THE WHITE BALL banked off the rail and cracked the solid seven into a pocket. Berryhill straightened up, studied the table. Kyle leaned on his useless cue, muttering in some alien tongue. Hitchens watched Jim cross the threshold into the back billiards.
Jim nodded to the four men. “Boys.”
Berryhill stretched over the table, drawing his cue. “What do you know about this Corrigan asshole?”
“Not much.”
“That prick doesn’t belong here,” Hitchens said. He already looked stewed.
“Yeah,” Jim said. “And?”
“Somebody’s gotta shut him up,” said Berryhill. “Our mayor sure as hell ain’t gonna do it with her bullshit bylaws.”
Jim felt his ears burn. Like he was auditioning for a part, the four men staring him down. “She’s doing what she can.”
Puddycombe spoke up, playing the mediator to Bill’s bad cop. “We have to do something.”
“Like what?”
Kyle snickered and swept the balls into the corners. Bill laid something on the cleared table and rolled it across the felt surface to Jim.
A baseball bat.
Jim watched the Slugger bank and roll back to the center. He looked up at the men. Four wannabe Rambos.”You gotta be kidding me.”
Berryhill, at least, played the part. “Only one thing this prick is gonna understand.”
“So you’re gonna go all Dirty Harry on him?”
“We send him a message,” Puddycombe said. “That’s all. Let him know he’s not wanted here and it’s time to move on.”
Jim folded his arms. “So what do you want from me? My blessing?”
“You have to be there.” Hitchens slurred the consonants but there was acid in there.
“Not gonna happen.”
“You’re the only friend he’s got.” Berryhill took up the business end of the Louisville and held the grip end out to Jim. “You have to be there.”
It was like a bad joke but no one was laughing. “Are you outta your mind? That isn’t gonna solve anything. Except land your dumb ass in the paddy.”
Puddycombe tore a flyer stapled to a wall of notices and handed it to Jim. A handbill for the Heritage Festival. “This starts in two days. Do you want that prick spreading his bullshit lies then?”
“Get off the fence, Jimbo.” Hitchens ladled on the venom. “Us or him.”
Jim took the bat from Berryhill and gripped it with both hands. “Grow the fuck up,” he said and walked out the door.
Stepping out into the parking lot, he pitched the lumber into Puddy’s dumpster and then scanned the lot for his truck but Emma had already gone.
Kate could murder a drink right now but popping into the pub was out of the question. She’d be tarred and feathered. Locking the front doors with a bundle of work squeezed under her arm, she’d have to settle for Gator Bob’s, the only other bar on the strip. Neon flamingos and ersatz Cajun theme. School teachers and the ‘girls night out!’ crowd, but it was a two minute walk from the town hall. It would have to do. ‘Anything will fit a naked man’ her grandmother used to say.
She’d just turned the lock when footfalls rang up the steps behind her.
It was Jim. And not in a good mood either. “Did you forget something?” she said.
“We have a problem.”
Back inside, into Kate’s office. Jim had never stepped foot inside the mayor’s office before. Who has? An enormous desk and an even bigger fireplace (which worked, she assured him). Portraits hung on every wall, all stern faced men in robes and uniforms. The founders and heroes of Pennyluck township.
Defying stereotypes, Kate did not have a bottle of the good stuff hidden in her desk but councilman Thompson did and she knew in which drawer to find it. Scotch, in clean mugs from the office kitchen. Jim briefed her on the encounter in the billiards room and concluded with: “This is about to get ugly.”
“Sounds like schoolyard bravado to me,” Kate said. “Tomorrow it’ll be forgotten about.”
“If it was just Bill talking, I’d agree. But Puddy and Hitch?”
“They seriously want to run him out of town?”
He nodded. “I understand their anger. It would be better if he just went away.”
“You agree with them?”
“Am I stringing up a noose?” He didn’t mean to snap so sharp. Too late now. “I dunno why he started up with his tour again. He seemed satisfied with the inquest.” He looked at her. “When does that start anyway?”
Kate considered lying to him. Since becoming mayor, she had learned to tell half-truths and sins of omission. Came with the territory, hemmed in as she was by conflicting interests. As mayor, she couldn’t order a cup of coffee with being compromised somewhere. But this was Jim, so she fessed up. “There isn’t going to be any inquest. I was outvoted six to one.”
“Shit. Does Corrigan know that?”
“No one outside of council knows that.”
“But he’ll find out eventually. And he’ll just amp it up some more.”
More compromises. Kate set the mug down and scrounged up a pen. “What do you know about Corrigan? Any detail he told you.”
He reiterated the few facts he knew. “He can fight,” he added. “Like a street brawler. Why?”
“I know someone,” she jotted down the scant info, tossed the pad back onto the desk. “He’s good at background checks.”
“Digging up dirt?”
“I just want to know what we’re dealing with.”
Jim looked around at the portraits staring down at him. “Can’t the town just pay him off?”
“It would look like a settlement. An admission of guilt.”
“What if the town bought his property outright? Offer him enough to go away and never come back?”
“It would look the same as a settlement. Think appearances, Jim.”
Okay. Appearances. How to get the result without the town appearing to be involved. “Then let me do it,” he said. “I’ll buy Corrigan out.”
“You’re broke.”
“The treasury has money. You told me yourself there’s a slush fund for emergencies and whatnot.” She was already shaking her head but Jim kept going. “Let me talk to Corrigan. I’ll make the offer to buy his land, over the asking price. How much over, we can dither about later. One time offer, on the condition he leave town for good. He agrees, you kick in the slush fund money.”
Kate smelled a rat, surprised at his conniving. “Then you’ll own the land outright.”
“In name only. When he’s gone, we put the title back to the county. I’ll lease the land from the town, with an option to buy.”
“Jesus, Jim. That’s wrong in so many ways. Not to mention illegal.”
“But it’s clever,” he said. “Bloodless even. And our friend Mister Corrigan goes away for good.”
“I thought you liked him?”
“I just want to keep the peace.” It was only a half-lie. He really did want to prevent something stupid from happening but there was something more now, a chance to improve his odds.
“No. It’s too risky,” she said. “It could backfire on us so easily.”
“Think about it. Okay?”
Kate gathered up her things. “Okay, but I’m not going to change my mind. Let’s get out of here.”
Jim set his cup on the desk. “Any chance you’re driving past the Roman Line?”
6:00 AM the next business day, Kate’s car was the first into the parking lot. Not her usual routine, this early start, but the office would be deserted for the next two hours. The phones silent. A rare chance to clear the backlog of work killing her inbox.
First order of business was finalizing the new bylaw forbidding anyone from turning a place of residence into a tourist attraction. A few tweaks of the wording and it was ready to go. Since the entire council had agreed to it, there was no need to wait until next session to pass it. She’d get Keith to drive it around to the member’s homes for them to sign. By end of business day, the bylaw would be passed and tomorrow, enforced. She’d deliver the writ to Corrigan herself. After that, Mr. Corrigan would have to fold up his snake-oil tent or pay the fine. Three large.
All of the council members raised an eyebrow at the fine she’d proposed. Frugal men all, some dangerously close to being mistaken for Scots in their tight-fistedness. McGrath and Thompson had openly objected to the amount and Kate suspected both men had plans to build some future tourist trap on their property. She wouldn’t be swayed. Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em deep. Offenders would grumble and whine and then ultimately toe the line.
With that accomplished, Kate got busy chipping at her to-do list with a murderous intensity until eight o’ clock when the staff rolled in with their obligatory cups of Timmy Ho’s. Keith arrived with a tray of them and brought Kate hers as he did every morning, God bless him.
Kate popped the plastic lid and closed her door. Found the number in last year’s daytimer and dialled a Toronto prefix.
Two rings then a voice. “Who the fuck is this?” No hello, no good morning.
“Hugo, it’s Kate.”
“Kate?”
A little disappointed he didn’t remember. “Kate Farrell. We—”
“Had you, didn’t I?” A laugh down the other end. “What can I do you for you, Kate? You still owe me a date, by the way.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Sounds classier than, you know, just a ‘fuckme’ session.”
She’d met Hugo in Toronto six years ago, when her company was being targeted by some anti-corporate activist group. Destroying their billboards, hacking their web servers. Fairly innocuous stuff until a pig carcass was found on their doorstep. The police had proved useless and someone at the company’s law firm suggested relating the matter to a trusted security firm. The security firm sent Hugo. Smooth as butter but short with manners. Brash towards everyone but flirtatious with Kate. Four days into the job, the harassment stopped cold. All Hugo disclosed was that he had located the activists and asked them to stop. He went so far as to request they apologize on their website. He gave no details and waved off any other questions but his knuckles were scraped raw and scabbed over. That afternoon, the activist’s website went dark save for a single screen that proclaimed an apology to the company. Hugo was very effective and extremely discreet and she had held on to his card.
She was surprised when he called the following week, asking her to join him for a drink. She asked if this was a follow up on services rendered. He laughed and said that he simply wanted to get her drunk and take advantage of her.
“You still out in pumpkin land?” he said over the line. Flirting long distance. He must have hit a dry spell, she thought. He went on. “You’ve had your fun out there, Katie girl. Come back to civilization already.”
“Tempting. When are you coming to visit?” Her smirk beamed down the line. “You’d be amazed, Hugo. You can park anywhere. All day.”
“And kill my lungs on all that fresh air?” The snap of a lighter and the sound of inhaling. “I’m on the clock, darling. What’s on your mind?”
“I need a background check on someone.”
“That’s what the police are for, love. Tick tock.”
“This needs more than that. Real digging.”
“Sounds serious.” His words muffled and she pictured him, cigarette in his teeth while he dug for pen and paper. “New boyfriend?”
“Nothing that dramatic. Just some local ne’er do well.”
“My specialty.” He sounded pleased. “What’s the prick’s name?”
“Corrigan, William.”
There were three of them, the louts, but by far, Brant Coogan was the worst. The leader, the instigator. The other two, Emmet and Wyatt, never made a move without him. Schoolyard bullies in the classic sense, all three destined for prison or a career in used car sales. And all thee of them hated Travis Hawkshaw.
Travis had been a passing target since the sixth grade. He got his fair share when the three stooges noticed him, which wasn’t that often. Travis just wasn’t a kid who stood out. That changed when the stranger showed up and cooked up something called a horrorshow, touring people around his creepy old house with tales of murder and revenge. Brant and the two mouth-breathers took notice of Travis then, sometimes going out of their way to find him in the faces flowing through the halls.
In school, you were assured a few jabs or a hard slam up against the lockers. Sometimes just taunting, loud and cruel enough to make every set of eyes turn and stare. Travis knew the latter to be the worst, all those eyes gawking at you. Bitch slaps and nut taps were nothing compared to that. But that was in school, where certain unstated boundaries of scorn and abuse were observed. Outside of school, well, the only principle that held was ‘just fucking run’.
Wednesday afternoons, Travis played basketball with his friend Joel instead of taking the bus home. They’d hang out for two hours then he’d meet his mom at the Farmer’s Co-Op. A regular blip in the schedule for both of them. Crossing Oak Street on the way to the Co-Op, he’d spotted Emmet zip by on his bike. Travis cut through the alley behind the butcher’s to stitch across Galway. A silhouette on a BMX appeared at the end of the alley, circling lazily. Brant, heading him off. Travis turned back.
Emmet and Wyatt pedalled up behind him, cutting off his escape.
The trio circled him on their bikes, called him faggot and loser and retard. Travis wasn’t listening, too busy looking for a breech in their line to make a run for it. There were no windows running either side of the alleyway, no chance anyone would see anything.
Brant skidded to a stop and said something about money but Travis ignored it. All three boys stopped and Travis spotted a gap in their line but then something hit him in the back. He sprawled to the ground, palms skinning the pavement. Travis ignored the heat of the pain and shot to his feet but was already surrounded. Yanked into a headlock and pulled down. His backpack stripped off, punches to the stomach. A nut tap for good measure. He felt his pants yanked down, the word faggot hollered over and over. Travis panicked.
What the hell were they doing? He struck out with fists, kicking blind. They stomped harder and Travis coiled up.
Faggot! Homo!
Travis peeked through his fingers and saw Brant wielding a grimy stick. Said he was gonna fuck his faggot ass with it. Travis’s eyes pieballed in disbelief.
This can’t be happening.
Stabbed. Sparks of pain. Tears, hot with shame. Every curse word he’d ever heard, flung out in a spew and repeated.
Then the pain stopped. Their voices, loud and belligerent. Fired at someone else.
“The fuck you want?”
Travis’s eyes swam in tears, the alley a blur. He saw Emmet or Wyatt slapped to the ground by a hulking fog. Brant was snatched next and shaken so hard his head flopped like a snapped chicken. The voice booming in rage. “You filthy little cocksucker! Is this the kind of faggotry you little shit-stains go for?”
Mr. Corrigan’s voice.
Loud as thunderclaps and wrathful as God. Now it was Brant’s turn to kiss the pavement and curl up. Mr. Corrigan raised his boot high and stomped the boy’s chest. Brant screamed and screamed until a boot to the guts shut him up.
Emmet and Wyatt were halfway down the alley, leaving Brant puking onto the pavement. Corrigan snatched the boy by the hair and hauled him clear to his knees. The boy blubbering and the man nigh snarling into his face. “You interfere with my friend again and I’ll send you back to your father in a fucking box, boyo.” He flung the boy away like something soiled and the boy limped bandylegged towards the sunlight of the street.
Travis clawed at his pants, hauling them back up. His hand went to the stinging pain in his behind. Fingers came up bloodied. Eyes rolled white.
All she wrote.
A few slaps to the cheek and Travis’s eyes swam open. Why was Mr. Corrigan leaning over him? It all rushed back with the pain searing through his backside, the thrumming ache in his brain.
“You all right, son?”
Shame followed hot on pain’s tail. He lowered his eyes, looking for some dark hole to crawl into. He couldn’t even sit up, the sting was so bad. Hot tears welled up again and he scolded them back.
Corrigan watched the boy stifle back his tears. Man up. “Who were those boys?”
Travis spat onto the grit. “Cocksuckers.”
“Without a doubt.” Corrigan tapped the boy’s knee. “Hold tight.” He plucked a handkerchief from a pocket and folded it into a tight square. “Take this. Stuff it down your skivvies before the blood seeps your jeans.”
Travis froze up. Bad enough he knew, but this? Stuffing his jockeys with paper. Like a woman on the rag.
“Hurry,” said Corrigan. “No one’s looking.”
Travis took the wad and Corrigan turned away, allowing him privacy.
“Are you gonna tell my parents?”
“Why would I do that? Keep an eye on that, yeah? If it doesn’t scab over in a day, go see a doctor.” Corrigan cocked his chin in the direction Brant had fled. “Those boys? Takes a coward to gang up on someone the way they did. Remember that.”
Travis hitched his jeans back up. His face was still flushed but at least the tears had stopped. “What the hell am I gonna tell my parents?”
“The truth. You got jumped by a pack of cocksucking bastards.” Corrigan rose, knees popping against the strain. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“I can’t. I’m supposed to meet my mom at the Co-op.”
“Then I’ll drop you there. Get up.”
Corrigan didn’t help the boy stand, just waited patiently as he limped down the alley to where Corrigan had parked his truck. They rode in silence, Travis wincing at every pothole. Corrigan wheeled up to the double doors of the Co-Op and Travis cracked his door.
“Hold on.” Mr. Corrigan popped the glovebox and fished around the mess inside. He plucked something and held it out to Travis. “Here, take this.”
A thick wedge of tarnished brass, underpinned with four rings. Brass knuckles, heavy and lethal. Travis tried it on, his fingers small in the ring-hollows.
“Holy shit.” It was all he could think to say.
“Tuck it away out of sight but easy to reach when needed. Next time those little pissants hassle you, slip ‘em on. Do some damage.”
The boy was entranced by the brass weapon. Corrigan shooed him out of the truck. “Go on. Get outta here.”
Tom Carswell tapped his papers straight on the desk and tried not to look at the clock. Ten past five. The day just refused to end. He peered out his office door to the bank lobby. Cheryl was searching for her keys. Again. The doors should have been locked already.
Like every closing time, Carswell planned an exit that would avoid Cheryl. The woman loved nothing more than to prattle on at day’s end, an endless stream of petty complaints and grating gossip. But the bank was small and there was simply nowhere to hide. Sometimes, when cornered by Cheryl’s nonstop chatter, Carswell fantasized about locking his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyeballs popped out blue and bloodshot. Ahh.
A shadow blocked the light in his door.
“Mr. Carswell, you’ve been avoiding me.” William Corrigan leaned on the jamb, casting his eyes over the bank manager’s office.
Where the hell did he come from? Why couldn’t that cow ever lock the door on time? Carswell sat up straight, forced a smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Corrigan. We’re extremely busy here but I will get back to you in due time.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Business hours are closed so—”
“Perfect.” Corrigan helped himself to the chair, stretched his legs out. “Then no one will disturb us.”
“Mr. Corrigan, please. I just don’t have the time right now.” Where the hell was the security guard? What did he pay that fat turd for if he let people wander in past hours?
“This shouldn’t take long. If you’ve listened to my messages or read my request, that is.” Corrigan smiled, knowing almost certain the puffy-faced manager hadn’t. “I need the property assessment on my farm. The last two assessments should be enough to work out a current one.” He cast his eyes over the paperwork crowding the desk. “Let’s have a look.”
“There are no previous assessments, Mr. Corrigan. There hasn’t been one in ten years. More.”
“Why the hell not?”
“The land’s been held in trust since the dinosaur era.” Carswell made a show of looking at his watch, hoping the man would get the hint. “Any hope of selling it was abandoned ages ago.”
“Then give me an estimate on what the assessment would be. A ballpark figure.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can. What about Hawkshaw’s place next door? What’s Jimmy’s figure?”
“I can’t reveal that information.” Carswell sighed. Would the man ever go away? He sure as spit couldn’t take a hint. “Not that you want Jim’s assessment.”
“He’s in a bad way, is he? How much is he in the hole?”
“Mr. Corrigan, you know I can’t discuss that either. Now if you’d—”
“Here, I’ve got a killer idea.” Corrigan leaned forward, reaching into a pocket. “Why don’t you call up Jimmy’s info on your screen there and then go grab us a coffee?” He produced a roll, peeled off four bills and squared them up on the desk. Hundreds. The benign face of Robert Borden looking up at the bank manager.
Carswell blinked at the bills like he didn’t know what they were. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am. I could murder a cup of coffee right now.” Corrigan leaned in, a grin creasing his face. “What is it? You and Jimmy good friends?”
“No. Not at all.”
Corrigan laid another bill atop the others and pushed them forward. All in. “Go on, Mr. Carswell. All I need is a peek.”
The clock ticked. Carswell wanted to go home. His eyes went to the lobby. It was empty. He tapped a few strokes on the keyboard and then rose from the chair. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”
He crossed to the lobby to make sure the front door was locked.