Howard Shrier - Buffalo jump

Ripping Rich’s pants down and bending him over a freezing cold gravestone.

Hurting him so badly. Making him do such vile things before leaving him bleeding, shaking, gagging on the ground.

“We understand each other now, don’t we?” Ricky had said. “You so much as call my name in your sleep, I’ll bring you back here and bury you alive.”

Rich knew he would never get the images out of his mind; he would never get the taste out of his mouth. What was the use in trying?

He thought about breakfast but had no appetite. He thought of getting dressed and going for a walk but it was too hot out. He wondered if he could make it to Barry and Amy’s tonight, or if it was better just to let Marty handle it.

He thought of the Buffalo River and the time he and Marty had plunged in on acid.

He thought again about going back to bed and wondered how many pills he had left.

Buffalo: Friday, June 30

When the white truck passed the first highway sign for the Peace Bridge to Buffalo, it pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped, hazard lights flashing.

Ryan had to keep going-no way to stop without drawing attention-but he took his foot off the gas and coasted.

“What’s he up to?” I asked.

Ryan looked at the dashboard clock. It read 3:50 p.m. He said, “Shift change, I bet.”

“What?”

“He’s waiting for a shift change at the border. Four o’clock, half the guys change over.”

“He’s got someone on the inside?”

“Let’s find out.”

Ryan had told me his crew often crossed the border by getting the name of a bent Customs officer from Vinnie’s brother Luciano. Ryan got this Uncle Looch on the phone as we neared the crossing.

“Uncle?” he said. “It’s me. Yeah, that me. How you doing? Good, good… Yeah, I know. We all feel terrible, but what can you do? He had good health all his life. As long as he’s not in pain… Listen, Uncle? We got anyone on today at the bridge? Yeah, that one. Yeah? Comes on at four? Perfect. Okay. Give her my best too, Uncle. Thank you.”

“Lane 9,” he said to me. “Any bets that’s where our truck goes too.”

Security going into the U.S. was tighter than ever these days, whether you were flying, driving or taking the train. The lines stopped a good hundred yards from the crossing and inched forward from there.

“Open the glove,” Ryan said. “Give me the folder there.”

I handed him a green vinyl folder that had his registration and insurance papers.

It was four-fifteen when we pulled up to the booth in lane 9. As Ryan had predicted, the white truck was in the same lane, seven vehicles back.

The U.S. Customs officer leaned out of his booth, a heavy man of fifty or so, with exploded blood vessels in his nose and cheeks, watery eyes and a tremor in his hands. He looked like he’d sell his mother into slavery for a drink. “Citizenship?”

“Canadian,” we said in unison.

“Where you heading today?”

“Buffalo,” Ryan said.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“Pleasure,” Ryan said.

It didn’t feel that way to me.

The guard held out his hand. “Licence and registration, please.” As Ryan passed the guard his folder, he said, “Regards for you from Mr. Lewis,” he said. The guard’s eyes brightened and his face moved ever so slightly in the direction of a smile. He kept Ryan’s folder tightly closed as he withdrew into his booth. He knew the drill, knew there’d be five U.S. hundreds in there, tucked in by Ryan while we waited. Much stabbing of computer keys ensued in the booth. Then the guard leaned back out, beaming at least sixty watts brighter than he had been before, and welcomed us to the U.S. “Have yourself a nice day,” he said.

I’d settle for surviving it.

We pulled away from the booth and into a parking area. Ryan raised the hood of the car and checked the oil while we waited for the white truck to clear Customs. Checked it a few times, then slowly topped it up.

“Would Looch say anything to Frank?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like ‘Gee, you’re the second call I’ve had today. First was from Dante Ryan.’”

“First of all, Uncle Looch didn’t get to be his age by flapping his lips. Second, the other guy called first. He knew he had to wait till four o’clock so he’d already spoken to Looch when he pulled over.”

“Just checking how paranoid I need to be.”

“Right where you are is fine,” Ryan said.

As we followed the truck north on the New York State Thruway, I could see a jetty built out into the Buffalo River below us. There was a paved path along its spine where people were walking, jogging and cycling. They looked like they were walking on water. On the south side of the channel, overlooking the river, were grand mansions built in a Spanish colonial style.

“Look at these places,” I said.

“Trust me,” Ryan said. “You’re seeing the best part first.”

The truck turned onto the Scajaquada Expressway, as did we, and exited soon after the first toll booth onto Elmwood Avenue, past the rolling green spaces of the Olmsted parklands. A few turns later, we found ourselves on Lincoln Parkway, a wide boulevard with houses that wouldn’t have been out of place in Forest Hill: Tudors, colonials, Georgians, all on spacious lots with well-maintained gardens.

The truck was slowing down.

Ryan had been keeping half a block back. At the first flash of the truck’s brake lights, he pulled over immediately. Frank got out and walked down a driveway beside one of the larger colonial houses. Claudio pulled away from the curb and began backing down the drive, Frank guiding him. I noticed the truck didn’t beep when in reverse. They’d probably disconnected the fuse that controlled it, a smart move given that the truck was generally put to nefarious use.

“Closer,” I said.

We cruised slowly toward the house. The truck was backed up to a brick garage at the end of the driveway. A tall grey-haired man in his fifties was offloading cartons by hand. Claudio and Frank stayed on the sidelines as usual. There was no forklift or hand truck in sight.

“It’s going to take that guy forever to unload if he has to do it himself,” I said. “Let’s park down the street.”

Ryan drove to the end of the block, made a U-turn, and parked on the other side of the boulevard so we could watch the house. He turned off the engine and lowered the windows. He lit a cigarette and hung his arm out the window so the smoke wouldn’t blow my way. The car felt quiet after the constant hum of the engine and the road.

“I wonder if there’s a coffee shop in walking distance,” I said. “I need a bathroom and a coffee, in that order.”

His answer was, “What the fuck!”

The truck was coming back out the driveway.

“He couldn’t have unloaded it all,” I said.

“There’s more than one drop-off,” Ryan said. “Stay or follow?”

“Follow,” I said. “The house isn’t going anywhere.”

Traffic was heavy as we tailed the truck south and west. Five o’clock on a hot afternoon, people were busting out of work, desperate to make it home to the yard, the porch, the air-conditioned den, anywhere they could peel off their work clothes and crack open something cold. American flags hung everywhere, limp in the heat. Some were probably out specifically for the Fourth of July, but many homes had permanent flagpoles fixed to their fronts, a lot more than you’d see in Canada. Some houses sported yellow ribbons and signs saying they were proud to be American. Lawn signs and bumper stickers, some in the form of furled ribbons, proclaimed support for soldiers in Iraq; some for the war itself. One car ahead of us, a big old Impala, had four bumper stickers: Proud to be a Vietnam Vet. Support Veterans of the Vietnam War. Support our Troops in Iraq. Insured by Smith amp; Wesson.