Anybody will do

It’s not easy being me. But sometimes, I get an easy one.

This afternoon, it’s a snatch job. The Big Boss wants somebody, anybody. Piece of cake. Does it have to be in daylight? I prefer to work in darkness.

I drink a lot of Coke Classic. It helps me relax. And during the day, the Boss lets me use his computer. I like to visit the Latex Lair. He has an account on the pay site. I like latex. I like women in latex. I like Montreal women with big breasts in semi-transparent latex catsuits covered in soap suds. Arrrrgh. Daylight work cuts into my quality latex recreation time. And I gotta take the Kid.

‘Are we gonna get caught?’ the Kid whines.

‘I hope so,’ I say, I look over his rock concert t-shirt. ‘Did your parole officer give you that?’

The Kid’s eyes open in fear.

I lean forward, ‘Try wearing something that witnesses won’t remember … ‘

The Kid gurgles.

***

The Boss really doesn’t care who I get, as long as it is male. Hmmmm. I drive the van with the fluorescent Kid through the streets of downtown Toronto.

‘Hey, Kid, any suggestions as to where we make the grab?’

‘I dunno,’ he says, then he points at a Catholic Priest, going into the Archbishop of Toronto’s residence on Church street, ’how about that one?’

I look at the Kid, ’Uh, no.’ I think the Archbishop would notice if one of his clerks was grabbed and thrown into a black van, especially during Muslim raiding season. ’Let’s try something less noticeable.’

‘OK,’ says the kid.

We make our way past a lawyers office, and the kid wants me to grab a lawyer. This one is in his robes, those black robes they wear in court. ‘I always get The Rash when I get near a courthouse,’ I say, vetoing the idea.

When we go past Moss Park Armory, there are three guys in combat fatigues and maroon berets having a smoke, soldiers.

‘How about one of them?’ suggests the Kid.

I take another look at the soldiers, looking at their tanned athletic trained killer bodies. I look at the Kid, ‘We can come back when they are asleep.’

Anyway, the Kid had his three chances, so I take the van off to one of my favorite hunting grounds, the Salvation Army shelter on McCaul. A lot of times the Boss needs someone of a certain blood type. Medicine is a hobby of a few of his buddies. When I get the right blood type, I get a bonus. I get to take the snatch and drive them to Erin and swim in the pool and watch the big screen television and drink his booze. Up there, they never tell me I drink too much. I just wake up in the van in the morning. It’s nice up there.

We pull up the van in front of the shelter. In the back of the van is a man sized steamer trunk and a cooler filled with ice and cans of Coke Classic. The Boss thinks of everything, that’s why he gets the big bucks.

We wait in front of the homeless shelter. The kid is fidgety. I open a fresh can of Coke, the ambrosia of computer programmers, henchmen, and the gods of Olympus.

‘What are we waiting for?’ says the kid, squirming.

I just look at him. I cannot tell him that we are just waiting for me to finish my favorite beverage. So I just look away.

***

A typical selection of street scum, gutter trash, and unwashed illiterates. The scum are watching the door to the shelter … it is getting close to lunch time. The Sally Ann gives out veal sandwiches, Caesar salad, and Tim Hortons coffee on Fridays, unless you are a vegetarian, in which case you get falafel. If you do not like coffee, you can have tea, or milk, or orange juice, or Gatorade. There is a public health clinic here Thursdays, with a doctor and nurse waiting to hand out anti-biotics for your infected injection site and pain killers for your stiff neck. Being as it is Friday, the crowd of scum is thinner. Which is good.

I put on my black leather gloves. This is my favorite pair … they were waiting for me in my property when I got out last time. I flex my fingers in the leather, which smells of mink oil. So many happy memories. I push the leather deeper into the grooves of my fingers. Mmmmm. Just like a second skin, keeping my hands protected and my surroundings free of embarassing fingerprints. I feel good.

‘Got your gloves, kid?’ I ask, only looking out of the side of my eyes.

The Kid gurgles, his mouth full of lollypop. He holds up his hands, he is wearing those cotton-dipped-in-blue-rubber things they sell to sewage workers.

It is stinking hot out, so I leave aside my baseball cap or windbreaker.

***

The Kid opens the back of the van, and opens the doors nice and wide. I park myself in the shade, just looking. Then he bites on his lollypop.

Two nice college girls walk by. Nice to look at, but probably armed to the teeth. If Daddy can send his little girl to college, he can send them to one of those unlicensed martial arts dojos, too. A friend of mine still cannot close his jaw properly after a run in with a sophomore, but he has got most of his eyesight back as the the bear spray went mostly up his nose. Good thing he has a union dental plan.

Ah, behind the college girls is the right guy. Somewhere in his thirties. Dirty and plump like a grain fed rat, er, food bank fed rat. Wearing a dirty Che t-shirt and dirty blue designer jeans and dirty expensive running shoes. And smoking one of those expensive filter tip smokes that I could not afford when I was an auto-worker. And carrying a burlap man-bag, what the Boss calls a purse.

***
I give the Kid the nod, he hangs back a smidgeon.

The scum gets past me and I get his attention using a hammer fist blow to the kidney. He staggers a bit, his legs are still working, even if his brain is turned off because of the pain, so I steer him to the van. I get around to his front and give him a sedative, yeah, right to the solar plexus. Just shut down his nervous system, press the reset button. It is right below Che’s chin.

A do-gooder shows up. She looks puzzled. Nice lady in a pastel summer dress.

‘This man is ill,’ I say in my best radio announcers voice, ‘I am trained in first aid.’

‘Yeah,’ says the Kid, pulling the scum deeper into the van.

‘Oh dear,’ she says.

I take out a business card. I find them in dumpsters behind the printers out on the Danforth close to where I live. Today, I am Richard Cox, Life Insurance Agent for the Triactor Group. I smile and nod and shut one of the van doors with my free hand.

‘Is he going to the hospital?’ asks the nice lady.

‘I can assure you, Ma’am, this man will go to a hospital. Yup.’ I point to Richard’s card which the nice lady is holding, ‘Just give me a call in on my cell phone.’ I smile again, ‘I gotta get this guy on his way to the hospital. Have a nice day.’

***
Back at the office…it is all business.

The boss is in his usual black suit, white shirt, but today he has a new tie: that jinn from the Disney Aladdin movie. He is standing beside his desk, holding his silver spring loaded envelope opener, The Spanish one, part of his Borgia collection. Like, I know antiques … not.

The Kid has the scum in a headlock. The Boss looks him over. He points at the Che Guevarra t-shirt and smiles. ‘Nice,’ he says.

We look in the man-bag. The Boss smiles again, ‘Excellent.’ He takes out one of the neon green posters extolling armed uprising in support of additional needle exchange vans for the Spadina-Bathurst area. He nods. A job well done.

****
I can hear the Big Boss in his office. He is shouting into his speaker phone. I can smell the expensive cigar that he smokes. He has a wall that is all televisions and they are making noise too. I can smell the bourbon and scotch evaporating in the hands of his guests before it gets poured down their throats. Sounds like something is up.

I look towards the computer. I still have time to take in the latex clad nurse soaping up her BMW.

The Boss shakes his head no, but he has left me a nice thick envelope of money, and off I go, back into the sunset. I prefer to work in darkness.

It’s not easy being me.