30

30

"When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die."
- Jean-Paul Sartre

Marty

Marty stepped in from the cold and headed up the stairs to the playroom.  He could hear the music, some rap music with a deep bass, blaring as he made his way through the hallway.  Rap and hip-hop all sounded the same to him.  He once liked it when he was in high school, particularly the more underground political rap, but lately when he heard it all he heard was the generic rapper gloating about how much money he had added with “bitches and cars” and other stuff he could not care less about.  For him, at least at this point, rap was background music for people trying to project an image, especially when it was Spades and Jimmy playing it.  He longed for the alternative rock music of the nineties.  The music he listened to in his teenaged years would always be the best music.

“Turn that shit down,” he said loudly as he came into the room.  Jimmy sat there, placing his bong on the coffee table.  Spades sat in the place Marty usually sat in, awake for once, rolling up a joint.

“You got it?” he asked as Marty came in.
 

Marty nodded, taking off his knapsack and placing it on the table, narrowly missing the bong.  Jimmy grabbed it. “Whoa!” he said, pulling it back. “This cost me a whole bill.”

“A bill you had because of me,” Marty muttered, unzipping his bag. “So Spades, you’ll be wearing a mustache like we agreed.”  He pulled out the fake stache and threw it at him.
 

Spades caught it. “Don't need it still,” he said with a grin, placing it under his nose.  Marty brought out the spirit gum next, a tiny vial.  His big beard had Velcro at the back so he had not needed the adhesive, but Spade’s mustache would require it.  He tossed him the vial.

“Put that on before we leave tomorrow and don’t forget to shave your head tonight,” Marty said. “You want to look like you’re in your mid-thirties to early forties, staches usually do that.”  He looked over to Jimmy who had been growing a goatee for the past few weeks.  Marty pulled out a pair of large glasses for him.  The lenses were clear, not an actual prescription.  

“Alright, nice!” Jimmy said as he put them on. “E equals M C square!”

“Squared,” snapped Marty. “Spades, turn that shit down.”

Spades got up and turned down the music slightly.  “So tomorrow then, we rob this guy and then what, jump town?”

Marty shook his head. “I don’t see a reason to do that.  If we’re in disguise no one can recognize us afterwards.  Even if our pictures are on the news and posted all over this city, and trust me, when you rob a rich douchebag like Harvey Franco, news gets out, I still don’t think anyone will recognize us.  Remember, if they ask where your van is you tell them that it’s parked across the street.  Your company is new and you had a number of deliveries in the area.  If they ask too many questions and it looks like they won’t let you up, then just leave and tell them you will call them tomorrow to work it out.  If security is suspicious before you even go up, then the whole thing is called off.”

Jimmy nodded, reaching for a hit of the bong.

“You sure the key will work?” Spades asked.

“Unless they’ve changed the locks or unless Franco’s door is different, which isn’t impossible, then you should be able to get in.  If you go up there and the key doesn’t work, then fuck it—it’s called off.  Just leave.”

Spades nodded.  Jimmy took his hit and passed the bong to Marty.  For once, surprising even himself, Marty declined the bong hit.  He was too anxious, too nervous to get high.  He wanted his mind clear and he wished the other would do the same.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself as he looked at his two accomplices.  He pictured himself behind bars with the two of them.  At least Spades would be able to give him some pointers on surviving prison life.   

Marty got up and walked over to the window, looking out over the snow-blanketed street.  After tomorrow he would never have to worry about money again, either because he would have all the money he ever needed, or because rent and food was free in prison.

His back to the window he sat in the chair opposite Tony.  Marty had just brought him down a dinner; some chicken and beans.  Tony usually ate microwaved meals he kept in his freezer and potato chips with Gatorade.  Marty never minded bringing him whatever was left over from his own meals. 

“Thanks again,” the blind man said between bites.

“Don’t mention it,” Marty said, leaning back, trying not to think about Ivan’s body behind him.  He imagined the corpse frozen, looking the same as it did the day he died perhaps. “Murder and grand theft now,” he thought, then shook the thoughts from his head.  There was no going back. “Tell me more about your characters.  That thief, what ended up happening to him?”

Tony smiled, wiping a drop of grease from his lips. “Oh that guy,” he said. Well, he came from a small village on the frontier of Kasidia.”

“Kasidia?”

Tony nodded again. “It’s a central kingdom.  This is a custom world that Blaze invented.”

“Oh okay, carry on.”

 “So one day he wakes up and finds his family is gone.  It turns out the local warlord has kidnapped his mother and brother, as he had done to a lot of other families, wanting to get the oldest son to join his army.  He refuses and his family is killed.  He gets away, learns to live off the land and he eventually meets a troupe of rangers and they teach him their fighting skills, and then he goes back in a year and finds the warlord.  The warlord has returned from fighting, having lost the battle and half of the village’s sons in the process.  He’s staving off a full blown rebellion there.  Eventually our hero becomes the leader and defeats the warlord.”

“Ah nice,” said Marty, intrigued by Tony’s storytelling. “Does he kill him?”

Tony shook his head. “No, he killed his top commanders, but he blinds the warlord and sends him into the wilderness.”

“Ah, so that’s just as bad as death, if not worse,” Marty said.  Within seconds he realized that he should not have worded it that way.  Tony went back to his food.  Marty sighed, unsure of what to say.  After a minute of awkward silence he spoke up again. “Hey Tony, what do you consider yourself, like alignment-wise?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Never really thought of it.  Real life isn't the same as role-playing.  I guess I am good, probably chaotic good.  I don’t always follow the law if I don’t think it’s right.  What about you?”

 Marty had no idea of how to answer.  A year ago he would have said he was good without a second thought, having always considered himself an ethical person.  “Tony,” he finally said. “I think you should probably leave this house sooner rather than later.  I mean, I love our discussions, really, you’re a great neighbour and I’m glad to help you out if I can.  It’s just, things are going to get shitty really soon, I feel.  This house, it’s falling apart slowly.”  

“Why?  I think its fine here,” Tony said. “I’ve moved too much already.”

“Maybe there is a place where someone can take proper care of you,” Marty said, trying to choose his words carefully. “I know there are government programs for people with disabilities.”

Tony sighed. “I know, but I’ve never felt I needed them.  Maybe it’s pride, sure it’s a cardinal sin, but having been once able to take care of myself and suddenly having to beg for help…”  he trailed off.

Marty understood. “Yeah, it’s a tough transition I could imagine.  But this house, Tony, it’s terrible.  There is a huge mold on your wall, it’s at least got fifty hit points.” 
 

Tony chuckled.

“It can’t be healthy.”

“Where can I go?” he asked.

 Marty had no reply.

Dwayne

Even in the elevator he was shaking.  He had done these kinds of things before.  Back in his old neighborhood he had stolen cars, broken into housing units and taken things.  He was never caught for these things either.  The first time he was caught was a minor drug charge.  Of all the things he had gotten his hands on it was pot that he was sent to jail for. 

This was different though.  He knew this ahead of time, but as he walked into the marble walled lobby he immediately felt the importance of the place. He had let Jimmy do the talking as was planned, taking in the confused look of the security guard at the desk

“Meals and Deals on Wheels for Miss Whiteshire,” Jimmy had announced, resting his large zipped up work-bag on the counter.  The man, a middle-aged Asian security guard, eyed both of them, looking suspicious.

“You guys aren’t the usuals,” he said, standing up from his chair.

“No sir,” replied Jimmy, sounding confident.  Spades wondered how he could muster that tone.  He looked like a professional actor.

“So what, is there a new contract?”

Jimmy nodded. “She’s on the third floor?”

The guard nodded. “Yeah, wait a minute.”  He picked up a phone and dialed. “Yeah Mrs. Whiteshire?  Yeah, uh-huh, it’s me, yeah, Trevor.  Mrs. Whiteshire we have two men from—what did you say you were, Meals and Deals on Wheels?  Yeah?  Yes Mrs. Whiteshire, it’s a different company.  Alright to send them up?  Okay then.  Good-bye.”

Jimmy smiled and grabbed the bag. “Okay then, thank you!” he said, turning to the glass door.  The guard pressed a button behind the desk and a buzzing noise sounded from behind the glass.  Jimmy bumped into the door.

“Ouch!”

“How did you not see the door?” Spades asked once they were in the elevator alone.

“My glasses,” Jimmy replied, placing his work-bag on the floor.  He unzipped it and took out a slightly smaller square work-bag that had been snugly fitted into the larger one. “This is yours.”

“Alright, so how much we going to really get in these bags?” Spades asked.

“As much as we can.  Jewellery, maybe some electronics if it looks valuable.”

Spades felt his breathing suddenly speed up as they neared the penthouse floor. “After this I can be done.  I have to be done after this,” he thought.  A few phone calls and their loot would bring in thousands of dollars, hundreds of thousands if it all worked out.  He knew people throughout the Greater Toronto Area.  Many of them knew people south of the border.

“White Bread to Whole Wheat and Pumpernickel,” the voice on Jimmy’s walkie-talkie interrupted his thoughts.

“Go ahead,” Jimmy replied.

“What is your twenty?”

Spades grabbed the radio from him and replied: “We are in the elevator, made it easily past the front desk, almost at penthouse.  I’ll call you once we’re inside.”

“Acknowledged.”

Jimmy took the radio back from Spades and turned the volume down on his radio and placed it back in his jacket pocket. “We must have convincing costumes,” he said with a wide grin.  They both had brown cargo pants and blue buttoned up shirts with white t-shirts underneath under a blue jacket with no logo.  Spades nodded, unsmiling and turned around to check himself out in the mirror.  He looked way older than he was with the mustache and bald head.  His eyes, not being the usual blood-red, looked tired, the left one only half open.  There were gray hairs on the small beard he kept on his chin, more than the last time from what he remembered.  Every month there seemed to be new greys.

The door parted behind him.

\“Let’s go,” said Spades, turning about and stepping out onto a soft carpet.  The hallway itself looked like it belonged in a mansion.

“Shit,” Jimmy whispered, following his partner out of the elevator.
 
Spades instantly noticed the doors to the right with the gold lion heads, knowing that the moment of truth was at hand.  Jimmy had the key already in his hand, the work-bag slung over his shoulder by its strap.  Both of them held their breaths as Jimmy stuck the key into the gilded lock.

Marty

He peered up at the top floor.  Only golden light could be seen from the roof-top he had spent so many times gazing out over the city from.

“You guys better be in,” Marty muttered as he stroked his fake beard.  He sat in the usual place, decked out in the same raggedy clothes.  No one had bothered him all morning.  It felt strange, almost too easy.  He held his radio under his coat; both arms clasped it as he waited for a response.

He sighed as another minute passed by with no response.  And then he saw a familiar red sports car strolling up Bay Street.  Marty leaped to his feet, cupping his hand over his eyes to shield it from the midday light.  The puffy brown hair could be seen as the car came to the next intersection.  Without a further thought Marty darted across the street.

Beep!  Beep!

He ignored the cars that almost hit him.  He was big enough to be seen in time.  As he reached the building’s property he slipped on unseen black ice on the sidewalk, losing his balance and flinging forward onto the driveway. 

Marty felt the sharp pain of his head smashing against the frozen asphalt, and then he heard the sound of a car’s motor erupt in his left ear.  He turned his head slightly, seeing the head of a silver stallion on the grill of a red car.

“Oooooh,” he howled. 

A dark figure stood over him seconds later, his face unseen as he blocked out the sun.  Marty reached up with his hand, but Mr. Franco scowled in response. “This bum again!” he said, shaking his head. 

Marty leaned up.  Someone was running out of the building, coming toward him.  It was Trevor.

“This bum jumped in my way!” Franco grumbled to him. “Call the police.”

“They’re already on their way,” Trevor replied.

“Police?” Marty asked, running his hand on the side of his head where he had landed.  There was a slight bump, but he seemed to be okay.  The pain was minor considering how hard his head had smacked.  He managed to stand up, feeling only a little dizzy.  He realized his radio was gone; probably he had dropped it on the other side of the street.

“Arrest this man!” Franco yelled to an unseen person behind Marty.

Marty turned about just in time to see a large red-faced police officer.  The man’s hands pressed onto both his shoulders with immense force, shoving him up against Franco’s car.

“Watch the merchandise!” the rich man cried as the cop grabbed one of Marty’s wrists, making it feel like it was being crushed in a vice.  In his mind every frantic curse word played out like a looped tape as another cop came out of nowhere and grabbed his other hand.  The cold metal of the cuffs pressed against his skin.  Marty started struggling when his right shoulder went numb.

“Don’t move!” the first cop barked in his ear.

Marty whimpered in response.  They flung him up roughly and shoved him into a cruiser that had pulled up behind Franco’s car.  In the backseat Marty saw through tear filled eyes the sight of Jimmy and Spades down the street getting into a taxi cab, both lugging what looked like heavy work-bags on their backs like miners with a day’s work of precious metals in tow.  The cab then disappeared around the nearest corner, out of sight.