Steve Hamilton - Blood is the Sky

“You gotta excuse those boys,” the bartender said. “They had a little run-in yesterday and they’re still buzzing.”

“I noticed the broken nose,” I said.

“A couple strangers came in here. One of them had a real nose on him so these two clowns start making jokes. You know, like ‘Tell us another lie, Pinocchio,’ real intelligent stuff like that. These guys take it for about two minutes before the guy with the nose stands up and hits Stan right in the face. Says ‘Here, let’s see what your nose looks like tomorrow.’ And the other guy, hell, he’s about twice as big, so Brian wasn’t gonna step in.”

“Yeah, I’m so lucky having somebody to watch my back,” the man with the broken nose said. “He’s a real friend.”

The other man just stood there with a bottle of beer in his hand. He still hadn’t said a word.

“And this game is a piece of shit, too.”

“Will you two knock it off?” the bartender said without turning around. “I swear, I’m gonna throw that machine out on the road.”

“We need more sawdust,” Broken Nose said. “This thing ain’t sliding.”

“Open up your brain and dump some out.”

“Haw haw, that’s funny.”

“They got nothing better to do, eh?” the bartender said, apparently to us. “They gotta torment me every day of the week. Get in fights with the customers.”

“We don’t got ‘other business’ to do like these fellas,” the man said. “We’re not ‘other business’ kind of guys, you know what I mean?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” the bartender said, finally turning around.

“Ask the Lone Ranger and Tonto here,” the man said.

I turned on my stool and looked at him. He and his buddy went back to their game. Vinnie sat next to me as cool as an ice sculpture. I knew he had a fuse about seven miles long, and that no matter what they said, it would get to me a hell of a lot sooner than it would get to him.

“Don’t mind those morons,” the bartender said as he served up the cheeseburgers. “They’re the only two in town, believe me.”

“Just our luck,” I said. We ate our burgers. I drank my beer and had another one. Two cold Canadian beers were the easiest part of the day so far.

I could feel their eyes on our backs. When we were done, I turned around again and watched them slide their stupid little puck down the board. “Who’s winning?” I said.

“Machine’s broken,” the man said. “It don’t keep score anymore.”

“Why don’t you keep score yourself?”

They looked at me like I was from Mars.

“You know,” I said, “when we came in, I was wondering why you guys weren’t playing pool. Now I understand. Pool’s too complicated.”

“You wanna try me, old man?” he said. He looked like he meant it, even with an already broken nose. His partner was obviously not so sure.

Before I could say another word, I felt Vinnie’s hand on my shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“That’s right,” the man said. “Go do your ‘other business’ with your Indian boyfriend.”

I would have taken him apart right there, but Vinnie had other ideas. “You wanna spend the rest of the day in the Wawa jail? Come on, it ain’t worth it.”

He steered me out of there and into the truck. “I didn’t pay,” I said.

“I left some money on the bar,” he said. “Put the key in and drive away.”

I did as he said, sending a spray of gravel behind us. We had to double back through town to get back to 17, so the giant goose was there once again to say goodbye to us.

“Vinnie,” I said, a couple of miles later, “doesn’t it even bother you when people say stuff like that?”

“Who says it doesn’t? I just don’t get in fights over it.”

“I was sticking up for you, you know.”

“How’s that?”

“You’re the one they were insulting. That Lone Ranger and Tonto business.”

“That was for both of us,” he said.

“No, the Lone Ranger was a hero.”

“So was Tonto.”

“He was the trusty sidekick,” I said. “Believe me, this is one thing I know about. That was my favorite show when I was a kid.”

“Of course,” Vinnie said. “The Lone Ranger. That explains a lot.”

An hour and a half after we left Wawa, we came to a little town called White River. The Canadian Pacific Railroad crossed the road here. We sat and watched the freight cars go by for ten minutes.

Route 17 turned west in this town, heading back to the upper shores of Lake Superior. We took a right turn on 631. We had to keep going north, as far as the roads would take us, deep into the heart of Ontario.

“I’m gonna try home again,” Vinnie said. “See if he showed up.”

“Wouldn’t that be something,” I said. “We’re way the hell up here and he walks through the front door back on the rez.”

“Right now I’ll take it.”

He punched the numbers and waited for the answer. “It’s Vinnie,” he said. “Just checking in.”

He listened for a while. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll be there in a couple more hours. I’ll call you back.”

He hung up and sat there looking at the phone.

“No sign of him,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Everybody okay back home?”

“They want to call the police.”

I didn’t say anything. I kept driving.

Another hour and a half passed. We went through more trees, and then the trees would open up to a wide meadow, or a marsh thick with tall grass and the cold remnants of cattails. We’d see another vehicle maybe once every thirty minutes. My eyes were getting tired.

Vinnie tried calling Albright’s number again. No answer. He left a message this time, letting him know that we were in Canada. He left my cell phone number and told him to call the second he got in.

“I hope that went through,” he said as he hung up. “The signal’s getting pretty weak up here.”

We finally came to a small town called Hornepayne, where another railroad crossed, this time the Canadian National. The train had just passed as we came to the crossing. As we bumped over the tracks, we could see the last car disappearing into the west.

“This line goes all the way to Vancouver, doesn’t it?” I said.

“I believe it does.”

“Hell of a long trip.”

He let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“For dragging you all the way up here.”

“You’re not. I always wanted to visit Hornepayne, Ontario.”

He laughed. “I think that was it already.”

He was right. The road was empty again. It was another hour north, past a lonely lake called Nagagamisis, until we finally reached the end of the line, which in this case was the Trans-Canada Highway. We could turn left and head west to Longlac and then Geraldton, or we could turn right and head east to Hearst and then Kapuskasing. After eight hours of driving, we had gone as far north as we could go. From here it was nothing but wilderness, all the way up past the Albany River, then the Attawapiskat, then the Ekwan, through the Polar Bear Provincial Park, to the shores of Hudson Bay. There were small outposts here and there, but from this point on they were accessible only by plane.

“Which way?” I said.

“I think left.”

“You think?”

“I know it’s not too far,” he said. “Either way. That much I remember. And I’m pretty sure Tom said west.”

“So how were you supposed to find this place?” I said. “I mean, if you were with these guys-”

“If I was with them, they’d know exactly where to go. I’m sure Albright had the exact directions.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I get it. Let’s give it a shot.”