(16) Let It Bleed
Bo was walked into a police station the next morning, having discovered the previously locked basement door of his bondage open and his minder nowhere to be seen. He’d opened the fridge, found himself some juice and bread to toast and made himself some breakfast. Then he had a shower, dried off and emerged into a street he did not know in east end Hamilton, which he did, sort of, walked about till he got his bearings, saw a cruiser parked outside a Tim’s and waited for the officer to emerge.
A detective named Brian took his statement and drove him back to the house, which was, of course, quite empty. Bo showed him the basement room where he’d been kept for three days. Brian said it smelt awful; Bo agreed and asked if they could leave now. As they did a cruiser pulled up and two uniformed cops began do whatever cops did with a crime scene. The yellow tape across the front door was all Bo saw. And that was more than enough.. For two days he’d been convinced they’d whack him and bury him in the back yard. All he’d done was glimpse a couple of scared looking kids in the dope house, which some courier had mistaken for the kid house. Thirty seconds that had changed his life. Just dropping in to get his monthly supply and pay up and shit. He’d known instantly he was fucked. The dope house just had a couple of guys pretending to be construction guys with bad backs on workman’s comp, a safe and a stash. You know, a house, couches, beds, tv’s an’ shit.
He got dropped off outside his landlady’s dilapidated bungalow, the mouldering few which were left in an increasingly gentrified Burlingame. Before the office let him out he had to promise there was no dope stash inside, which was kinda true as he’d been run dry. Really there was only scraps, not even enough for a proper sale, not that Bo ever used the word proper. He already been warned not to leave the country, the very idea boggled his mind. Inside, before descending to his lair, he thought to calm the beast for his absence. She had nodded off on the couch while daytime tv babbled away. Well the oxcees hadn’t run out then. Hank’s insurance money must still be holding out. He fell onto his own couch, sure sleep would come quickly in the darkened room. It did but not before he left a message for Asha. Hey Ash I’m back, it’s a story, I’ll tell ya. Later. That might not keep her from screaming at him, so he turned his off.
Asha picked up the message on her break. Great, maybe they could get out of town tonight. She really needed to, well, do something. She left a message for Bridget, only slightly more informative than the one she got. Bridget dutifully updated Andrew, who was down by the water, counting the little laps, and finding that, if he really focused he could count himself out of the picture. He was pleasantly surprised to be able to pull it off, even sporadically. A little touch of thou art that, right in your own front yard. Well, if you couldn’t do it there, where could you? The March chill was not giving up its grip just yet, so, mini-enlightenment in hand, he adjourned inside for a wee nip.
Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie? The ten in sherry casks, the fifteen in port? He went upstairs to brush his teeth. There was still a bit of lunch afterglow in there that might tamper with the trembling of the veil. Okay so he was a purist. Truth be told he was a fanatic. He’d never really been comfortable with the idea that the English should share in the national treasure. Or women. It was a mystical rite enacted by Scotsmen embracing the nation’s soul. And here he was having a sip all on his tod. Oh well, in hard times you made do. The fifteen Glenmorangie was raised in salute. Then, in afterglow, he noticed Bridget’s message. Well shit, that was a relief. He allowed himself to be seated.
