Because the torn curtain didn’t quite cover the window, the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Manny’s dirty hand in a thin shaft of gray morning light, directly above the gun on the table.
He let his eyelids slide shut again and groaned. Manny’s fingers curled around the weapon and he silently moved backwards into the shadows.
Toper’s battle-scarred dobernan barked angrily in the yard outside and the familiar clatter of raccoons in the garbage-cans signalled the hopeless beginning of another day.
He breathed in and out slowly while he calculated the angles. A separate part of his mind conjured a vision of a sunny garden where a beautiful smiling woman was offering him a slice of cake. Pleasantly relaxed, he began to move his fingers toward the other gun under his pillow.
He didn’t really feel too bad about wasting Manny, the fat rat. He had recognized him a week ago. He had a sick sense of certainty that he was doing the world a big favour when he slid out of the blankets to the floor and shot into the darkest corner of the room.
There was an abrupt piggy squeal along with a squishy thud when Manny hit the wall. There was another heavy noise when he fell on the floor and then the usual fishy flip-flop sounds. Too bad but he couldn’t risk confirming any neighbourly suspicions with a second shot.
That was because it was impossible to report this one. He knew a spot where he could probably drop a body into the ocean, but it just didn’t look too good… even if he had a car, which he didn’t and no way was he going to involve anybody else – he had tried that once before. Call it self-defense, right? but he knew only too well what kind of ‘scenario’ the cops would put together. Manny had been one of their little helpers, a worker-bee of crime, busy, busy, busy…
While these thoughts were chasing each other through the sinuous pathways of his brain, his hands were gathering his few possessions and putting them into the tattered army-bag on his shoulder. He pushed his naked feet into the comfortable old cowboy boots and carefully stepped over to the door. Then it was open and shut and he was moving down the narrow staircase and along the hall with his long, quick strides.
The door to the street was heavy and it always clanked and screeched whenever it was opened. He was leaning on the horizontal metal handle with both arms when he heard Jenny’s voice calling out, “Tom?”
And that was the last time he would ever hear that voice of hers because he was definitely out of there.
Ten minutes later, he was walking nonchalantly along a dirty wet street, staying close to the wall on the shadowed sidewalk and avoiding the silver illumination of the rising sun. His hands were deep in his pockets now, his wide-brimmed hat was pulled well forward, and the shoulders of his jacket were hunched up against the biting wind.
There were hardly any people out on the street yet, but he always had to consider the watchful eyes of the informers that infested this part of the city. Tom therefore walked slowly, without apparent direction or purpose, turning corners at random. As always, he assumed the spaced-out attitude that was his protective colouration in town.
He looked up from the shining pavement to the brightening sky. Hungry, crying seagulls rode the winds above him. He couldn’t see past the decaying rooming-houses and ghostly store-fronts and all the whistling black wires. But Tom knew the mountains were there, with their snow-capped peaks glowing pink in the new light that was rising above the low, rolling clouds.
Tom wasn’t too tall or too short, so young or so old as to be easily remembered. Blue eyes under dark, shoulder-length hair was a commonplace description. He had one large tattoo which he bitterly regretted because it was an identifying mark. One of the biggest grudges he nursed was the confused memory of old Stan laughing at him when he came to after that terrible drunk and saw his decorated arm.
Out of the pale dawn sky, the onshore wind carried the saturated ocean air toward the distant mountain-ranges, where it would have to drop its rain or snow. Tom’s uncovered neck felt the chill and he decided to get on the bus that was wheezing up behind him. There was a slummy but quiet restaurant a mile or so east where he could get a break for his nerves and something in his stomach for the road. He quickened his steps to the bus-stop, looked steadily down at his feet, shuffled up the steps and reached into his pocket. He dropped some change into the money-box and sat near the exit-doors.
He had already figured out that it wasn’t really his fault the fat rat was dead. He had just played by Manny’s own rules, after all. He allowed himself a brief surge of triumph, but then he slumped back against the seat again. From beneath his straight black eyebrows, ice-blue eyes glanced around at the numb sons-of-bitches on the bus with him. And suddenly he felt like it didn’t make any difference what had happened. Not really. Well, maybe it would matter to all the people Manny wouldn’t be able to rip off and rat on, but they’d never know about it.
He jumped up and hung by the door until the bus groaned in to its next stop. He saw his reflection in the big store window at the corner just before he dropped down to the sidewalk and pushed through the waiting crowd and into the pale sunshine that was slanting down between the square buildings.
The restaurant had the old-fashioned booths, so he took the third one from the back and slid over against the wall, facing the entrance. A middle-aged waitress was wiping out a glass case on the long counter and she looked up and waved a hand to him in a friendly way. He picked up a menu and read through it without wanting anything. When she came over to his table, he ordered apple pie and coffee. Then he got up and went to the can.
He returned to his seat and quickly ate and drank, gazing out the grimy window at all the people hurrying by, the cars and the trucks hustling each other to do whatever. Only last year, he had been fascinated by this city. But he knew now that the feeling definitely was not mutual. He stood up and pushed a bill under the empty plate, dropped another at the cash register and walked out. He was mentally shuffling through some faces who lived up in the mountains, where the sun was shining.
But the first place he thought of was an old hippie hostel near the rainy town of Hope, B.C. Big Jack had taken him there one time, hunting for a chick named Judy or something, but she wasn’t there and the roof leaked, so they hadn’t stayed too long.
Jack had a half-ton pick-up and spent most of his time either driving it over the rugged mountain roads of the Interior or putting it back together again. Tom smiled and patted the thick roll of cash in his back pocket. He decided to go see good old Jack and maybe take a nice, long ride. He knew that he could never tell anyone about this morning’s wake-up call. The gun was keeping warm inside his brown leather jacket and it did feel good.
When he had walked another six or seven blocks, mostly uphill on the cracked and crooked cement, he turned and entered an open gate, approached a door and knocked. He could hear loud talk and rock’n’roll radio coming from the kitchen, so presumably everything was all right at Jack’s. The big green truck was sitting in the driveway, wishing that someone would take it somewhere.
The door squeaked open and Jack’s teenage brother was standing there looking at him. The kid acted like he didn’t recognize Tom at first but then big old hairy Jack loomed up behind him and took over the social amenities.
“Tommy. Come on in.”
They walked together to the shabby living-room, where the ashtrays overflowed comfortably and Jack’s big shaggy dog was stretched out on the tattered couch. The kid had disappeared somewhere. The animal lifted its head for one loud WOOF! when it saw the new-comer but then it looked quickly at Jack and relaxed again. The floppy ears went forward and the dog yawned elaborately.
Tom gratefully lit the cigarette that Jack tossed into his hand. A cloud of smoke fell out of his mouth when he said, “Thanks.” He wasn’t sure how to explain this sudden visit, momentarily stunned by the rush of relief at just being off the street.
Jack crushed his own smoke out between his calloused fingers and asked, “So what’s shaking?”
Tom shrugged slightly and said, “Nothing much. Sick of the city again, I guess.”
Jack lowered his head and growled, “Yeah. I can dig it. That Sandy up the street got ripped off last week. So now he’s throwing a great big paranoid fit. Blaming all his friends. Smart, huh?”
“What? Oh, yeah. I don’t know. I thought maybe we could go and see that Judy or somebody up that way.”
Jack tore off his thumbnail with his teeth and spat it out, examining the end of his thumb critically when he inquired, “Somebody try to do you?”
Tom muttered, “Yeah. Again.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.
The dog’s head jerked upright and it scrambled over to the big window, yipping excitedly. They heard the loud rumble of a motorcycle outside the house. Tom glanced quickly at his friend and found himself being watched.
Jack said, “It’s only Ringer. Be cool.”
Tom frowned. “I am cool.”
“I think you’ve got trouble.”
“So get me out of here!”
The big black dog let its feet drop from the windowsill and trotted up to them, wagging its tail. Jack rumbled, “Want to go, Beamer?”
The dog’s paws landed on Jack’s chest with an audible thump. Then it went and scratched eagerly at the door.
Tom said, “Hey, man, I got a good-sized roll of cash on me if that’s what you’re worried about. What’s left over from that other deal and I’m just going to blow it going crazy if I don’t get out of here!” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Now?”
Jack smiled his slow smile and nodded agreeably. One long arm scooped up his old football jacket from the back of an armchair and he led the way to the door.
Outside in the yard, Big Jack focussed on his other half – which was his truck – and only bothered to wave a hand briefly to his kid brother who was lifting a leg up onto Ringer’s thundering Harley. There was a self-absorbed look on the kid’s face, like always.
The black dog was already moving around in the back of the pick-up when Tom opened the passenger door and got in. Jack leaned in over his engine for a moment, then he slammed the hood down hard and came around to start it. Tom’s heart and insides felt sunk to the bottom of the ocean. One more trip had come to a dead end. The dense layers of cloud moving overhead irritated him so much that he almost said something out loud.
And Jack was annoyingly cheerful. His damn eyes nearly twinkled when he said, “Okay, man, here we go! I just got to pull over one time for gas and we can stop someplace to eat if you want.”
Tom stared straight ahead and spoke through tense lips, determined to be polite. “No thanks. I’m good. Already ate something downtown.”
When they were finally in traffic on the Trans-Canada and the powerful, well-tuned motor was humming reassurance, Tom started to get some relief. Jack always hated to talk when he was driving so that took some pressure off too. But it was a long time before he could take his eyes away from the rear-view mirror. He could see Beamer’s nose lifted up into the wind and his long ears and tail streaming back. And no cops.
(to be continued)
Hostile Eyes - Chapter One: Day Break
This is the first chapter of an updated ‘western’ novel, set in British Columbia in the late 1970’s.