Pay Phone

In a narrow telephone booth on Bloor Street, Ryan shouted into the phone’s receiver. Sweat dotted his forehead, his face crimson with rage. “You useless bastard. You owe me, you owe me!” The burly man slammed the black handset against the phone’s chrome dial several times.

Finally he stopped, took a deep breath then pressed the receiver against his ear. “I trusted you Blake, you shit,” he screamed. “Where’s my money? Where?”

Passersby glanced at him but didn’t linger. A woman pushing a stroller ran past the agitated man.

Oblivious to his surroundings he took hold of the receiver’s wire and began twirling the handset in front of him in increasingly large circles while still cursing loudly.

After the receiver hit the side of the phone three or four times he resumed yelling directly into it. “What the hell is wrong with you, stabbing me in the back like that? I helped you out, I busted my butt for you and you piss all over me. Me!” He slammed the receiver onto its hook, removed it and slammed it down a second time.

Someone’s always screwing me over. And I let them. Why am I so nice to people?

A tall, thin man walking a small brown dog stopped close to the pay phone and looked around. He appeared lost.

By now Ryan had stepped out of the booth.

“Would you know where Borden Street is?” said the man.

“Get the hell away from me,” Ryan muttered. He stared at the pathetic little dog. Ryan’s dark brown eyes narrowed. He was about to kick the animal when he heard, “Don’t! If you know what’s good for you, don’t.”

“Don’t?”

Ryan gave the stranger an unyielding look followed by a twisted smile. He pulled back his right fist and flung it out toward the other man’s face. The man stepped aside and Ryan stumbled forward. His hand connected with the plate glass window of a Korean restaurant. The window rattled but did not break. By the time Ryan pulled himself together the man and his dog were gone.

In Bloor Street’s heavy traffic a police cruiser slowly passed by. The cop in the passenger seat stared straight at Ryan.

His fist throbbing he retreated to a cafe one block west of Spadina Avenue.

The aromas of coffee and grilled cheese sandwiches wafted through the restaurant.

“I’ll have a large coffee and a slice of coconut pie,” Ryan said.

The waitress was a petite woman with straight black hair cut short and an olive complexion. Over her green dress she wore a blue apron with the cafe’s dove logo in the centre.

“I’m sorry sir, but we don’t have any coconut pie left.” Her voice quivered as she considered Ryan. He was of average height but with unusually wide shoulders and large hands. His face had an unnerving wolf-like appearance.

He felt his anger boil up in him and it was all he could do not to spring forward and slap the woman. He turned his head away, counted to five under his breath then turned back to face the waitress.

“Yeah okay, make that chocolate cake. You got that?”

“I’ll be right back with your coffee and cake,” she said with a strained grin.

He could sense she was afraid and that gave him a sense of satisfaction.

Every time the door opened hot, humid July air streamed in and along with it traffic noise and the stench of gasoline fumes. He sat feet flat on the floor, facing the entrance so he could witness all the comings and goings.

Out the window he saw pasted to a red brick wall a poster advertising last month’s 1985 Eric Clapton show at the Kingswood Music Theatre. Two women in short skirts stood in front of the poster smiling, shifting from leg to leg as a young man tried to chat them up. “Good luck,” Ryan mumbled to himself.

He drank his coffee and ate his cake glancing up at the entrance from time to time. Something in his stomach wouldn’t let him enjoy his meal. Nerves, he decided, were giving him gas. He abruptly stood up, placed four one dollar bills on the table and headed out the door. He put on his sunglasses then after a minute took them off again as he scrambled down a dark stairwell into the subway station. Five minutes later he was on a train heading north. As the subway car swayed form side to side he looked around at the other passengers. Losers, he thought, all of them losers. But he was just like them. He was letting others take advantage of him and that had to end.

He got out at Wilson Station where he boarded the 96 bus. At Keele Street he exited. A few minutes later, covered in perspiration, he began climbing the stairs to his third storey apartment when the landlord’s ten-year-old son came running down.

“Mr. Brown, there’s an ice cream truck coming. Hear the music?”

“Wait a second.” Ryan snorted, reached into his pocket, pulled out two quarters and handed them to the child.

“Thank you Mr. Brown.” The boy ran off.

Ryan rapped on his apartment door and a woman answered. “Hi,” she said then hugged him, pressing her large bosom against his chest.

“That’s enough Maureen. Let me get in.” She released him and he stepped over the threshold. “Is there a beer in the fridge?”

“Yeah, there are two left.” She looked at him accusingly. “There’s a card on the table from your sister.”

“What?”

“She sent you a birthday card. You should phone her sometime.”

“Fine, I’ll do that, maybe tomorrow.”

“And Blake called.”

“Blake McGuire?”

“Yes. What other Blakes do you know?” she said gently shaking her head.

“Why that son-of-a-bitch. He never showed up at the pizzeria where he was supposed to bring my cash. When I phoned him he told me to F off. Now he wants us to kiss and make up? I don’t get it.”

“He has a job for you. Said I should tell you it was all a misunderstanding. He’ll give you the six hundred dollars coming to you. But he’s got a job for you to do first.”

“What job?”

“How do I know? Phone him and find out.”

“I don’t trust him. He’s a liar.”

The scent of Channel No 5 followed Maureen into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, removed the two bottles of beer then pried off the caps. Swaying her hips she moved slowly to the sofa where Ryan was sitting. She handed him one of the bottles before dropping down beside him. She appeared tired, worn. Not thirty yet, there were crows feet in the outer corners of her eyes. The lopsided bun she kept her light brown hair in heighted the impression of a young woman beaten down by life.

“So how’s your day been,” he said forcing himself to chit chat. Trying to be social was a stretch for him. He was suspicious of her which made this effort to be hospitable all the more irksome, unnatural. She only worked four shifts a week at a nearby supermarket. Where did she spend the rest of her time, at her mother’s?

“We’re broke you know,” she said roughly. He hadn’t had a real job as a forklift operator since he was fired some five months earlier. That was when he’d gotten into a yelling match with his boss which led to him punching the guy in the gut. He was lucky the police weren’t called. Now his unemployment insurance had run out.

“Yeah, so?”

“So call Blake.”

He clenched his jaw but said nothing for a long time. What he had once found charming about her he now hated, the scent of her perfume, the pleasant chatter that had turned to nagging. Time was running out on this relationship. As soon as he had some money he’d be rid of her.

“Yeah, okay.” He tipped the beer bottle back so that the last drop slid over his tongue. Standing up he walked over to the phone on the kitchen wall and methodically dialed.

“First about the money you owe me. When do I get it?”

“If you do me this one favour you’ll get it right away.”

“What favour?”

“I need you to drive tomorrow to Sudbury with a package then turn around and drive right back.”

“I don’t have a car, remember?”

“You’ll be in a blue Mustang but don’t speed. For God’s sake don’t attract some cop’s attention. Got it?”

The following morning Blake parked in back of Ryan’s low yellow brick apartment building. It was one of five ugly boxes in a row fronting on a six-lane road. The structures were only twenty years old but had the feel of decrepit Soviet tenements.

Ryan was outside waiting. “Jesus, nice car. Yours?” he said.

“It is now. Here, here’s the address. It’s on Baker Street. You know where that is?”

Blake was a short man of about fifty with a unibrow and cold blue eyes. Designer jeans and a jean jacket hugged his rotund body. Ryan hated the man. He opened and closed his fists. It was all he to could do not to grab Blake by the throat and throttle him.

“Yeah, we used to visit my grandparents in Sudbury when they were alive.”

“Good, good. Don’t socialize. Don’t even stop to have a piss. Drop off the package and turn right around. When you get back I’ll have the six hundred I owe you plus another five on top of that. It’s a nine or ten hour round trip. Don’t speed.”

The two men walked around to the back of the car and Blake opened the trunk. “That’s it,” he said, pointing. “Hand the carton over to Sylvester, he’ll give you an envelope to bring to me. Got it?”

“Fine. And you’ll have my money right?”

“Right.”

Ryan heard and felt the rumble of the beast’s large engine demanding to be let loose, to be permitted to fulfil its destiny. The Mustang desperately wanted to set the road aflame. But he couldn’t allow that to happen. No, he had to manage the beast, not let it go wild. So he set the cruise control to the speed limit and watchfully made his way up Highway 400.

He’d had no breakfast. Just north of Barrie Ryan pulled over to grab something to eat at Seale’s Tempo Cafe. After a meal of toast, scrambled eggs and coffee he felt better. He’d parked close to the restaurant entrance. When he got back into the Mustang he headed to the furthest corner of the parking lot where he stopped under a Norway maple and got out. It was overcast but still hot. He wiped his damp brow with back of his hand.

“That damn package,” he grumbled. “What the hell’s in it?”

Ryan surveyed the area around him. He was alone at this end of the lot. Gingerly he opened the trunk door and peered inside. Reaching down he picked up the small carton. The box was taped shut. It was heavier than he’d expected. Much heavier. From his right pants-pocket he pulled out a switchblade and sprung the knife open. He hesitated. If he tampered with the carton someone might notice.

Still he had to know what was in it. He was about to cut the packing tape but stopped when he noticed a little white powder had seeped out from one of the corners. Cocaine, he thought. He licked one of his fingers, touched the powder then placed the finger on his tongue. A broad smile crossed his lips. No not coke, methamphetamine, speed, maybe a kilo, maybe more. The wholesale price for pure speed in Toronto was running about one hundred dollars a gram so he had at least a hundred thousand dollars of drugs in his trunk. Though he still loathed the man, his respect for Blake had just increased sharply.

Five hundred dollars that’s all I get out of this venture. It doesn’t seem fair. Not fair at all. But what can I do? Crossing Blake could be fatal.

He was happy to get back behind the Mustang’s wheel and had to laugh when the first song on the radio was Dire Strait’s Money for Nothing. The tune’s title resonated with his current situation.

Three hours later he pulled up in front of a large house on Baker Street. It was in a leafy area, prosperous and quiet. He found it strange to be doing business, drug business, in an upscale part of Sudbury.

He rang the bell and heard feet shuffling from inside. A man opened the door a crack.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“I’m Ryan. Blake sent me. Are you Sylvester?”

“That’s me.”

The door swung open. Sylvester was powerfully built with a large head and trim blond beard. In his left hand he held a Taurus 66 handgun.

“Where’s my package?”

“In the car. I’ll get it.”

He retrieved the carton from the vehicle and brought it into the house’s living room. The home was expensively furnished. Sylvester looked totally out of place in old jeans, a sagging tee shirt and dirty slippers.

“Put the package there.” He indicated the coffee table. Using a box cutter he sliced open the carton. Inside were plastic bags filled with white powder. He removed a pinch of powder from each bag and tasted it.

A frown crossed his lips. “What the hell is this? This bag here, it’s not speed, maybe sugar, but not speed. What are you and Blake trying to pull off?”

“Take it up with him. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just the delivery guy.” He’d been sitting but now got up, wary of the abrupt change in atmosphere.

“I’m going. Blake said you’re to give me an envelope.”

“Shit, you want me to give you money when you just ripped me off? Get the hell out of here.” He reached for the Taurus pistol tucked into his waistband but suddenly felt Ryan’s switchblade plunge into his chest again and again. Sylvester dropped to the floor moaning, blood gushing from his wounds.

Ryan shaking, stunned at what had just occurred, stood transfixed. It was hard for him to take it all in, to accept what had taken place in an awful instant. Breathing heavily he deliberately closed the switchblade and placed it back into his pocket. A doubt crossed his mind. Could he still be alive? Ryan grunted, pulled his right leg back and kicked Sylvester hard. There was no reaction.

“Yeah, you’re one dead asshole.”

In the hall closet he found a pair of winter gloves that fit him and put them on so as not to leave fingerprints. Quickly he searched the body, cleaned out the dead man’s wallet and left it on the floor next to the handgun. Robbery, they’ll think it was robbery. Then he scoured the house. He found an envelope containing fifty thousand dollars in the fridge and three thousand more in a sock drawer. He was elated. Grabbing a fistful of tissues he wiped down anything he may have touched with his bare hands and thrust the tissues into his pocket.

He picked up the carton filled with bags of speed and placed it under one arm. Smiling he closed the house front door, then climbed into the Mustang and drove out of town.

“Well I’m not broke anymore,” he said to the radio as it played Springsteen’s tune, Trapped. No, he was through being a loser, somebody’s errand boy. But getting even with Blake would have to wait. He knew someone, who knew someone in Winnipeg who’d be happy to buy the meth for cheap. When that was done he would go visit his sister in Edmonton. She’d be happy to see him, he was sure.

Things were working out for him in an unexpected way. He’d killed a bastard who tried to kill him, had fifty-three thousand dollars cash in his bulging pockets and a box of valuable meth in the car’s trunk.

Traffic was light on the Trans-Canada Highway heading west and Ryan sang along with the radio at the top of his voice. This road, cut into the Canadian Shield snaked past forests, lakes, rivers and imposing rocky outcroppings. The Mustang roared down the highway taking every corner with ease and the straightaways with gusto. The further from Sudbury Ryan got the happier he felt.

All at once red lights flashed in his rearview mirror, police. He glanced at his speedometer. The Mustang had been flying at a hundred and seventy kilometers an hour. Ryan pulled over to the side of the road and nervously waited.

“Driver’s licence and car ownership,” demanded the police officer.

Bio: Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Yellow Mama, BarBar, Freedom Fiction, Spadina Literary Review, Mystery Tribune, Ariel Chart, Uppagus, etc.

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