Meet Me on the Ninth

Jimmy the T always arrives early for a meet. He doesn’t like surprises. Leave as little to chance as possible, that’s his motto. Things can go sideways real fast and in his line of work mistakes can be fatal. He’s seen plenty of them in his years with the firm. So, even though he knows Castro’s well, has been in there at least a dozen times, knows where the exits are, the blind spots, the way the afternoon light can change things when you’re sitting next to the windows, he still arrives an hour early. If there’s going to be trouble, he wants to see it coming.

He parks one street over and sits on a bench outside the used bookstore across the street from the diner. He watches who comes and goes. It’s ironic, he thinks, if that’s the right word. He’s not exactly sure what ironic means. But he thinks it’s ironic that he’s sitting outside a bookstore pretending to read. Jimmy the T has never been much of a reader. He’s not the book smarts kind of guy. All the lessons he’s learned, he’s learned on the street, the hard way. A fist to the jaw, that’s the best teacher.

It’s a typical Tuesday afternoon, mid October, that time of day when the sun turns everything gold. In the diner, he can see a couple of working stiffs from the Rapid Lube finishing a late lunch. A few minutes after they leave, the guy who runs Dollar World comes in for a coffee and a sandwich to go. Otherwise, Castro’s is quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary. That’s how Jimmy likes things. Satisfied that he’s not walking into a trap, he crosses the street.

Castro’s is a bistro in the New York style, well past its glory days and now in decline, just like the rest of the downtown core. But Castro’s hasn’t hit rock bottom. Not yet. No drug deals or drunken brawls, those days are yet to come. There are nine booths on the left as you walk in, against a bank of windows that overlook the street. Outside, a few tables on a stone patio, paint-peeled and rarely used, especially at this time of year. Opposite the booths, a bar with eight metal backless stools where regulars drink beer and eat peanuts, sometimes a sandwich or a cheeseburger. Behind the bar, wooden shelves with bottles of watered-down liquor and a row of dusty wine glasses. Sometimes on a weekend the place can get a little busy when a few of the boys from the bowling alley come in to watch a ball game on the big screen. But on a weekday, there’s only a couple diehards, the occasional downtown shopper, someone stopping in for a quick bowl of soup. The owners, two no-nonsense brothers Raoul and Frederico try their best to keep the place respectable, no rummies, no barflies, no working girls. But their efforts only forestall the inevitable. For Castro’s, the writing is pretty much on the wall.

Jimmy enters, nods to the waitress and the barman and takes the last booth in the corner. He faces the front door. There’s no one else in the place. To his left and behind him is the short hallway that leads to the kitchen, the washrooms and the back door that lets out to the alley.

Lizzy, Raoul’s second oldest is working tables. Her cousin Tony is slinging the suds. He’s also the cook when there’s a kitchen order. Lizzy’s halfway through her shift. She looks up from the book she’s reading and watches as Jimmy settles in. He slides his phone out of his pocket and places it on the table to his right next to the serviettes. Lizzy turns her book upside down and comes over to him, black apron over black tights and black T shirt, her sandy hair pulled into a ponytail with a navy blue scrunchy.

“Hey Jimmy, how you been. Should I bring you a menu?”

Jimmy takes off his sunglasses and slips them into his shirt pocket. He doesn’t bother looking at her. Today he’s all business. “No menu,” he says. “Gimme an Orange Pekoe over ice. I’m waiting on Carpenter.”

“Carpenter?” Lizzy exclaims. “I haven’t seen Carpenter in a long time. I thought maybe he left town.”

“Yeah, a lot of people were thinking that,” Jimmy says. “We’ll find out where he’s been soon enough.”

When Lizzy goes back to the bar for the tea, Jimmy takes off his jacket and places it carefully on the seat beside him, making sure he can easily reach into the pocket if he needs to. But he’s hoping it won’t come to that. After a few minutes, Lizzy comes back and wordlessly sets down the metal pot, spilling a few drops on the table. She places a large plastic glass filled with ice next to it. Behind the bar Tony is scanning through his phone. This is generally how he spends his day, stoic and silent, a pale blue light reflected in his face.

A short time later a middle-aged woman and her son come in. She’s built like a linebacker. The kid, shifty-eyed and open-mouthed, looks like a fire hydrant with glasses. He rubs a sleeve along his nose, from elbow to wrist. They take the first booth. Jimmy gets a look at the two of them and rolls his eyes in disgust. The kid wants ice cream but can’t decide on a flavor – he wavers between chocolate and strawberry. It’s the most important decision of his day. Jimmy turns to the window and watches the slow-moving traffic.

At 4:15 Carpenter walks in. Jimmy glances at him. Carpenter’s wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt, a light blue golf jacket. He sees Jimmy and gives him a tight grin. He comes over and slides into the booth. Jimmy looks back out the window.

“I’m going to need you to keep your hands on the table,” Jimmy says without looking at him, “where I can see them.”

Carpenter obeys. “I was hoping it was going to be you,” he says.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

Quietly Carpenter says, “because you’re more reasonable than the others.”

“Don’t be so sure of that. You pissed off a lot of people, my friend. Me included.” Jimmy fixes him with a hard look.

“Jimmy,” Carpenter says, “I can explain everything.”

But Jimmy cuts him off, “shut up,” he whispers with a growl. “There’s a few things we need to clarify here first.”

Lizzy comes over to the table; her face is alight. “Carpenter!” She leans down and gives him a hug and holds it a little longer than Jimmy likes. “It’s so nice to see you again. It’s been such a long time.” When she stands up, she keeps one hand on his shoulder, massaging it gently.

“Ah, Lizzy. You look beautiful. Great to see you again. How’re your studies going?”

“Oh, my God,” Lizzy becomes even more animated. She puts the hand that was on his shoulder to her chest. She looks up toward the ceiling. “Oh my God,” she says. “School is amazing, the best decision I ever made. I’d love to tell you about it. You were right about Russian literature by the way. Isn’t Dostoevsky the best writer ever?”

“Many would agree with you there,” Carpenter laughs. “I want to hear all about it. But I have some business to take care of with Jimmy first.”

“Oh, of course,” Lizzy says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. We have Budweiser on tap. Can I get you one?”

“No, thank you, Lizzy. Not today,” Carpenter says. “I’m just going to have a coffee. Maybe later we’ll get a bite to eat. But just coffee for now.”

“OK,” Lizzy says. She reaches for Carpenter’s hand and holds it for a moment. “It’s so nice to see you, Carpenter. Don’t be such a stranger. You have my number, gimme a ring.” On her way back to the bar, she glances back at him, the smile still on her face.

After a moment Jimmy says, “take off the jacket.” Carpenter does. He lays it on the seat. When he’s sure no one is looking, Jimmy stands and leans over the table. He puts both hands on Carpenter’s chest and pats him down, pulling back the collar of his sweatshirt with an index finger and peering down his neck.

“I’m not wired,” Carpenter says. “I wouldn’t do that. You know me.”

Jimmy sits down again. “I know you?” he says. “I know you? What, are you kidding me? After what you pulled.”

“Jimmy, I’m sober now,” Carpenter says. “I have been for nearly five months. I’m clean too.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re clean. Or sober. What difference does that make? No one gives a shit, Carpenter. You think this is about you? You think this is about either of us? This is about one thing. This is about what you did. This is about what you owe.”

Lizzy comes back with the coffee. She’s still smiling her Carpenter smile, but as she approaches the table, it fades. She places the cup and the cream and sugar on the table. Her eyes flitter furtively to Jimmy. She takes a step back, smooths her apron with her hands and after a moment of awkward silence, walks over to the booth where the woman and the kid are sitting. She doesn’t look back this time.

“I know Mama C’s not happy,” Carpenter says. “Believe me I know. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for the last six months.” He leans in closer, putting his hands in his lap.

“Hands,” Jimmy warns, tapping the laminate with a finger. “Hands.” Carpenter brings his hands out again and spreads them on the table so Jimmy can see.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” Jimmy says.

“OK, Jimmy, I’m sorry. Look, I’m not packing. I don’t carry any more. I got rid of all my hardware. Everything. I don’t live that life anymore. I’m moving on.”

Jimmy scoffs, “you don’t live that life anymore. You’re moving on. What the hell are you talking about? You think you can just leave the firm? Hand in your resignation? Here’s my two weeks notice, I’m making a career change. Man, for somebody so smart, you sure are stupid.”

Carpenter slides his coffee and the bowl with the cream and sugar in it off to the side, next to Jimmy’s tea and the glass of ice and Jimmy’s phone and the serviette canister, clearing the table between himself and his former partner.

The kid who looks like a fire hydrant in the first booth has finished his ice cream and is now crying for pie. His mother tries reason, then argument and finally gives in. She calls Lizzy over, who tells the kid what sorts of pies are on offer.

“Do you know about the twelve steps, Jimmy?” Carpenter asks.

“The Hitchcock movie? What about it?”

“No. The twelve steps of AA, Jimmy. I joined AA. I’m going to meetings and I have a sponsor. I’m learning about sobriety, Jimmy, how to live my life without booze. I’ve turned my life over to a higher power. That’s why I called Mama C and asked for this meet. That’s why I’m here, Jimmy. Because of the steps.”

Jimmy leans back in the booth. The patched and stained faux leather complains against his weight. He studies Carpenter for a long minute, shaking his head. Outside the sun has changed. Through the window it places a long dagger of light on the centre of the table, its point touching Carpenter’s arm.

When he speaks again, Jimmy does so slowly, like he is explaining a simple set of instructions to a child. “Listen, Carpenter,” he says. “Mama C is operating a business and businesses run on money. She has employees and those employees have a job to do, and she takes care of her employees. She treats them well on the understanding that they will be loyal to her and do their jobs. Our job, yours and mine was to make money for the firm, to make money for Mama C. We were good at it. You were good at it. But you screwed up, pal and there’s a cost to be paid for that. For every mistake in life, there’s a price that has to be paid.”

“That’s what I’m talking about, Jimmy,” Carpenter says. “I’m talking about Step Nine of the twelve step program, the making of amends. I’m here to make amends for my mistake. I want to make things right, to clear away the wreckage of my past, to clean up the mess I made.”

“You know what your problem is, Carpenter? You’re a dreamer. You’re about the smartest guy I ever met. You’ve read more books in your life than anybody I know. I’ve seen some of the shit you read; books I can’t even pronounce the titles of. Books about philosophy and morality and ultimate truth.” Here he makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “I don’t even know what half the words in those books mean. But your problem is you believe that shit. You believe in things like redemption and making amends. You think that you can just show up here and talk your way out of this situation. You’re a fool Carpenter. You should have stayed gone. You’re in way, way over your head. There’s a whole different set of laws in the world that you won’t find in a book. Or in your fancy twelve-step program.”

Neither man speaks for a moment and the sun shifts again. It moves up Carpenter’s arm toward his shoulder. It cuts a line across his lower jaw.

“How much does she want?” Carpenter asks.

“Two hundred,” Jimmy says flatly.

Carpenter puts a hand to his forehead. “Jimmy, that warehouse was only worth a hundred. That’s what we were told right from the start. Even if we got it all, we would have only walked away with a hundred.”

“Mama C wants two. That’s what she wants communicated to you. You want to walk away from the firm? Start a new life? That’s the price. Consider the second hundred as…” Jimmy wiggles his fingers in the air, searching for the right words, “let me see, what do the banks call it? Service fees. Carrying charges. Pain and suffering. The cost of doing business. Mama C wants two hundred thousand dollars. By Thursday.”

The woman at the front of the bistro begins to move. It takes some effort to work her body out of the tight booth. Her kid is scraping the last of his pie from the dish while simultaneously tapping at his phone with his other hand. Once she’s extricated herself from the table, the woman reaches down to retrieve her purse. “Now you wait here while Mommy goes to the lady’s room,” she tells the boy. “And I’ll take you home for dinner.” The kid ignores her.

The woman is big. She begins lumbering toward Jimmy and Carpenter on her way to the bathroom which is behind them. Jimmy keeps his eyes on Carpenter’s hands. They’re on the table where they’re supposed to be.

Lizzy has stepped over to the woman’s booth. She reaches down to clear away the empty dishes, only she doesn’t. Jimmy doesn’t realize something is wrong until it’s too late. Instead of taking away the plates and the bowls, Lizzy takes the boy’s hand. He allows himself to be led from the table. Everything seems to happen at once, in slow motion. The woman, now adjacent to Jimmy and Carpenter’s booth, right beside them in fact, begins to stumble, to lose her balance. She is falling, and as she does, she reaches out to steady herself on the edge of their table. Her head falls forward. Meanwhile Lizzy and the boy are leaving through the front door, the kid going along placidly, as if this has all been rehearsed.

The big woman’s hair comes off her head. Only it isn’t her hair. It’s a wig. Carpenter is staring into Jimmy’s eyes now, holding them in place. The woman, without a wig, Jimmy sees as he breaks away from Carpenter’s gaze and turns to her, is not a woman at all. She regains her balance, pivots quickly and with the grace of an athlete steps behind Jimmy. She / he is pulling Jimmy by the hair, and he feels his head snap back. He feels something against his throat, something cold and sharp and deadly. Not a word is spoken. By anyone. Within the flash of a knife blade everything is different, everything is changed, just like the sun through the window.

Jimmy doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. The diner has become as still and as deathly silent as a tomb. From the angle that Jimmy’s head is being held by the woman / man, Jimmy now sees for the first time that there is a clock above the front door. If he survives to tell this story, and it’s uncertain whether he will, it is the clock above the door that he will remember most clearly. Why is it he never noticed it before? Jimmy notices everything. Under the clock there is a wooden sign, stenciled lettering on a piece of driftwood: Make every moment count. It’s ironic, Jimmy thinks. Yes, it is ironic in the true definition of the word. The second hand of the clock is approaching the 9. Each tick of its movement sounds like a shotgun blast in Castro’s. Tony the bartender/cook steps to the front door and slowly slides the deadbolt.

Then Carpenter gives Jimmy a grin that is not at all a grin. “I have a counter proposal for Mama C,” he says. “I’m going to explain it to you very slowly, very carefully and very clearly so that even an imbecile like you can understand it. Are you listening Jimmy?”