The Blue Helmet

“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.”

I
T 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.”

“G
OT 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.”