“I’ll bet nobody calls him Earlie to his face,” I said.
“Everybody does,” George said, fixing me with a look. “Everybody except your Becker.”
Twenty-Four
I’m so happy, so happy said he,
bought me a coffee at a quarter to three,
meanwhile his happiness waited at home,
in an unhappy bed near a silent phone.
—Shepherd’s Pie
The Tim Horton's in Laingford is no different from any Tim Horton’s you’ve ever been in. First thing that hits you is the smell of hot fat, followed by a big wall of whitenoise—coolers, Coke machines, fluorescent lights—the inexorable buzz of fast food places everywhere. It never used to bother me until I stepped out of the mainstream and crawled off to live in a cabin in the woods. At home, I can hear a mouse chewing its fingernails, and anything electronic is instantly recognizable and horribly annoying.
One thing about Tim’s, though, the coffee is always good, and if you like donuts, they’ve got ’em.
Morrison was sitting at a formica table by the window, a black coffee in front of him, no donuts. He’d probably already had three while he was waiting. He grinned when I came in and threatened to get up, but he was sort of wedged in the plastic modular chair which was part of the table, designed by someone who thought every ass in the world was skinny. He stuck halfway, grinned even wider and settled back, his butt overflowing the seat. I felt sorry for him. Not so much because his size was unappealing—I mean, I didn’t think “poor guy, he’d be very attractive if he’d only lose some weight.” I just thought that his bulk must be a bit of a pain sometimes, that’s all. “Hey, Morrison.”
“Hey, Goat Girl.”
He must have picked it up from Spit, but he said it in a friendly way, so I didn’t mind. Soon I would try out “Earlie” on him and see if he flinched.
“Just let me grab a coffee, and I’ll be right there.” There was a queue, but the Hortonites were efficient, and soon I was at the front of the line. Someone was just bringing out a fresh tray of sour-cream cinnamon donuts, my favourite. I ordered two, one for me, one for Morrison. I guess it was a sort of bribe, but I didn’t think he’d worry about it. I handed it to him when I got back to the table. He looked at it, grinned, and pushed it gently back across the table to me.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said.
“It’s only a donut,” I said.
“I can see that,” he said. “Can’t stand ’em. It’s Becker who likes donuts, not me.” I shrugged and another stereotype bit the dust.
I dug in. After a moment, Morrison gazed at my chin and silently handed me a napkin.
“I brought some paperwork,” I said, swallowing and wiping my mouth.
“Oh, yeah? What kind?” I explained that George and I had written down everything we knew about Francy and John and the murders.
“Should be interesting. Is there anything in there you haven’t told us?”
“I’m not sure. There’s stuff I told Becker that I didn’t tell you, but I’m sure he let you know about it. You’re working together, right?”
Morrison didn’t answer. He was reading.
“What’s this about four hundred dollars in the dog food?”
“Well, you know how I took over the care and maintenance of Lug-nut, right? After you suggested it. Why did you make out that it was Becker’s idea, by the way?”
He pursed his lips. “Figured you’d go for it sooner if it came from him, eh? You did, didn’t you?”
“It didn’t matter whose idea it was. Lug-nut’s a great dog. He’s out waiting in the truck.”
“My Uncle Dwight’s dog, Sheila, is his mother,” he said. “I heard Travers treated his dog bad. It’s good to know he’s in good hands now.”
“Jeez, everybody’s related around here, aren’t they? If not by blood, then by dog.”
“Yup. So, the four hundred bucks?”
“Well, I went to get Lug-nut on Tuesday, after you told me he was abandoned, and I kind of, you know, slipped past that tape over the door to get the bag of dog food that John kept under the sink in the kitchen.”
“Yeah? It’s okay. I’m not going to arrest you—yet.”
“I wish you guys would stop threatening to arrest me. It’s wearing me down.”
Morrison frowned. “I was joking,” he said.
“Becker wasn’t.”
“Becker threatened to arrest you? Why?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He never tells me anything.”
I told him. I left out some important details, like what exactly Becker and I were doing at my place, but I think he knew anyway.
“So that’s how he got the bruise over his eye. Yeah, he’s got a thing about dope. Most cops do, but some take it more seriously than others. You be careful, kid. Becker said the ding was from that bar brawl in Cedar Falls last night.”
“Well, it was. I just kind of nudged it later and it started bleeding again.”
He didn’t laugh. “Becker is not the kind of guy you’d want to be pissing off,” he said. “That was real stupid.”
“I know, I know. So. The dog food.”
“Yeah. You found the money in the dog food at the Travers’ place? Before you found the truck? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“No, I found it this morning, when I went to feed Lug-nut. I took the dog food from Francy’s to my place. The money rolled right out of the bag this morning. I was going to give it back to her this afternoon when I found—you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Pretty awful for you.”
I didn’t want to get into it, or I might start to cry. “Anyway, here it is.” I pulled the roll of bills out of my pocket and put it on the table.
“Put that away,” he hissed, startling me. “People will think you’re trying to bribe me.” I whipped the wad back into my pocket and glanced around. There were a lot of people in the place, but nobody near our table. Still, in a town the size of Laingford, people know you. No doubt there were several people there who had heard about Mark Becker and the pickup boys the night before. There would be tales told if I was seen handing Becker’s partner a wad of bills, I guess.
“Sorry,” I said.
