“Jesus, Jim. That’s wrong in so many ways. Not to mention illegal.”
“But it’s clever,” he said. “Bloodless even. And our friend Mister Corrigan goes away for good.”
“I thought you liked him?”
“I just want to keep the peace.” It was only a half-lie. He really did want to prevent something stupid from happening but there was something more now, a chance to improve his odds.
“No. It’s too risky,” she said. “It could backfire on us so easily.”
“Think about it. Okay?”
Kate gathered up her things. “Okay, but I’m not going to change my mind. Let’s get out of here.”
Jim set his cup on the desk. “Any chance you’re driving past the Roman Line?”
6:00 AM the next business day, Kate’s car was the first into the parking lot. Not her usual routine, this early start, but the office would be deserted for the next two hours. The phones silent. A rare chance to clear the backlog of work killing her inbox.
First order of business was finalizing the new bylaw forbidding anyone from turning a place of residence into a tourist attraction. A few tweaks of the wording and it was ready to go. Since the entire council had agreed to it, there was no need to wait until next session to pass it. She’d get Keith to drive it around to the member’s homes for them to sign. By end of business day, the bylaw would be passed and tomorrow, enforced. She’d deliver the writ to Corrigan herself. After that, Mr. Corrigan would have to fold up his snake-oil tent or pay the fine. Three large.
All of the council members raised an eyebrow at the fine she’d proposed. Frugal men all, some dangerously close to being mistaken for Scots in their tight-fistedness. McGrath and Thompson had openly objected to the amount and Kate suspected both men had plans to build some future tourist trap on their property. She wouldn’t be swayed. Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em deep. Offenders would grumble and whine and then ultimately toe the line.
With that accomplished, Kate got busy chipping at her to-do list with a murderous intensity until eight o’ clock when the staff rolled in with their obligatory cups of Timmy Ho’s. Keith arrived with a tray of them and brought Kate hers as he did every morning, God bless him.
Kate popped the plastic lid and closed her door. Found the number in last year’s daytimer and dialled a Toronto prefix.
Two rings then a voice. “Who the fuck is this?” No hello, no good morning.
“Hugo, it’s Kate.”
“Kate?”
A little disappointed he didn’t remember. “Kate Farrell. We—”
“Had you, didn’t I?” A laugh down the other end. “What can I do you for you, Kate? You still owe me a date, by the way.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Sounds classier than, you know, just a ‘fuckme’ session.”
She’d met Hugo in Toronto six years ago, when her company was being targeted by some anti-corporate activist group. Destroying their billboards, hacking their web servers. Fairly innocuous stuff until a pig carcass was found on their doorstep. The police had proved useless and someone at the company’s law firm suggested relating the matter to a trusted security firm. The security firm sent Hugo. Smooth as butter but short with manners. Brash towards everyone but flirtatious with Kate. Four days into the job, the harassment stopped cold. All Hugo disclosed was that he had located the activists and asked them to stop. He went so far as to request they apologize on their website. He gave no details and waved off any other questions but his knuckles were scraped raw and scabbed over. That afternoon, the activist’s website went dark save for a single screen that proclaimed an apology to the company. Hugo was very effective and extremely discreet and she had held on to his card.
She was surprised when he called the following week, asking her to join him for a drink. She asked if this was a follow up on services rendered. He laughed and said that he simply wanted to get her drunk and take advantage of her.
“You still out in pumpkin land?” he said over the line. Flirting long distance. He must have hit a dry spell, she thought. He went on. “You’ve had your fun out there, Katie girl. Come back to civilization already.”
“Tempting. When are you coming to visit?” Her smirk beamed down the line. “You’d be amazed, Hugo. You can park anywhere. All day.”
“And kill my lungs on all that fresh air?” The snap of a lighter and the sound of inhaling. “I’m on the clock, darling. What’s on your mind?”
“I need a background check on someone.”
“That’s what the police are for, love. Tick tock.”
“This needs more than that. Real digging.”
“Sounds serious.” His words muffled and she pictured him, cigarette in his teeth while he dug for pen and paper. “New boyfriend?”
“Nothing that dramatic. Just some local ne’er do well.”
“My specialty.” He sounded pleased. “What’s the prick’s name?”
“Corrigan, William.”
There were three of them, the louts, but by far, Brant Coogan was the worst. The leader, the instigator. The other two, Emmet and Wyatt, never made a move without him. Schoolyard bullies in the classic sense, all three destined for prison or a career in used car sales. And all thee of them hated Travis Hawkshaw.
Travis had been a passing target since the sixth grade. He got his fair share when the three stooges noticed him, which wasn’t that often. Travis just wasn’t a kid who stood out. That changed when the stranger showed up and cooked up something called a horrorshow, touring people around his creepy old house with tales of murder and revenge. Brant and the two mouth-breathers took notice of Travis then, sometimes going out of their way to find him in the faces flowing through the halls.
In school, you were assured a few jabs or a hard slam up against the lockers. Sometimes just taunting, loud and cruel enough to make every set of eyes turn and stare. Travis knew the latter to be the worst, all those eyes gawking at you. Bitch slaps and nut taps were nothing compared to that. But that was in school, where certain unstated boundaries of scorn and abuse were observed. Outside of school, well, the only principle that held was ‘just fucking run’.
Wednesday afternoons, Travis played basketball with his friend Joel instead of taking the bus home. They’d hang out for two hours then he’d meet his mom at the Farmer’s Co-Op. A regular blip in the schedule for both of them. Crossing Oak Street on the way to the Co-Op, he’d spotted Emmet zip by on his bike. Travis cut through the alley behind the butcher’s to stitch across Galway. A silhouette on a BMX appeared at the end of the alley, circling lazily. Brant, heading him off. Travis turned back.
Emmet and Wyatt pedalled up behind him, cutting off his escape.
The trio circled him on their bikes, called him faggot and loser and retard. Travis wasn’t listening, too busy looking for a breech in their line to make a run for it. There were no windows running either side of the alleyway, no chance anyone would see anything.
Brant skidded to a stop and said something about money but Travis ignored it. All three boys stopped and Travis spotted a gap in their line but then something hit him in the back. He sprawled to the ground, palms skinning the pavement. Travis ignored the heat of the pain and shot to his feet but was already surrounded. Yanked into a headlock and pulled down. His backpack stripped off, punches to the stomach. A nut tap for good measure. He felt his pants yanked down, the word faggot hollered over and over. Travis panicked.
What the hell were they doing? He struck out with fists, kicking blind. They stomped harder and Travis coiled up.
Faggot! Homo!