CHAPTER ONE

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THE FIRST SATURDAY in August. Sunset. The town cast in shadows...

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     Chester Posey cruised Main Street, the Heritage District of town, six blocks of broad streets with angled parking,shoulder-to-shoulder brown and yellow brick three-story 1860-era Victorians with renovated storefronts, big picture windows, elaborate gingerbread trim, brightly painted cornices, and colourful sidewalk awnings.

     Chester drew heavy on a cigarette, bloodshot eyes darting from one side of the street to the other, continuallychecking the rearview and side mirrors. He hadn’t seen a cop car, local or OPP, since leaving his Cabbagetown rooming house over two and a half hours ago. So far so good, he thought, taking another long drag on his cigarette.

     The Yankees and Red Sox were in the top of the sixth, volume on the satellite radio up, but not enough to drown out the electronic voice prompts from the onboard navigation system. The Yankees had just hit back-to-back singles and a home run and were up a run with only one out. Chester nodded, blew out a plume of smoke, and said, “Yeah. Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

     Chester had a C-note riding on a five-game parlay. He had won all four of the afternoon ballgames and needed the Yankees to beat the Sox. Before the sixth inning ended the Yankees scored another run and took a two-run lead into the seventh. Yep. After riding the schnide for over a month, Chester was feeling like Lady Luck was finally on his side, snuggled up close, riding shotgun.

     Main Street, the social and economic centre of town, was buzzing with activity. Saturday evening traffic was bumper-to-bumper, the sidewalks bustling with people. According to the forecast, this was to be the first weekend in the past three that had promised sunshine, warm temperatures, and clear skies. No rain. That, and with only a few weeks of good summer weather remaining, had flushed out the crowds.

     Parents and their kids strolled up and down the street holding double-scoop waffle cones and gigantic plastic cups of ice-cold fruit slushies. Young couples held hands and window shopped. A man in red track pants and t-shirt pulled to the curb and ran into a convenience store for a bag of milk and a loaf of bread. An elderly couple sat on a park benchin front of the water fountain in Rotary Park and fed the pigeons. On the sidewalk patio at Cocoberry’s Café, a group of four sipped espressos and shared slices of raspberry cheesecake and lemon-berry crumble. Just another typicalSaturday night in the small country town of Poets Walk – everyone with something to do, and somewhere to go. No one gave Chester Posey, sitting big behind the wheel of the stolen showroom-shined black Cadillac Escalade, a sidewaysglance.

     On the south side of the street, Chester rolled past Wong’s Fresh Fruits and Vegetable Market, a law office and an accounting firm, the stately Carnegie Public Library, and the Post Office. Through the traffic light and into the next block, he cruised by the newly restored Carmichael Opera House, and across the street the Town Hall with the four-story, Boston-built, four-faced clock tower.

     The nav system directed a move into the right-hand lane. Chester signalled, checked his mirrors, twice, and easedover. Doing everything right, smooth and easy, not taking any chances.

     Chester was heading west toward the highway on the edge of town by the multiplex movie theatre, the chain restaurants, and the new mall with the box-like superstores. He crested a small rise in the road, and spotted the sign twenty yards ahead on the right, standing thirty feet in the air, lit up from both sides with gooseneck floodlights.

     The dashboard clock read 8:46 PM. Perfect. That put Chester fourteen minutes ahead of schedule. Not bad for a guy that was sitting on a barstool at 5:30 guzzling a couple of quick pints of honey brown lager. Who would have thought?The smart money would have had him at 100 to 1 at making the trip on time, 50 to 1 at being at least an hour late, and even money at fucking the whole thing up, getting shit-faced, passing out, and not making the trip at all. Chester flipped on his signal and turned the big black Cadillac into the parking lot. The tinny female voice from the nav systemannounced that he had arrived at his destination. “Goddamn right.”

     Fat Louie’s Burger Barn sat in the middle of a large shared parking lot; a liquor and beer store on the north end, a small strip plaza on the south, home to Waddles Pharmacy, a 7-Eleven, and a First Act video store. The parking lot, like the activity on the street, was jammed, cars moving in and out, people coming and going. Seniors were shuffling in and out of the pharmacy filling prescriptions and buying lottery scratch tickets. A few acne-faced teenage boys were buying6-packs of condoms and bottles of mouthwash, ready in case they ran into one of those high-spirited, early-to-start, eager-to-go country girls. The traffic at the video store was steady, as was business at the 7-Eleven. The lineup of people at the beer and liquor stores was heavy and constant, everyone loading up on their favourite box or bottle. Smack dab in the middle of all that, the Saturday night action at the Burger Barn was just beginning to crank up.

     Fat Louie’s was a local hangout popular with the college crowd, an old weather-beaten, two-story clapboardbuilding with a wraparound patio, shooter bar, picnic tables, and beer umbrellas. Nickelback’s Rockstar blared from outdoor speakers. Two guys in white chef jackets and Fat Louie’s ball caps worked the open-flame BBQ. The beer bar and fully stocked shooter bar at the far end of the patio, staffed with large-breasted young co-ed women in tight t-shirts and black spandex shorts, served up ice-cold pitchers of Silver Creek Lager and double shots of Jose Cuervo Gold. A vinyl sign running the length of the deck’s guardrail proclaimed Fat Louie’s as the home of the World-Famous Fresh Hand-Pattied Sirloin Burger. For anyone keeping score, that was cold beer and tequila, pretty girls in short shorts and tight t-shirts, and the best burger anywhere north of the city – what the frat boys commonly referred to as a food service trifecta.

     Chester was easing through the parking lot, giving it the once over when his cellphone rang. He pulled the phoneout of his shirt pocket, clicked on, and said, “Yeah.” A second ring. “What the...shit.” He tossed his cellphone onto the passenger seat and grabbed the burner phone out of his jeans pocket, clicked on, and said, “Yeah...sure...yeah. I’m just pulling in. Yeah…yeah. Don’t worry about me, brother. Okay. Sure. No sweat.” Chester clicked off and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. “Big Man’s talking to me like I’m some sort of fuckin` dope,” Chester mumbled like he did whenever he was nervous. “If I said I can handle my end, then I canhandle my end.”

     Chester drove down one row and up the next, cruised from one end of the lot to the other. Tailpipe’s custom-built Harley Fatboy was parked in front on a piece of asphalt between the driveway and the sidewalk. A group of teenage boys were standing around the bike taking an interest. Chester shook his head and snickered, figuring the boys might want to be somewhere else when Tailpipe showed up.

     He circled around the patio and headed around the back of the building. The full-size white Dodge Ram was parked in the back corner, backed up against a sorry-looking wooden fence painted the same faded-out puke green as the Burger Barn. Chester gave the driver a quick nod, turned, and wheeled the Cadillac into the only available space in the second row with a good view of the street. He shifted the truck into park, killed the engine, took a long final draw on hiscigarette, and flicked it out the open window.

     In the top half of the seventh, two out, the Sox hit a double to the wall in left-centre, took two walks, hit a triple, and were now up by two. “Jesus Christ. Isn’t that just fuckin’ great,” Chester screamed, banging the steering wheel with both hands, tugging on it like he wanted to rip it off the steering column, “Shit. Shit. Fuckin’ shit.” Apparently, LadyLuck, the finicky Red Sox-loving bitch, had bailed on him.

     Chester’s hissy fit drew a nasty look from a mother herding her three young kids into a nearby minivan. The father, in a plaid shirt and John Deere ball cap, yelled, “Hey.” A short pause, and then, “HEY,” louder this time. Chester stopped cursing, let go of the wheel, and looked over. “Take it easy on the language, pal. We have kids here.”

     “Sorry.” Chester apologized, thought, damn, that wasn’t too bright. Get all the way up here and blow it now. He reached for the volume control on the radio, adjusted it down low, and powered up the Caddy’s tinted window, leaving it open just enough to allow the cigarette smoke to escape. There was no need to attract any unnecessary attention. Hedidn’t need anyone looking his way wondering what a punk like him was doing behind the wheel of a big, new blackCadillac. Not with a loaded .45 caliber Colt pistol under the seat, an extra clip in the glove box, and a couple of tightly wrapped fatties tucked inside his sock. Nope. He didn’t need that kind of trouble. Not tonight.

     Chester reached for the canvas grocery sack on the passenger seat, the bag holding his soft-covered ledger, his NFLfantasy football sheets, a copy of the Sports Illustrated NFL preview edition, and a collection of other sheets and papers he needed to make his wagers with Champion Jack. He leafed through the ledger to the last few pages, checked the betting lines in the weekend paper, and started working on another ticket for Sunday.

     At a few minutes after nine, the Cadillac in a good spot, the volume on the radio just right, his five-game parlay threeouts away from being flushed down the toilet, Chester settled in. He took a deep breath, then another, and then a fewshort ones. The smell of fresh charbroiled burgers and deep-fried onion rings drifted into the parking lot on the shoulders of a slight westerly breeze.

Chester’s attention was drawn to the two guys working the Fat Louie’s patio BBQ. “Huh.” He lit another  cigarette and tried to relax.

CHAPTER TWO

DOWNTOWN RUBY’S BBQ Grille and Bar, back in the days of horse-drawn carriages the McMurphy Mercantile, inthe Shackleford Block at the east end of the Heritage District of town...

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     All the tables were taken. The dining room, the lounge, and the back deck were jammed. The bar crowd was beginningto roll in, there was a lineup at the door, and the phone at the hostess station rang every couple of minutes with peoplelooking to book a late-night dinner reservation.

     For the staff at Ruby’s, Saturday nights were controlled chaos. Food runners hustling into the service station, hustling out seconds later with service trays loaded with four, five, and six dinner plates. Servers running trays of cocktails from the service bar, uncorking bottles of red and white wine from Ruby’s impressive list of old and new world wines. Busser’s clearing, cleaning and resetting tables, carrying overflowing bus pans back through the kitchen to the dish pit. The hostess on the phone, working the waiting list, watching the clock, moving things around, doing her best to get everyone in and seated. Like a well-oiled machine, all staff members doing their best to hold up their end ofthe service equation, everyone working hard to stay out of the weeds. Charlie Beach was in the service station working the pass-through window. He believed the key to a successful dinner service was timing. The specific spacing of each course was critical.

Timing, Charlie emphasized when training his staff, was the key.

     “Leanne, table one-o-nine, and Michael, table three-o-seven, entrees are up.” Charlie spiked a couple of chits.“Katie, your salads for table one-seventeen are up, and Mark, you’ve got apps for table three-fifteen. Let’s go.” Charlie spiked a couple of more chits. “Dave, and Stacie, your desserts for table two thirty-one and two twenty-nine are ready to go.” Through the window to Lucy Mallory, Ruby’s Executive Chef, Charlie said, “Luce, pickup entrees for table three-o-five, two eleven, and one thirty-three.”

     Billy Mitchell, Charlie’s right-hand man, and Ruby’s General Manager, returned to the pass after helping out at theservice bar, running a couple of large drink orders out to the deck, helping bus a couple of tables. Charlie took a couple of minutes with Billy to run down the chits on the speed rail, get him up on the timing of things. With that done, he hit the floor for QC’s. Charlie walked through the dining room, the lounge, and back through the bar. He stopped at every table, smiled, chatted, shook some hands, slapped a few backs, and asked how everyone was enjoying their meal. Besides the usual compliments about the food and the service, he was getting questioned about an article that had first appeared in the city papers andhad been reprinted in the local paper just a few days ago. Charlie smiled, told everyone that all they needed to know wasin the article. He did his best to keep the conversation centred on the food and beverage service.

     After table checks and a quick conversation with Billy about an issue with the desserts at table four-o-four, things running smooth, Charlie poured himself a mug of black coffee, said he was going to check on the tables on the deck,and then go over and chat with the Pickett’s.

     The back deck at Ruby’s sat forty-four people, a combination of deuces, four-tops, and a few rounds for larger groups, a few of the tables with umbrellas, a few without. Potted plants were strategically placed while a few brightly coloured flowering plants hung from the eaves. Sarah Vaughn’s Black Coffee played low in the background from outdoor speakers that were bolted to the walls. There was a service station in the south-east corner with enough room for additional cutlery, china, condiments, and a few bus pans. Last year, Charlie figured he could improve service times by installing a POS terminal and printer, that way the servers wouldn’t have to go all the way into the main servicestation to place their orders. The deck was comfortable, functional, and had created the additional revenue needed tomake it all work.

     Charlie pushed through the screen door. He started at the far end, stopped at each table, chatted briefly, got morecompliments, and more questions about the article in the paper, questions he ignored. He worked his way back toward the Pickett’s table, the four-top in the corner along the railing in the shade of the Weeping Willow.

     “Charlie,” Ethan Pickett bellowed, his raspy blues singer baritone booming over the background music and din of conversation on the deck.

     Ethan Pickett, a seventy-two-year-old ex-rodeo cowboy, was six feet, squared jawed, trim and fit, his hair and paintbrush-style mustache the colour of freshly fallen snow. He was casually dressed in a buttoned-down white cotton shirt, faded black Levi’s, and a black herringbone sports jacket. His belt buckle, a champion’s prize from a long-ago rodeo, was the size of a small hubcap. He stood, reached out a gnarled and weathered hand, and said, “How ya doing, Charlie,” the greeting accompanied by a warm charismatic smile.

     Charlie looked at Ethan’s hand, at the thickness of his fingers, the knuckles that looked like railway spikes. At an inch taller, and a few pounds heavier and thicker across the chest, Charlie was no pushover. In a tough spot, he could handle himself, but shaking hands with Ethan Pickett was a different ball game. The man had a crushing grip and was so naturally enthusiastic, it was only a matter of time before he accidentally tore his arm loose from its socket. Take itlike a man, Charlie thought, planting his weight on his right foot, flexing his arm muscles like he was about to lift a fifty-pound bag of potatoes, and said, “Hi, Ethan.”

     Ethan grabbed Charlie’s hand with a vice-like grip, gave his arm a couple of piston-like pumps, pulled him in for a man-hug, patted him a couple of times on the back. “The meal was fabulous, just wonderful. Pass my compliments onto Lucy and the entire kitchen staff.”

     The pain from the handshake shot through Charlie’s arm like a bullet. He made a face that he hoped no one else at the table noticed. “Sure, Ethan, I’ll do that.” In spite of the sudden shock of pain, Charlie turned, smiled, and said, “Hey, Cedar.”

     Cedar Mathews, Ethan’s daughter, a couple of months past her thirty-second birthday, three months younger than Charlie, was his oldest and closest friend, someone he had been palling around with since JK. “Hi, Charlie,” Cedar said, smiling, leaning over the table to give him a peck on the cheek. “The meal was delicious. The Veal Mallory was to die for. Tell me, has Lucy given any more thought to putting together a cookbook of her recipes?”

     The Veal Mallory was one of Chef Lucy Mallory’s signature dishes, and like most chefs, she protected her recipes like most women protect their children. Her recipes were kept under lock and key in a filing cabinet in her kitchen office with a note that read – DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!

     “She talks about it,” Charlie said. “I think it’s just a matter of finding the time to put it together and shopping for apublisher.”

     “Great. Let me know. I’ll be first in line. Maybe she’d autograph a copy for me?” A big girly smile.

     Charlie said, “I bet she would” He kept his eyes on Cedar for a few extra beats, giving her a good look. He hadn’t seen her in over a week, and, even after all these years, he still found it hard to turn away. Cedar Mathews was drop-dead gorgeous. Five-seven and a half and perfectly proportioned, her natural physical beauty able to buckle the knees of any man over the age of twelve. Big, soft hazel eyes, short, messy, textured saddle-brown hair, and a smile with enough wattage to power a locomotive. She was dressed in a sleeveless, light summer-weight dress, open-toed shoes, sporting a gold pendant with multiple coloured gemstone briolettes and a matching bracelet. Casual, sure, yet stunning.

     To Ray Mathews, Cedar’s husband, Charlie offered his hand. “Good to see you, Ray,” he said in a feeble effort to sound sincere.

     “How are you doing, Charlie?” Ray said, his tone equally lacking sincerity.

     The two men shook hands and exchanged cursory looks. Charlie said, “I’m doing good, Ray.” He pulled out the fourth chair just as Katie Jarrett, a college sophomore and first-year server at Ruby’s, arrived with a carafe of coffee and three snifters of cognac. She slid a snifter in front of Cedar, and Ethan, Ray Mathews last, and filled everyone’scoffee mug.

     Ethan, still standing, said, “Bring another snifter of Louis XIII for Charlie, would you, please.”

     “Sure, Mr. Pickett.” Katie beamed a bright cheerleader smile and hurried back inside.

Everyone retook their seats.

     Louis XIII was something Charlie stocked for a select few. Bluewater County had its share of the wealthy and privileged, people that wouldn’t flinch at the price of a serving of one of the world’s premiere cognacs. Of that group,Ethan Pickett was the undisputed financial heavyweight champ, a semi-retired, self-made billionaire businessman. Pickett Enterprises was one of the largest, most profitable, privately-owned companies in the country. Interests included real estate, financial services, telecommunications, television, radio, newspapers and magazines, financial services, and health care. Corporate headquarters were located in Toronto, but business interests stretched, not only across Canada and the United States but throughout Europe. Forbes Magazine had Ethan pegged as the third wealthiest man in the country.

     “So, where is everyone?” Charlie asked, getting the conversation going.

     “Ben’s been in Calgary for the last few days attending the Canadian Cattlemen's Association convention,” Ethansaid, reaching into the inside pocket of his sports coat. He pulled out a piece of newsprint and passed it to Cedar. “Tonight, he’s either in a cigar smoke-filled backroom playing high stakes poker, or he’s out with his cattle croniesdrinking scotch, getting all riled up and talking politics.”

     “Ben’s a lady’s man,” Cedar chimed in, taking the newsprint from her dad. “I bet he’s turned on the cowboy charmand is out dancing with the prettiest girl in town.”

     “And the Doc?” Charlie asked.

     “She had surgery this afternoon,” Ethan said. “She’s going to be at the hospital most of the night. She sends her regrets.”

     Cedar unfolded the newsprint. “I read this,” she said enthusiastically. “Score one for the good guys.” She pumped her fist in the air and passed the article onto Ray. It was the article that Charlie had been quizzed about earlier. Theheadline read:

LOCAL PI PUTS STING ON CROOKED IRB JUDGE

     While Ray skimmed through the article, Ethan said, “Nice work, Charlie.”

     “Thanks, Ethan. I don’t mind the story, but I just wish the reporter hadn’t mentioned my name in the article.”

     The article detailed the story of a twenty-one-year-old Russian refugee claimant named Alina Dubkova. She had escaped an abusive father, her mother, and her younger brother murdered because of her father’s shady business dealings. In fear for her own life, she fled to Canada and had made an application to the Immigration Review Board for asylum. Charlie said, “In reviewing her application the IRB judge told her that it didn’t look favourable, that he was thinking about having her deported, but because she was so “beautiful” and had the “body of a model,” that maybe there was something they could work out.”

     “How does it feel tocatch a scumbag like that?” Cedar asked.

     “Feels great,” Charlie said. “Any fat cat bureaucrat that uses their position to blackmail a scared, defenseless young woman deserves to go to jail.”

     “Damn straight,” Ethan asserted. Katie was back with another snifter of the Louis XIII. She excused herself andplaced it on the table in front of Charlie. He said, “Thanks, Katie.”

     When she hustled away, everyone looked at Charlie for details of the bust. He filled everyone in on a few details that weren’t in the article. “I tailed the IRB judge to the Yorkville Mall three times. He’d buy a coffee and a bag of doughnuts and sit on a bench in the mall concourse in front of the Gap where Alina worked.”

     “Creepy,” Cedar said.

     “You bet,” Charlie said. “On his second trip, he sat there for over three hours. On his third trip, he called her over,set up a lunch meeting to discuss her application, and warned her if she leaked word to the cops, she’d be on the nextplane back to Russia.”

     “Bastard,” Cedar barked.

     “That’s when you set up the sting,” Ethan asked.

     “I only had a few days, so I had to pull everything together quickly. The meeting was set for a Starbucks patio on the Danforth. I wired Alina for sound while I set up in my surveillance vehicle across the street with my recording equipment. I had an associate down the street with a still camera and a video camera. If the deal was to extort sex for the approval of her refugee application, it had to clear, there had to be no question about his intent.”

     “And...” Cedar said.

     “The judge didn’t waste any time. He came right out and laid it on the line,” Charlie said. “The next day I turned the tapes over to the RCMP. Two days later, after they interviewed Alina, they showed up at the IRB offices and arrested him.”

     What Charlie didn’t tell them was before he handed over the tapes to the RCMP he had paid the big shot judge a visit. He wanted to be the one to tell him he was finished. Charlie placed his digital voice recorder on the guy’s desk and played a quick minute of the conversation he’d had with Alina. The judge twitched and squirmed, loosened his tie, and broke out in a cold sweat. Charlie took great pleasure in watching how the judge’s eyes glazed over, how his facial muscles relaxed, and how his shoulders drooped, telltale signs of his life suddenly draining away.

     “He’ll go to jail?” Cedar asked.

     “He’s been charged with breach of trust and extortion. A buddy in the Crown Attorney’s office told me they’ll be looking for a jail term of three to three and half years, but figures he’ll serve maybe eighteen months.”

     “Doesn’t seem like enough,” Ethan suggested.

     “It’s never enough,” Charlie said, thinking he should have taken the guy out to a back alley and bounced him off thewalls a couple of times before calling the cops. “On top of the jail time he’s lost his job, his wife and kids are long gone, he’ll face disciplinary action from the law society, and his reputation is in ruins. Guy’s going to find it tough to rebuild a life carrying around that kind of baggage.”

     “Fuck him,” Ethan snapped, reaching for his snifter of cognac. Time for the Louis XIII. Charlie swirled the goldencopper liquid with a steady circular motion and stuck his nose into the top of the glass. The aroma of fine cognac could bring a smile to anyone’s face; maybe even take away the pain of a possible separated shoulder.

     Ethan raised his glass. “To Charlie.” Everyone followed. “You’re an Idealist, Charlie. I love that about you. You believe the justice system was created for everyone, not just for the people that can afford high-powered lawyers. Like Alina, you stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. You believe in the basic principles of right and wrong, and fight to set things straight with an old-school attitude for truth and justice. Here’s to putting another sleazy, corruptbureaucrat behind bars. I’ve always been proud to call you, my friend. I love you, Charlie. Cheers.”

     “Thanks, Ethan,” Charlie said, a bit embarrassed by it all. After a collective “Cheers,” and a clink of glasses, everyone took euphoric sips.

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Chester ripped open the grease-stained brown paper bag, pulled out a Fat Louie’s World-Famous Hand-Pattied Fresh Sirloin double-cheeseburger, folded back the foil wrap, and chewed off a healthy chunk. After a couple of chews, he stuffed an onion ring the size of an inner tube into his mouth, then washed it all down with a tug on his large cup of soda, Diet Coke with a couple of squirts of Jim Beam, the bourbon added from the mickey he had just bought at the liquor store.

     Chester Posey’s friends and there were only a few, called him Slippery. To the cops, he was a two-bit hustler that had trouble keeping his skinny ass out of jail. Strictly a minor leaguer, his rap sheet included stints for burglary, possession of stolen property, a couple of minor drug offenses, shoplifting, b & e, drunk and disorderly, one count of grand theft auto, and a DUI. He had been hauled into Fifty-One Division so often every street cop west of Yonge Street could pick him out of a crowded bar in less time than it took to light a cigarette. Put him in a police lineup and it was, “Yes, officer, that’s him, that scruffy-looking dipshit on the right.” Five-ten, a boney one-sixty five, with an eighties-style mullet of shaggy dirty blond hair. Scruffy and unshaven, Chester mumbled and stumbled around the neighbourhood, shit-faced most of the time, smelling like two-week-old laundry.

     Chester worked, sometimes, flipping burgers, sweeping floors, cleaning toilets, all strictly minimum wage stuff, but could never hold a job for more than a couple of weeks, the booze, the gambling, and the late nights always getting the better of him. His social worker had landed him a job working the day shift at a factory that made Chinese fortune cookies. The guy that owned the joint had trained him to drive a forklift, got him packing andstacking boxes in the warehouse. Always broke, living paycheck to paycheck, he was always on the lookout for somestreet action.

     Chester finished his burger and onion rings, tossed the garbage in the back seat, and lit another cigarette.

     9:45 PM. The big Dodge was still backed up against the fence, the Harley Fat Boy parked at the front. “What the fuck? Wait, don’t get out of the truck, and don’t do anything stupid. Relax, I’ll be in touch, the Big Man said. Sure. No problem, I can wait,” Chester mumbled, rolling his lucky twenty-five dollar casino chip over the knuckles of his right hand. He had been staying away from all the regular places, doing his best to dodge some hard men. The money from this job would square things up, get those tough assholes off his back. He took another pull on the Jim Beam and Diet Coke to smooth out the rough edges. Wait? Sure, he could wait. As long as he was getting paid, and had enough cigarettes and booze, he could wait all night.

     The deal had come together at Blue Mondays Tavern at The Queen Victoria Hotel, Chester sitting on a barstoolminding his own business, nursing back his fourth pint of honey brown lager. He had the sports section spread open; the paper angled to pick up the light from a single low watt bulb screwed into a cheap nicotine-stained tin shade hanging above the bar. With a firm grip on his mug of beer, a cigarette dangling from his lips, Chester was checking the money lines on the weekend ball games when he got an unsuspecting tap on the shoulder.

     “Screw off,” he said, without turning. Making a wager was serious stuff, and he didn’t need any dumb assholemessing with his concentration. He was down eight hundred to Champion Jack Boudreau, losing the Yankee game after Jeter hit a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Athletics by two. He needed to piece together a neat little five-game parlay, five being his lucky number. Jack paid ten-to-one on five gamers. No juice. Chester figureda hundred would cover his marker, and clear his bar tab.

     A second tap. “Don’t bother me, man. I’m thinking here,” Chester said, again not bothering to take a look over his shoulder to see who was doing the tapping. He slid out the pencil that was stuck under the brim of his newsboy cap and circled the Cards, the Braves, the Tigers, the Phillies, and the Yankees. “Fuckin’ Yankees,” Chester mumbled. No waywere they going to lose the third game of a three-game series against the Tigers. No way. He took a long pull on thehoney brown, leaned an elbow on the bar, took a few seconds to think this one over. Yeah. This one felt right. This one was money.

     The third tap was something between a nudge and a shove. Chester dropped his pencil and slammed a hand downon the bar. “What the hell, man. I gotta kick some ass, or what?” Getting all fired on a few pints of honey brown lager wasn’t a wise thing for a guy like Chester Posey in a place like Blue Mondays.

     Chester swivelled around, almost spun himself off the stool and onto the floor. He righted himself, straightened up, and took his first look. “Yikes.” His eyes went wide and wild. His head snapped back, his mouth hung open, his cigarette hit the floor. Chester was staring directly into a man’s chest as big and wide as a highway billboard.

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     Short, choppy breaths, something akin to cardiac arrest, was loud enough to get the attention of the guy sitting on the barstool next to him. The old man with the sagging shoulders, hound dog eyes, and moth-eaten fedora recognizedthe situation for what it was; something he had seen a hundred other times on a hundred other nights. As if on cue, he picked up his scotch and beer chaser, and moved to the other end of the bar.

     Chester looked up, way up, had to lean back over the bar to get a look at the full picture. Six-foot four, jeans, well-worn brake buckle boots, and a tight black T-shirt that showcased a set of pipes the size of watermelons. He had cold, dark eyes, a cleanly shaven head, one gold-capped tooth, and a twelve-inch scar that ran from eyebrow to jawbone. If that wasn’t enough to get Chester’s sphincter to tighten, it looked like someone, or something had chewed off the top part of his right ear.

     Chester swallowed hard, figured he was a dead man. Hustling city streets, lying, cheating, and stealing his way through life meant he had fucked with the kind of people that held lifelong grudges, and settled problems with baseballbats, crowbars, and hired muscle. This guy, crowding him against the bar to make sure he didn’t make a run for the door, looked like the kind of guy that could settle a score, and didn’t need a crowbar to do it.

     A nervous throat clearing, Chester doing everything possible not to piss his pants, was unable to come up withanything other than, “Uhh, uhh...”

     The big man leaned over, and in a voice that sounded like tires crunching gravel, said, “Do you have a minute?” polite, but with the edge of a razor.

     Chester wasn’t a bright guy, his IQ a nickel shy of a Tickle Me Elmo doll, but he was smart enough to know how things worked. “Sure,” he muttered, a slight quaver in his voice.

     The big man threw up a mammoth hand and signalled the bartender for two more pints. He tossed down ten bucks, lifted both mugs off the bar, and said, “Come on,” and headed across the dance floor toward the back corner. The day the pogey and welfare checks were out the saloon was packed. The usual riff-raff. A teenaged, ponytailed street corner girl dressed in a mini skirt and thigh-high boots, sat next to a bald, nervous-looking guy in a dark suit and striped tie in a booth along the near wall. On the other side of the room, a couple of greasy-looking characters in heavy metal T-shirts,ball caps, and jeans played eight-ball.

     There was an empty deuce in the back corner under a neon beer sign, the sign casting slashes of blue and red light across a few old black and white fight posters – Ali and Frazier, Patterson and Liston, Marciano and Walcott.

     The big man set the two pints of beer in the middle of the table, sat with his back to the wall, drained half a pint of beer, and then wiped the foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He pulled a cigar tube from the back pocket of his jeans, tapped out an expensive Cuban cigar, and lit it with the matches that were in a plastic ashtray on thetable. Once the cigar was going, he leaned back in the wooden captain’s chair, savouring the taste of the tobacco, blowing the smoke up toward the ceiling. He rested easy in the chair like only a man of his size could crossed a leg over a knee, and measured Chester for a few seconds. “Sit down,” he said, again bordering on polite, but with a hint of something else to it.

     Chester had one hand on the back of a chair, the other holding his half-finished mug of beer, not quite sure if he wanted to hang around long enough to find out what the guy wanted. He figured this was his chance, maybe his only chance, to make a run for the door. Then again, there was no way he was leaving without finishing his beer. Chester didwhat he was told, but cautious. If things started to go sideways, he’d guzzle his beer and make a run for the door. If he made it to the street, he’d drag his drunken ass back to his room, pack his van, and move to some remote place wherethey’d never find him, like Brazil, or Kapuskasing.

     The big man continued to draw on the cigar, blowing out an impressive series of smoke rings.

When he was good and ready, he said, “People call me Tailpipe.”

     Chester said, “Okay,” thinking maybe the name should mean something. A tiny bead of sweat crawled out fromunder his cap and slid down his cheek. Sixty-seconds ticked off the clock.

Tailpipe smoked. Chester sweated. Tim McGraw’s Angry All the Time blared from the jukebox.

     Now what? Chester, still trying hard not to piss his pants, had it all pictured. Tailpipe would drink his beer, smokehis cigar, and then when he was good and ready, he’d reach across the table and rip out his throat. Just like that. Dead. Score settled. Damn. It was no way for anyone to go, but Chester figured that’s the way it ended for guys like him.

     Between puffs on the Cuban, Tailpipe said, “Antoine Biggs told me I’d find you here.”

     “Antoine Biggs?” Chester fell back against his chair, heaved a sigh of relief, and finally

relaxed his sphincter muscles. “Shit.” A head nod. A thin-lipped smile. He drained what was left

of his beer and reached for the second pint Tailpipe had brought with him from the bar. When he got the nod, he drew it back across the table. Chester was the kind of drinker that felt an odd comfort in holding onto a mug of beer. The only time he’d let a mug go was when it was empty. “Antoine and me grew up in Marsdale,” Chester said, talking to Tailpipe like they were lifelong pals. “We started out shoplifting, you know, convenience stores, grocery stores, outdoor markets,and stuff like that when we were nine. By the time we were twelve, we did our first stint in juvie. Then we...”