Conduct in Question

Chapter 31

Donnie walked slowly across the Bloor Street viaduct to Frank’s office. Tires hissed across the broad expanse of concrete and asphalt. Up so high, it was lonely and ugly. But looking over the bridge, he could see the budding trees creating a green and yellow haze over the valley below. He shut his eyes tightly. Donnie had heard of people, especially kids, jumping off this bridge. Once he got Frank, he’d come back and look over the edge.

Moving slowly along Danforth Avenue, Donnie looked up. The sign on the second-storey window read “Procon Realty, Inc.” It was Frank’s office. Without any particular plan, Donnie hobbled around to the back lane and climbed up the fire escape. The washroom window was open a couple of inches.

Looking down, he wondered about the blue Buick with New York plates parked below him.

Two men ran out a back door. Donnie coughed. One of them stopped and looked up.

“You hear something?” Slowly, the man drew his gun.

“Jesus, Sam! Get the fuck in the car!” They spoke in hoarse whispers. Donnie could see faces in the dim light. Their eyes seemed to drill into his. Jumping in the car, the men slammed the doors and lurched into reverse, shooting out of the lane.

Donnie climbed through the window and inched the washroom door open. It was almost too dark to see. He squinted in the gloomy office.

It was almost entirely dark, but Donnie could see well enough. Filing-cabinet drawers had been yanked out, and files were strewn on the floor. The telephone receiver dangled from his desk. Frank lounged back in his chair, oblivious to everything.

Lazy bastard. Time to wake him up and have some fun.

Gently, Donnie tipped the chair back and placed the barrel of the gun to Frank’s right temple.

“I’ve come to settle a few scores,” he whispered close to Frank’s ear.

He touched Frank’s shoulder and felt a sticky wetness across his back. He shook him, but jumped back when Frank’s head wobbled at a funny angle.

“Frank!” he whispered fiercely, pinching his cheek. “Wake up. It’s time to pay.” Grinning, he put his face down close to Frank’s. “This is going to hurt as much as I can make it.”

The streetlight outside the window flickered on, illuminating the office in a sickly yellow glow and revealing a huge gash across Frank’s neck from ear to ear. Blood still flowed. His shirt was completely soaked.

“Jesus,” choked Donnie, jumping back. With the gun hanging limp in his hand, he gazed at Frank’s lifeless eyes. “No!” he wailed. Then he vomited onto the floor.

He scrambled out the window and down the fire escape. At the street, he hailed a cab. He couldn’t go home, not with all the blood covering his hands and clothes. Donnie laid his head back on the seat of the taxi. Did those guys with the Buick do it, or had the Florist beaten him to it?

He could hide out at Gram’s house. The cabbie kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. The swish of the tires on the glistening pavement lulled Donnie in and out of consciousness.

“Hey, kid? Sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital? You don’t look so good.”

Donnie sat up as straight as he could. “No. Please, just take me to 42 Highland Avenue. It’s my grandmother’s place.” The driver shrugged and headed west on Bloor Street.

At Gram’s house, Donnie slipped through the kitchen window and pulled himself inside. Stumbling through the darkened house, he reached the attic stairs. He could hide under the eaves for the night.