When George arrived in the taxi, the whole end of the street was full of police cruisers and ambulances. He paid the driver and got out of the car. He looked around amongst all the confusion. Martin was nowhere to be seen. Please, not the ambulances. He walked towards the nearer of the two, but he was stopped by a cop before he could see inside.
“Hey, you can’t go back there.”
“I’m looking for my friend, Martin.”
“There’s been a couple of shootings. I’m sure your friend wouldn’t have stuck around.”
“Can you please check? I’m worried that he might have been one of the ones shot. His name is Martin Porchnik.”
“Okay, wait here.”
The cop wandered off, presumably in search of a supervisor. George looked over at the place they had parked only two nights ago, when all this had started. So fucking stupid! He should’ve known better than to take such risks, given his own situation. Which was what made it so strange. It was hard to believe so much had happened in a few days.
After a few more minutes, the cop returned.
“Yeah, I found your buddy Martin. C’mon. He’s over here in an ambulance.”
“Jesus! Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Just a little shook up. They’re just questioning him now.”
George followed him across the street and into the parking lot in front of number 50, where the ambulance had it’s doors open, and Martin was sitting on the tailgate with a blanket over his shoulders, talking to an older, broad-shouldered cop with an open notebook.
“Marty, how’re you doing?”
“George, what are you doing here?”
“I came as soon as you called.”
“Who are you, sir?” asked the cop.
“I’m the guy who called 911 after my friend, here, phoned me.”
He frowned and looked at his notebook.
“We'll need a statement from you, also, sir.”
“Yeah, no problem. How is he doing?”
“Your friend has answered most of our questions, but I’ll ask you a few questions as well. I’ll be back in a moment.” He looked gravely at the two of them and then walked away towards the factory doors.
“You okay, Marty?”
“I feel like shit, actually.”
“Did they get the two goons?”
“One shot dead, the other arrested.” Martin briefly relayed the events of the evening to him in a deadpan voice. He looked like he had just woken up from a deep sleep, his hair all rumpled and his black tracksuit looking much like pajamas. He had a swipe of dirt up one side of his face.
“Wow! At least they got the guys. And they have you to thank for that.”
Martin hung his head. “No, nobody should thank me for anything. I really screwed things up. That poor security guard guy. He’s dead.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” said Martin, looking up at him. “I could’ve gone to the police. He’d still be alive if I did that.”
“You couldn’t have known how things would turn out.”
“It’s my fault. My stupidity led to this.”
“Then it’s partly my fault. I should never have got you started on this.”
“But it was me who took it all the way. Probably because my own stupid life has been so dull and empty, I latched onto this excitement without really thinking about the consequences.”
“Those guys said they still hadn’t got what they came for. Odds are they would have come back again, and that same security guard would have been here either way, even without your phone call.”
“Yes, and speaking of which. I didn’t mention your involvement except to say that I phoned you. I told them I just staked this place out tonight because I knew about the file and had a feeling they’d hit it again. I also don’t want to drag Tom Peterson into this when I gave him my word that he’d be off the hook if he co-operated.”
Another moral choice, thought George. Martin had obviously found the gray area with which he was most comfortable; tried on the various sizes of morality and found one that fits. Catch the criminals, let the ‘contact’ get away. Tell the partial truth, let the lies of necessity roll off his conscience. The big moral choice, and its consequences, would stay with him, but the little choices, and compromises, would just fade into the background.
When they were finished with the police and they had retrieved the cell phone, thermos and gym bag, George walked Martin over to his car.
“Little beige Tercel, oo-hoo, baby you’re much too fast, yes you are,” George sang mockingly.
“Knock it off,” replied Martin, laughing in spite of himself. “Would you mind driving? I’m still a little shaky.”
“No problem.”
Martin opened the passenger side door and then gave the keys to George, who walked around to the driver’s side and got in. Martin made sure they both put on their seat belts, and then George started up the car and flipped it into drive without letting it warm up. The tires squealed a little bit as he hit the gas and accelerated over to Midland, where he braked to an abrupt stop.
“I’ve got to warn you, I don’t do a lot of driving, so I’m a bit of a wild man when I do.”
“Go ahead, it’ll seem like life in the slow lane compared to my day.”
He then turned toward home, taking it slow most of the way despite his threats.
“Yeah, we’ve both had quite a week, Marty. Did I tell you I quit my job today?”
“What? Why’d you do that?”
“I’m going into business with my brother. I hope. We’re going to do landscape designing, design-and-build decks and gazebos. It ain’t architecture, but it’s the poor cousin.”
“That’s fantastic, George. But we’re going to miss your daily wisecracks at the office.”
“You’ll just have to pick up the slack.”
“No, I’m not much of a quick wit.”
“Hey, don’t sell yourself short. You have a dry kind of wit.”
They drove in silence for awhile, George feeling as exhausted as Martin looked. In his big winter parka, ratty track-suit with puke stains on the front, and his wild, disheveled hair, he looked like a refugee case.
“So, are you going to miss being a courier?” said Martin. “I mean, I always knew you could do better, but you also always seemed to be happy doing what you were doing.”
“I was. And I will miss it. Not the low pay and the bastard cabbies and the potholes and the rain and the snide secretaries, but the good days, the fast rides, and anything to do with the bike, actually. I’m really going to miss the biking. Hey, speaking of which. You ever get out on two wheels?”
“Not much, no.”
“Do you have a bike?” said George.
“Sure. At home in my parents’ garage.”
“Well, why don’t you and I get together on weekends and do the bike riding thing? It’d be great exercise, and then we won’t be able to make excuses as easily. Like the buddy system. What do you say to that?”
“Yes. I almost burst a lung running away from that gun-toting thug today. I need the exercise.”
“Excellent. When do we begin?”
“It’ll have to be Sunday,” said Martin. “I’ll be staying over at my parents' house on Saturday, but I’m usually back by Sunday at lunchtime. I’ll give you a call.”
“Perfect. And in the meantime, what about coming over for dinner tomorrow? I’d like you to meet Gina. I’ll whip you up a vegetarian meal.”
“Done. You know, this week I have eaten out more often than I have in I don’t know how many months.”
“It’s just been that kind of week. This is your building here, if I remember correctly.”
“Oh, yeah. Wow, that was fast. The parking card is in the slot to your left there. Just pull it down.”
George retrieved the card and eyed the card control box. “Insert arrow side down. Okay.”
The garage door rolled up, and George gave an involuntary shudder at the sound. It wasn't so long since his own shock to the system. He pulled into the garage and wound his way down to Martin’s spot. They locked up the car and took the elevator up to the lobby, where they both got off.
“Thanks a lot for driving,” said Martin. “I really wasn’t up to it.”
“Not a problem. You take it easy. You going in to work tomorrow?”
“Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay, well, call me about dinner. We’re over in the Bloor West Village, so you can just subway it over.”
“Sure thing. Talk to you tomorrow. You going to be okay getting home?”
“Yeah, I’ll just get a cab.”
Martin looked at him. “Your arch-nemesis?”
“Hey, if you can’t beat ‘em.” George smiled and held up his hand for a fist bump.