napkins, and then stuffed lengths of wire into them, one to the other. When they were all done I tucked them into the pockets of the vest, closed the flaps, buttons, and zippers, and made a few more adjustments here and there before pulling my jacket on to cover the vest. The smell was very strong but that was okay, I wanted it strong.
Next I stopped at a Canadian Tire store off St. James and bought ten full tanks of propane using Fat Boy’s Visa. A couple of blocks away from that I stopped at a Wal-Mart and used the same card to buy twenty plastic containers for gasoline, some highway flares, a mechanical alarm clock, some heavy-gauge wire, and a car battery. Then I went down Portage Avenue and filled two gas cans at each station I found until they were all full, and parked near a McDonald’s to assemble the fuse and detonator from the clock and battery.
I set it for one hour and drove to the house in Saint Boniface where Fat Boy had said Sam would probably be. I parked beside the house with the nose of the van touching the garage
itself. Then I went into the back and checked the restraints on Fat Boy. They were good and I opened his hand. He stared at me wild-eyed and tried to talk around the gag as I reassured him.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Not unless you make me. I’m going to duct tape your cell phone so you can reach it, ’kay?”
He nodded and I gestured with my head while working. “Look around. See the gas cans? I’ve turned the van into a bomb.”
His eyes bulged. “Now, someone’s going to call you on the cell. Just tell them there’s a bomb. Understand?”
He nodded. “Good. Now if you do anything else—like call the cops or whatever—then I’ll blow you into little bits. ’Kay?”
He nodded and I put the jacket back over his head with the cell phone tied right in front of his nose and went back to the driver’s seat and sat down. It was a nice neighbourhood and the house looked in good repair, not like a drug house at all. I waited ten minutes to let them notice me and then locked the van, walked to the door, and knocked.
Immediately the door opened an inch and a big guy looked me over dispassionately from under a heavy chain. “Where’s Tony?”
“Who’s Tony?”
“The driver.”
I shrugged. “In the van. It’s booby-trapped though. Let me in.”
He undid some bolts and let me into a narrow entryway, where the air smelled of burnt chemicals, flint, ozone, battery acid, tobacco, marijuana, sweat, fried food, pepper spray, unflushed toilets, and mould. The big guy was white, maybe six foot six and made up of terrace upon terrace of muscle,
all stuffed into a greyish leather vest, Doc Marten boots, and a pair of spandex shorts. In his right hand he casually held a mountaineer’s ice axe with rust spots showing on both pick and axe end. He stared at me with lustrous brown eyes under a shaggy mop of black hair and I showed him my empty right hand.
“Klaatu-barada-nicto.”
“What?”
A voice from behind him said, “It’s a joke. From an old movie about the end of the world. It’s a code to deactivate a robot.”
I couldn’t see who was speaking and the guy’s eyes narrowed, “’zat so?”
“It’s a compliment.” I spoke quickly; my options were relatively few. “I’m comparing you to a kick-ass robot with the power to destroy the world.”
His eyes opened a little more. “Cool.” And then he let me pass. Behind him Samantha was wearing a dark-blue track suit. “Montgomery Uller Haaviko.”
“Yep.”
“I talked to some people who talked to some people. You did the racetrack in Surrey three years ago.”
The hair on the back of my neck went up; I’d never been convicted, connected, or even arrested about that one. “Maybe.”
She smiled. “Yeah. And you did a Texas hold ’em game at the Blue Goose lodge on the little Sou-west about eight years ago. And a getaway man named Ron in Banff, him you knee-capped; he’s still around but moving slowly.
Next I stopped at a Canadian Tire store off St. James and bought ten full tanks of propane using Fat Boy’s Visa. A couple of blocks away from that I stopped at a Wal-Mart and used the same card to buy twenty plastic containers for gasoline, some highway flares, a mechanical alarm clock, some heavy-gauge wire, and a car battery. Then I went down Portage Avenue and filled two gas cans at each station I found until they were all full, and parked near a McDonald’s to assemble the fuse and detonator from the clock and battery.
I set it for one hour and drove to the house in Saint Boniface where Fat Boy had said Sam would probably be. I parked beside the house with the nose of the van touching the garage
itself. Then I went into the back and checked the restraints on Fat Boy. They were good and I opened his hand. He stared at me wild-eyed and tried to talk around the gag as I reassured him.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Not unless you make me. I’m going to duct tape your cell phone so you can reach it, ’kay?”
He nodded and I gestured with my head while working. “Look around. See the gas cans? I’ve turned the van into a bomb.”
His eyes bulged. “Now, someone’s going to call you on the cell. Just tell them there’s a bomb. Understand?”
He nodded. “Good. Now if you do anything else—like call the cops or whatever—then I’ll blow you into little bits. ’Kay?”
He nodded and I put the jacket back over his head with the cell phone tied right in front of his nose and went back to the driver’s seat and sat down. It was a nice neighbourhood and the house looked in good repair, not like a drug house at all. I waited ten minutes to let them notice me and then locked the van, walked to the door, and knocked.
Immediately the door opened an inch and a big guy looked me over dispassionately from under a heavy chain. “Where’s Tony?”
“Who’s Tony?”
“The driver.”
I shrugged. “In the van. It’s booby-trapped though. Let me in.”
He undid some bolts and let me into a narrow entryway, where the air smelled of burnt chemicals, flint, ozone, battery acid, tobacco, marijuana, sweat, fried food, pepper spray, unflushed toilets, and mould. The big guy was white, maybe six foot six and made up of terrace upon terrace of muscle,
all stuffed into a greyish leather vest, Doc Marten boots, and a pair of spandex shorts. In his right hand he casually held a mountaineer’s ice axe with rust spots showing on both pick and axe end. He stared at me with lustrous brown eyes under a shaggy mop of black hair and I showed him my empty right hand.
“Klaatu-barada-nicto.”
“What?”
A voice from behind him said, “It’s a joke. From an old movie about the end of the world. It’s a code to deactivate a robot.”
I couldn’t see who was speaking and the guy’s eyes narrowed, “’zat so?”
“It’s a compliment.” I spoke quickly; my options were relatively few. “I’m comparing you to a kick-ass robot with the power to destroy the world.”
His eyes opened a little more. “Cool.” And then he let me pass. Behind him Samantha was wearing a dark-blue track suit. “Montgomery Uller Haaviko.”
“Yep.”
“I talked to some people who talked to some people. You did the racetrack in Surrey three years ago.”
The hair on the back of my neck went up; I’d never been convicted, connected, or even arrested about that one. “Maybe.”
She smiled. “Yeah. And you did a Texas hold ’em game at the Blue Goose lodge on the little Sou-west about eight years ago. And a getaway man named Ron in Banff, him you knee-capped; he’s still around but moving slowly.
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