FIFTEEN
THE NIGHT PAT MURPHY DIED
Intent to Distribute
It was after 10:00 a.m. by the time Milton got out the door. With a backpack full of about $40,000 in drug money, he took a cab downtown to the police station. By noon, Noddy and Milton were back in a cab going home.
Milton’s bag of drug money didn’t get searched, he didn’t even end up needing any of it.
Bail in American movies works differently than bail in Canadian real life. The police decided, mostly to get rid of Noddy who had all the drunkards and assorted detainees singing “The Night Pat Murphy Died” all night, to let Noddy go without a bail hearing. He was released on his own recognizance and only had to pay a $43.95 processing fee.
Oh, the night that Paddy Murphy died, is a night I’ll never forget
Some of the boys got loaded drunk, and they ain’t got sober yet.
On the cab ride, Noddy explained to Milton what had led to his arrest.
“What the heck, dude?”
“You’re after taking that bird home, yeah? You bang her? Not bad, eh? The tits on her! My son!”
“No. Tell me what happened with you?”
“Get a blowy at least?”
“Shut up! What’d you do?”
“Nothing! Me and the b’ys are hanging out behind The Barack with them puppet queers. Well one of them takes to running their stupid mouth about some shit and gets a smack from one of them bikers. Then another fella gets a smack and before ya knows it all holy hell’s busted loose. When the cops shows up, I got buddy down on the ground just feeding him lefts. Right? Buddy swallowed his teeth, sure. Look at me mitts, barked up real good. So, the pigs hauls me off him and puts me in cuffs. Well they searches me and finds a couple bottles of shit, and now they’re charging me with disturbing the peace, possession with intent, and resisting ’cause I shoved a cop after he started grabbing at me arse when he was frisking me. So that’s just fuckin’ wonderful.”
“Wait! What? Possession with intent? What does that mean?”
“Intent to distribute.”
“Distribute what?”
“Just a few pills, b’y. Ain’t nothing.”
“My pills? The pills? The ones I give you? The pills that saved our lives? Those pills with intent?”
“Relax, b’y, it was just a few. I just got to find a doc to write me a ‘script and it’ll all go away.”
“Oh, it’ll all go away? Just need to find a doctor to prescribe pills that aren’t even approved by the government yet? That say “TRIAL DRUG” right on the bottles? It’ll all go away?! We’re screwed! We’re either going to prison or Leonard Cohen is going to throw us off a bridge.”
The cab driver, who supposedly spoke no English, watched in the rear-view mirror with a smile as Milton tied into Noddy.
“You idiot! You’re going to get us both killed. Why?! Why the hell did you keep any? You just have to take a bag from me and hand it to another guy. That’s it! Free money! I’m taking all the risk you… you… friggin’ nincompoop!”
“Jeez, b’y. Calm yer tits. Do you know how much one of them bottles is worth retail? Buddy buys them from us for pennies a pill and sells them for like 50 per. We’re getting fucked, b’y.”
“No! We aren’t! We’re being allowed to live! And we’re making more than enough! I’ve got a box of extra money in my closet I can’t even lift. Of extra money! Money I can’t spend, because I have too much of it.”
The cab turned off onto an unknown side street and headed towards the highway to take the extra-long way home.
“Hey, buddy, where the fuck you taking us?!”
“Just sit tight, my friends.”
“This fucking guy is taking us on a ride now that you’re blabbing about all the money you can’t spend. Nice going, b’y.”
“If we survive this, I’m going to murder you, I swear to god!”
. . .
Cancer
The cab, now somewhere in the guts of the far-flung neighbourhood Côte-des-Neiges, stopped at a light. While stopped, an old man got into the front passenger seat.
“Ho, buddy, whaddayat? Cab’s taken. Ya blind?”
It was Leonard Cohen.
The light changed and the cab drove on. Leonard Cohen didn’t say a word, just sat staring straight ahead as the cab exited back onto the highway. Milton and Noddy sat in the back and watched him silently. The silence seemed to go on for hours.
And hours.
And hours as the cab sped down the highway to nowhere in particular.
“Gentlemen, I’m just an old man, my memory isn’t as sharp as it once was, so please correct me if I am wrong, but I believe when we last met we came to an arrangement in which you would provide me with a steady stream of goods in exchange for your lives and great deals of money, and we were to never meet again unless there was a problem. And, well, here I am. Leads me to believe there has been some kind of problem.”
“Nah, b’y. No problem. Cops just got cocked up. Das it.”
“Possession with intent to distribute and resisting arrest are serious charges. If the offender happens to also have a record as long as his growing nose, the prison sentence could just have enough weight to cause him to talk out of turn, especially if his only skill in life is talking out of turn.”
“Nah, b’y. I ain’t no fuckin’ rat. And these bullshit charges won’t stick worth shit.”
“What do you think, Poet? Is this a surmountable challenge? Was I a fool to drop everything I was doing and go out of my way to join you two for a scenic drive through Côte-des-Neiges?”
“No, sir, Godfather, sir. I mean, yes. I mean… It’s okay. I think it’s okay. Noddy did a stupid thing, but he’s sorry, and he won’t do it again, and… Uh… Everything else is going really well. I’ll make sure it keeps going fine. No one suspects anything.”
“So, our dim but verbose friend here is the issue?”
“Eh, buddy, I don’t care who you are, you don’t go calling me dumb to my face, b’y.”
The cab driver reached under his seat, pulled out a Taser, reached back without taking his eyes off the road, stuck it in Noddy’s leg, and gave him a jolt. Noddy jerked stiff where he sat.
“Jesus fuckin’ thundering Key-rist!”
“So, Poet, are you saying if we eliminate the weak link in this operation we can return to our previously fruitful arrangement?”
“Uhm… Yes… I mean, no. You mean get rid of Noddy? No. I can’t do this without him.”
“Oh no? You don’t think you could just hand the bag to our Kiwi friend instead?”
“No, it’s not just that. Noddy is my roommate. He’s my… he’s my friend. We look after each other.”
“You really want a blowy, don’t ya, b’y?”
“Let me give you one final piece of free advice. This man here is a cancer. He’s no one’s friend. He will continue to suck the life out of you until there is nothing left. Until you are dead. Which could be very, very soon if you don’t act very carefully and deliberately in the next few moments. So, let me ask you, how do you get rid of cancer?”
“Uhm… I don’t know.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Ontario, you’ll have to speak clearly, I’m an old man, remember.”
“I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“There are three ways to get rid of a cancer, Mr. Ontario: irradiate it, bombard it with chemicals, or cut it out. Which would you suggest in this situation?”
“S-s-suggest?”
“Which method would you like to use to remove this cancer from your life before it kills you?”
“Uhm… I don’t know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Leonard Cohen pulled a small silver six-shooter revolver with an ivory handle and ‘Hallelujah’ engraved along the barrel from inside his jacket, cocked it, and handed it to Milton.
“I find it works best if you irradiate it right between the eyes from close range.”
Milton took the gun in his hands and held it like it was some kind of sacred offering. He stared at it like it was the strangest thing he had ever seen. It weighed a lot more than he thought it would. He was shaking and numb, frozen.
“Poet… I said that I prefer to irradiate the cancer right between the eyes. It’s very easy, just point and squeeze. From this range, you should be able to hit him with one of the six bullets. Here, hold it like this.”
Leonard Cohen adjusted in his seat and helped Milton grip the gun better, he helped him hold it up to Noddy’s forehead.
“That’s it. Just point and squeeze.”
Tears ran down Milton’s face. His vision blurred. The world spun around him as the cab hurtled down the highway.
“Just point and squeeze.”
“I ca-ca-can’t.”
Milton sobbed. Noddy stared at Milton, wide-eyed, terrified, a single tear ran down his cheek.
“Fuck dat! Don’t do it, b’y! Shoot him!”
“Just point and squeeze. It’s easier than poetry. Just point. And squeeze.”
“I CAN’T!”
“Don’t do it, b’y! I’ll be some rotted if ya shoot me.”
“Yes you can, my son. You’re a poet. He’s a cancer. Just point and squeeze.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Don’t do it, b’y!”
“I’m sorry!”
“Just point and squeeze!”
“I’m sorry!”
Milton closed his eyes, jerked the gun away from Noddy’s forehead, and squeezed.
BANG!
. . .
The bullet ricocheted off the C-frame of the car next to the rear window behind Noddy’s head, off the metal passenger headrest upright inches from Leonard Cohen’s head, and lodged itself into the right shoulder of the cab driver.
The car, travelling about 140 kilometres per hour, jerked violently into the neighbouring lane, glanced off a cement truck, shot back across three lanes, launched itself off a concrete barrier, and took flight for what seemed like a weightless eternity, before landing nose first and toppling end-over-end several times and coming to rest on its roof.
Traffic in both directions stopped.
Flames licked up out of the engine compartment.
An eerie silence came over the midday highway.
Milton, the only one wearing a seatbelt, was the first to come to. He hung suspended upside down. He coughed through the thickening smoke and looked up to see Noddy below him—twisted in a heap and covered in a sparkle of broken glass. He reached out. His shoulder screamed in pain and shot lightning down his arm.
“Psst… Noddy. Hey. Nod. You okay?”
Noddy didn’t move.
Leonard Cohen, in a mangled pile in the front of the car, didn’t move.
The cab driver, crumpled around the steering wheel, groaned but didn’t move.
He poked Noddy harder.
“Hey… Noddy. Wake up… Please.”
Nothing.
“Please!”
With his good arm, Milton reached up and unlatched the seatbelt. He crashed down hard on top of Noddy and his bad shoulder. He screamed in pain.
“Jesus, b’y! will ya go on and scream in some other fella’s ear?”
“Oh, thank God! I thought you were dead! Are you dead? Are you hurt? We need to get out of here!”
“Well, I ain’t feeling good enough for ya to be humping me. Go on and get off me, b’y.”
Milton one-arm crawled through what was left of the window in the back of the car and helped Noddy drag himself out behind.
Traffic was stopped and people were starting to get out of their cars to come help.
“We have to get out of here, Noddy. Before anyone sees us.”
Milton ducked back inside the smouldering car, grabbed the backpack full of money and stuffed Leonard Cohen’s gun inside.
“Well let’s get after ’er.”
Noddy’s leg was twisted and bloody, he could barely walk. Milton threw the bag over his good shoulder and put his good arm around Noddy and helped him limp towards the side of the road.
Just as they reached an off-ramp embankment, Milton looked back to see two black SUVs pull up to the burning car and a handful of giants with big guns poured out.
As they disappeared down the embankment, they heard the gas tank on the cab explode and felt a wave of warmth roll down the hill after them.
. . .
The Runs
Milton and Noddy slid down the embankment, crawled under a rusted chain-link fence, and into a large, full mall parking lot. They limped into the middle of the parking lot and laid on the ground between two cars, out of sight of the highway, to catch their breath.
“Buddy! The fuck? You tried to shoot me, b’y! Not fit!”
“I missed on purpose, you idiot.”
“Why didn’t you just shoot the old fart instead of the cabbie, Jesus! Nearly got us all killed.”
“I didn’t want to shoot anyone! But maybe I should have shot you!”
“I wish you did, for how bad my head hurts. Next time don’t shoot the buddy driving the car. Shoot the buddy trying to kill us.”
“Shut up. I’m glad your head hurts.”
“Well, ya broke my Jesus leg too.”
“Good.”
They both laid on their back and stared up at the grey, sky. Milton’s shoulder was badly dislocated, his arm hung limp by his side. Noddy’s leg was badly messed up, likely broken, at least sprained, and he’d smacked his head pretty good off the roof of the cab, splitting it open at his hairline, sending thick sheet of bloods down his face. He looked more like a ghoul than usual.
“Meeting you is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” “Jeez, b’y. You’re a bit of a sook, ain’t ya?”
“A year ago, I’d never even held a gun in my whole life, and the strongest drug I ever even took was a Tylenol. Next thing, I meet you and I’m dealing drugs and just shot a guy and got into a crazy car crash and got away just before it exploded, and now I’m on the run from the cops and Leonard Freaking Cohen and his army of meatheads with a pile of drug money and a gun.”
“What’s this now?”
“I wish I never met you!”
“No, no. You still got the cash and the gun? Oh buddy! We ain’t dead yet.”
“I wish I was!”
“But we ain’t, b’y. We can get out of this mess you made.”
“Yeah right. How?”
“There’s a metro just up the road. We get on it and disappear. That’s it. Run.”
“Where are we going to go? What are we going to do? We both look like crap and if we go anywhere in public someone will call the cops. I’m sure Leonard Cohen owns all the cops in this town, and everyone in every jail, and before the end of the day we’ll be dead in a cell somewhere. And that’s if Leonard’s guys don’t find us first. They know where we live, who we hang out with, everything. We can’t just go home and pack a bag and hop in a cab to the bus station.”
“Well, you look like shit. Ya needs to scrub that sour look off your face. I just needs to mop the blood off me and get a new pair of pants. The arse is outta these ones.”
Noddy slowly turned to show Milton his bare arse.
“Luh, just there. It’s a Walmart. You’ll fit in just fine there. Go buy me a few duds.”
Milton and Noddy bickered until Milton relented and got himself to his feet and started towards the Walmart.
“Check out the maternity section, b’y, single moms are dyin’ for a nice boy like you.”
Milton, looking like he had just been on the losing end of a car wreck, staggered into Walmart.
He found a change of normal-looking clothes for himself and a pair of Simpsons sweatpants, an “I’m with stupid” t-shirt with the arrow pointing up, and a “Nice Bum, Where Ya From?” ball cap for Noddy.
His arm was killing him and he was covered in broken glass, so he also got a first-aid kit, some rubbing alcohol, and a jumbo pack of super-long Twizzlers.
Back in the parking lot, Milton dumped half a bottle of rubbing alcohol on Noddy’s busted up face. He screamed so loud Milton was sure the cavalry would be coming any second. Milton made Noddy wrap bandages around his own head, and splinted his leg with a pair of windshield wipers he tore off a parked car.
Noddy managed to dress himself and looked suitably like a complete idiot. Milton changed his clothes, bandaged his arm, and put it in a sling from the first-aid kit.
Looking only slightly better than they did before, they limped their way to the metro very slowly. When they finally made it, they stopped at the top of the two escalators, one heading down to the uptown platform, the other heading up to the downtown platform.
“Where are we going?”
“Give me half the cash, b’y, I’m going uptown, you take the other half and go downtown.”
“What, why?”
“I’m fucked, b’y. I gots nowhere I can go. I can’t go home, I can’t go out west, too many bad fuckers knows me. And I’m skipping bail. The only chance I gots is if I can get into witness protection. The cops here are all in the Old Fart’s pocket, so I’m taking a train to Toronto to see if they’re interested in taking down the Montreal mob. You need to get on the next bus to Sin Jawns.”
“What are you talking about? St. John’s?!”
“I’m gonna call my uncle Greg, he’s a prof at MUN, b’y. He’ll look after ya. He owes me.”
“What the heck am I going to do there?”
“B’y, you gotta trust me. There’s probably already a hit out on the both of us. Every two-bit goon will be looking to pop us for a few grand. So, don’t be thick in the head. No one knows ya in Sin Jawns. Just change your name, grow a beard, get some glasses, and you’ll be fine. Greggy’s clean, no one knows I knows him or he knows me. He’ll look after ya.”
“Then what.”
“Settle down, find a woman, join the circus, fuck if I know. If things go well in Toronto in a few months all this shit should have blown over then you can do what the fuck you want.”
“I just want to go home.”
“Give it a bit, then you goes home.”
Noddy looked at Milton with a face that was almost apologetic. A trickle of blood ran down his temple. He playfully punched Milton, really hard, in the bad shoulder, Milton yelped in pain, but the punch put his shoulder back together and he instantly felt better. Slightly. Noddy unzipped the bag on Milton’s back and fished out a bunch of money.
“Well, keep your dick wrapped, b’y. I’se be getting’ on.”
“Okay. See you. I guess.”
Milton took the up escalator to go downtown, Noddy took the down to go uptown. They stood directly across from one another, avoiding eye contact for several minutes until their trains came, both at the same moment. Noddy grinned and flipped Milton the bird. Milton pretended not to see him.