NeWest Press

ONE

Two thoughts popped into my head when the three-hundred-pound woman on roller skates slapped me on the ass.

First, that she must have been skating very fast before delivering the spank as the force with which she pummelled my posterior sent shock waves throughout my body and caused me to stumble forward, no small feat when you consider that I'm six-foot-three and weigh close to two-forty, give or take a few pounds, depending upon whether there's been a spike in my milkshake intake.

The second thought was that the sheer size of this heavy-set hellion on wheels' hand was astounding, for when she delivered her vigorous blow to my buttocks, her giant meathook nearly engulfed the entire circumference of my behind.

I regained my balance and was rubbing my stinging rump when I realized what had just transpired turned a simple bum assault from a playful incident into a full-blown calamity--upon impact the large, delicious, Dairy Queen banana milkshake I had been nursing flew out of my hand and splattered onto the concrete floor.

I was no longer annoyed. Now I was livid. I heard the rolling fanny-whacker cackle riotously, her laughter echoing throughout the arena. I locked eyes with her across the track and she winked at me and blew me a kiss. I furrowed my brow and opened my mouth to let fly a string of obscenities, but before I had the chance Stephanie Danielson--aka Stormy Daze--ripped into her teammate like a tornado in a trailer park.

"Jesus Christ, Jabba!" she yelled. "What the hell is the matter with you?" Stormy turned to me and gently rubbed my arm. "Sorry, Jed. I know how much you like your milkshakes."

I stared at the banana-flavoured ice cream goodness as it continued to spill out of the cup onto the glossy grey concrete like a brother-in-arms bleeding out on the battlefield. I sighed deeply. At that moment the booty-smacking milkshake assassin completed another lap on the roller derby track.

"You got yourself some nice buns there, Butterfingers!" she hollered as she whizzed by and continued around the track for another lap.

"That's enough, Jabba!" barked Stormy, before patting my arm some more.

I finally snapped out of my milkshake mourning and focused.

"Why do you keep calling her Jabba?" I asked.

"That's her name," replied Stormy. "Jabba the Slut."

"That's not really her name."

"Yes, it is."

"So if I looked at her driver's licence it would say 'Jabba the Slut?'"

"It may as well. This is roller derby, Jed. Our names are what empower us as warrior women and make us who we are. It's why, back when I used to wrestle, I was 'Stormy Daze,' but now when I hit the track I become the 'Amazombie.'"

Stormy put her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest proudly. I had met her eight months ago while unofficially working my first case. Her ex-boyfriend--and my former friend and pro-wrestling tag-team partner Johnny Mamba--had been murdered and my investigation led me to her. Although I briefly considered her a suspect in Johnny's death, it quickly became clear that she was a good woman who had loved him dearly. I'd not seen Stormy since Johnny's funeral. She left professional wrestling after Johnny died and I hadn't heard anything about her until she called the office that morning and asked to meet as soon as possible.

Stormy looked even better than I remembered, especially decked out in her roller derby gear. She was dressed in a pair of form-fitting, blue short-shorts and a red sports bra underneath a white baseball baby T-shirt that covered her curvy chest but left her taut midsection exposed. Her blonde hair was in pigtails, the tips dyed red and blue, while her symmetrical face was painted in white and black makeup, with drops of fake blood around her pouty, ruby-red lips to give her that oh-so-fashionable, sexy undead look. Finally, she wore retro, knee-high, striped athletic socks underneath a bedazzling pair of rainbow-coloured roller skates. With the extra three inches in height, for the first time we were standing nearly eye-to-eye.

With her gaudy outfit and lean, yet feminine muscular build, she looked like a walking-dead version of the Batman villainess Harley Quinn on steroids.

"Jabba the Slut and Amazombie," I said, shaking my head. "And I thought professional wrestling was overly theatrical."

"Never mind Jabba," Stormy said. "The one you really need to watch out for is 'Barracougar.' If she gets her paws on you, she'll make Jabba's spank feel like a love tap."

At this point the locker room doors slammed open and over a dozen women all dolled up in different outfits and makeup--and all wearing retro-style four-wheeled roller skates--charged toward the roller derby track and joined Jabba the Slut for warm-up laps. Stormy escorted me out of their way as they attacked the track with the ferociousness of rabid wolverines. Hoots, hollers, and war cries were spit out with both confidence and vitriol, and by the time I wrapped my head around the unusual sight before me, Stormy had guided me over to the players' bench and taken a seat. She tapped the hard plastic and motioned for me to sit. I slowly eased my aching bottom onto the unforgiving surface and joined her, still transfixed by the colourful swarm of skaters rolling around the track at varying speeds.

"You guys dress up like this for every practice?" I asked.

"No, usually only for games," replied Stormy. "But today is a sort of a dress rehearsal." I nodded as Stormy continued.

"So how about I tell you why I really asked you here."

"You mean it wasn't for an enormous woman on wheels named after a Star Wars villain to beat my ass like a rented mule?"

She smiled briefly before reaching out and squeezing my hand.

"I need your help, Jed." She waved her other glittery-gloved hand toward the roller skaters. "We need your help."

She let go of my hand and I shifted uncomfortably, my butt still stinging from Jabba the Slut's powerful smack. I glanced around the modest arena, a multi-purpose facility in the Greater Vancouver suburb of Coquitlam that, when not chock full of estrogen-charged roller-skating maniacs, was used for indoor soccer, box lacrosse, and ball hockey. Numerous purple and gold banners hung from the rafters, all sporting different years of championships won by the Coquitlam Adanacs, the local lacrosse club. I tried to ignore my aching rump and looked Stormy in the eyes.

"What can I do for you, Stormy?"

"We want to hire you."

"For what?"

"You're a real detective now, right?"

"Private investigator. And yes, I am, on a provisional basis under supervision until I log enough hours."

"Good. I told the girls I was pretty sure you were legit. After what you did for Johnny it didn't matter to me, but a few of the ladies insisted we hire a professional. I told them I knew just the guy."

"Hire me for what?"

"Our coach is missing. We're all a bit concerned, plus we have playoffs coming up and the team is nervous to take to the track without him."

"Has he ever disappeared for periods of time before?" I asked.

Stormy shook her head emphatically. "Not once. He lives for derby. He would never flake out like this."

"Can you think of any reason why he would leave town?"

Stormy let out a beleaguered sigh. "Well, maybe. You see, there are some rumours about him...."

"What kind of rumours?"

"Gambling."

"You think he might be in some trouble?"

Stormy shrugged. "I'm not sure. A couple times a guy with really big muscles came around to our practices and he and Larry would go off and have a chat. And one time Vicky Von Doom swears she heard some shouting."

"Larry, that's your coach's name?"

"Yes, but only I call him Larry. He goes by Lawrence. Lawrence of O'Labia."

It took everything I had not to smack my hand against my forehead.

"His real name, Stormy."

"His first name really is Lawrence. O'Labia is his derby name. I don't know his last name. Pippi Longstomping would know." Stormy slipped her index fingers into opposite sides of her mouth and let out a high-pitched sound so piercing you would have thought it came from a steam whistle. "Yo! Pip! Get over here."

A short, stout woman with fire-truck red hair hopped off the track and skated over to us. Her long pigtails flapped in the air behind her and, as she rolled closer, I noticed she had her face painted with over-the-top freckles the size of dimes.

"What's up, Cap?" she asked, before wiping perspiration from her brow with her matching red wristband.

"Pippi Longstomping, I'd like to introduce you to 'Hammerhead' Jed Ounstead. He's the investigator we're hiring," said Stormy as we both rose from the bench.

Pippi sniffed, wiped her palm on her shorts, and stuck out a stubby arm. I nodded and shook her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Jed. Think you can find Lawrence?" she asked.

"I know I can, but I need a surname to get started."

"Kunstlinger."

"Very funny."

"That's it, man."

I looked to Stormy for help but she just stared blankly back at me. Behind both Stormy and Pippi the rest of the team had started chanting while stretching and continuing to skate laps on the track. Jabba the Slut led them in the cheer.

"I'm the queen!" Jabba screamed.

"You're gonna die!" answered the team.

"Cross my path?" Jabba screeched.

"You're gonna fly!" echoed the roller derby women.

The ladies then broke into more whooping and war cries. I looked back and forth between Stormy and Pippi as my frustra¬tion bubbled up from within.

"Look, I want to help you guys. But I'm getting a little irritated here. My ass hurts like hell, my milkshake is history, and I've got whiplash from trying to keep up with all of your different roller derby names. I just need Lawrence's legal surname."Pippi Longstomping looked stunned and glanced at Stormy before looking back at me.

"It really is Kunstlinger. I've seen it on his driver's licence."

"Lawrence Kunstlinger," I said, my voice tinged with disbelief.

"I think it's a German name," added Stormy.I took a deep breath and glanced over at what was left of my banana milkshake. It had almost completely melted.

"Okay, then," I said.

"Thanks, big guy," chirped Pippi cheerily, before pulling a mouthguard from her shorts pocket and popping it between her teeth. She skated off and back onto the track to rejoin the other players.

"Do you have a picture of Lawrence?" I asked Stormy. She pulled out a black-and-white booklet and a pen from her back pocket.

"This is the program from our last game. It has pictures of Lawrence and the team and all of our bios inside. I glanced at the cover illustration of an anthropomorphic taco and a buff babe, both grappling one another while on roller skates. The large retro font read: TACO KICKERS VS. SPLIT-LIP SALLIES and underneath the date, venue, ticket pricing, team website, and Facebook page were all listed.

"Please tell me your team isn't the 'Taco Kickers,'" I pleaded.

Stormy giggled softly. I had forgotten how silky smooth her laugh was.

"We are not," she said.

"All right. I think I have enough to get started."

"I checked the rates on your website and I have a cheque in my purse for the retainer," she said. "Just hold on a second while I go to the locker room."

"Don't worry about that now. Besides, you're an old friend, so that means I'll charge you the friends-and-family rate our agency offers. Let's see what I can dig up first before we talk payment."

Stormy seemed relieved.

"Thank you, Jed. It took a lot for me to convince the entire team to go in on a private detective."

"How long has Lawrence been missing?"

"The last any of the girls heard from him was a week ago. He sent out an email to the team and since then no one has been able to get a hold of him. All calls go straight to voicemail."

"Do you have his phone number?"

Stormy plucked the program out of my hand and scribbled on the booklet.

"That's Lawrence's cell. I wrote mine down too," she said coyly. "Call or text me anytime. And if you could keep me updated as much as possible, I would really appreciate it. The girls and I are starting to get really worried."

I nodded and folded the program in my hands. Before I could say goodbye Stormy slowly rolled forward, cocked her head to the side, and gave me a soft, seconds-long kiss on the cheek. The rest of the Split-Lip Sallies wooed loudly from the track."I really appreciate this, Jed," she said, before spinning around and skating off toward her teammates. I turned and headed for the exit before my face flushed more red than the lipstick lingering on my cheek.

- 1 -

I am writing this for Verity because she cannot write it for herself.

Verity takes pen to paper; two minutes in, her hand begins to shake. She crosses out a word. Rewrites. Crosses out another. Makes an illegible notation. When her fingers spasm and she drops the pen, she crumples the paper and closes her eyes.

She sits at the old typewriter and presses keys with irregular, staccato care. The black lines on the page make her squint. She types a deliberate paragraph before she rips the paper from the machine and shreds it.

She sets a dusty cassette player on the desk and presses 'record.' The tape spools and she sits in awkward silence, throat working. She says "Santiago," and chokes on it. She throws the tape in the garbage.

She touches the computer only once. She pokes hesitantly at the keyboard, averting her eyes from the glowing screen, and exits without saving her file.

She presses herself into the darkest corner of the bedroom closet, and she rocks a little, back and forth. She cannot breathe.

She will look at this and see only all the ways in which it is incomplete.

But this is for Verity. I'll try.

SEPTEMBER

Verity tells her stories in present tense. She says it lends a sense of immediacy--like watching a play, or characters on a screen. She says it recreates the 'now'.

So this is Verity, walking down the street beneath overcast clouds and the barest promise of sun. She is still a young woman, but old enough to have a hint of crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Her shoulder-length hair is fine and split-ended, seldom combed. It is an imprecisely muddy shade of teak.

Verity is the drab sort of bleached that comes only with fading and time. She is wiry but solid. Her eyes are a grey like sunlit fog, simultaneously bright and opaque, but she seldom meets anyone's gaze. She has a habit of twitching at nothing, and her lips move as she walks. Though she is clean and nondescript--her black coat well made, her white sneakers unmarred--people sometimes give her spare change.

Today she is watching the sidewalk, and the cyclist who nearly mows her down swears vehemently. Verity keeps walking. She is, in fact, paying attention, but the city is a barrage around her. The sidewalk shadows melt beneath her feet. Each glass tower she passes chimes in her ears. She wavers, briefly, before a window display that tastes of iron and caterpillars; she stares at the rainbow of handbags and perfectly placed leather boots, but her attention skitters to the side and she swallows the raw scent of rotting vegetables.

Only Verity's world is so dizzying. The cyclist--now halfway down the block, still spitting righteous anger--sees only a woman and a cracked sidewalk, downtown edifices looming glassily above on a cool morning. Brown leaves scatter beneath the tires of his bicycle, and he thinks nothing of it. To Verity, the autumn breeze is a firefly flicker making the street sparkle like rain, but the day is dry and dim and she trudges onward through the minute swirls of light.

When her phone vibrates in her pocket, she stops to answer it and presses her back to a crumbling brick wall. A torn paper flyer scrapes her shoulder, advertising the cancellation of some aborted concert.

"Jacob," says Verity, gently. Her voice is as grey as her eyes. She hasn't looked at the caller ID.

"Should we be accountants?" His light tenor in her ear comes a little fast, words as strings impatiently plucked.

In contrast, Verity is quiet for a long moment. She purses her lips; her brow furrows. "I... what?"

"Should we be accountants? Quick--this guy wants me to do his taxes."

"We, um--we tried that."

"We did?"

"Last year. You did it wrong and had to pay that woman nine hundred dollars."

"Oh. Yeah." Jacob's disappointment glides, spider-light, over Verity's skin. She raises a hand and swipes at her cheek, her eyes tracking the air three feet behind a passing taxi.

"We could--" she begins, but he has already interrupted.

"No, you're right. It's cool. Hey, don't forget the milk, okay?"

Verity brushes her thumb across the screen and slips the phone into her pocket before she resumes walking.

The route is familiar; she is not distracted by the sea-salt taste of the concrete beneath her feet. She turns right at the bakery, pacing under faux-antique lamp posts and the glare of tattered flyers (missing kitten!; missing child!!; ONE NIGHT ONLY SALE!!!). It's nearly noon, and she must share the remnants of the morning with drivers and cyclists and the occasional laughing child.

The crowd thickens at the edges of the Byward Market, near vegetable stands and stalls filled with maple syrup, flowers, and beaded crafts. A magician is setting up near the corner of Sussex and George; he has a faded, collapsible table, a deck of cards, and a dog. The spot he has chosen is shaded by a stone archway between two restaurants--it's a curious choice for a busker, a dim recess on an already shadowed day.

More, the magician and the dog are both in black: the magician with curling jet hair and a worn t-shirt, jacket and jeans and high boots like an urban pirate, and the dog just a sea of darkness lit by yellow eyes. The magician's hands are dusky and deft. The dog is the size of a wolf. The magician cocks his head to the left, and so does the dog. The magician fans a deck of cards in his right hand; the dog lifts its right front paw. To Verity, they both smell like sulphur and taste like three hours past midnight, so she stops.

Hunger Moon

You follow Foster through the side door. He chucks his jacket and gym bag onto a row of boots, taking down a pair of salt-stained lace-ups. You attempt to hang your jean jacket on one of the seven occupied hooks. First try fails, and your jacket skims into a gritty puddle. Second go 'round and Foster's laughing saying, "Just throw it anywhere, man." But you're persistent, and finally, with some rearranging, it stays put over a trench coat and rain poncho.

You kick off your high-tops, only a couple months old and already too small. You won't report this to your mother, not until your feet bleed or she's better, back at work. Great. There's your big toe. Jabbing right through the fresh hole in your sock. Goddamn. Somewhere between wearing shoes all day and removing them, it's happened: your feet have taken on another centimetre.

You are like the fucking universe, expanding.

Or like that kid with a messed-up gene. The one you read about, his DNA gone haywire, pumping out signals to never stop growing. At sixteen, the guy's legs are so long he had to remove the driver's seat of his Volkswagon Golf to work the pedals from the back bench. And still he had to bend his neck funny to peer out the windshield. He's probably eight feet by now or exploded right out of his skin. That could happen to you. Is happening. Every night you feel bone splintering pain, as though tiny people are scaling beneath your shin bones with crampons and pick axes.

Now your stomach groans. Foster's mom peeks around the partition wall, says, "Derek!" She folds her arms, flicks the filter of an unlit cigarette with her thumbnail. She's wearing a fuzzy teal sweater which gives her an out-of-focus look, especially with her smudgy green eyeliner.

Foster runs past her, does a sock slide across the kitchen floor, right to the fridge. "You hungry, man?" he says.

You're never not hungry.

When you step into the kitchen, Foster's mom tugs your sleeve, says, "Jesus, Derek. You join the basketball team yet?"

"It's not really my thing," you say. Every other person begrudges the fact you don't put your height to good use. They must picture you slam-dunking a million shots, and not how you trip down the court in gym class. Especially your dad who, when not in the Caribbean with his new girlfriend or closing another so-called deal in New York, hassles you to try out for volleyball or B-ball like he did. He's always recounting his glory years, captain of this and that, telling you about team trips he went on, cheerleaders he dated.

Foster's mom says, "What is your thing, Derek?" You shrug, mumble something about guitar, though you only play an A chord and a G. She places the unlit cigarette in her mouth and opens the oven. Lasagna smells waft out. "You staying?" she asks.

For the past two months, you've eaten mostly grilled cheese sandwiches, Doritos, cereal, and those bags of deli corned beef. Occasionally, your mom's friend Evelyn drops off a casserole or a pot of chili, something your mom cries over, thanks her for and doesn't touch. Supper you and your brother eat for two or three days in a row.

Your stomach groans again and you say yes to Foster's mom.

"Yes please," says Foster and crams a Kraft Single into his mouth.

"Hollow legs," his mom says, turning oven knobs. "The both of you." She lights her cigarette, coughs, shuffles out of the kitchen. "Four o'clock," she says. "Oprah." And she disappears toward the TV room, in slippers that look like mini sleeping bags.