Not Safe After Dark

GONE TO THE DAWGS

It was the penultimate week of the NFL football pool and Charlie Firth was ahead by ten points. Nothing could stop the smug bastard from winning again now. Nothing short of murder.

Such was the uncharitable thought that crossed the mind of Calvin Bly as he sat with the usual crowd in the local bar watching the Monday night game, St Louis at Tampa Bay. Outside, in the east end of Toronto, the wind was howling, piling up snow in the side streets and swirling it in surreal patterns across the main roads, but inside it was warm, and the occasional single malt between pints of Guinness helped make it even warmer.

There were six of them at the table, the usual crowd, all in the pool. Calvin was second, having come up with a complicated system of mathematical checks and balances that had earned him solid eights and nines all season, plus the occasional eleven. Behind him by six points was Marge, the only girl in the group. Well, woman really, he supposed, seeing as she was in her fifties. The other three, Chris, Jeff and Brad, weren’t even in the running.

‘How’s your mother, Calvin?’ Charlie’s loud voice boomed across the table. Calvin looked away from his conversation with Marge and saw the sneer on Charlie’s face, the baiting grin, the arrogant, disdaining eyes.

‘She’s fine, thank you,’ he said.

Charlie looked at his watch. ‘Only it’s getting late. I’m surprised she lets you stay out this long.’

He laughed and some of the others joined in, but more because it was the thing to do than because they had any heart for it. Truth be told, nobody really found Charlie’s sense of humour funny. Vicious, yes. Cutting and hurtful, yes. But funny, no way.

Perhaps it wasn’t worth murdering someone for two thousand dollars, Calvin thought, but it might be worth it just to clear the world of the loud-mouthed fucker. People would probably thank him for it. Three years in a row Charlie Firth had won that NFL pool, and he hadn’t let a soul forget it. Twice Calvin had come in second, and Charlie wasn’t about to let him forget that either. The teasing would go on well into the baseball season.

Yes, if he got rid of Charlie, he would be doing the world a favour.

The Buccs threw a touchdown pass to take the lead in the dying seconds of the game, and Calvin shook himself free of his dark thoughts. Of course he wouldn’t murder Charlie. He’d never harmed a soul in his life, didn’t have the guts for it. It was nothing but a pleasant, harmless fantasy.

Got that one, thought Calvin when the game was over, and Charlie had picked the Rams. He was still nine points ahead of the field, though, pretty much impossible to catch, and Marge was still six behind as they went into the final week. It had been a weekend of upsets – the Seahawks beat the Raiders, the Chiefs beat the Broncos and the Lions beat the Jets – but Calvin had come away with nine points.

‘Say hi to your mom from me,’ Charlie called out as Calvin bundled up and headed out to clear the snow off his car. He didn’t bother answering.

Calvin hadn’t been home five minutes, was watching the news quietly on TV, when the banging started. Mother had a walking stick which she didn’t use to walk with as she rarely bothered to walk, but to bang on the floor of her bedroom to summon her son, calling out his name. With a sigh, Calvin hauled himself out of the La-Z-Boy and climbed up the stairs.

He hated Mother’s sick room, the unpleasant smells – she never opened the window and didn’t bathe very often – the way she lay there looking frail, hands like talons clutching the sheet tight around her neck as if he were going to rape her or something, when the very idea of her nakedness disgusted him.

‘Yes, Mother?’

‘You were out late.’

‘It was a long game.’

‘Anything could have happened to me. I could have had a seizure. What would I have done, then?’

‘Mother, you’re not going to have a seizure. The doctor told you yesterday your health’s just fine.’

‘Doctor, schmoctor. What does that quack know?’ Her tone became wheedling, flirtatious. ‘Calvin, baby, I can’t sleep. I’m having one of my bad nights. Make Mommy some hot milk and bring my pills, Little Calvin. Pull-leeeease.’

Calvin went back downstairs and poured some milk into a saucepan, enough for two, as he decided he might as well treat himself to some hot chocolate if he was heating up milk anyway. While he listened to the hiss of the gas flame and watched the milk’s surface change as it heated, he thought again how pleasant it would be if he had the guts to do something about Charlie Firth.

The man was insufferable. For a start, he was well off and always made a point of letting you know how much his possessions cost, from the Porsche to his leather Italian loafers. Women, of course, just wouldn’t leave him alone. He had a big house on Kingswood, prime Beach property – all to himself, as he had never married, probably because no woman in her right mind could stand his company for more than a night – and as well as winning the NFL pool, he had been his company’s real-estate agent of the year more than once. A success. And Calvin, what had he got? Nothing. Unemployment benefits. A savings account that was thinning out as quickly as his hair, a pot belly that seemed to be getting bigger, a hypochondriac mother who would probably live to torment him for ever, a small, gloomy, draughty row house on the wrong side of Victoria Park. Nothing. Sweet fuck all.

Bubbles started to surface on the milk. Time to turn down the heat. Mother hated it when he burnt the milk. Before he had even got the mugs out of the cupboard he heard the banging on the ceiling again. As if the silly old cow thought banging with that stick of hers would make milk boil any faster. He burned himself as he slopped the hot milk into the cup, forgot about his hot chocolate and hurried upstairs.

In the light of the next day, killing Charlie didn’t seem like such a good idea. Given Calvin’s luck, he was bound to get caught for a start. And, technically, Charlie would still be the winner. If you didn’t phone your picks in on time, the administrator assigned you the underdogs, and even with the DAWGS, as they were called, Charlie would still beat the field. He would be too dead to collect his winnings, of course, and Calvin supposed they would go to whoever came second.

The way the pool worked was every Wednesday before five o’clock you phoned in your picks, based on that day’s point spread, to the administrator, who ran the whole thing from his desk at one of the major newspapers downtown. You always got his answering machine with its curt message: ‘I’m away from my desk right now. Please leave your message after the beep.’ There were over a hundred people in the pool, at a hundred bucks each for the season, and in addition to the grand prize of $2000, there were also smaller weekly prizes. Calvin had actually covered this year’s entry fee on one weekly win. Usually by Friday evening a photocopy of everyone’s picks, along with the weekly and accumulated scores, was faxed to Jeff, who made copies and distributed them in the bar.

Calvin liked to see which teams everyone else had chosen – especially Charlie – but this week he would miss it. On Thursday he had to accompany Mother down to Fort Myers, where they would spend Christmas with their only living relatives, his Aunt Vicky and Uncle Frank, who had retired there seven years ago and were generous enough to help out with the airfare.

The Florida trip used to be the highlight of Calvin’s year. Not because he liked the place. Three or four days was about all he could stand. It was too hot and too full of old people, or people who didn’t speak English, as if Toronto wasn’t bad enough that way. No, what Florida used to mean to him was freedom, glorious freedom! Mother used to stay down there for at least six weeks, and as soon as she was ‘settled’ Calvin was allowed to go home alone. God only knew how Vicky and Frank put up with the old bat, Calvin thought, but they did. Now she was too worried about getting sick and not being able to afford US medical bills, so they were both returning on the following Wednesday.

That Tuesday morning at breakfast Calvin checked the sports section to see if the spreads had changed since Monday. He liked to do that, factor it into his calculations. Sometimes you could guess a lot just by the ways the spreads were changing. After that, his day followed its usual dull routine. He cleared the driveway of snow, did household chores, did some food shopping and took care of Mother. But on Tuesday evening Calvin had a date.

This was one thing nobody knew about him – at least, so he believed. Calvin had a secret girlfriend. Heidi. Probably no one would believe it if he told them that a pudgy, balding, boring fifty-one-year-old man like him could have an attractive blonde forty-year-old woman as a girlfriend. Sometimes he could hardly believe it himself. They had met six months ago in HMV downtown, both looking at the selection of show tunes. A common interest in film musicals led them to venture to a local coffee shop together, where they found they enjoyed one another’s company immensely. A loner by nature – apart from the easy and informal gregariousness of the bar – Calvin found it hard to talk to her at first, but Heidi had a way of drawing him out of his shell. There was, of course, a big problem.

Heidi was married.

Slowly, piece by piece, it emerged over furtive meetings in the city centre, first just for coffees, then regular lunches at Red Lobster, that Heidi was not exactly happy with her marriage. Her children had both left home, one for Winnipeg, poor sod, and the other for southern California, so it was only a matter of time, she told Calvin, before the separation occurred. Until then, they had to be very careful and keep their relationship a secret. Her husband worked shifts for a security company, and this week he was working evenings. Calvin would go over to the west end, where Heidi lived, not far from High Park, and they would talk and make love until midnight, at which time he would dress and sneak out of the back door to where he had parked his car several blocks away.

That Tuesday Heidi did not seem to be in her usual good spirits.

‘What’s wrong?’ Calvin asked, after he had suspected her of counting cracks in the ceiling while they made love.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Come on. I can tell there’s something bothering you.’

‘I told you, it’s nothing. Leave it.’

‘Maybe I can help.’

Heidi turned, propped herself on her elbow and looked at him. ‘I don’t think I can go on,’ she said after a pause.

Calvin felt his chest tighten, his heart race. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This. You and me. I don’t think I can go on.’

‘But why?’

‘It’s not that I don’t like you, Calvin.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘It’s just… oh, everything, the lies, the guilt. Joe and I had a really long talk the other night.’

‘For God’s sake, Heidi, you didn’t tell him…?’

‘No. No, of course not. What sort of a fool do you think I am? No, we just… well, he realized he’d been neglecting me, and I realized I missed him more than I thought. We decided… you know… to try to make a go of things.’

‘Make a go of things?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘We’re going to start with a trip to Mexico. A sort of second honeymoon. We’re going for New Year.’

‘B-but…’

‘Oh, Calvin. Don’t be upset. Please don’t be upset. You had fun while it lasted, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but… but I thought…’

‘You thought what?’

‘I mean, just now, even when you knew this, you… we…’ He shook his head.

‘Was that so unfair of me, Calvin? Just to have you one last time? Was that too selfish of me?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

‘It just seems so sudden, so abrupt, that’s all.’ Calvin sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his clothes.

‘But you knew it had to end one day.’

‘I sort of hoped that when you and Joe split up, we might… you know…’

‘Oh, Calvin, that’s sweet. That’s too sweet.’

‘I gather you didn’t?’

Heidi lay back on the pillow. ‘I never thought, really, not beyond the next time. I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?’

‘It’s all right. I’ll mend.’

‘I’m sorry, Calvin.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll go now.’

‘You’ll be careful? Make sure no one sees you?’

‘I’ll be careful.’

Calvin bent over to give her a goodnight kiss, as he always did. She turned her head and offered him her cheek. He kissed it lightly and found it surprisingly cool, then he went downstairs and sneaked out of the back door. He thought of making a lot of noise, but Calvin wasn’t the type to draw too much attention to himself.

He was OK to drive, he told himself as he headed out of the nearest bar – to which he had gone as soon as he’d left Heidi’s – he’d only had two pints and a shot of whisky, and he felt in control. Sad, hurt, but in control.

The city crews had been through the neighbourhood and the roads were pretty clear. He headed down Roncesvalles towards Lakeshore and the Gardiner, noting how quiet the roads were. Hardly surprising, as it was going on for half past one on a cold, miserable Tuesday evening.

It was all over with Heidi. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe the callous way she had treated him. How could she? He had even fantasized a real life for them: restaurants, theatres, musicals, weekends together. Now this.

Almost home. He stopped at a red light. Nobody around. Lights from TV sets in a couple of windows. Christmas trees. Lights.

As he neared the next set of traffic lights, he saw someone come out of a bar alone and start to cross just as the lights were changing. It was Charlie. There was no mistaking that expensive leather jacket, the hand-tooled cowboy boots. He was clearly a bit pissed, not falling down drunk, but definitely unsteady. And unobservant. Calvin was driving slowly enough to stop, but something, he couldn’t say what, some demon, some inner compulsion, seemed to take control of him. A quick glance to make sure there were no other cars visible ahead or behind, nobody on the street in seeing distance, and almost unbidden his foot pressed down on the gas pedal as if it was made of lead.

Charlie knew something was wrong, saw it coming at the last moment, but was too late to do anything about it. Calvin saw the horrified expression on his face, even fancied he saw recognition there, too, then the car hit him with a satisfying, meaty smack and threw him away from the car. Calvin felt the shuddering bump and crunch as he ran over the body. No stopping now. He sped off and turned the first corner, heading into the maze of residential streets that would eventually take him home, heart in his mouth, blood pulsing hard through his veins, but alive, alive at last.

Calvin didn’t sleep at all that night and spent the next day in terror of the knock upon his door. The newspaper reported Charlie’s death and asked anyone who might have seen anything to contact them. Calvin was almost certain that no one had seen him, but there was still room for doubt, and that doubt bred fear. If the police came to check out his car, they would see the damage Charlie’s body had caused to the radiator and the headlight. They could probably even match paint chips from the body to his car; he had seen them do it on TV.

So terrified was he that he almost forgot to phone in his picks. Almost. At four-thirty he picked up the phone with trembling hands and dialled the administrator’s number. Just as the answering machine cut in, Mother’s stick banged on the floor above. He automatically held the phone at arm’s length and put his hand over the mouthpiece, even though there wasn’t a real person on the other end, and shouted up that he was busy and would be with her in a few moments. When he got back to the phone, he was just in time to hear the familiar beep. He began: ‘Giants, Broncos, Bills, Jets, Rams, Bears…’

The journey to Fort Myers on Thursday morning was a nightmare for Calvin. Not because of the weather, though the flight was delayed more than an hour and the wings had to be de-iced. Not even because of Mother, despite the fact that she never stopped complaining for one moment until the plane took off, when she immediately fell asleep. No, it was because he expected to be arrested at every stage of the journey. At the check-in he noticed two airline officials huddled to one side talking, and occasionally they seemed to be looking in his direction. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But nothing happened. Next, at US Immigration, just when he expected the firm hand on his shoulder, the hushed ‘Please step this way, Mr Bly,’ the immigration officer wished him and Mother happy holidays after barely a glance at their passports.

Could getting away with murder really be that easy? Calvin wondered when he disembarked at Fort Myers and found no policemen waiting for him, only Frank and Vicky in the crowd waving, ready to drive him and Mother back to the condo. Nothing had happened. Nobody had come for him. He must have got away with it.

Though the locals thought the weather cold and farmers were worried about the citrus crop, Calvin found it comfortable enough to sit out on the deck. As he poured himself a Jack Daniels and looked out over the long strip of beach to the blue-green sea, Charlie’s murder began to seem distant and unreal. After a few hours and three or four bourbons, he could almost believe it hadn’t happened, that it had merely been a bad dream, and the following morning he imagined that when he got back to Toronto and walked into the bar they would all be waiting there, as usual, including Charlie, flashing his winnings.

In the late afternoon Florida sun, how easy it was to believe that snowy Tuesday night in Toronto had never happened.

By Christmas Eve, Calvin was already two games up, having picked the Bills to beat a three-point spread against the Seahawks and the Broncos to win plus seven over the 49ers on Saturday. He’d lost the Giants-Jaguars game, but even with his system he could never expect to win them all.

He was sipping a Jack Daniels on the rocks and watching Miami against New England, hoping the Pats would beat the spread, when during the half-time break came a brief interview with a convicted killer called Leroy Cody, scheduled to be electrocuted early in the New Year. Instead of pushing the mute button, Calvin turned the sound up a notch or two and leaned forward in his chair. He’d read about Cody in USA Today and found his curiosity piqued by the man’s nonchalant, laconic manner and his total lack of remorse.

The interview was a special from death row, Leroy in his cell in drab prison clothes, hair cropped close to his skull, no emotion in his eyes, his face all sharp angles.

‘You shot a liquor store clerk for fifteen dollars, is that right?’ the interviewer asked.

‘I didn’t know he’d only got a lousy fifteen dollars when I shot him, now, did I?’ Leroy answered in his slow, surprisingly high-pitched drawl.

‘But you shot him, and fifteen dollars is all you got?’

‘Yessir. Sure was a disappointment, let me tell you.’

‘And then you shot a pregnant woman and dragged her out of her car to make your escape.’

‘I didn’t know she was pregnant.’

‘But you shot the woman and stole her car?’

Leroy spat on the floor of his cell. ‘Hell, I had to make a fast getaway. I don’t have no car of my own. I had to take a goddamn cab to the store, but I was damned if I was gonna hang around and try to flag one after I done robbed the place.’

‘And you feel no remorse for any of this?’

‘Remorse?’

‘Regrets.’

‘Regrets? Nope. No regrets. I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’

‘You regret nothing at all?’

Leroy smiled; it looked like an eclipse of the sun moving slowly across his features. ‘Only getting caught,’ he said.

Calvin’s attention wandered as the presenter started to comment, and then they were back at the half-time show, catching up on scores. But even as he checked the numbers, part of Calvin’s mind stayed with Leroy Cody. ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’ He liked that. It was honest, direct, had a ring to it.

Calvin tried it out loud: ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’ It sounded good. He let the fantasy wander, trying on his new self and finding it a perfect fit. ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am. Me and Leroy. Yeah, man.’ And if he was a killer, he could kill again. Why stop at Charlie? He could kill Heidi’s husband. Could even kill that bitch Heidi herself, maybe make her beg a little first. He could kill…

There was no upstairs in the condo, but he heard the click-click of Mother’s walking stick on the tile floor before he heard her voice. ‘Leroy,’ she said (he was sure she called him Leroy), ‘are you going to just sit here and watch this garbage all Christmas? Why don’t you come and play cribbage with the old folks for a while?’ Calvin sighed, picked up the remote, turned off the game and muttered, ‘Coming, Mother.’

There were no cops waiting at the airport when Calvin and Mother got back to Toronto on Wednesday. It was over a week since Charlie’s death, and still nothing to fear.

After settling Mother at home, against her protests, Calvin decided to drop in at the bar. As he had suspected, the usual crowd was there. Minus Charlie.

‘Calvin,’ said Marge, patting his arm when he sat down beside her. ‘Welcome home. You’ve heard the news?’

Calvin nodded sadly. ‘Heard just before we left for Florida. It’s tragic, isn’t it?’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Marge. ‘He always seemed so…’

‘Alive?’ Calvin suggested.

‘Yes. Alive. That’s it. Alive.’

‘Is there any progress?’ he asked the table in general.

‘No,’ Jeff answered. ‘You know the cops. They’ve put it down as a hit and run, asked for the public’s co-operation, and that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’

‘Unless someone comes forward,’ Calvin said.

‘Yes,’ Jeff agreed. ‘Unless someone comes forward. By the way,’ he went on, ‘here’s the final scores on the pool.’ He handed Calvin the sheets of paper.

Kelly, the waitress with the walk out of a forties’ noir movie, finally came over with his drink. Calvin desperately wanted to see the final scores, but he didn’t want to appear too anxious. After all, Charlie was dead. So he sipped some beer, talked a little about his Christmas, and then, casually, glanced down at the sheets.

The first thing that caught his eye was his weekend’s score: 5. That had to be wrong. Calvin had checked the game scores after the cribbage game and found he had nine. He had also won the evening game, the Raiders over the Panthers, and the Monday evening game, when the Titans had creamed the Cowboys. So how could he end up with five? He had eleven.

He turned to the column of picks and noticed scrawled across the line where his should be, the word ‘DAWGS’. Charlie, of course, had got the same. It meant they hadn’t got their picks in on time.

But Calvin had got his picks in; he remembered phoning them. It was late in the afternoon, four-thirty to be precise, but definitely before the five o’clock deadline. So what was going on?

‘Calvin?’

The voice came as if from a long way. ‘Huh? Sorry. What?’

‘Just that you’ve gone pale. Are you OK?’ It was Marge, and her hand was on his arm.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Must be… you know… Charlie… delayed shock.’

Marge nodded. ‘I don’t suppose it seemed real until you got back here, did it?’ she said.

‘Something like that. What’s happening with the pool?’

Marge frowned. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘with Charlie gone and you forgetting to phone in… er… I won.’

‘You?’

Marge laughed nervously. ‘Well, don’t look so surprised, Calvin. I’ve been up there with the best of you all season.’

‘I know. It’s not that…’

‘What, then?’

‘Never mind. Congratulations, Marge.’ Calvin knew he couldn’t complain. Whatever had gone wrong here, however he had gone from eleven to five, there was nothing he could do about it, and getting upset about the result would only look suspicious.

‘Thanks,’ said Marge. ‘I know it must be a disappointment, you being so close and all.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘I only beat you by one, if that means anything at all. It was my best week of the whole season. Twelve.’

Calvin laughed. He couldn’t help himself. ‘So what are you going to do with your winnings?’

Marge looked at the others, then said, ‘I decided – well, we all decided, really – that I’d use the money for a wake, you know, to pay for a wake here. For Charlie. He would have liked that.’

‘Yes,’ said Calvin, still quaking with laughter inside while he tried to keep a straight face. ‘Yes, I think he would.’

When Calvin got home he poured himself a large whisky and tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Five. The DAWGS. It was an insult, a slap in the face.

He cast his mind back to that Wednesday afternoon and remembered first that his hand had been shaking as he dialled. He had, after all, just killed Charlie the previous evening. Could he have misdialled? The first three numbers were all the same, and connected him to the newspaper the administrator worked for. The last four were 4697. It would have been easy, say, to transpose the six and the nine, or even to dial seven first rather than four, given that he was upset at the time. He tried both and got the same message: ‘I’m away from my desk right now. Please leave a message after the beep.’ The only difference was that 7694 was a woman’s voice and 4967 was a man’s. So that was what had happened. In his disturbed state of mind, Calvin had dialled the wrong number. Why had it happened like that? Why hadn’t he listened to the message, noticed the difference in voice and realized what he had done?

Then he remembered. Just as he had got through, Mother had knocked on the bedroom floor for him. He had held the phone at arm’s length and covered the mouthpiece, as you do, and yelled up that he was coming in a minute. He hadn’t heard the administrator’s message, only vaguely recognized it was a man’s voice on the answering machine, heard the usual beep and left his picks with someone else at the paper.

Someone who hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

Calvin held his head in his hands. The wrong number. All for nothing. He drank some more whisky. Well, maybe not all for nothing, he thought after a while. Hadn’t he already decided that, nice as it would have been, he hadn’t killed Charlie only for the money? Wasn’t $2000 a paltry sum to murder for? More than $15, but still… he knew he had had more reason than the money. Winning the pool was a part of it, of course, but that wasn’t to be. So what was left? What could he salvage from this disaster?

‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’

The voice seemed to come into his head from nowhere, and slowly as the whisky warmed his insides, understanding dawned on Calvin.

‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’

The sound of a heavy stick hammering on the ceiling above broke into his thoughts. He could hear her muffled yelling. ‘Leroy! Leroy! I need my hot milk, Leroy!’

Calvin put his glass down, looked up at the ceiling and got to his feet. ‘Coming, Mother,’ he said softly.