouse.

“How’s that?” I heard Sherri ask, no doubt holding up a mirror for her customer’s approval.

“Just as long as it looks good for the bingo. Bert’s calling the numbers tonight. It’s been a year since his wife died. I figure he’s ripe.”

Ripe? I wondered.

“Bert! Oh, in your dreams, Bertha,” the deep voice snorted. “Even if he whispered sweet nothings in your ear, you wouldn’t understand a word. Ever since he got those new teeth, it’s like he’s talking another language. You can’t hardly understand a thing he says.”

I had a moment of pity for the unwitting Bert. Little did he know what awaited him at tonight’s game.

“And then there’s that damn Casino Night! Mildred acts like it was all her own idea, when we all know that it was Phyllis George who brung it back from when she visited her daughter in Ontario.” The gruff voice subsided as I heard the dryer turn off.

“You’re done Bertha. Vi, hop into the chair.” Sherri’s head popped around the door to my little sanctuary. “I’ll be with you in a moment, dear,” she assured me.

“I don’t think there’s a soul likes the woman,” the one they called Bertha continued.

I could hear the styling chair creak and presumed that Vi was taking her place. “Cyril Pye says she shouldabin drowned at birth, and he’s her uncle. He says he knows fine well she snuck into the house after Grannie Pye died and helped herself to all his mother’s good stuff. It’s a wonder somebody ain’t shoved her off the wharf before this. Why, leave a loaded gun on the table, and someone’s gonna pick it up and shoot Mildred Barkhouse for sure.”

“Vi! What a terrible thing to say.” I noticed a decided lack of conviction in Sherri’s voice.

“Come off it, Sherri!” The gruff voice rose. “Everybody knows Mildred’s got you by the short ’n curlies. Owns everything in here, she does, and don’t she let you know it every chance she gets. Told you you shoulda gone to the bank for the money to start up. Better pay interest to them than owe your soul to a woman like Mildred.”

“Oh, now, Vi. Aunt Mildred’s not that bad. It was good of her to lend me the money, and if she gets a little pushy by times, well, that’s just her way.”

Another genealogical piece fell into place. Mildred was not only the aunt of Kevin, but also of Sherri. I tried to imagine charming Sherri and the irascible Kev as brother and sister, but unless one of them had been switched at birth, it seemed more likely that they were cousins.

“She’ll be at the bingo tonight, up to her old tricks,” continued the harsh voice, now in full spate. “Sitting in Uncle Orville’s lucky seat, and helping herself to Bertha’s bingo candy, and jeering at me when I’m set and then don’t win. And don’t the woman have horseshoes up her bum—she always wins something. It just ain’t fair. And when she cast her eye on Roy last week, I thought he’d die. You could hear him clear across the hall. ‘For the love of God, I’ll never win now that she’s looked at me.’ Everyone knows fine well the Fleets all believe they’ll lose their luck if anyone talks to them or looks at them at the bingo. Just plain mean, Mildred is.”

A third voice, thin and papery, which I could barely hear, cut in. “You know, I’d like to teach that Mildred a lesson. My poor Randy was never the same after she run him off. He was that stuck on Bev. Broke my poor boy’s heart, she did. I hardly even hears from him since he ran off to Alberta. I’m lucky if I gets a card on Mother’s Day. And no grandbabies, either. Says no other woman will satisfy him. Says he never wanted no one but Bev. I’d give anything to show Mildred that her sweet little act don’t fool me none.”

“Like what? Bash her with your bingo bag, Etta Fay? Poke her with your knitting needles?” Vi snorted as she laughed at her own joke.

“Well, there’s more than one way to deal with someone like Mildred Barkhouse. What goes around comes around. You just have to know how.” I heard a malicious tone in the voice that caused a shiver to run over me. She sounded like someone I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.

“How’s that look, Vi?” Sherri asked.

“Well, it’s no better than a Brillo pad, I suppose, but that’s not your fault, dear. The Hubleys always was a hairy bunch, but at least my hair don’t need no teasing.” I heard the chair creak again, followed by a flurry of goodbyes and the final slam of the screen door.

An hour later, I, too, left, well satisfied with Sherri’s ministrations. Boris had been right; Sherri could hold her own with any of the stylists at Quentin’s.

Later, as I sat on my patio well fortified with bug spray, a glass of sherry and a warm sweater, with Twinkles ensconced on my knee, I realized that the day had passed without my having written one word. However, I had an excuse. It had been a busy, if not fraught, day. First Kevin and Clarence, then the ladies at the salon. So many new faces. So much to think about.

I glanced at the shed, noting a large new padlock in place on the door. Strange for the Jollimores to be so protective of such an odd pile of belongings. I wondered about the progress of their redecorating project. Where had they stored the rest of the furniture? Something about the incident made me uneasy. I shook off the momentary discomfort and sipped my drink.

Twinkles stood up, stretched, turned around and settled back on my lap. I stroked her soft fur, but it didn’t help. The many events of the day prevented my being lulled by the soothing qualities of my feline companion. I gave up and went inside to make myself a little dinner.