Part 18 (1/2)
Danny shook his head. ”I can't, man. Not angry now. It's one of those things I can summon up only when I'm mad or something. And I'm drivin' here. Drivin' always relaxes me out.”
Crew allowed him that. The big man seemed nothing but relaxed behind the wheel. He liked that.
”Anyway, this guy throws off my hand and gets to his feet. Sticks his hands out like they're knives or somethin'. The music goes off, and he tells me to back off. 'Back off, motherf.u.c.ker!' he goes. 'Just back the f.u.c.k off!' and on and on about how'll he f.u.c.k me up and yada yada yada. So he's gone in my book. Now, it's a question when, where or if he wakes up.”
Danny paused then, caught up in the recollection of his story. He shook his head, remembering how it went, and smiled. ”We should stop somewhere and pick up something to drink. Snacks, too. You like beef jerky?”
”Yeah, I do.”
”We'll get some of that. I love that stuff. Anyway, where was I?”
”Where and when and-”
”Oh, yeah,” Danny nodded. ”So, I tell him to step outside, but he's pretty much s.h.i.+tfaced and a Tyke Ki Doer. He's already got his leg c.o.c.ked back, and I know he's gonna kick, but I'm wonderin' if he's just f.u.c.kin' stupid enough to try, and guess what?”
”He's stupid enough?” Crew ventured.
”Yup,” Danny replied. ”Saw the foot comin' in slow motion, man. I mean, I had time to think 'He's really going for it,' as he's doing it. The foot's coming around the mountain, gathering steam. He's even hollerin' that KEEYAH s.h.i.+t they shout to release the extra energy or scare the guy or whatever. He's f.u.c.kin' KEEYAHIN' like he walked into a hen house and forgot the axe. And the foot's still in the air, coming round, and his eyes are all lit up, looking at me, going even wider when I step back. He goes over the table. And I'll give the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d this: he was a nimble little squirrel f.u.c.ker. He lands on both feet and brings up his fists, and he's still Keeyahin' like he's the f.u.c.kin' originator of the Keeyah. And he's got plenty of room cuz there ain't no one around him, so he flips over a table and urges me on. It was a parody of f.u.c.kin' Bloodsport, I tell ya.”
Crew was smiling. ”So, what'd you do?”
”Well, he flips the table, still Keeyahin' like he's got bionic lungs or something, and he does this little focusing thing in the air with his fingers. Like making little triangles. So, I let him. I'd have to pay money to be this f.u.c.kin' entertained any other time. Little Stevie does his finger focusing thing, slaps both of his hands together and slaps his thighs, bends over like a golfer and f.u.c.kin' spins on me! But by this time, I ain't entertained no more. I step back, dodge the foot and step in. Popped him square in the nosethe off switch-and he crumpled. Boomer comes around and picks him up and throws him outside into the dumpster. I guess little Stevie upchucked on himself, too, so Boom has to flip him on his belly, so the little moron doesn't choke to death on his own vomit. Nasty s.h.i.+t, that part.”
”That is nasty,” Crew laughed. ”Funny s.h.i.+t, though.”
”Yeah,” Danny agreed. ”Funny s.h.i.+t.” The big man paused for a moment, letting the remembered time play itself out in his mind. Crew did not disturb him. That was good of him, sensing when not to break a silence, when a silence was the best thing to hold.
”Anyway,” Danny started after a while, ”that follows what you were sayin'. About a decent boxer being able to take a not so good Tyke Ki Doer.”
”Martial artist.”
”Right.”
”But he was drunk,” Crew noted. ”He could have been better sober.”
Danny made a sour face. ”Nah. That one was all wind and a.s.shole. You get 'em. All shapes and sizes. I just hope to gawd I never hurt the dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”
This interested Crew. ”Really? You? A bouncer afraid of hurting someone?”
”Oh, yeah,” Danny stressed. ”Don't need that on my conscience. Now, there are some that get off on that, but Boom and I never did. And we hated working with the ones that do. They were the ones you had to be careful about.”
”You ever think about being a cop?”
That brought a smile to Danny's dark face. ”Don't got the grades. Got everything else but the grades. Might have a chance these days, though. I hear that the RCMP are looking for folks with life experience. I got that,” he rolled his eyes with comic effect. ”But, nah. I think they get even less respect than a bouncer. Where I am is okay for now.”
Was okay, but Crew did not say this.
It was on Danny's mind, however. Where would he go after this? Gary had no family. Boomer did, but they were in PEI. A mother and a father. The idea hung in his head like a flickering exit sign on its last leg. What would he do if those guys didn't pull through?
The silence returned, and Crew honoured it this time, staring out at the snowy scenery rus.h.i.+ng by. He hoped he would spot a blue Mustang soon.
Chapter 25.
They were driving. Tony told himself that. They were driving and talking. He was driving and glancing out ever so casually, checking his mirrors, his blind spots, switching lanes and stealing looks in Lucy's direction whenever he felt she wasn't watching. Sometimes, he would look anyway, just to make eye contact. To let her know that he was becoming more and more interested in what she had to say. He was very interested in what she had to say. Extremely interested.
The only trouble was that Lucy was being so G.o.dd.a.m.n boring.
She would not say a word about her past or why in h.e.l.l's name she was on the highway at night in winter when they-he, (Tony corrected himself. Freak show could go f.u.c.k himself with a telephone pole)-picked her up. She offered no explanation of any events leading up to that particular junction in time. Nor did she talk about any family. Tony couldn't recall anyone, not one person, ever engaging him in conversation and not mentioning something about someone.
The news on the radio interested her, however, and she became pensive at times as the radio spewed out reports on the hour. It all concerned miracles, people surviving some terrible mishap or accident and living to talk about it. There was a report on someone's 100th birthday, and Lucy speculated aloud what it must be like to be a hundred years old, to see one's family grow up and even die while the centenarian lived on. Tony knew the news could be morbid, but with Lucy, it became even more depressing. Two people had their legs crushed when their van went off a highway and smashed into a tree. A swimmer off some Florida beach was run over by a speedboat and lived despite being shredded by the craft's fibergla.s.s hull. A local Ontario man slipped and fallen on his chainsaw. A university student playing Russian roulette blew away a chunk of his skull and then walked into a hospital.
”Amazing,” Lucy breathed. ”There must be something left over from Christmas. They all should have died.”
”Yeah,” Tony rumbled. He hoped to G.o.d above that something perky in the way of music came on soon. He'd even listen to French pop music right now.
The music did finally come on, and sensing a real need for more quiet, Lucy did just that. She sat there on the pa.s.senger side with her bee bottom's toque on, black jacket jeans and white boots. She began humming in tune with the music on the radio. Highway signs cautioning them went by. Towns pa.s.sed by. Cities pa.s.sed by. Faceless shapes that might have been people blurred by the Mustang's window, and Tony paid them scant attention. Time seemed to stretch, and the weirdest sensation of movement began to overtake him. He compared it to deja vu, except it wasn't. He knew he had never driven this far outside of Nova Scotia before, and yet, something was going on here. Something was transpiring. He glanced over at Lucy. She was still humming. More signs flashed by, green streaks in the air, reminding Tony of a superhero's fist before the impact. Low flying meteors just outside his stars.h.i.+p. White supernovas.
Then, it hit him. He felt as if he was warping ahead, and everything outside of the Mustang was being stretched into a featureless flat band before disappearing behind him. And for the life of him, he could not remember the last sign he pa.s.sed. He couldn't recall the last town, the last city. Tony's eyes squinted together in concentration.
What province was he in?
Had they stopped in Quebec? Or had they driven on through to Ontario?
”Lucy?”
”Yes?”
”Do you feel... I don't know... funny?”
”No. Why? You?”
”Yeah?”
”Are you sick?” Alarm in her voice. Probably thinking he was about to puke.
”No.”
”Are you sure? Pull over if you think you're going to throw up.”
”No, I'm fine. I'm not sick. Just...” he trailed off, and even the f.u.c.king music on the radio seemed to echo to Tony now as if he were hauling a.s.s in the opposite direction of the concert, except the concert was still right before him. Puzzlement flooded his person. Trippy.
His eyes suddenly went wide. Was he high?
He looked at the dash clock. It read 3:25.
Was it that late?