Try Harder

June 29

That morning, Buff snuck out of the apartment before his sister woke up. He'd been avoiding her for two days now. He wasn't ready to answer the barrage of legitimate questions she was bound to ask him. Truthfully, he didn't want to look her in the face and lie to her.

Marcus picked him up from a dingy coffee shop around the corner from Emily's place. He drove an ugly brown minivan, the kind parents warn their kids to avoid when they talk about "stranger danger." It stunk worse than a men's locker room.

"Good mornin'," greeted Marcus, warmly. "Get aboard."

Buff climbed into the passenger's seat. He almost made a joke about the horrible smell, but noticed a sleeping bag and a pile of clothes in the back seat. Marcus had obviously been living in his van. He suddenly felt immeasurable pity for his former mentor. He knew things had been rough for him, but never once considered that the old man might be homeless.

"Thanks for the ride," said Buff.

"Eh, b'y, can ya jigger me some coin for gas? I's a wee bit short."

"No problem."

"Thanks, me chum."

They left the city's downtown core, and drove twenty minutes away to the Ontario Food Terminal, just off the Queensway. The forty-acre facility was the main distribution centre for produce in the city. Fruits and vegetables were shipped here from farms across the province, and around the world, and then local grocers would haggle with sellers over prices. Almost all of Toronto's fresh food passed through the terminal, and it was the main market for establishing produce prices in the region.

Marcus had a contact there he thought could prove useful. His niece, a foul-mouthed middle-aged woman whose friends had nicknamed "Surly Shirley," owned a small shipping company with an office at the terminal. The two of them had remained in contact through email over the years, due in large part to their shared affection for breaking the law.

Shirley's office wasn't much more than a trailer in a fenced-off area of the parking lot. Inside, it was meticulous and sparse, with nothing but a map of southern Ontario, a couple of filing cabinets, and a small desk with a computer and telephone sitting on it.

Buff and Marcus walked in and found Shirley sitting alone, doing paperwork. She looked up, and when she saw Marcus she leapt up out of her chair.

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed, excited. Her voice was deep and hoarse, as though she gargled with sand each morning. "Uncle Marcus, you fat son of a bitch! How the hell are you? Come here, cocksucker!" She ran towards him, threw her arms around him and gave him a giant bear hug.

Immediately Buff could sense that Shirley was one of a kind. She was as short as a fifth grader, but as tough as the sixth graders who picked on them. She had the dainty physique of a ballerina, but could be as crude and vulgar as a morning radio shock jock. She was a simple, modest woman who never wore makeup, and was rarely seen in anything but jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Her long dark hair was pulled back tightly into a ponytail.

"Easy there, Shirley me love," Marcus laughed. He pulled Shirley off and looked her up and down. "Lard God me child, some good to see ya. Why, ya look fit as a fed dog. Hows ya gettin' on?"

"Shit, you know, good as always," she said cheerfully. "Business is good, life is good, same old shit. What have you been doing, you old prick? You know, you still owe me two hundred fucking dollars."

"Did ya nare get the cheque I mailed ya?"

"Yeah. It fucking bounced."

"Go on with ya! Sorry if I gots ya some vexed, ducky. I gets ya back, proper thing."