“Nope.”
“Nothing?” Jamar’s eyes were wide, like I had said I could walk on water.
“Not a thing.” I moved to drop the ring on the tabletop, but it slid across the palm of my hand then stopped as though magnetized. I turned my hand over and stared at it, hanging from my palm. “Weird.”
“No kidding.”
Looked like I wasn’t going to be able to just drop it in the garbage can, which had been my first inclination. So I slid it over to my right palm, then onto my ring finger. As I was admiring it (and feeling testosterone — challenged), something occurred to me. “Does it mean anything if you wear a ring on your right hand like this?” I glanced at Kara, since her opinion was the one I was looking for.
“Nothing, I don’t think.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re gay, or anything?”
“Not that I know of.” I glanced at Jamar for confirmation, but he seemed offended that I should even ask him for advice on homosexual fashion practices.
Throwing caution to the wind, I went for it. I could care less whether someone was gay or straight, but I had no interest in false advertising.
The look on Jamar’s face made it all worthwhile. Grinning from ear to ear.
“Man, I feel great!” He rubbed his eyes, as though awakening for the first time that day. “It’s like a huge weight was lifted off me, you know? You sure you feel all right, man?”
I shrugged. I felt exactly the same. No strange tingles, voices in my head, burning sensations. Nothing.
“Thank you.” Jamar stood and enveloped my hand in his. “I owe you, man.”
“No problem. In fact…,” I reached in my pocket and pulled out the coin I had taken from the Lost and Found. “Why don’t we see if we can give you some good luck for a change?” I dropped the coin in his palm.
“Now — can we get back to work?”
CHAPTER 19
That afternoon was a bit of a bugger. I considered whether the ring might have had something to do with it, but from what I could tell, everyone was experiencing the same damned thing. Storm clouds had started to drift in off the lake by two p.m., and there was a chill in the air. As usual, summer had peeked its head out in late April and early May, only to get one last slap-down by Canadian winter. People on the streets were wearing everything from winter jackets and mitts to shorts and t-shirts. Stubborn bastard that I am, no way was I going to put on a jacket.
Celtic Cross Healing Arts was based in a second floor walk-up on Bathurst, just off Queen. They had several bags of healing stones and crystals for direct delivery to a residence in Leaside.
I was walking at a quick pace back to the van, a small canvas bag dangling from each of my hands, when I was confronted by two ambassadors for Toronto’s Christian Youth organizations. Okay, they were more like ambassadors for Toronto’s Living on the Street, Can I Squeegee Your Car organizations. Hanging back at the corner was another kid, this one with spiked black hair, a safety pin through his cheek and half a dozen rings in the one ear I could see. Combined with the old-style Doc Martens, torn black jeans and a torn hoodie over an old concert t-shirt for The Cramps, he could have blended into the 1970s punk scene with no difficulty. The guys in front of me were similarly dressed, though one wore a Dead Kennedys shirt and the other a Black Flag shirt. Apparently there had been a sale on American punk band t-shirts.
I sidestepped to avoid one of the kids (Mr. Kennedy), but he moved to cut me off. With the usual Elder personal space concerns, I tried to avoid contact, but he seemed determined to bump me.
Any other time I would have apologized. It’s the Canadian way. But the way he was staring at me made it clear this little dance was on purpose. Maybe it was because of the incident in the elevator, but my immediate instinct was to assess the situation. Three kids, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Two my height and one a few inches taller — maybe six two. None of them weighed more than one fifty soaking wet. No obvious weapons.
I had taken to driving with a miniature baseball bat in the van, a memento from a Blue Jays game a few years earlier that seemed ideally suited for swinging at heads. But the van was a block and a half away.
“Is there a problem here?”
Ask a stupid question…
“No problem, shithead. Just hand us the bags and your wallet, and you can go on your way.”
I couldn’t believe it. Second time in a month. This was Toronto, for crying out loud!
“And what makes you think I’m going to do that?”
The other guy spoke — the kid with the Black Flag shirt. His face was splotchy, with the uneven facial hair of a kid who needed to shave once a week at most.
“You remember what happened last time?”
I glared at him. These little shits had heard about the attack on Clay and me, and had decided they would try to score a little something for themselves.
Well this time, there was no gun. And I wasn’t worried about my boss getting hurt. And I was pissed.
I shoved Mr. Kennedy with my shoulder, bags still in my hands, and stepped up to him — chest to chest.
“You wanna go?”
For a moment I thought that would be the end of it. They would take a look at me, sneer, and pimp-walk down the street looking for some other action. But my guess is that Kennedy didn’t want to be seen backing down in front of his boys. Well, he took the wrong route. He took a swing at me.
I dropped the bags and ducked, taking the punch high on the cheek. Then I moved in, grabbed the lapels of his jean jacket with both hands and drove my forehead into his nose. Zenedine Zidane, eat your heart out. As he fell back, I took the opportunity to stomp down hard on his instep.
Unlike in the martial arts movies I watch on TV, real-life fights with more than two combatants tend (in my limited experience) to look more like mob clutch and grabs than the structured “your turn, now my turn” choreographed fights. True to form, contestant number two was all over me even as Mr. Kennedy fell to his knees. One arm around my throat, the other throwing punches to the back of my head. Queensbury would have turned in his grave. I tried to turn into him, but he clung to my back like Yoko Ono. Meanwhile, the kid with the Cramps’ shirt was wading in, charging me with a lowered shoulder that managed to knock much of the wind out of me.
As I spun around trying to free myself, I noticed a handy light pole just a few feet away. With a shove off the Cramps kid, I backpedalled into the light standard and heard with some satisfaction a lungful of air escaping from Black Flag’s lungs. Taking advantage of the moment, I reached over my shoulder and took hold of his hood. That has always been a mystery to me. Why the hell would you fight someone while wearing a hood? It proved an excellent lever to haul him over and slam him to the ground. I then pulled it down over his head and held it with my left hand while raining down punches with my right.
I took a moment to catch my breath when I noticed that the two friends had backed off, Kennedy and the Cramps kid slinking away and trying to look invisible. Nice friends.
I stepped away from the kid I had been pounding on, and straightened out my shirt while he came to his senses. The Cramps kid, sensing that my temper tantrum had come to an end, edged forward and helped him to his feet. I brushed sweat and dirt from my forehead, checking for blood.
My stitches seemed to have held, so I watched them to see what their next move would be. A quiet look between the three of them seemed to resolve the issue, and they began to move off, occasionally checking over a shoulder to see if I was following.
I watched them walk away and sighed. Another great day in the big city.
Call it a hunch. Or perhaps better to frame it as a grudge. Either way, I realized as I watched the three of them walk away that one of them must have a link with Niki. As I walked to the van I considered that, with the result that a minute later I was pulling the van around in a tight u-turn, eliciting a few choice words from a cabbie behind me. Stopping at the curb, I watched as the three punks sauntered along Queen West towards Spadina.