Carter's War - 35. Chapter 35

The frosted glass was lit from behind so that all that could be seen was the neon lights in the shape of an erotic dancer suggestively inviting patrons into the strip bar "The Brass Rail". For some with a taste for the extreme her gyrations would have been inviting, but Marc kept his head down as he pushed his way through the throngs of deviants seeking thrills at the price of dollars.

Not that he was put off by it at all; he didn't have time to indulge in the oldest trade. He pulled Will's leather bomber jacket tighter about his thin frame as he continued onwards. The money that Will had leant him was in his pocket, not much but enough for him to enjoy himself.

A group of large men dressed in biker leathers pushed past him; oblivious to the smaller man they shoved aside as they passed the door announcer to "Pleasant under glass". Marc stumbled slightly but regained his feet, small thin and wiry he was someone easily shoved aside, and despite the fact he wanted to teach them a little respect, he had to press on up Yonge Street.

Toronto was one of those cities where anything had its cost but everything came with a price. He struggled on past a group of surly Frenchmen being ejected from "Various Pink Bits" from the sounds of the four large bouncers; the Frenchmen had been harassing the ladies on stage, if indeed anything in the place could be considered female. There were bars and places to cater to all tastes from "the black eagle" a Leather bondage bar through to a slimy bathhouse called "St. Marc's Spa".

A busty transvestite walked through the crowd towards him balanced precariously on six-inch heels; she/it reached out a hand to brush the hair he had combed to hide his ears. "Hi t...t...there... looking for some company?"

Marc flinched away from its touch as he vanished back into the crowd combing his hair back over his ears with his fingers, he didn't want to answer questions about the burn scar, and he was ashamed enough of it. Finally making it to a dimly lit nightclub that was standard all over the world. It was a trade market of a different kind, for a different kind of entertainment.

The dealers were easy to spot, hiding towards the darker spots in the club. Hands exchanging money for little white pills, small bags of powdered substances and growing fungus from a variety of sources outlawed in Canada. Anyone that believed the government could stop what happened in the back of nightclubs of its largest city was grievously mistaken. There had, if anything, been a surge in it as the sterilized and lobotomised euphoria of Canada's liberal civilization spread across everything. It turned free spirits into model citizens and the only price was happiness. But there in Toronto, the transition was slow. The O.P.P. was simply unable to cope.

A couple of deadbeat users lurked carelessly against a wall occasionally twitching as the chemical stimulants they had taken fed artificial sensations directly into their brains. They literally existed in worlds of their own creation, a chance to escape the harsh reality of a society that "Cared" for everyone, and yet showed no compassion.

Marc walked up to one of the dealers and pointed to a small white powder in a little bag the man had shielded from sight in the palm of his hand, "How much?" he asked looking about him to ensure that no one was watching the transaction.

The dealer sucked on his teeth as he contemplated the cocaine, "Eighty."

Marc fished in his pocket and produced a hundred-dollar bill, "Give me change."

The dealer licked his lips at the sight of so much money; there was a flicker in his eyes as they travelled up Marc's wiry frame, the fact that he looked small, vulnerable. He smiled, "Yes of course."

He didn't see Brody leaning on the bar watching him as he completed the transaction. Concern for his friend made Brody pull out his cell phone and call Will, excusing himself from the beautiful young woman that he had been chatting up.

The transaction made Marc left the bar, wanted to find a quiet place to be alone, somewhere that he would be off the streets. And when he entered the "St. Marc's Spa" bathhouse that had been the idea. Brody sighed as he turned to look up the street, pulling out his phone again he called Will again. It should have been none of his business, but where Will was concerned there were some of his personal rules Brody was willing to break.

Bathhouses had evolved little over the years, and no one was certain where the idea of them had originated. There were indications that they existed in all societies in one manner or another, but it was the American style that had become prevalent, yet another gift for the world along with LSD and Syphilis.

He checked in at the counter and received a key to a room and a towel that was almost threadbare. But he didn't really care as he was buzzed into the den of evil. There were few rules in one of those places, rule one was you wore as little as possible, and rule two you never touched unless invited. He walked through the darkened corridors aware of the eyes on him. He was young, a commodity in such places. He was an object, something to be leered at. A bulky bald man, slightly overweight blocked his path and stared at him with open lust, twitching his towel suggestively.

Marc shook his head as he slipped past. He wanted to get to the room, and not think to clearly about where he was.

He passed open doors, cloaked in shadows he could barely make out the men laying on the narrow bunks, some face up and watching him go past, and still others face down, presenting themselves for anyone to sample. There was a musky smell in the air and the backbeat of bad electronica music gave him the sense of being on another world, a place where the social order of things had been replaced by a code of immorality.

He sighed with relief when he finally found his room and slipped into the closet sized room, really only big enough for the bunk and a locker. He removed his pocketknife from his pocket and slipped it under the plastic wrapped mattress with its grimy white cotton sheet, slowly peeling off his clothes and locking his valuables away in the locker. He weighed the cell phone Will had leant him in his hand a moment before he locked that too in the locker.

At last he was alone, tying the towel about his waist he sat down on the edge of the bunk and studied the gram of coke. It was an old habit; one that he had started when he first hit the streets and looking for an escape, any escape that would let him deal with the world. The only way to escape the dreariness of life of doing what ever it took to make a living was to forget completely. Some he had never liked, heroine was too addictive and although it was pleasurable it shortened life spans considerably, each does took years off of the end of a persons life, he had never touched the stuff. But there were others he found allowed him to forget, at least for a little while, who he was and the things he had done.

He closed his hand around the bag tightly, biting his lip till it bled. He was who he was, he was the sum of his environment, and he had been raised this way. His mother had been a user, an alcoholic prostitute in a brothel in Vancouver a miserable city similar to Toronto. His Father, his mother could only tell him that he was a businessman and that he had paid her well...

He had grown into puberty watching her service countless men, watched her waste away from the beautiful woman to a shell that cared only where her next fix was coming from and how she was going to afford it. Her pimp, a cruel thug named Tyriq that garnished eighty percent of her earnings and routinely beat her if she held back on him, had come to her one day, Marc had barely turned twelve, to tell her that he would no longer support her free loading offspring. That he would either have to leave or work.

He'd left. Hitting the streets and trying to sort the mess his life had become. It had started with shoplifting, stealing just enough for him to eat. But eventually he found himself falling back on his mother's trade. Like Mother like son... fate had its cruel way of forcing its will upon someone.

Marc shuddered at the memory of that first betrayal of himself ... of the screams inside his own head as he struggled to find some sense of sanity. He'd hated himself at first, but he had adapted, grown used to it. When you were starving shivering in the cold it was amazing what you would do for a hot meal and a warm, dry place to sleep. That was how he ended up in the Jail cell.

Juvenile detention in British Colombia had been hard. But he had actually had a chance to put his feet on the ground, go to school and try to catch up with shit, and had done well until they had let him go. He had once again hit the streets not knowing what he was going to do with himself. So he had enrolled in Adult education courses to finish his high school. Eventually graduating getting accepted to the University of Toronto, and after that...well the rest was history.

He opened his hand and stared at the gram again, his way of forgetting.

He put it down on the mattress beside him and slipped out of the room, he needed to use the washroom before he became catatonic. Out again in the hallway, he was suddenly aware that he had left his pocketknife in the room. Not that he could have hidden it on him wearing only a towel. He decided to hurry a bit faster.

There was a collection of younger kids loitering close to the bathrooms, a couple in a hot tub that burbled happily set off to one side. They eyed him appraisingly as he walked past them, no doubt wondering how much he charged his customers, and if they would be competing for work that night.

He heard a young twink boy whisper something derogatory towards him as he went back to enticing an old man that made it clear he was interested in purchasing a little bit of time. And Marc shook his head as he allowed himself to collapse into a bathroom stall, ignoring the sounds from the stall next to his.

What was he doing there? He could have gone to a hundred different places in Toronto, done something fun, and seen a movie or something. Instead he was there, in that dark place, for what? His head rested on the stall wall and he closed his eyes. And for what?

It was his own refusal to let himself be happy... he didn't deserve it.

When he emerged from the stall he was taken by surprise. He hadn't expected the two Frenchmen and the weasel dealer from the night club. He knew immediately why they were there. He regretted not finding someway to bring his pocketknife with him, and he looked at each of them nervously.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"Your room key." The Ringleader said extending his hand.

Marc shook his head, as the first Frenchman's punch send him off his feet, he crashed to the hard tiled floor. He gasped, the wind knocked out of him as the second Frenchman reached down to tear the key from his hand.

The sharp click of an automatic cocking was audible even over the trance music.

"I suggest you let him go." Will stated standing in the doorway to the washroom, the hand holding the gun never wavered as he stared down the ringleader, the gun itself shone in the dim light of the hall.

The Frenchmen released the young man, and Marc scrambled to his feet rubbing the bruised jaw. Will studied the street thugs in their towels, he was the only one fully clothed and looked all the more menacing for it wearing his great coat and gun in hand staring at them. Marc walked away from the street thugs, as Will put a hand protectively on the young man's shoulder.

"Lets get your things and leave.' He said as he released the hammer slowly and slipped Lucas's gun back into the folds of his coat.

It took just a few moments to return to the small room, and for Marc to start to pull his clothes on. He was glad to be leaving. As he sat on the edge of the bed pulling on his shoes he looked at Will who waited patiently, and wondered why the man had come to get him. He reached out a hand to find the small bag of cocaine he had dropped earlier, but couldn't. When he looked up at Will, he wasn't surprised to see the other man examining it.

"I can explain..." Marc began.

"When we get back to the house," Will replied as he flipped open his cell phone, "I got him Brody, can you get the Jeep round?"

The passed the drive home in silence, both seated in the back of the Jeep watching the city speed past them as Brody drove swept round to the Don Valley Parkway. Will could have said anything, but nothing seemed appropriate, so he simply stared out of the window at the night. Once they pulled up to the house he glanced over at Marc, shrugging as he turned his key in the lock and allowing them both inside.

Brody shrugged and nodded to them both, giving them some space as he vanished down to join Jared in the basement.

Will kicked off his shoes and began to walk up stairs, leaving Marc to catch up.

"I'm sorry..." Marc began again.

Will slipped off his heavy woollen great coat and hung it neatly away into the hall closet, he turned and opened the bathroom door, running some water so he could brush his teeth, he glanced up at Marc who had found a seat on the edge of the bed and watched him as he prepared to go to sleep. He spat out the toothpaste, and rinsed his mouth out with water. Finally towelling off his face and crossing the hall into the bedroom.

He undid his shirt and leaned on the doorframe looking down at the stranger who had turned his life upside down and held up the bag of cocaine. "I don't like drug addicts."

"I'm not an addict!" Marc bit back, "I was looking to have some fun. I said I was sorry."

"You're damn lucky Brody saw you." Will continued, "I don't know you from Adam, we've only just met, I need to know what I got myself into when I let you stay with me."

"You had me followed?" Marc asked in disgust, as he kicked back into the bed, "I can't believe you..."

"No," Will corrected, you weren't exactly being discreet. I may not seem like it sometimes, but I am still your friend and I am not naive. I know your background and I know what you've been through. I also know what your capable of, that's why I let you stay."

He sat down on the other side of the bed opposite Marc and sighed, "I'm not going to lecture you, but I am going to insist that while you stay here you stay off this stuff." He shook the bag, "got it?"

Marc nodded, "Yeah."

Will nodded as he got up and walked out of the guest room, stopping in the doorway he looked back at the young man staring back at him, "Good `cause I wouldn't do it if I didn't..."

Marc lifted his head, "Oh?"

"Good night Marc." Will chuckled as he closed the bedroom door and walked next door, collapsing into his own bed and rolled over; glad the night was finally over.