Quid Pro Quo Page 12

  So, what are we going to do about it then?” I said.

  “Do about what?” Andy went.

  She drives me crazy sometimes.

  She drives me crazy sometimes.

  “The skyrocketing cost of toenail clippers!” I rolled my eyes. “Geez, Andy, a homicidal maniac has us locked up. What do you think I’m talking about?”

  Atula jumped in. “Cyril, your sarcasm is completely uncalled for.” Andy stuck her tongue out at me like she was in grade two or something. “However, I do think you raise a valid question.” I stuck my tongue out at Andy and pumped my fist in the air. “What are we going to do?”

  Byron answered. “Here’s our options as I see ’em. One: Walk out the door. We tried that. It’s locked, and Andy’s tweezers didn’t do no good prying it open.

  “Two: Crawl out the window. Tried that too. It’s locked and it’s boarded up from the outside.

  “Three: Scream at the top of our lungs and hope some moose hunter hears us. Tried that too. It just gave me a sore throat, though Andy seemed to enjoy it.

  “Four: We could all gang up and jump Chisling. We didn’t try that. He’s got a gun and we don’t. So there you have them. Our options.”

  I was, like, wild.

  “Oh, c’mon! There are other things we can do!”

  “Yeah? Like what?” Byron said.

  “Well …” I was thinking as hard as I could. “Kick down the door!”

  “Oh, sorry. Tried that one too. What do you think those dents are from?”

  “Okay … Okay! Well, what about…the drains! Couldn’t we pull the toilets off and crawl out that way?”

  Andy said, “After you, Cyril!” and started laughing like some old drunk. I mean, I didn’t relish dog paddling through … let’s just say, “human waste,” either, but I thought we should at least consider it.

  Byron said, “Even if you could hold your breath that long, the sewage pipe ain’t wide enough. Didn’t you never see a sewage pipe?”

  I was just about to lay into everybody for being so negative when Kendall leaned over and whispered, “Byron’s right.”

  Instead I just went, “Okay, then. So what are we going to do? Just sit here until Chisling breaks down and admits he made a terrible mistake?”

  All I wanted was an answer.

  I got a demonstration.

  Byron jumped up and said, “Exactly — except we ain’t going to sit.” Me and my big mouth had just reminded him that it was time, if you can believe this, for our “aerobics class.”

  As if I hadn’t had enough exercise that day.

  As if it was a good idea to make six people trapped in a tiny bathroom work up a sweat.

  As if the place didn’t stink bad enough as it was.

  I figured Andy wasn’t going to go for aerobics class either. Her idea of exercise was stretching across the table for an ashtray. But suddenly she was Buffy Buffbody. She grabbed me by the arm and went, “Get up, Cyril! Quit groaning! Byron’s right. He’s the one who’s done time. He knows how to survive a prison situation. If we all want to keep our sanity until Chisling gives in, we got to stick to a routine, look after our health, keep our minds and bodies strong!”

  Once again an alien had taken over my mother’s body, but this one looked mean. I wasn’t going to take any chances. I got up and did Byron’s stupid stretching routine.

  The only thing that made it bearable at all was that I got to “accidentally” kick Andy in the bum every time I did a leg curl. It felt good, but not good enough to make me forget what was about to happen. No matter how hard I pumped or lunged, I just couldn’t quit thinking that Chisling was coming back to off us. I could picture him outside right that very moment, pouring gasoline around the yacht club and lighting the match.

  Could you blame him? What choice did he have? Andy made it clear she wasn’t going to be bribed or blackmailed into keeping her mouth shut. And if he got rid of Andy, he was going to have to get rid of all of us. Better do it fast before anyone noticed we were gone. At least, that’s what I’d be thinking if I were him.

  I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and my whole body went Doink. A lot of good all that stretching did. It’s hard to stay loose when you hear the guy with the gun show up. Andy heard the car too, but she just smiled and went “Lunch!” She was acting like the school bell had just rung and there were Dunkeroos for dessert. Byron made us all wash our hands. (Can you believe this guy?)

  I was waiting for my turn at the air blower when Andy nudged me and said, “Aren’t you glad I made you order something?” I smiled, though it wasn’t what you’d call a real cheery smile. By that time I figured, Well, it’s over. At least we’re together. Better than being mauled in the woods by a bear, or Andy dying out here all alone and me never knowing what happened to her.

  I looked around the room. Kendall was sitting on the floor, studying his nails like he’d never seen fingers before, or maybe like he’d never see them again. Under the circumstances, that was more likely, I guess. I felt really bad about dragging him into this. He had nothing to do with any of it. He was just being a good guy, as usual, helping me out. You can see where that gets you.

  And Atula. It was my stupid fault she was there, too. I should have just lied, come up with some dumb reason why she couldn’t take us out to Birchy Head. I could have said I was carsick or left the stove on or forgot I had an appointment at the Adolescent Growth Clinic. I could have said anything.

  I should have said anything.

  If Andy and I died together, big deal. The world would go on. We just had us. Who else cared? But if something happened to Kendall or Atula, tons of people would be really sad. Kendall had his little sister and his dad and his mother, who wasn’t doing too good since his dad left, and, of course, Mary MacIsaac. Atula had her son and her parents and Toby and Marge and Mr. Lucas and

  Elmore Himmelman and even Darlene and Freddie. People needed her. Consuela had her kids at home in Mexico. I don’t know who Byron had, but it didn’t matter. He’d already done enough for us.

  This really sucked. It sucked more than anything in my life had ever sucked.

  “Is there something in your eye?” Andy said, and I said, “Nah, it’s just the toilet disinfectant getting to me, I guess.”

  The washroom door opened, and Chisling pushed a box in with his foot. He kept the gun aimed at us.

  “There you go. They didn’t have any green tea, so I had to get Byron red zinger.”

  Andy grabbed the box and started handing out the food.

  “It’s beeping cold!” she said. “What were you doing out there? Going for a Sunday drive?” She gave him this what-a-jerk face and went back to tossing people their lunches.

  She opened the last brown paper bag to see who it belonged to. All I could see was the back of her head, but I knew right away that something was wrong.

  “What the beep is this?” My first thought was that Big Bob must have slipped her a nice juicy deadratburger for lunch.

  Andy jumped up and started waving the package in Chisling’s face. She was wild.

  “I said: ‘What the beep is this supposed to be?’”

  Chisling tried to look cool.

  “It’s my last offer, Andy, that’s what it is. A hundred thousand dollars. Take it or leave it. It’s your choice.”

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  One hundred thousand dollar bills.

  One thousand hundred dollar bills.

  It was such a pleasant thought.

  So comforting.

  Bob would put the gun away and give us each a big pile of money and we could all go home. I felt light. Like I didn’t weigh anything at all. Like any second I might start floating around the men’s washroom, like an astronaut in a space module.

  A rich astronaut.

  An astronaut with a new skateboard and brand-name clothing waiting for him at home on Planet Earth.

  Andy shot that spaceship down pretty fast.

  “That
’s what we’ve been trying to tell you all along, Bob. There is no beeping choice here. You killed a man, and nothing you can do will ever make us forget it.”

  Andy biffed the wad of money at Chisling. Most of it got him in the head, but a few bills broke away from the pack and sort of fluttered around for a few seconds like little hundred-dollar ballerinas.

  Chisling whacked one out of the way and looked at Andy like he was going to kill her.

  Andy looked right back at him.

  I suppose I should have been proud. You know, my mother standing up for what’s right and all that. But to tell you the truth, I was really just hoping that someone would pipe up and say, “Whoa, whoa. Now wait a minute here, Andy. Maybe Mr. Chisling has a point.”

  I looked around the room. Byron had already gone to jail helping someone. Atula’s whole life was about sticking up for people who can’t stick up for themselves. Consuela saw Karl die, and I knew she’d do anything to make up for it. I ruled them out.

  I was sort of hopeful about Kendall; maybe he’d say something. But he was standing beside Byron now, with his head up and his shoulders back, looking at Andy like she was Sylvester Stallone. I knew he was on their side.

  That left me. But if I said anything, Andy would kill me. Better Chisling killed me, and I’d at least go out like a hero. I actually thought exactly that, but it still wasn’t my first choice. Die a chicken or die a hero? Frankly, neither appealed to me.

  I wanted to live.

  I wanted to skateboard.

  I wanted to at least kiss a girl.

  I wanted to see the new Jackie Chan movie.

  I wanted to live long enough to hit five foot nine.

  Even five six, five four, five three. I didn’t care.

  I just wanted to live.

  Chisling went, ALL RIGHT! and I thought he was going to line us up against the wall right then and blow us away. “I’ll throw in a nice three-bedroom condo at Haliburton Place, but that’s my final offer. I mean it.”

  Andy took two steps toward him and went, “Beep … Off.”

  Chisling’s face turned purple. His fingers started toying with the gun. He moved his neck back and forth like his collar had suddenly got too tight.

  I believe this is what they refer to as an “explosive situation.”

  For a second there, all I could think was, why didn’t Andy ever take me to church? It would have been handy to know a prayer right about then.

  But I didn’t know a prayer or even who I’d say it to. So I had to come up with something else.

  I said, “Mr. Chisling? …”

  He turned and looked at me. “What?”

  I said, “My hands are greasy. I can’t open this package of ketchup.”

  I held it out like I wanted him to help me. He stepped forward; he was a dad after all. I guess helping kids with ketchup is sort of an instinct. As soon as he got within firing range, I squeezed the little tinfoil package as hard as I could. Ketchup splatted all over that nice gray suit of his.

  You’d swear I’d barfed on him. He jumped back and went “Aii! Ffff … My Prada jacket!” He looked down at the mess, and that’s when I lunged at him. I dug my Beaver Boy fangs into his hand and the gun went flying. Andy scrambled after it. Chisling went to grab her, but Consuela’s extra hot taco got him dead in the eye. Kendall did this kick-flip thing I’ve seen him do on his skateboard. Chisling went down like a bowling pin, and we all winced when his head hit the knee Byron had out waiting for him.

  We stood there for a couple of seconds admiring his big conked-out carcass; then panic kicked in. I guess we’d all seen too many movies where the guy you think is dead suddenly jerks back to life and starts hacking at people.

  Chisling didn’t. He just lay there with his tongue in his ear. It didn’t matter. Everybody started screaming “Quick! Quick!” and “Go! Go! Go!” I grabbed Chisling’s keys out of his pocket, and Kendall tied his arms up with Atula’s scarf. We were just locking the washroom door behind us when we heard him start to moan.

  We took off. We didn’t even take the money. We ran with our bellies out and our arms pumping. Even Consuela looked like she was going for a medal.

  We all piled into Bob’s big, green BMW and Andy drove us back to the Halifax police station at about a hundred and thirty clicks an hour.

  I’ve never seen her so happy in my life.

  chapter

  forty-four

  Arraignment

  The act of charging a person with a crime

  Blackmail.

  Arson.

  Murder.

  Kidnapping.

  Assault and Battery.

  Forcible Confinement.

  Unauthorized Use of a Firearm.

  Bribery.

  Chisling had the book thrown at him. Considering five of us caught him red-handed on the last four charges, you’d think that would be it, wouldn’t you? I mean, what more do you need to prove the guy’s guilty?

  Yeah, but it’s not that simple.

  “The Masons’ Hall Affair” was all over the papers, and for a while there it looked like convicting Bob was going to be a slam dunk. But then Chisling got himself some high-priced lawyer from Toronto, and now I don’t know anymore.

  It will be years before this thing goes to trial. That’ll give him plenty of time to come up with some killer defense. His lawyer keeps showing up on the news saying stuff like, “Mr. Chisling is very anxious for this matter to reach the courts. Once the real facts of the case can be heard, we are very confident he will be thoroughly vindicated. He looks forward to being able to put this nightmare behind him so that he can devote himself wholly to the things that matter most to him: his loving family and his service to the community.”

  I just about gag every time I hear that. What’s his case?

  That we were all trespassing on his property?

  That it was self-defense?

  Temporary insanity?

  Mistaken identity?

  He was sleepwalking when it happened?

  I’m not kidding. They’ve all been tried before. You wouldn’t believe the boneheaded defenses people try to get away with. There was this one guy in the States who actually claimed he ate so many Twinkies that he went psycho. He tried to convince the jury it wasn’t his fault he killed a man. It was the Twinkies’ fault.

  No lie. “The Twinkie Defense.” Look it up on the Internet.

  I can just imagine what Big Bob’s lawyer is cooking up for him. Pinning the fire on Byron the ex-con? Hey! They found his fingerprint-covered Swiss Army knife on the property, and there are witnesses who’ll swear they saw him going to the Masons’ Hall that night. It could work.

  Blaming Consuela? Who knows? Maybe Chisling will try to turn things around. Say that it was actually Consuela who was trying to blackmail him by pretending he set the fire.

  Or it could be that Big Bob will just throw himself on “the mercy of the court.” The lawyer will be all apologetic and say Mr. Chisling was under a lot of financial stress. He’ll admit he went a little crazy, but who wouldn’t under the circumstances: what with all those employees to look after and three kids and a wife at home and a heavy, heavy load of volunteer responsibilities? The lawyer will say Chisling never meant to kill anyone; he just wanted to get rid of a building. A building that had sat empty for three years, and if it weren’t for some silly laws protecting heritage properties, a building that would have been torn down ages ago. It was an eyesore, he’ll say, and he’ll wave a bunch of letters from citizens thanking his client for getting rid of that awful old pile of bricks.

  And sure, Mr. Chisling took five prisoners, but hey, give the guy some credit! He did feed them well. (He even has the receipts to prove it.)

  I don’t know. Get the right lawyer and Bob Chisling could get off. Crazier things have happened.

  I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

  Until then, life is good. We’re big heroes around here. Some film company even gave Andy major dollars to make a
movie of her life. Bob Chisling wouldn’t call it a fortune, but it was enough for Andy to buy an old car for herself, a new skateboard for me and a front tooth for Kendall.

  She and Atula are back working together at—get this—Varma, MacIntyre and Associates. They’re spending a lot of time trying to keep Consuela from being deported for setting the fire. It’s pretty stressful, but that’s okay. They’re lawyers. They’re not having fun until they’re stressed out.

  Byron has a real paying job at the shelter and a real girlfriend too. The weird thing is that after all we’ve been through, I’m not sure if I’m too happy about the other woman. Andy and he made a pretty good pair, in a twisted sort of way. At least he got her to exercise. I wouldn’t even be all that upset anymore if I found out that he was my father. But he’s not. That C.C. tattoo on his arm was for his own dad: Clyde Cuvelier. Oh, well, at least I don’t have to worry about inheriting that weaselly beard of his.

  Kendall is still Kendall. He keeps acting like he didn’t do anything to bag Chisling. Like he just went along for the ride. Like anyone would have done it. He sort of shrugs it all off, the same way he sort of shrugs off the fact that there’s this army of hot girls following his every move. “Oh, them? They’re always here. They just like watching kids skateboard.” Yeah, right. Then how come they aren’t watching that kid with the overactive saliva glands doing his stuff?

  Someone saw Kendall on TV when the story first broke, and even though he had a black eye, a fat lip and no front tooth, they offered him a spot on these skateboard commercials. He shrugged that off too, but his mother made him take it. I guess they need the money.

  And me? I’m back at school. I’m skateboarding. And I’m loving the way Mary MacIsaac suddenly remembers my name.

  author’s

  note

  My brothers and sister all grew up to be lawyers. I married a lawyer. I watch Law & Order whenever I can and am in regular contact with the Halifax Police Department through its very efficient Parking Ticket Enforcement program.

  But that’s as close as I come to having legal credentials.

  I’m sort of like Cyril that way. I’ve spent a lot of time observing the legal world from the sidelines. It’s often fascinating. It’s often unbelievably boring (worse, as Cyril noted, than math class). One way or another, though, I’ve been around lawyers long enough—I hope—to have a rough idea how things work.