Before . Two white men sat in the Dodge Dart in the strip mall''s parking lot watching the oncoming traffic: the transport trucks and family sedans, the commuters and tourists, the station wagons and lone men in pickups with dogs hanging their heads out the window. Gaffer, behind the wheel, was the older of the two, thinner, and with less hair. He pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose and stared at the road that rose to meet the bridge, leading, almost due north, over the river to America. In the passenger seat, Raul took the second last bite of a hamburger; mustard, half a pickle slice, and chunks of raw onion dripped from what remained in his hand onto the greasy paper on his lap. A clump of relish clung to the bottom of his moustache; his lank hair hung long on either side of his thin face covering his ears completely. When he opened his mouth to push in the last piece of lunch, two sharp eye teeth showed. He closed his full lips and chewed, crumpled the empty paper, dropped it into the bag lying on the seat, and tossed it out the window onto the asphalt.
"That was stupid," said Gaffer. "Eating makes you sleepy." Raul hadn''t finished chewing his food, and it showed when he talked. Gaffer''s face tightened and he jerked his glance back to the road. Raul cranked the window up, angled his body on the bench, lay his head against the glass, and closed his eyes. The air grew a little warmer. Gaffer sat facing the line of vehicles, slowing, stopping, and lining up for customs before crossing into the United States, but his gaze was directed at the traffic coming the other direction, down the long ramp and entering into Canada. The sun passed behind a white cloud and the shadow raced along the road, onto the lot, over the parked car, and up the bridge linking Windsor to Detroit.
"You don''t make sense, Raul. You insist on coming out here when you know it''s not safe, and then you do stupid things like --" "What''s not safe?" "Your being here. Calling attention to us by throwing litter out the window. You''re looking for trouble." "There''s no law against two citizens sitting in a car watching traffic. You want me to pick it up?" Raul wasn''t watching traffic; his eyes were still closed. He scratched at the lonely patch of hair beneath his mouth. "No law against it.
" "Except you''re not even a citizen." Raul sat up and looked across the front seat. "No? What do you know about my citizenship?" Gaffer shot a glance at Raul, who now wore a pair of aviator glasses, blocking his expression, rendering him still more distant. They reflected and distorted the interior of the car and the world around them -- the dashboard, the gear shift coming out of the steering column, Gaffer''s knuckles on the wheel, the clouds drifting on the blue of the sky -- but they remained directed at the figure in the driver''s seat. Gaffer''s eyes couldn''t hold the gaze and returned to the road. "There''s a cab," he said. Raul didn''t look. The yellow taxi rolling down the ramp from the bridge had a top-light that read Checker Cab; the same logo was on the door and a Michigan plate hung on the front bumper.
It drove past them without slowing. After a moment Raul said, "Is it him?" "No." "You sure?" "It was just two Black girls in the back." "You know, Gaffer, after Montreal, I never believed you had a sense of humour, but I might change my mind yet." "I don''t want to talk about Montreal." "No? Enough of those Frenchie girls? You should''ve been down in Tijuana with Jimmy and me, then you''d have something you really didn''t want to talk about. Jimmy liked those señoritas so much he put them in the movies." Gaffer''s lip curled slightly.
"He''ll be here soon," said Raul. "Keep the faith." He pulled the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose, held them open in one hand, and stared into the stream of traffic. Without the glasses, his eyes were small and dark in his pale face. The light turned red up the road; the groans and wheezes of eighteen-wheelers braking travelled through the air. Gaffer looked at his wristwatch and then out the window. "Nervous Nellie," said Raul. "What''s done is done.
You got the place in Toronto?" "I know a place that can work. For a start, at least. He''ll be on his own once I get him settled. I''m not sticking around to hold his hand." "Sure. I don''t want to know anything about it." "You told me already. That''s why it doesn''t make sense for you to be here.
" "No? I just got to say congratulations to our boy. Do a little personnel management -- give credit where credit is due. Everyone likes a little recognition for a job well done, and no one can say Jimmy didn''t do his job as well as he could. A pat on the back, and I''ll be gone." Gaffer didn''t say anything. The traffic was moving again. Another cab was coming down the ramp from the bridge, and he sat up a little straighter as it approached. Raul drew his lips into something that might have been a smile on a different face.
"Jesus, you''re going to give yourself a heart attack jumping at every hack that comes rolling by. Relax. He''ll be here when he gets here." The taxi cruised past and, through the open window, the face of an old man with stringy white hair, a thin neck, and blotchy skin appeared and was gone. "Do you think Jimmy''s going in for disguises?" asked Raul. But Gaffer didn''t answer; he was staring at a second taxi coming hard on the heels of the first. The sun caught the slanted front window of the car, the glare hiding the passenger inside. The cab slowed, turned into the parking lot, and pulled up at the strip mall''s convenience store.
Seconds passed. The back door opened and a man stepped out of the taxi. His brown hair was curled at the ends, and his unshaven face had patches of stubble beneath the chin. The driver exited the car, pulled a duffle from the trunk, and dropped it on the asphalt. The two exchanged a few words as the man paid with U.S. bills. The cabbie returned to his car and the thud of his door echoed in the empty lot.
The man standing in the parking lot wore a plain white shirt; with one hand he held a checked jacket over his shoulder, and bending down, he picked up the bag with the other. The cab revved its engine and backed out of the parking spot. The newcomer walked toward the convenience store, as the taxi swung onto the roadway, back to America. "That''s him," said Gaffer. "It''s James." But the passenger seat was already empty. He flicked his gaze back to the parking lot. It was empty, too.
The door to the shop was closing slowly on its pneumatic brake. Gaffer was alone in the Dodge, waiting. His eyes shifted back and forth between the road and the convenience store. His hand went to the door handle but returned to the steering wheel where he held it still on the vinyl covering. The store''s door swung outward and the man from the cab, now wearing his jacket, stepped through, his bag hoisted over his shoulder. He sauntered over to the beige Dodge and popped open the passenger door. "Gaffer. Aren''t you going to open the trunk for my bag? Fucking taxi gives better service than you.
" "Where''s Raul?" asked Gaffer, getting out of the car. "I wish you wouldn''t call me that. It''s not my name." "What? You earned it, up in Montreal." There was a pause as they stood staring at each other before he continued, "No fucking ''Hello, how are you? Everything okay? Fuck, Jimmy, you''re amazing. You did it when no one else in the world could.'' None of that? Raul told me thank you from the whole fucking nation: The United States of America thanks me." He spoke with a drawl, but it didn''t take the edge off his words.
Gaffer fumbled the keys, and they fell onto a line painted on the parking lot''s blacktop. He stooped, picked them up, and opened the trunk on the second try. He raised his wary eyes to look at the new arrival. "It''s good to see you, James. You''ve made us all proud. Really proud." "And now to Toronto." You could hear every letter when he said the city''s name.
"You got a place set up for me?" "Where''s Raul?" Gaffer asked again. "In the store. Fucking talking to the guy behind the counter." "Get in the car. You shouldn''t be standing out in the open. I''ll find Raul, and we''ll get out of here." James sat in the passenger seat, where Raul had been a minute before. Gaffer went into the store: canned goods, breakfast cereal, chocolate bars, potato chips, cigarettes behind the counter, cleaning products lined up on a shelf, a pot of coffee stewing on a ring, girlie magazines on a rack, gift cards, plastic toys, toiletries.
But no Raul. He circled the central island once more and looked into the parabolic mirror hanging from the ceiling, but he was the only customer. "I help you with something?".