The Missing Boatman Part 15

s.h.i.t. "You like to talk, don't you?"

She smiled then, a slow smile that reminded him of fine tasting dark chocolate for some unfathomable reason. "My father would say the same thing. Must be true. But if you don't want to talk, then I understand. But it is a long ride to BC, and I hope we'll be chatting a lot more than you and Freddy there. It'll be even longer if we don't."

"Yeah," Tony said in a tired voice. He suddenly realized that he was exhausted. The fear had left him and was replaced with a bone deep weariness like he had been hauling bags of fifty pound shingles up a forty foot ladder for eight hours straight. He wanted sleep. "I could use a good sleep first. I'm pretty wiped here. Been driving all day non-stop. There has to be a motel along the way here somewhere."

"Not afraid of Freddy catching up and finding the car?" she asked him.

"No," he replied. "Not right now, anyway. Too tired to give a d.a.m.n. Maybe I'll feel different later but not right now. And anyway, if he did, I'd find him first."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah."

"So sure?"

"It's what I do," Tony said, glancing at the gas gauge. "Always been lucky at finding people."

She said nothing, and when he glanced back minutes later, he could see that she was asleep.

Roughly one hour later, the fastest hour Tony had ever driven it seemed-he turned off on Exit 177. The snow had stopped falling for the moment, and the clouds overhead had moved away to expose a diamond-studded night. He drove on, looking for someplace to sleep, and saw the glowing sign for the Best Western Hotel. The building looked expensive and a surge of apprehension went through Tony. Where the h.e.l.l was the Comfort Inn when you needed it? Then he realized that he had an expense account of sorts, and decided to test Mr. Tim's credit line. Tony didn't think there would be a problem with staying one night in luxury.

He parked the Mustang in a well-lit but practically empty lot.

"Where are we?" Lucy suddenly asked from the back.

"Have a good sleep?" He asked her, he peered into the mirror and was rewarded with catching Lucy in a modest stretch. G.o.d, he loved it when women stretched.

"Mmmmhmmmm," she smiled. "It's too cosy back here. So where are we?"

"Hotel. I need to sleep. Especially now that Fred's gone. Maybe get some takeout as well."

"Place looks expensive," Lucy said. There was a tinge of uncertainty there. Tony suspected it wasn't about the cost.

"Listen, we'll talk about the travel arrangements in the morning, okay? But right now, I tell you what: I feel pretty good about ditchin' old Fred back there. And I think you had something to do with that. So, I think I can spring for your own room. That okay?"

Lucy's mouth dropped open. "But this place..."

"Hey," Tony interrupted. "I'm not cheap while on the road. But if it makes you feel better, I'll be looking for a pizza place or something nearby. Doubt if the restaurant in this place is open now anyway."

"What time is it?"

He realized he was blocking the dash clock. "Almost 11:30. Time sure as h.e.l.l went fast. Jesus, I'm wiped. Could've sworn that it would have taken longer than this, too. So, anyway, you want that room or not? No strings attached. You can have it on the other side of the hotel if you feel better about it."

"Thank you, Anthony." Lucy said with an appreciative smile. It was bright like the light under a closed door. "I can really have my own room?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling back but nowhere near as cute. "Let's go."

Lucy sat for a moment. "Okay!" she finally let out in an adorable burst. "I guess I can always run out on you in the morning, too, if I want."

Tony nodded at this. "If you want."

He hoped she didn't, though.

They got out of the car, and Tony retrieved his bag from the trunk. He noticed then for the first time that Lucy carried no bag. Strange, but he kept the thought to himself as he offered the room free and full of nothing but good will. He didn't need a background check on the young woman. He had a good feeling around her, and if there were a story, then he would wait until she felt comfortable enough to tell him. And truthfully, with the pa.s.sing of the day, the need for pure, uninterrupted sleep, the grizzly bear kind, was the only thing Tony wanted.

They signed in minutes later, obtained different rooms in opposing wings and parted ways in the main lobby. Tony walked down the soft illuminated corridor of the second floor, appreciating the stillness of the place. He liked staying in hotels when he could. There was something comforting about it. Some folks didn't care for sleeping in beds people might've f.u.c.ked in the night before, but Tony had no problem at all. Once in a while, he was one of those people.

He arrived at his door and used the pa.s.skey to unlock it. He flicked on the lights once inside and stepped out of his shoes, closing the door behind him. Two double beds covered in brown, soft-looking comforters stood before him. A beautiful hardwood set of dressers, night tables and closets filled the rest of the room. A big flat screen was in a corner, and a PC terminal was on a table in front of the curtains. He glanced into the washroom and saw a shower and bath cleaner and much nicer than his own. The towels were as thick as carpets. He would have to take a few to replace the frayed rags he had at home. Part of him regretted signing in so late. One night wasn't enough to fully appreciate all this. He sighed and tossed his bag onto one of the beds and sat on the edge. He faced the TV and decided to turn it on. Late news wrap-up. An irresistible weariness pulled at his frame and eyelids, but he managed to see some of the newscast: some guy down in Michigan had gashed his thigh with a chainsaw while cutting a hole for ice fishing. Some kid had blown away half his head in a game of Russian roulette and had survived. Another story from Pakistan where thirty people had been crushed under rubble when a bomb went off in a nightclub. Scenes of shocked survivors moved across the screen in a soupy slow motion. Gruesome scenes of destruction. Tony reached out and turned the TV off. Christ. Wasn't there any good news on? He dropped back onto the bed, feeling the freshness of the covers. He felt the downy softness of the bed, and a huge sense of sleepy relief seeped through his person.

He thought about undressing and getting underneath those seductive blankets, but then he was already asleep.

And he dreamed. In the mesh of images that were real and yet weren't, he found himself drifting, moving across a sunny plain he couldn't identify but sensed he somehow knew. He was walking towards a sign, a big sign, billboard size. He could read the words and willed himself to remember them as he read it; it could be a message of some kind. The words were cheery green on white, "Partly Cloudy". Then the sign was behind him, and he moved over the brightest golf greens he had ever seen. Forest curtained the edges of his vision. A golf course. He was on a golf course, and the smell of spruce and pine filled the air. He suddenly felt a terrible sadness soak into his heart. On such a beautiful day, in such a beautiful place, how could he feel anything but good? He could see roman numerals standing side by side, chatting away. Then, they were no longer numerals; they were men. With golf clubs.

And one guy topped off with a black White Sox ball cap was lining up a ball. The other men watched, chatting all the time, and yet the other golfer said nothing to them. There was a smile on his face. He flexed and did a weird little bird dance on the spot, slipping into a golfer's stance and smacked the ball in what seemed to Tony to be the fastest wind up he had ever witnessed. And Tony could see the ball flying a distance measured in a squinting glare, heading towards gigantic white saucers that were sand pits. But these sand pits weren't pits at all. They actually were the saucers you would find at carnival booths, and if you managed to keep a penny in one of those things, you would have the stuffed animal of your choice. And the animals were in Tony's dream except they were spectators behind the part.i.tion ropes marking the course. That was really f.u.c.ked up. Then the golfer was back in Tony's sight. He was bouncing on his knees. He stuck a finger into his mouth and then jabbed it in the air, making mental calculations beyond Tony. His companions were speaking in tongues now, and Tony somehow understood it to be about the beauty of flamingos dancing along the lakes of the Huron. The golfer had another ball ready to be whacked; apparently, the other guys were merely supporters. He took aim with his club, which was a mallet now, and did the same little dance as before. And then he swung.

And missed.

The mallet flew from the man's grasp like a dove bursting from a cage and flew into the sun. The men behind him were numerals, again, now, and the chatter of the stuffed animals on the side-line grew louder and louder, their b.u.t.ton eyes gla.s.sy and staring.

"AND ITS ALL YOUR f.u.c.kING FAULT!" the golfer suddenly shrieked at Tony.

He woke.

He was still dressed but had shifted in his sleep onto his belly. He blinked slowly and saw sunlight around the edges of the closed curtains. Tony groaned. Nothing like a screwy dream to cap off a sound sleep. He glanced at the digital clock on the night table. Eight in the morning. Tony rubbed his belly. In a place like this, the hotel probably had a b.i.t.c.hin' breakfast. Thoughts of his mom darted around the edges of his mind and made him pause. He would breakfast on something simple, perhaps cereal. He could not control, however, the sudden image of steak and eggs popping into his waking mind. Then, sausage and eggs. With toast. He sighed, shook his head and decided to get moving. He changed his clothes, and did not shave. In a minute, he was walking down the corridor towards the restaurant.

She was waiting for him in the main lobby, dressed in the same clothes. "Good morning," she said brightly. "Going to breakfast?"

"Morning. And yeah, I am."

"Can I join you?"

"Sure, though you might be paying for this one. Your own, that is. Not mine." Generosity was one thing, but some people, after tasting too much of that particular sweet, turned into parasites. He had no desire to have this one leech off of him, cute as she might be.

"Actually, I was going to offer to pay for yours," Lucy informed him, her shoulders swinging to and fro.

Tony's surprise showed on his face. "Really?"

"Yes, I have money."

"You said so before."

"Then, shall we?"

Tony dipped his head in the direction they were to go. They moved into a pristine dining room covered in so much white that Tony felt the roof must have been rolled back during the night to let the snow in. Silverware glistened and the crystal sparkled. A waitress in an exceptionally sharp-looking black and white uniform brought them menus. Tony ordered Sugar Crisps and toast. Lucy ordered the continental breakfast. The waitress took their orders and thanked them, the barest of a French accent sweetening her words.

"I like the way she talks," Lucy said after the woman was gone.

"Me, too," Tony said. He had half a b.o.n.e.r to prove it. But it was more for Lucy, however. The woman had beautiful mocha skin. Tony wanted to ask if she was part j.a.panese or something, but did not dare. He had a bad experience once with a woman who was of Indian descent, and Tony asked her, innocently enough or so he had thought, what was the origin of her name. Looking back, perhaps it was somehow insulting to her, but Tony still, to this day, didn't mean anything by it. Regardless, he was not about to make the same mistake with Lucy.

"Can you speak French?" he asked her.

"No. You?"

"Mais qui! " Tony let out. "Le grunt, le pew. Avec!" He growled in a deep morning voice that made Lucy giggle. The sound made him think that a gla.s.s of water could not produce a cleaner, purer chime. Not even if there were a hundred of them.

"Avec," he repeated, in a more sombre voice, and answered her smile with one of his own.

"I know what that means," Lucy said. "What you said doesn't make any sense."

Tony shrugged. "It sounds good when you're throwing something out a window, though. Try it sometime. You'll see."

"Maybe later."

"Not in the car, though, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

Tony shifted in his chair. Did that mean she meant to travel onwards with him?

"You sleep well last night?" she asked him.

"Yeah, except for this weird dream."

"A dream? You remember it?"

"Naw," he said, shaking his head.

"You should write your dreams down," she went on. "They're very important. Some give you messages. Could be trying to tell you something."

"Le grunt."

"I'm serious," Lucy said, feigning insult.

"Well, since you're serious then, what are you going to do today? Still heading west with me?"

"You going to keep on paying for my motel rooms?"

"Ah, probably not. But I'll give you the first choice over where we can stay. Probably won't be like this, though."

"Probably not, but I like this place," Lucy commented.

"Me, too," Tony agreed. "Ah, to be able to afford this day after day."

"Yeah," she drew out, deciding on something. "Well, if you are heading towards BC, then I'm in. Can I help pay for gas?"

It was the second time she surprised him. "No trouble here. I was just wondering how to ask that."

"I have money," she said. "And I'm not a cheapie."

"That's good."

"But I probably won't go all the way to BC. I just might decide to get out earlier. I'll let you know."

Where was she going? But Tony did not ask her. She would tell all in her own time. He was confident in that. Was she running from something, though? From someone? There was a pause in the conversation then, and both of them simply sat and looked about the dining room. They were the only ones there. Then her dark eyes, ever so slightly curved upwards at their corners, studied him, waiting.

And then the moment was gone.

"So. Is that okay with you?" She asked innocently.

The words flashed him back to a time and a gay guy called Jimmy. Being somewhat h.o.m.ophobic, Tony still thought of Jimmy Bridges as being a nice man. A great man in fact. He owned a little franchise coffee shop down on Halifax's Hollis Street. That okay with you? Everyone had a certain catch phrase and that was Jimmy's. He'd also say phenomenal! quite a bit. 'It was phenomenal! The movie was phenomenal! Oh my Lord, he looks phenomenal!' Jimmy looked to be in about his early forties at that time, and he was always bright to the customers. He'd even come over and talk with Tony at times and eventually recognized Tony as a regular. He called him Anthony, as well. He always called his mother Mrs. Levin, and he personally served her whenever she entered the shop. It was Tony's mom that had got him into the place, and even though Tony eventually felt comfortable with Jimmy, he could never quite let his guard down for fear if he did, if he appeared too comfortable around Jimmy, the wrong signal would be sent out. Tony didn't want that kind of embarra.s.sment, but his mother continued to insist on Jimmy's whenever they were down on Hollis. She declared that Jimmy's sandwiches and the cheesecake were the best around.

And they were.

That okay with you?

That image of Jimmy, smiling at everyone.

And in that moment, Tony remembered sitting down at the counter at Jimmy's place with a newspaper in hand. He remembered seeing an older Jimmy moving a little slower than usual back there. Wearing thicker layers of clothing to protect him from the coming Halifax winter. His hair a mousse ma.s.s of silver. Eyes that watered constantly when he read a paper, smiling at him.

But is that okay with you?

Tony wasn't going to ask Lucy the questions on his mind because he wanted to eat and enjoy his Sugar Crisps as much as he could without thinking of what his mom would be eating. He wanted Lucy to enjoy her breakfast. He convinced himself that she probably did want to talk about her present or her past. Sometimes, you just couldn't handle the information those questions hooked. Or the kind of trouble a person could bring on themselves for asking. If you cared.

Across the table, Lucy waited for a response.

He gave one.

"Yeah. That's okay with me."

Chapter 21.

In British Columbia, Fire Chief Ralph Maia got up at around the same time as Tony and Lucy had been on the road for an hour. Maia had decided to sleep at the fire station, taking a night shift, and camped out in his office, on his steel frame cot. His metal hammock. It usually delivered a great sleep, better than his mattress at home, but this morning he got up sensing trouble. Ralph Maia had learned a long time ago to pay attention to his instincts, and they were all a-flutter this morning, just like a mosquito buzzing around his ear in complete darkness. He had the same feelings back in 2003 when a forest fire had devoured Kelowna. That fire had proved to be the alien queen b.i.t.c.h of a bunch of blazes that threatened to ravage the whole province. When they finally extinguished that monster, the feeling of relief that washed through those hundreds of fire-fighters and thousands of civilians was heart-breaking. Many of his own men, both regular and volunteer, had been simply too exhausted to do anything more than just smile after that killer had been officially vanquished. The destruction caused in the blaze was monstrous. One of the worse in BC's history.

And to see it. To feel the heat from that beast.

Maia sighed. It was something wonderful.

He once preached this great nation had the Americans beat on firearm safety, but he muted that praise by telling the ma.s.ses Canadians liked to burn things. They enjoyed their fires too d.a.m.n much. There were estimates that the number of fires in Canada were only a few percentage points behind the States. And that civilian deaths in both countries were the highest in amongst the industrialized nations What did that tell you? It told Maia that folks were quite simply f.u.c.ked up when it came to turning on the kitchen stove. One day close to retirement, or perhaps when he was simply fed up with public appearance, he would say just that. Those very words. Some shock therapy to sober up each and every individual. Maybe it would cause people to be more careful... but, more than likely, not. He didn't know much about psychology, but he did know people, and people in a ma.s.s could be as thick as cattle being led into a Mickey D's. It put a furtive smile on his face.

Maia got up and moved about his small but orderly office. He made his way to the head, right across from his door. Trucks were to the right, a small but respectable and shiny fleet. The sleeping quarters for the men on duty was down the hall on the left, and old Ralphie was right in the middle, across from the toilets.