We cross the border at Niagara Falls. I’m not sure if that’s where Jer and I came through or not. I didn’t pay much attention yesterday on the way down; I was watching The Three Stooges. On the way to the border, Gloria Lorraine has AmberLea put the ice in the cooler. She hands her two bottles and a jar. “Gin, vermouth and olives,” she says. “I’m going to need a martini later. Now, peel me a banana.”
Crossing the border turns out to be easy. Before we get there, she makes Al get back in the trunk. “You and the icing sugar just stay put.” Then she has AmberLea drive and tells me to sit in the back. As we roll up to the crossing, she growls, “My lines. Just look the part.” Then she turns into Chatty Granny for the guard. “Well, hellooo. How are you today? Speak up, dear. Yes, hon, I’m Gloria and these are my grandchildren, AmberLea and Spinnaker. We’re just driving Spinny back to his home in Toronto. He’s been down for a visit. Aren’t Fifi and I lucky to have such nice grandchildren to spend time with me?” Fifi is Mister Bones; Gloria Lorraine has him on her lap.
Mister Bones pants, AmberLea’s fingers drum the steering wheel, and the lady border guard smiles as if she’s going to buy the whole act. No questions about guns, large men with duct-tape burns, bags of white powder, gas tanks, or anything else we might have stashed around the Cadillac. Then she notices the windshield. “Is that a bullet hole?”
“Gracious no.” Gloria Lorraine’s hands go up to her cheeks, and then she flutters them in front of her. “One of those big trucks just sailed past us and something flew up. I was like to die. ‘Duck’ I yelled. Oh, Miss Fifi didn’t like that one bit, did you, Barkums? Poor Spielberg in the back there nearly jumped out of the car.”
I almost believe her myself, that’s how good she is. The guard, though, looks confused. “Spielberg?” she says.
“Nickname,” I say quickly and hold up my camera bag. She laughs and waves us through.
“Good ad lib,” says Gloria Lorraine over her shoulder. “From now on, you can call me GL. Now get me to a restroom, pronto.”
We stop a few blocks farther on at a Tim Hortons. It’s busy, and AmberLea has to pull around the back to find a parking spot, near another Dumpster. It seems to be our day for Dumpsters. Anyway, it’s a good spot, because we also have to let Al out of the trunk. He’s started thumping again.
“I guess we’d better,” says GL, as she eases out of the car. “Too bad. It’s a hell of a lot simpler with him in there. Amby, honey, grab those Dependables and help me in there.”
“Then can we eat?” AmberLea asks. “I didn’t have any breakfast.”
It’s a good point. Suddenly I realize I’m starving. “Yes, yes,” says GL. “Spotty, you let him out, then join us inside.” She grabs Mister Bones and her cane and off they go.
I sit for a moment as a couple of cars go by, listening to the thumping; then I pop the trunk and Al boots the lid up. I guess he hurts his foot doing it, because then there’s a monologue straight out of Goodfellas. I go around and help him out.
“Where’s the others?” he grunts, brushing himself off.
“Inside, getting something to eat. And GL has to use the restroom. Let’s go in.”
Al doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes a fistful of my T-shirt and slams me against the side of the Dumpster so hard my glasses fly off. Al has big hands. They make big fists. Black hairs sprout from each of his fingers. He’s stronger than he looks, maybe from squishing all that pastry dough. Or maybe from squishing other things. All at once I can believe Al’s maybe not just a baker. “Gimme the keys.”
He’s knocked the breath out of me. I gurgle, “AmberLea has them. She was driving.”
“And the old broad has the gun. And Mistah Bones. I can’t book it without Mistah Bones.”
I nod, fast. The Dumpster is grinding into my back. I register that my head hurts. For no good reason I wonder how strong Jer’s hands are. I try to picture him and Al talking pastry dough. It’s better than picturing Al tearing me apart and dropping me in the Dumpster.
Al drops my shirt, spins to the car and opens the glove compartment. He curses again. “Why does—?” He turns back to me. “What is it with you kids? Why does nunna yas ever put anything back?”
“W-wha—?” I’m trying to get my breath as I go after my glasses. They’ve skittered partway under the car.
“There’s suppose ta be a shooter and the spare keys in there. I tell my kids, you use somethin’, you put it back. Spare keys, spare piece, ya don’t just walk off with ’em, for cryin’ out loud. What’s wrong wit’ youse kids today?”
He glares down at me as if it’s my fault. With the red streak and partial mustache, he looks a little crazy. People walk by on the way to their cars. Al smoothes out his face. I pull my glasses out and stand up, smoothing out my T-shirt. My hands are shaking. The back of my head still hurts too. “Why don’t you just steal a car here and take off?” I say, putting my glasses back on. The frames have gotten bent and now they sit crooked.
Al shakes his head. It looks like he’s cooling down. “Not my line. Back inna day, maybe, but now, all the anti-theft computer crap, who can keep up? I can’t even hot-wire my own car. But hey, it’s a good thing, all the scum out there.” He sighs. “Time bein’, I’m stuck wit youse. We’ll get clean shirts and somethin’ to eat.”
It turns out “clean shirts” means new license plates for the Cadillac. Right now it has New York vanity plates that read CANOLI. “How do we do that?” I ask.
Al looks at me, then around the Tim’s parking lot. “You don’t get out much, do ya? What the hell do ya do all day?”
“I watch a lot of movies.”
“Like what, National Geographic specials?”
From the trunk Al grabs a newspaper and something from a little tool kit. “Okay, you’re my straight man. Stand in fronna me.” He crouches at the back of the Cadillac. There’s an angry little whining noise, then another, a scrape, and then Al is standing beside me, the paper flat under his arm. “C’mawn.” I follow him as he strolls to a Matrix parked nearby and bends down as if he has to tie his shoe. Except he’s wearing loafers. I step in front of him, hands in pockets, as more people drive by. Whine, whine, scrape, click, whine, whine. He’s done in seconds.
Al stands up holding his paper, red in the face. Back to the Cadillac. Click, whine, whine. We do it again for a front plate. As he finishes, I have a thought. “Why change the plates if it’s your car?”
“Let’s just say someone’s innarested in me,” says Al, standing up. “Someone I don’t wanna see.”
“Why?” I say, trying a little joke. “You miss a delivery?”
Al’s head jerks around. He hisses, “Whadda you know about it? I’s you, I’d keep my mouth shut. You live longer that way.” At this moment Al does not look like your friendly neighborhood birthday-cake baker. Who just happens to carry a gun and keeps another in his car. And gets bound and gagged and stuffed in his own trunk. On bags of white powder. Al looks more like one of those guys from The Godfather. Mobster is the word I’m looking for. What have I gotten myself into? I’m rethinking calling Jer, when Al’s shoulders slump and his face turns back into a marshmallow.
“C’mawn kid, let’s eat while we can.”
Inside, there’s a lineup. We hit the washroom first. As we whiz, Al says, “So, no offense, but your nonna— your grandma—she got a screw loose or what?”
“She isn’t my grandma,” I say. “She’s AmberLea’s grandma. I never met them before today. Her name is Gloria Lorraine and she lives in that retirement home and I just came down to get a kiss from her and film it.” Compared to the rest of the day, it sounds almost normal now.
“And film it? What are you, some kinda—?”
“No!” I say. “It’s complicated. It’s like a last request from my grandpa. She used to be a movie star, his favorite.”
“No way!”
“Really.” I tell Al some of her movie titles as he zips up.
“So you’re honoring your grandpa’s dying wish, huh? Straight up?”
I nod.
“Awright, that’s A-1. Family, loyalty; that’s what it’s all about.” He nods sharply, then flushes with his elbow. I stand a little straighter as I zip and flush.
When I join Al in the lineup, there’s a commotion across the room. I can hear Mister Bones yipping like crazy as GL holds him. He’s all wiggles and ears and big eyes, snapping at a guy in a Tim’s outfit who’s pointing at the No Pets notice in the window. AmberLea, chinless, is standing to one side, holding a loaded cardboard takeout tray and staring at a spot on the floor where she’s probably wishing a hole would appear that she could disappear into.