Last of the Independents. Sam Wiebe

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СКАЧАТЬ was waiting in the car,” he said, as if summoning every part of his will to remain calm. “When I came out of the pawn shop, the car was gone. You think I’m lying?”

      “I don’t know you.”

      Emphatic nods from Mr. Szabo. “Or my son. Just like the other vulture, Mr. McEachern, you don’t care. You’re here for your chance to pick the bones.”

      “I don’t work like McEachern,” I said.

      But he was on a roll now. “You smell blood in the water. You say you can help; only you need money first. You take the money and you ask questions. You get things wrong, you don’t listen. Then you don’t find him and you say, sorry, I have other ideas but they cost more money.”

      He paused and lit an American cigarette. It smelled harsh and good in the morning air.

      “Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Drayton?”

      I shook my head.

      “I buy and sell. Gold, electronics, bicycles, anything. I buy for cheap, fix and clean, sell for more. I support my family on this. You think that’s easy?”

      “Couldn’t be,” I said.

      “Damn right. I pay attention and I have an eye for scams. I know the difference between gold and gold-plated, between an American Stratocaster and a Korean. I’ve seen every fraud. I even pulled off some, when I was younger.” He sucked on his smoke and stared at me through a yellow cloud. “But I never made money off a missing child.”

      “Your mind’s made up,” I said. The cigarette smoke had awakened old urges. I downed the cold dregs of my drink and placed the cup in the ashtray.

      “You people exploit grief for money. You sell false hope. I can’t believe I let Mr. McEachern convince me to trust him. You people are all smiles while the wallet is full.”

      “I’ve heard about enough,” I said. “I didn’t take your kid and I’m not after your fortune. If you manage to swallow that wad of self-righteous bile lodged in your throat, you can find me in the corner office on Beckett and Hastings. Mira Das with the VPD will vouch for me.”

      I took out one of my business cards and tried to hand it to him. He made no move to take it. I set it on the edge of the ashtray. The card gave my address and company name in bold, and in cursive the motto Last of the Independents. Katherine had insisted the old cards looked too plain. Szabo stared down at the card but didn’t move.

      Before I left I added, “Whether I hear from you or not, I hope you find your son.”

      I crossed the street, leaving him there, feeling bad about letting down the Pastor, but not that bad. There was nothing else to be done. Clifford Szabo needed angelic intervention, not a PI.

      Instead of going to the office I went home. Self-employment has its privileges. I made a chicken sandwich and sat on the back porch, eating and reading and every so often tossing a grey tennis ball across the overgrown yard. My dog limped after the ball and dutifully retrieved it, less enthusiastic about the game than I was.

      It had been two weeks since the diagnosis. Cancer of the lymph nodes. Before that she’d had laboured breathing and the odd rectal discharge. Physically, she looked deflated, as if someone had let a third of the air out of her. I had a talk with a very nice vet who recommended treatment to postpone the end. I said of course, how much? She quoted me a figure in the mid four digits. I told her I was twenty grand in debt already and was there any other option? She told me I’d have two months at best and that some time before that, “When you think it’s right,” I should make another, final appointment.

      The dog had flawless bowel control before lymphoma. Now she rubbed her ass on the carpets compulsively, looking ashamed of herself as her body continued to betray her. In addition to ruining the rugs on the upstairs floor, a stool softener had to be inserted every morning. Dawn usually found me cradling her on the porch while one hand pushed a spongy red capsule of Anusol into her rectum. As vile as that chore was, I would’ve done it happily every day for the rest of my life.

      “He’s right here,” my grandmother said, banging through the screen door to deposit the cordless phone into my hand.

      “Drayton,” I said. My grandmother stood over me, arms crossed.

      “Mr. Drayton? Gordon Laws. Talked to your secretary a couple minutes ago. Nice girl. Listen, just wanted to extend my thanks personally. My son and I, lot of water under the bridge, but on account of you we have a chance to go forward as a family. My wife is thrilled. Also wanted to tell you, check’s ready for pick up, and we decided to give you a nice little bonus.”

      “That’s very generous. My assistant, Katherine, she’s the one who did the lion’s share of the work.”

      “Well, make sure she hears that we’re happy.”

      “Will do.”

      “Take care.”

      “Same to you.”

      “All right.”

      “All right then.”

      “Christ,” I said, handing my grandmother back the phone.

      “Something the matter?” she said.

      “No, I just owe Ben a hundred dollars.”

      She shrugged and pointed at the dog. “Looking a pretty sorry spectacle.”

      “She still gets around the yard,” I said.

      The only way my grandmother would coexist with a dying dog was a promise from me that once the cycle was over, I’d refinish the main floor in real hardwood. My grandfather and his brothers had built the house on Laurel Street. During renovations in the late seventies, on my grandmother’s whim, they installed pink shag carpeting in all the bedrooms. Her sinuses had had to live with that decision for almost forty years.

      “You will never catch me letting someone put their hand up my bum,” my grandmother said. “I’d rather be dead than that.”

      “If it was Antonio Banderas’s hand, you’d look forward to it all day.”

      She scowled, shook her head, collapsed the phone’s antenna and took it back inside. I rolled the ball underhand along the shadow of the clothesline. The dog, resting on the lawn, raised her head and watched the ball roll past, as though deciding if it was worth the effort.

      At the office I found Katherine and Ben in the midst of an argument over some film, Ben making the kind of sweeping statement that I doubt even he believed, but said to enrage others and make himself feel edgy.

      Ben vacated my chair and moved to the other side of the table. His hands were busy slicing one of my old business cards into strips.

      “How’d it go?” Katherine asked.

      “Ever date someone who was on the rebound, and they try to hold against you everything their ex did to them? Well, Mr. Szabo hired Aries Investigations, and based on that, he’s decided not to pursue a relationship with us.”

      “Poor guy,” she said.

      “Settle СКАЧАТЬ