An Ordinary Decent Criminal by Michael Van Rooy Page A

consisted of brightly colored boxes of archery and outdoors equipment, tents, bags, and camouflage clothing. They were all wrapped in thick plastic that looked like Saran Wrap on steroids. I jumped up and looked at the pile.
    “C’mon, I ain’t got all fucking day.”
    There was no way around this. I grabbed hold of the edge of the plastic and started to tear it.
    When I had the top layer exposed, I took the first box and looked for a place to put it. Finally I had to climb down and put it by the door. While I was doing this, the driver had retrieved a small cooler from the cab and was drinking a can of beer and eating a foot-long submarine sandwich loaded with meatballs and dripping a semi-translucentred sludge onto the ground in front of him. He saw me looking and waved the bottle around.
    “Don’t worry, it’s only fucking American beer. It’s like piss.”
    It took me almost an hour to unload both pallets onto the ground. When I was done, the driver slammed the door shut and nearly took my fingers off.
    “Took you fucking long enough.”
    He was a small man, shorter than I by maybe a foot and a whole lot heavier, but he dwindled when I got in close. I smiled into his face and he reached for his belt, where a multi-purpose tool or folding knife was holstered in a leatherette case.
    “You know . . .”
    He squared his shoulders and undid the clasp on the case. He was using his right hand with his left to hold the case and it was on his left hip, which meant he’d draw it across his body before he could use it. That gave me possibilities, which made me smile widely.
    “. . . I could show you how to wear a Colombian Necktie. It’d look good on you. First I cut your throat, just a little, right under your chin. Then I pull your tongue out really hard until it sticks all the way down the outside of your throat. You don’t bleed to death, you suffocate. It’s been a while since I’ve done it but we can try, it’ll come back to me.”
    He froze and broke and the next thing I knew, he had jumped into his truck and taken off, so I turned and went back to loading the boxes into the shop. Frank watched me from the front for a while and then came back to see how I was doing.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Hurt my back a while ago. I’ve got to take it slow, hope you don’t mind.”
    Frank scratched his nose some more and thought about it. He was holding a big fiberglass-and-aluminum bow painted in camouflage colors. There were big pulleys at both ends of the arms and the line went back and forth over and over again. He changed the subject.
    “You ever shoot?” Frank looked at me down the arm of the bow.
    I answered, “Bows? No.”
    “You should, it’s very relaxing. Peaceful, even.”
    I put down the last box and stretched to loosen my back. “Is it hard?”
    “Not at all. Take this one. It’s got a fifty-pound pull but you only hold twenty-five at the apex. It’s legal for deer, elk, bear, anything you can find in Canada or the States. With one arrow you can take a rabbit, change the arrowhead and you can put a two-inch-wide hole right through the chest of a grizzly, change the arrow again and you can take fish. Bows are versatile, which guns ain’t.”
    “Well . . .”
    I picked up the last packing case from the truck.
    “Let me put this stuff away and we’ll talk.”
    Frank added. “And shoot.”
    “Long as it’s free.”
    “First time always is.”
    I kept working. First taste is always free in both worlds.

13

    Claire held me at arm’s length when I got back home that afternoon and sniffed the air loudly on either side of my head.
    “Ye gods, sweat, I do believe the boy has sweated.”
    Any retort I might have made was silenced when she thrust an odiferous Fred into my arms and turned to walk back towards the kitchen.
    “This is not fair! Fred’s crapped himself.”
    Fred nodded in serious agreement and tried to throw himself to the floor. After I changed him, I went upstairs for a shower,