The Blue Helmet Read online

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  WILLIAM BELL

  Crabbe

  Absolutely Invincible

  Death Wind

  Five Days of the Ghost

  Forbidden City

  No Signature

  Speak to the Earth

  Zack

  Stones

  Alma

  Just Some Stuff I Wrote

  WITH TING-XING YE

  Throwaway Daughter

  For Reg Lashbrook

  PART ONE

  LEE

  What god was it, then, set them

  together in bitter collision?

  —Homer, The Iliad

  ONE

  “I THOUGHT YOU GUYS aren’t supposed to smoke on duty.”

  The fat plainclothes cop named Carpino lowered his window an inch.

  “You’re a strange one to talk about rules,” he said.

  The unmarked police car hissed through deserted Sunday morning streets, wipers flapping greasy drizzle from the windshield, the rattling fan fighting a losing battle against condensation. My father would have had a fit if he’d heard the fan, and launched into a rant about proper maintenance. But, as usual, he wasn’t around.

  I sat up front beside the cop. The car was hot and stuffy and smelled of stale coffee, hamburger grease, and tobacco. With the palm of my hand I squeegeed mist from the side window. Outside, the rain brimmed in the curb gutters, pushing dirt and soggy food wrappers toward plugged sewer grates.

  My head throbbed and I winced every time the car hit a pothole. I flipped down the visor and examined my face in the vanity mirror. An angry red scab was forming over the split in my swollen upper lip, my nose was puffed and red, and the cheek under one eye was bruised and purple. Disgusted, I pushed the visor back into position.

  “Anyway,” I told the cop, “you’re wasting your time. I’ll be back.”

  He dropped his cigarette butt out the window, took a left through an orange light, and headed toward the on-ramp for the highway.

  “Think about it, Lee,” he replied. “You’ve got no choice here. You’ve burned all your bridges.”

  I said nothing. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t. I stared out the side window and let my mind take me back to the night before, to my assignment. I played the scene over and over, searching for clues that would tell me what had gone wrong.

  “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “No, really. You’ll be in and out in five minutes, ten at the most.”

  Classes were in session and the school parking lot was quiet. I was supposed to be in Math class.

  “Where is this place?” I asked, zipping my jacket against the frosty breeze.

  Vernor opened the driver’s door of his Mustang and pulled a folded map from the door pocket. He spread the map on the hood, tapped a spot with a finger tip.

  “Here. On Market Street.”

  “Down by the docks. Near the old distillery.”

  “Right. You get around back through the alley. It’s an auto supply store, a small one, with an office on the second floor.”

  “So it’ll have a burglar alarm.”

  “My source says not. Here’s how it will work. Behind the store, there’s a small basement window, almost hidden by a dumpster. It’s broken. You go in, make your way to the second floor. Leave through the back door and down the fire escape. You make sure the door is left unlocked.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then nothing. You just walk away. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  “What’s in there? Cash?”

  “Not for you to know.”

  “Why don’t I just take what you want while I’m there?”

  “Not for you to know.”

  “What’s the point of me going in through the window and leaving the door unlocked if—”

  “You ask too many questions. That’s always been your problem.”

  A gust of wind snatched the map and Vernor lunged to recapture it. He folded it, pushed long, black hair out of his eyes. “This is your last initiation test. Do it right and I won’t say anything about you letting that grade nine kid off the hook. You’ll get your patch. You’ll be a Tarantula.”

  As he spoke he opened the front of his denim jacket a little, revealing a small yellow square with a black spider stitched onto it. When the jacket was done up, the tarantula would rest on his heart.

  “When?” I asked.

  “It has to be tonight. After midnight.”

  “Consider it done,” I said.

  “Don’t screw up,” he warned, then climbed into the Mustang and peeled out of the parking lot.

  The Tarantulas were the best gang in my neighbourhood—the biggest, the most powerful—and if you belonged you didn’t need to worry about anything. They took care of their own. You always had a place to go, someone to turn to. Nobody crossed a Tarantula without the whole crew coming after him.

  But it was hard to get in. There were tests to prove your obedience and allegiance, and if you passed you were a member for life. “Like being a Catholic,” Vernor had joked when he was explaining things to me. “You’re expected to return loyalty with loyalty. No exceptions. And you follow orders, even if you don’t like them. Sometimes you gotta do things you don’t want to, but when the shit flies, you got the whole outfit behind you. You’re never alone. It’s like the army.”

  TWO

  IT WAS RAINING WHEN I got to Market Street, and I was numb with cold from my bike ride across town. Teeth chattering, I cruised along the deserted, oily-wet street, steering around potholes and squinting into the dark. The auto parts store was squeezed into the gloom between a decrepit warehouse and the gigantic bulk of the old distillery. A battered Ford slumped at the curb, its hood up, its windows smashed, its wheels long gone. A dented hot dog vendor’s cart lay on its side under one of the few unbroken street lights.

  At the end of the block I turned, retraced my route, and rode into the inky dark of the alley, struck by the rank odour of cat piss and motor oil. I decided to leave the bike a few feet in from the street rather than take it farther and risk puncturing the tires on a nail or broken glass.

  The dumpster was parked up against the back wall of the store, leaving a narrow gap, and the basement window was broken, just like Vernor had said. I was in and out in no time. At the bottom of the fire escape, I scanned the dark lane for any sign of movement, then stole along the back of the store. The far end of the alley was a lighter shade of dark, where I should have seen the silhouette of my bike.

  It wasn’t there.

  I dashed down the alley and into the street—and smashed into something that lit up a ball of blinding white fire behind my eyes. I felt my nose crack before I collapsed. Heard my skull thump on the sidewalk. I was hauled to my feet and slammed against the bricks. I slid down the wall, head spinning. A hand jammed under my chin, clutched the neck of my jacket and hoisted me up. Another hand frisked me and jerked my wallet out of my back pocket.

  The mugger let go and I slumped to the wet pavement again. Icy water seeped through my jeans. The lights in my head dimmed. Something wet trickled down the back of my neck. Something salty oozed into my mouth. I forced my eyes open, tried to focus. A bulky shape crouched in front of me and a sandpapery voice ordered, “Get up.”

  I struggled to my feet, one hand on the wall like a drunk, spat out a stream of blood. I blinked. The bulk became a broad-shouldered man in a long open coat. Beside him was a tall cop holding a nightstick. It was the nightstick, I guessed, that had bloodied my nose.

  “Ah, shit,” the one wearing the overcoat growled. “False alarm. He’s just a kid. Take him in and book him.”

  He turned and headed toward a car parked cockeyed
against the curb. His companion stepped in front of me, a plastic rain shield on his cap, a gun riding on one hip. He held my wallet up to the light, squinting.

  “You’re Lee Mercer?”

  Before I could answer the other cop spun on his heel. “What was that?” he called out.

  “School ID card says Lee Mercer,” the uniform answered. “You know him?”

  The plainclothes cop snatched the ID and examined it. “You Doug Mercer’s kid?”

  “None of your friggin’ business.”

  A stinging slap snapped my head back. “Let’s try again,” he said, almost whispering, his voice flat. “Are you Doug’s kid?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Gimme his ID. I’ll take it from here,” he said to the uniform. “Impound the bike.”

  THREE

  “GOT AN EMPTY INTERVIEW room, Manny?” the cop said to the uniform behind the long desk at the police station. Around me, unhappy people shouted, cried, argued.

  The uniform looked me up and down. “Evenin’ Marchi,” he replied. He consulted a book. “Number three is guest-free at the moment.”

  “This one’s unofficial for the time being,” Marchi said.

  He pushed me down a corridor, threw open a door, and shoved me inside. A table and three chairs sat under a garish ceiling light.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  I did as he said. He reached behind him, came up with a pair of handcuffs, snapped one ring around my wrist and the other around a table leg.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said and left, slamming the door.

  A shiver ran down my back. The room was warm, but my clothes and hair were still soaking wet from the rain. With my free hand, I felt the back of my head. Blood came away on my fingers. My nostrils were plugged with blood, too. I blew them clear and winced from the pain, wiped my hand on my pant leg.

  I looked toward the mirror on the opposite wall, did my best to offer a sneer in case someone was watching from the other side. I settled back, got as comfortable as I could with my arm shackled to the table leg, and waited.

  “Jesus,” my father groaned, shaking his head. “Look at you. What the hell have you done this time?”

  Marchi the cop had come back to the interview room hours later and driven me across town through the rainy dawn to the apartment house where I lived with my father. He hadn’t said a word during the trip. At our door he had shaken hands with my father and followed me inside.

  “What do you care?” I answered.

  “Now, look—”

  Marchi had held up his hand as if directing traffic. “Later, fellas. I gotta get a load off my feet, okay? Why doesn’t Lee get cleaned up and you and me can discuss the situation,” he suggested.

  While I showered and changed my clothes I heard them talking in the living room. It was only when I returned that I noticed a suitcase beside the door.

  “Sit down, Lee,” the cop said.

  I stood where I was and looked at my father. He was wearing his coveralls, ready for work at the auto shop a few blocks away. His dark hair was combed straight back, his face pale and drawn, and he had his What-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look on. He nodded toward the couch.

  “Do like Marchi says, Lee.”

  The cop sat on the edge of the ottoman beside my father’s tattered easy chair, so I was facing the two of them like in an interview. Marchi still had his overcoat on, with a chequered sports jacket underneath.

  “Lee,” my father began, working hard to keep his voice steady, “this is Sergeant Marchi Carpino. He’s a friend from way back. He was good enough to call me after he picked you up. Thanks to him, you haven’t been arrested.”

  “Thanks to him my nose is probably broken,” I said.

  My father ground a fist into his palm. “I’ve just about reached the end of my rope. I’m scared that if you go on like this you’ll end up in jail. So I’ve made a decision.”

  He paused, as if psyching himself up, and took a deep breath, locking eyes with me. “You’re going to New Toronto to live with your Aunt Reena,” he said. “I called her last night after I heard from Marchi. You—”

  “I’m not go—”

  My father shot out of his chair, pale with rage. “Shut up!” he shouted. “Just shut the hell up! I’ve had enough!” He hung his head, breathing deeply, sat back down. When he had regained control he said, “Lee, you’re going and that’s all there is to it. Marchi will explain things on the way.”

  Marchi stood, walked to the door, and picked up the suitcase. “Do I need to cuff you?”

  I looked at my father. He returned my stare, his eyes flinty with determination.

  “No,” I said to the cop. “I got nowhere to run.”

  Carpino took the on-ramp and merged into the traffic on the Queen Elizabeth Way. As we headed east the rain let up and the swarm of cars, trucks and buses bunched tighter. Carpino fumbled his pack of cigarettes from inside his pocket. “You feel like listening now?” he asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “See?” he said, lighting up, “that kind of smart-ass talk indicates that the answer to my question is no. Trouble is, I gotta explain some things to you before I drop you off. But first you gotta open your ears.”

  I stared at the floor. Between my feet, an empty paper cup rolled back and forth.

  “So, talk.”

  “Your father wants you to live with your aunt for a while—”

  “Yeah, well, soon as you drop me off, I’m out of there—”

  “—and I figured I should explain things real clear so you don’t do what you just said you were going to do. You want a cigarette?”

  “Don’t smoke.”

  “One for the plus side. Anyway, here’s the thing. You’ve been suspended from school twice, for fighting. The Board of Ed told your dad that next time you’re expelled for good—”

  “I don’t give a—”

  “—and I’m pretty sure you’re behind a couple of assaults that happened near your school. It’s only a matter of time before we can hang them on you. When that happens, you’re not a naughty boy fighting in the schoolyard any more. You’ll go into custody. Believe me, you don’t want that.”

  I kept my mouth shut. There were three assaults, not two, if you counted the grade nine kid I grabbed and shook without working him over like I was supposed to do. He was so terrified I thought he was going to piss himself. Vernor hadn’t been too happy when he found out I let the kid go with a warning.

  As we passed the junction with highway 427, Carpino eased the car into the collector lanes. By now the traffic was moving slowly—people heading downtown to work. Carpino took the turnoff for 18th Street and pulled up at a traffic light.

  He lit a fresh cigarette off the butt of the old one and took up his lecture. “Besides the assaults, we got you for break and enter. Throw in resisting arrest and we’ll have you eating institution food until well past your best-before date.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll get off,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. I didn’t know much about the legal system. “I got no record. I’m a young offender.”

  “That one’s easy. Lee. We nail you for one of the assaults. You go to court, get let off by some kindly but stupid judge like you said, but then you’ll have a record. We pick you up for the other assaults and the burglary. Then you go inside.”

  He braked and steered into a parking lot behind a small hotel and turned off the motor. “Now, I hope you’re clear on your situation, Lee. If I have to arrest you, I’ll throw the book at you, like they say in the TV cop shows. If you stay here with your aunt,” he nodded toward a door in the building across the street, “I let you alone. There’s nobody to go back to anyway, except your dad, and he’s not happy with you right now.”

  “I don’t need him,” I spat. “I got my friends.”

  “Who? The Tarantulas?”

  “Yeah, the Tarantulas. At least they got some loyalty.”

  He ran the window down a few inches and to
ssed the butt out. “Haven’t you figured out why we were waiting for you when you jumped off the fire escape? We’d been investigating a series of burglaries in the area—offices, warehouses, all small concerns without much security. We got a call, tipping us off that the auto parts store was going to be hit.”

  Carpino rolled the window back up and turned toward me, his eyes hard. “Think about this,” he said. “Who knew you were going to break into that place?”

  I didn’t remember my aunt very well. She wasn’t around when I was a kid. But I had stayed with her once before, when my mother was dying.

  Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer when I was seven. She was an art lover and a painter whose unframed landscapes were tacked up all over our apartment. My father wanted to take her to Italy before she died—although he never put it in those words—because she had always dreamed of visiting Rome and Venice and Florence to feast on paintings and sculptures. I remember the discussions and arguments Mom and Dad had—about the expense, about maybe taking me with them—before they finally packed me up and drove me to my aunt’s, promising they’d come home soon and bring me lots of presents.

  When they returned, she was pale and weak. She had lost weight, but her eyes were bright with excitement, and she began a new painting the same day. Before she was able to finish it, an ambulance carried her off to the hospital. They hooked her up with wires and tubes, and her body under the bed sheet was like the stick-figures I drew at school.

  She never came home. One afternoon my father sat me down in the kitchen and crouched before me, holding my hands, and told me in a voice he could barely control to pretend she was on another trip and that we’d see her again some day. Even at seven, I was too old for that crap. I was confused and terrified, but I knew my mother wasn’t on holiday.

  I hardly saw my father after that. He held two jobs, the auto repair during the day, a department store at nights and on Saturdays. Neither one paid a decent wage. He was gone when I got up in the morning and never home before ten at night, when he’d drag himself into the apartment, eat, have a few beers, and fall asleep in front of the TV. When I was little, baby-sitters looked after me Saturdays and after school. When I got older, I took care of myself.