Hair-Trigger Read online

  “Ha!”

  “Yeah, but they were already going through my saddle bag and found this nine-inch switchblade I got for my ex-wife, because she used to get off the bus late at night when there was this rapist around. I forgot I had it. So I was charged with Possession of a Prohibited Weapon, but never went to court about it. Yesterday I got caught shoplifting a knife from Canadian Tire. I almost never carry ID, not since I sold the bike, and figured there might be a warrant out on me so I gave the cops a phony name.”

  “Oh, man. You crazy like me.”

  “So there’s an Obstructing Justice charge now too.”

  “Shit. How come you don’t make bail?”

  Lofton raised the cigarette to his mouth. Exhaling, he said, “My friend didn’t show up. I don’t know what the fuck happened, so I’ve got to phone him again and tell him it was remanded until Monday.”

  About an hour later, Lofton was on the top bunk reading a newspaper when a guard came by with cookies and hot chocolate.

  “Our snack,” Du said.

  “What, they do this every night?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Last night we got cake.”

  He came down the ladder. “This is like the fucking Hilton. They sure don’t feed you fucking cookies and cake in the L.A. lockup.”

  “Los Angeles? You were there?”

  Lofton sat on the stool and picked up a vanilla wafer. “That’s where I grew up.”

  “Why you in jail?”

  “Armed robbery,” he said, “and attempted murder. I was found not guilty.”

  “Fuck, you wild guy.”

  Early the next morning after breakfast he had a shower. His wet hair was combed into a shaggy ducktail as he poured himself a cup of tea from one of two urns, and took a seat at the centre table to read a three-day-old section of newspaper. Later, he sat among the other prisoners watching television.

  In the afternoon, Lofton was told he had a visitor. He and a number of others were escorted to a circular area where heavy telephones were affixed to a counter beneath a window of Plexiglas by steel cords. There were no chairs. When he saw Derek Rowe on the other side, he went over to the empty spot opposite him and picked up a receiver. “Well, you finally made it.”

  Rowe was dressed in a white dress shirt, but was unshaven and looked hung over. “I had to close the fucking store on Saturday to go down to the courthouse, but when I got there your name wasn’t on the docket. They said you’d been transferred to another room, but I couldn’t find you there either, and left.”

  “I forgot you had to work Saturdays. After seeing the judge, I had to go to a holding area.”

  “So what the hell’s going on?”

  Rowe listened to Lofton explain with one shoulder against the glass. “So it wasn’t the liquor store, then. You said something about planning to steal a bottle.”

  “No. So I need you to be there for me in court on Monday.”

  “You need me to put up bail.”

  “You don’t have to pay anything. Just sign, saying you’re responsible.”

  “Like I said. It can’t be more than a grand, because I’ll have to prove what’s in my bank account.”

  “Well I’m good for it, don’t worry. The worst thing about this place is the boredom. The unmitigated fucking boredom of waiting in court, in the cells, getting processed into the Don, sitting around jail, being locked up after dinner. . . . I’ve got a nice cellmate though, this Vietnamese kid named Du. He can’t do enough for me.”

  “Who fucks who?”

  Lofton ignored him. “His lawyer sounded pretty incompetent by the sounds of it. There were so many stipulations to his probation that he was going to have to break it no matter what he did. Of course,” he conceded with a wry smile, “nobody in this place ever did anything wrong. They’re all innocent—just ask them.”

  “So, are you pleading guilty or what?”

  “What can I say? They caught me red-handed. I’ll just plead no contest. The duty counsel was this not-bad looking oriental, and it’s funny, you know . . . she suddenly looked at me when I was talking to her, and said, ‘What is someone like you doing here anyway?’ I told her, ‘I have no idea, believe me.’”

  “So just why are you pulling this penny ante shit?”

  Lofton brushed his hair back. “I don’t know, Mom.”

  “You might have to do a few months in minimum security, like Mimico or Metro West. Are you getting a lawyer?”

  “No, a duty counsel will be good enough.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t have any kind of defense worth paying for.”

  Rowe glanced around and asked, “What’s the racial balance in the Don these days?”

  “I don’t know. A mix, I guess. I’ve seen more Mexicans in here than I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “I didn’t think Toronto had that many Mexicans. Are you referring to Hispanics in general?”

  “No, I think Mexicans. I know Mexicans.”

  After Rowe left, Lofton went back to the main hall and played cards until everyone was locked up for the duration of the afternoon.

  The next morning he saw Rowe sitting in court. When it was his turn, the prosecutor, or Queen’s counsel, told the judge that since the defendant had no criminal record they were only asking for a small surety. The duty counsel said that Lofton had a friend who could provide up to a thousand dollars, so the judge granted bail for that amount.

  It was a quarter after eleven. Before Lofton was taken to the larger holding area downstairs, he asked a court officer how long it might be before he got out, and was told about one-thirty, two o’clock. If you were polite to them, apparently they’d be polite to you.

  There were about fifty in custody down there. He waited, watching the numbers thin as people made bail or were taken to other detention centres. The day dragged on. At three he asked a guard what the deal was, and was told that his guy must not have been able to provide the surety.

  By four twenty-five, Lofton figured court was finished. There were only three others in the cell with him, and the Justice of the Peace had likely left for the day. He swore to himself as he looked through the window at people typing and walking around, knowing the phones in the Don would be cut off at five and he was fucked. Maybe he should call his ex-wife.

  Hours later, he sat on a bench in the police van on his way back to jail. At nine-thirty, while waiting in a downstairs holding cell to be reprocessed into the general population, Lofton asked if there was a chance he could use a telephone and was told by a guard that he was going to be seeing the J.P. in about ten minutes.

  He was taken upstairs to another cell, wondering what was going on. When he was led down a hallway, Lofton saw Rowe through a glass partition talking to someone, maybe a Justice of the Peace.

  After he was released, they were both buzzed into the anteroom and stood by the benches waiting for the guard behind the window to release the second door. “Oh, man,” he said, “I didn’t know what the fuck was happening. All fucking day I’ve just been waiting around.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You don’t know what it’s been like, having no idea what the fuck’s going on hour after hour, all day long. I mean, I saw you in court, I knew you showed up.”

  He felt mildly exhilarated when they stepped out into the night air and walked down the ramp.

  “I spent the whole day on this bullshit,” Rowe said. “I didn’t even get to see the guy until almost four o’clock, and when he looked at my bank book he said I hadn’t had it updated in a couple of months, and gave me twenty minutes to get to a bank. I don’t know why that made any difference; if I’d had it updated two days ago I could have still taken all the money out without using the book. I remembered there were Royal Bank machines at Queen and Yonge, but when I got there they were gone; it’s a fucking Towers store now.�
��

  “I didn’t know where you went. Do you have a cigarette?”

  Rowe gave him one, and paused while he shielded his lighter for him. They started walking again. “I’d left the car in a garage because I figured I wouldn’t have to go far, but when I finally found a machine it was too late and the courts were closed. So I had to come to the jail tonight to do it, and waited here for over an hour and a half.”

  “I wasn’t even back from court yet. The bail shouldn’t have been that high; the duty counsel should have gone for less.”

  When they got to the Firebird, Lofton waited for Rowe to unlock his door. As he settled into the front seat he put his cigarette in the ashtray, and pulled a red bandanna from his jacket pocket. “All right, let’s go get a fucking drink.”

  5

  After Marva Jones collected ten dollars for the table dance, she slipped into her bra, hooked the front clasp, and then stood with one hand on the edge of the table to aim a spike-heeled pump through the leg-hole of her thong. Picking up her small platform, she walked through the bar in an easy strut, showing off her long legs.

  At twenty-nine she figured they were her best asset. Any weight she’d gained didn’t show much on a toned, big-boned, five-eight black frame, though she could see the evidence in her driver’s license picture. Her face was still striking for its cheekbones, but seemed broader than it had in the publicity glossies five years earlier.

  She had sultry eyes and a smile she knew could raise the motherfucking dead. Her shoulder-length extensions complemented her boobs and the jut of that money-making booty. So what if size D tits made more money; they were the first to sag.

  When Marva passed the washrooms and DJ booth, she stopped to talk to Vicky, a slender blonde with bad teeth leaning against the brass rail near the bar. It was then that she noticed the burly guy with the bandanna and spiky jacket she’d danced for the other night checking her out again from a table on the west side of the stage. Though she’d wondered from the earrings and tattoos if he was a biker, the older man he was with looked more like a cop, except maybe for those cowboy boots with the steel-capped toes.

  “I see somebody,” she said. “See you later.”

  “Yeah, later.”

  Marva picked up the platform and started walking. He raised his hand to catch her attention. She took a leisurely right between some tables and chairs, pausing briefly to brush off another customer until the next song. “Hi,” she said, putting down her prop. “How are you tonight?”

  “Good. How’re you doing?”

  “Okay. One of you want a dance?”

  When Mr. Steel Toes suggested she perform for both of them, she gave him a smile and told him no, just one, so he said, “I guess Jack, then. He seems to have taken a shine to you.”

  “Yeah?” She sat between them and crossed her legs, glancing at the bearded one. “He looks kinda mad to me.”

  Her guy deflected attention by looking around the bar with a sneer as the smoke curled up from his cigarette. “They ought to turn on a few lights. You can hardly see a fucking thing in here.”

  “Like me, you mean?”

  “No, you know what I mean. Everything.”

  “Well, you businessmen like to sit in the dark. You don’t want to be seen in a place like this, right?”

  He snorted. “Hardly.”

  “I’m Derek,” the other one said. “I think you know our friend here.”

  “I’m Marva.”

  She made small talk while waiting for the next song to start, sniffing periodically to try to clear her sinuses. Although this Derek had a hardened sort of face with pockmark scars, the white shirt and short hair made him seem professional or at least more respectable. He also seemed easier-going.

  She suspected from Jack’s attitude that he was trying to impress her with his toughness. He was staring over her shoulder with a disgusted expression when he said, “Look at that guy there in the leather coat. Those aren’t real handcuffs on the epaulets, just fag shit.”

  “What are you drinking?” Marva asked, reaching for his glass. “Can I have a sip?”

  “Vodka-tonic. Go ahead.”

  The next song was “New Orleans is Sinking” by The Tragically Hip. She got up and stood on her platform. It was the second number for Candy-O on the low stage; she shed her bikini top, twirled on the pole, smudged the mirrors, and looked between her legs at the first row. Derek’s attention was divided between the main act and a polite interest in Marva’s limber movements beside him, apparently trying not to stare into someone else’s ten dollars’ worth. Once she was naked she noticed he was harder to distract.

  With her hands on Jack’s chair, she pressed her breasts within an inch of his stony face and slowly turned around, swinging her ass low and bending her knees to graze his lap with a light bounce, bounce, bounce, then up again, peeking at him between her thighs. She got down and pulled the next chair closer as she sank back on it, putting her legs on each of his armrests. Showing some pink. A black girl in a dark room had to work.

  Jack raised his glass solemnly. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Thanks.”

  Afterwards, as she was putting on her lingerie, Derek said, “When you finish tonight you should come out with us for a drink. If it’s after hours we can hit a booze can in Chinatown.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” She gave them a noncommittal smile as she walked away.

  Marva was talking to a bald regular across the aisle, waiting for Randy to start the next set with another record, when Jack got up and walked past her in the direction of the washroom. She swivelled in her chair and said to the other guy, Derek, “Hey, what up with your friend? Is he always mad at the world?”

  “He’s a pussycat.”

  “Yeah? He looks kinda scary.”

  “You’re the reason he wanted to come here tonight.”

  The opening of that ZZ Top song she couldn’t remember the name of was on the sound system as the DJ introduced Ginger, who strolled out of the semi-darkness towards the stage. There was some applause from the back. Marva turned to her customer as she slowly got to her feet, and then stood on the platform in front of him.

  Later, after her own final set, she was fixing to call it a night and go change when she paused to talk to Jane behind the bar. Anthony, the bouncer, asked if she wanted to go to his place for a drink.

  “I thought you were coming out with us.”

  Marva turned around. That man Derek was standing behind her with kind of a smile, a thumb hooked in his pocket. She found herself blanking as she tried to concentrate.

  “Um, yeah,” she said, turning to Anthony. “They did ask me first.”

  He was kind of pissed off, but he was a dead end anyway. As she opened the door to the dressing room she could see it was probably stupid to go with them, but sometimes the Lord led you down mysterious paths. Or maybe it was the four Bacardi-Cokes.

  She paused on the wet sidewalk outside the heavy wooden doors of Cheaters, and did up her jacket. “So, where are we going?”

  “Somewhere there’s a band,” Jack said.

  Derek unlocked some kind of muscle car at the meter with a pissed off Woody Woodpecker sticker in the back window. “Well, we haven’t much time.” After he got in and reached over to open the passenger side, Jack opened the door and climbed in after her. Marva noticed the full ashtray in the front, and the pair of furry dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

  South on Yonge a band called The Meteors were advertised on a large sign by the parking lot of the St. Louis, a white bungalow made transparent by huge windows lit by neon beer insignia. It looked like a sports or country bar. “We don’t have to line dance or anything, do we?”

  “It’s R ’n’ B,” Jack said.

  As they pulled in crooked between two parallel white lines, she could see the group playing inside. Derek
shifted into park and turned off the ignition. “All right, we’ll still be able to get a drink.”

  They went in. Customers on the right side of the room were sitting at a long horseshoe-shaped bar. Marva followed the men around the corner to a table in the smoking section by the front window. It seemed to be after last call, so she took a seat while they went up to try to get served. After taking off her jacket, she checked herself in her compact and was annoyed to see that she hadn’t covered her spots very well.

  The singer, who looked Hispanic, was playing trumpet to what sounded like James Brown. She never got into that funky brass shit. Some of the older white people dancing looked like they could have been cowboys if they had the hats.

  Jack set a rum and Coke down in front of her as he took the next chair. Derek sat across from them and said, “The bartender knows us.

  “So, you’re regulars.”

  “The guy’s worked at a lot of bars around town,” Jack said. “Before this he was at a place called Flick’s.” He turned to Derek. “You remember that place down the alley, north of Eglinton?”

  “Now it’s got the pool tables.”

  Jack offered Marva a cigarette but she declined. Leaning forward to be heard over the music, Derek asked her if she played pool.

  “Sometimes, but I’m not that great.”

  “You should play with us sometime. We’re not that great either.”

  Jack scowled. “Speak for yourself, homeboy.”

  “Homeboy? Damn,” she declared, “you two gangstas?”

  “I just bailed him from jail for pushing his grandmother down the stairs.”

  Jack almost smiled. “Right.”

  Marva laughed. “Were you really in jail?”

  He glanced at his friend with an exaggerated frown and waved it off. “It was just a misunderstanding. I’ll tell you about it another time.”

  Marva looked around the room. There were a lot of things on the walls about sports and chicken wings, and a big red pepper hanging from the ceiling on the other side of the dance floor by the nonsmoking section. She wondered if any of the other girls from work came here.