36. The Secret War, Chapter 4

Editor's Note: M.O.T.S.


The fog was finally lifting, and it was safer to walk—at least from a garbage hauling maniac’s perspective. Golden arches of McDonald’s glowed in the distance. Mountains that boxed in Squamish came into view. On the north end of town, a mountain that looked as though it had been hoisted straight up from the depths of hell by a cosmic crane glimmered like a gravestone in the morning light.

It reminded me of a story in the Squamish Chief about a land broker who wanted to sell the rights to the side of the mountain for the World’s Biggest Billboard, “where the mountains meet the sea and the sea meets the sky,” guaranteed to last a millennium and then some. Minimum bids would start at $275 million, slightly less if the Stawamus Chief was used instead. When the locals said it was a stupid idea, he responded by saying they lacked “vision.” When they said it wasn’t his mountain to sell, he responded by saying, “Then whose is it? I call dibs!” When it was pointed out that “dibs” was not actually a legal term, he responded yet again with “Sez you!” The town council held several forums on the controversy. Leaders of the First Nation, who seldom attended council meetings due to the terrible coffee, stood firm: “No way, Hoser.” The land broker finally sweetened the deal by offering .0005% of the profits to the local animal shelter—“Pretty Good Critters”--after amortization, depreciation, and tax preparation, of course.

Coca Cola and Pfizer were the first to express interest—the latter in advertising in tremendous, unprecedented grandiosity its latest personality improvement medications. (The local townsfolks didn’t take kindly to an advertisement that could be construed as reflecting badly upon them (even though most of them would eventually end up taking massive doses of the PIM’s in experimental drug trials (only to find that it made them even more belligerent.)))  Archer Daniels Midland offered

to have a corn seed art contest on the side of the mountain. Community involvement, it thought, would break down the townsfolks’ resistance, especially if the winner were an eight-year-old girl. Who could be against that? But some folks openly wondered how safe it would be to tether an eight-year-old girl to the slippery side of a sheer, vertical slab of rock roughly two and a half a miles high.

Eventually, someone pointed out that the mountain was outside of city limits and therefore the council did not have proper jurisdiction. So in the end the whole matter was dropped. Furious, the land broker warned there would be “severe, crushing repercussions if—“

“Hey, dummy!”

I kept walking, not falling for that old trick.

“Don’t cha want your money?”

My training told me not to, but I stopped and turned around. The cashier had been tracking me. Out of breath, she stopped and stared at me. “Where’s yer button?” she finally asked, sticking her finger

—quite presumptuously, I might add—into the buttonhole of my coat.

“A truck ate it,” I said, flatly.

“Cool.” She removed her finger.

“Well, here it is,” she said, holding out her hand. In it were a crumpled dollar and some change. “I was told to quit short-changing people . . . on account of Marble thinks it’s unfriendly.”

The corn pancakes and the coffee churned and percolated in my stomach. “What’s your name?” I asked. I noticed her gray eyes, along with her gray coat, black boots, and black painted fingernails. From her hood escaped wisps of purple and pink hair. Her nose was running. I tried not to notice.

“Summer Springs,” she replied. “Yeah, I know. My parents are morons . . .  Well, good bye.” She took exactly four steps down the sidewalk, stopped, and turned around. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “This is for you.”

Summer Springs fished out a large, thick envelope and handed it to me. “This is for you,” she said, again, turning away immediately and retracing her steps.

“Who’s it from?” I asked.

She lit a cigar as she wandered off, waving it in the air like some kind of crazed signalman, waving in a wounded jetfighter onto the landing strip of an aircraft carrier. My training told me she might be signaling the completion of our transaction to some unseen surveillance camera.

“Is it from Marbles?” I shouted. My training had informed me that knowing who sent the message was a pretty good indication of what the message would say. I turned the delivery over in my hands. The envelope had my address on it and sufficient postage to cover the extra weight. The stamps had even been cancelled. In French, stamp cancellation is called obliteration. Not a good omen. I repeated my question, even louder, “Is it from Marbles?”

Now softened by distance, Summer Springs, without turning around, called out, “Who’s Marbles?”

****  ****  ****  ****

Summer Springs had already returned to the restaurant, probably waiting to short-change the elderly dinner crowd. They’d be easy marks, I thought: Crooked glasses. Trifocals out of alignment. Hearing aids with dead batteries. Canes in the way; walkers even worse. Shaky hands, from Parkinson’s or Graves or, heaven forbid, a massive stroke or just too much coffee, especially Marble’s “coffee.” They’d be thankful to hang on to what’s left of their coin purse and get on the charter bus without falling down.

I looked around. Something wasn’t right. Walking alone was like a bull’s-eye on my back. My pace quickened. I hurried through a canyon of apartment buildings, all with a clear shot at me. I could feel a hundred unknown, unseen eyes on me.  I checked for snipers, stooped, reversed, leapt, skipped, pirouetted, crawled serpentine-style—all in accordance with my training to make a would-be assassin miss. If only I had the squirt’s facemask: Wearing it may have been enough to further confuse a would-be assassin. (My training emphasized that would-be assassins don’t like to shoot the wrong people. It’s bad for their reputations.  What’s worse: Then they have to offer a deep discount just to get more business.) On the other hand, the thought of the squirt’s pancake dribble covering the mouthpiece of the facemask made my stomach do belly flops.

I was on full alert, status level R-E-D.

A dog barked and I spun twice.

Ravens in the municipal park laughed at me.

Ravens like to mock

I threatened them.

I called them names.

I threw snowballs at them.

I waved them away, and they laughed even harder.

A phone ringing.

I ducked behind a park bench.

Another block, another phone.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

I dove behind a cluster of mailboxes.

Curtains moving.

I rolled up into a ball for the count of three.

Gray squirrels gazing at me.

One of many critters watching
my every movement

I did a triple SowChow, stuck the landing--almost. 

A little girl’s giggling.

Was it from an apartment building?

Which floor?

Which window?

A car not starting.

Was it the assassin’s?

I could smell onions cooking . . .

Later that afternoon, I returned to my own street and relaxed at the familiar scenes. I stopped and took a deep breath next to my neighbor’s house. I could still smell the “canning” factory. In his front yard was a doghouse made of pine. A sign on the doghouse said “Dog Killer.” A sign on my neighbor’s house said “Dog Killer’s Neighbor.” In his driveway stood an old orange truck with a broken light on the roof. A bumper sticker on the back bumper read “Dog Killer’s Neighbor’s Friendly Service for the Select.” A phone number was included.

I checked my mailbox one more time, then rolled up the fishing line that had failed me that morning. I checked my pocket again. The envelope was still there. I checked for the photo. It too was still there. I decided to put them together in the same pocket. Somehow, they belonged together . . .