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.’