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  THE EXILE BOOK OF NEW

  CANADIAN NOIR

  Edited by

  Claude Lalumière and David Nickle

  The Exile Book of Anthology Series

  Number Ten

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  The Exile book of new Canadian noir / edited by

  Claude Lalumière and David Nickle.

  (The Exile book of anthology series ; number ten)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55096-460-8 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-55096-463-9 (pdf).--

  ISBN 978-1-55096-461-5 (epub).--ISBN 978-1-55096-462-2 (mobi)

  1. Noir fiction, Canadian (English). 2. Canadian fiction (English)--21st century. I. Nickle, David, 1964-, editor II. Lalumière, Claude, editor

  III. Title: New Canadian noir. IV. Series: Exile book of anthology series ; no. 10

  PS8323.N64E95 2015 C813'.087208 C2014-908418-8 C2014-908419-6

  Copyrights to the stories rest with the authors © 2015

  Published by Exile Editions Ltd ~ www.ExileEditions.com

  144483 Southgate Road 14 – GD, Holstein ON N0G 2A0 Canada.

  Publication Copyright © Exile Editions, 2014. All rights reserved.

  Digital formatting by Michael P. Callaghan

  ePUB and MOBI versions by Melissa Campos Mendivil

  We gratefully acknowledge the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), the Ontario Arts Council–an agency of the Ontario Government, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation for their support toward our publishing activities.

  Exile Editions eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of this eBook, in whole or in part, without the expressed written consent of the publisher; to do so is an infringement of the copyright and other intellectual property laws. Any inquiries regarding publication rights, translation rights, or film rights – or if you consider this version to be a pirated copy – please contact us via e-mail at: [email protected]

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  ALL NEW, ALL CANADIAN, ALL NOIR

  Claude Lalumière

  SUN MOON STARS RAIN

  Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  MOOT

  Corey Redekop

  DONNER PARTIES

  Keith Cadieux

  UNREDEEMABLE

  Michael S. Chong

  THIS IS THE PARTY

  Rich Larson

  HEDGEHOGS

  Kevin Cockle

  SAFETY

  Michael Mirolla

  PEARLS AND SWINE

  Colleen Anderson

  CHOKE THE CHICKEN

  Shane Simmons

  GOOD FOR GRAPES

  Kelly Robson

  A SQUARE YARD OF REAL ESTATE

  Steve Vernon

  JACK WON

  Edward McDermott

  BURNT OFFERINGS

  Hermine Robinson

  CIRCLE OF BLOOD

  Simon Strantzas

  ROOKER

  Laird Long

  THE LAST GOOD LOOK

  Chadwick Ginther

  NUNAVUT THUNDERFUCK

  Dale L. Sproule

  FERN LEAVES UNFURLING IN THE DARK-GREEN SHADE

  David Menear

  THREE-STEP PROGRAM

  Alex C. Renwick

  A NOTHINGALE

  Patrick Fleming

  LADY BLUE AND THE LAMPREYS

  Ada Hoffmann

  THE FRIENDLY NEWFOUNDLANDER

  Joel Thomas Hynes

  AFTERWORD

  CANADA POST ALWAYS RINGS TWICE

  David Nickle

  AUTHORS’ BIOGRAPHIES

  INTRODUCTION

  ALL NEW, ALL CANADIAN, ALL NOIR

  New Canadian Noir is not an anthology of crime fiction. Not quite. Call it crime-ish.

  One of the most exciting things about fiction these days is that, after going through several generations of relatively rigorous boundaries, genres are bleeding into each other with casual abandon, and that seems to be especially vivid in Canada, where the old, tired clichés of CanLit are being retired in favour of a more diverse, less easily defined, less confining literary repertoire.

  Noir, to my mind, has never been a genre so much as a tone, an overlay, a mood. It just happens to have been applied more explicitly to crime fiction than to other genres.

  When we conceived of this book, we resisted the temptation to define what we meant by noir. We were much more interested in what it meant to Canadian writers. But we did want to make sure that writers knew that we weren’t merely looking for the familiar formula of the hard-luck grifter or hard-boiled detective being undone by the twin perils of nihilistic self-destructiveness and merciless violence (but, hey, we’d take a look at that stuff, too). We wanted to see it all – every possible iteration of what noir could mean to daring writers unafraid to explore the dark and weird interzones of their imaginations. Our call for submissions reflected that desire; we announced that we wanted “dark fiction that spans across genres to capture the whole spectrum of the noir esthetic: its traditional form within crime fiction; its imaginative forays into horror, fantasy, and surrealism; its dystopian consequences within speculative fiction; its disquieting mood in erotica; its grim journeys into frontier fiction; its stark expression in literary realism.” The stories we received surpassed our yearning for diversity.

  Although we did not ask our all-Canadian roster of writers to limit the settings to Canada, we were very happy to see noir portraits of major Canadian cities – Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver, Halifax, Calgary; to explore far-flung regions such as Nunavut and the Okanagan Valley; to have one story narrated with a pronounced Newfoundland inflection.

  What this anthology is, is a snapshot of the Canadian noir imagination as it is being expressed now, across both genres and geography. It is noir. It is pan-Canadian. And it’s all new.

  Claude Lalumière

  SUN MOON STARS RAIN

  Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  James.

  Beautiful, beautiful James. Not the same boy I’d first met all those years ago. A few strands of grey in his blond hair, a few too many sleepless nights leaving a mark on his face, but still a strikingly handsome man beneath the ratty jacket and grime.

  Folks call him JD or Jimmy, but he’s still James to me.

  “What do you want? It’s late,” I say.

  “Xochi, can I come in?” he asks.

  “Didn’t you hear me? It’s late. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  “Xochi, please. Come on. Let me in for a few minutes.”

  “Can’t do.”

  “Xochi, I really need your help.”

  I first met James when we were both nineteen at a party in Chinatown which he’d crashed. I was in love with him within an hour. It made me physically sick, his absence creating a gnawing void in my stomach, his presence sending me into bouts of hyperactivity. Agonies of longing and tremulous desires that subsided once it became evident James would prefer to shack up with a post-apocalyptic mutant squid-ape rather than me if the occasion presented itself.

  As a result, fifteen years later, I was over my childish infatuation but never quite immune to the charm of James. He’d imprinted on me, I suppose.

  I let him in and James begins looking for a place to sit down. For a studi
o apartment in Vancouver my place is actually quite large. They’ve subdivided apartments so much that people can literally be living in a closet, but this is an older building and there’s more footage than you’d expect. I even have a little den attached to the side, which I don’t like very much because the previous tenant painted suns and stars and a great moon over the ceiling, all in these girly purples and pinks and golds, but I’ve always been too lazy to paint over it. The super won’t do it. So there it stays.

  Ten years from now I suppose it’ll be swallowed by the sea, what with the global warming and all. But that doesn’t concern me. There’s always the Yukon, which is looking quite pleasant, as the world gets hotter with all the El Niños pounding at the coasts.

  At some point in the distant past James and I had talked about trying to see how things were in the far north, final frontier and all, à la White Fang. But he’d gone and become a junkie and an alcoholic – which, I guess, at least is true to the spirit of Jack London – and I’d never really done any of the things we’d yakked about. Then again, I guess most things don’t work out the way we plan them. Not for people like us, anyway.

  “What is it – women, drugs, or money?” I ask as I walk to the kitchen and pour myself some gin. I don’t offer James a glass. It’s the expensive variety and I’m not into sharing my spoils. He drinks too much already, anyway.

  James moves the boxes with books I have on the couch, takes off his jacket, and sits down. I can see the jacket has holes all over the place. Much good it must do him on a rainy day, which is every day in this part of the country.

  “You really read all of these?” he asks.

  “Don’t say some stupid shit you know the answer to just to deflect my question,” I tell him, ‘cause yeah, I read, and not the e-reader thingy. Books are supposed to be artifacts, not just text on a screen, ya know.”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “So it’s all three,” I say. “Look, I’m not lending you money.”

  “I didn’t talk about lending me anything,” he says.

  “Well, there’s only one damn reason why you’d crawl over here.”

  “Xochi, I need a gun.”

  “I want a pony. Preferably in a curry sauce.”

  “I need it.”

  “Yeah, like I can get one.”

  “You’re a security guard.”

  “Working in Canada, man. They barely allow us to carry a fucking flashlight and just to have handcuffs I had to pass an AST course. And I had to buy my own handcuffs, damn assholes wouldn’t provide them. Did you have an aneurysm and forget about that?”

  Truth is, I do have a gun. More than one gun: there’s the one I keep behind the picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe (she looks like a nice lady) and another one on the shelf, in a hollowed-out book (arts and crafts count for something). But I don’t trust James with that shit. First thing he’d do with a weapon is sell it or accidentally blow off a foot. Moron.

  “I really do need it. Look, it is women and it is money. But not the way you think.”

  “Fuck if it isn’t. You’ve got no money to pay for some new prostitute that’s caught your fancy and—”

  “It’s Christine.”

  Christine Chao? That was a surprise. Christine was ancient history. James had had a dozen relationships and more than a dozen years to mope after her. “What about her?”

  “She contacted me two weeks ago. Said she needed to talk. So I said yes. Turns out she’s dating this guy, some important bastard who ain’t so nice. Lots of dough. She wants to leave him but she can’t. He won’t let her. So she’s trying to figure some way out of town. Wants to try her luck overseas, cut all ties. She wants to start again, new name. She’s wondering if I can help her.”

  “Forging papers?”

  “No, catching salmon. Of course forging papers,” James mutters.

  “So you do it.”

  “No. I try to do it. Before I can finish the job and give her the passport there’s something on the net that Christine Chao’s gone missing and next thing I know two big fuckers are looking for me at The Yellow Door.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Can I be more specific? Two dudes with knives, how about that. Look, my roommate’s not answering the phone, and Christine’s vanished. I need to lay low for a couple days, get that gun, and get my ass over to Mexico.”

  Good old Mexico. Down to Cancun, no doubt, like every other loser with a lack of imagination who’d run afoul of someone on the West Coast and thought the streets in the south were paved with tanned babes and cash.

  I finish my drink and set the glass down on the kitchen table. “You can’t stay here,” I say, grabbing his jacket and throwing it at him. “I have no guns and it’s past my bedtime. Get your ass out.”

  “Look, Christine gave me this. As a down payment, you know,” he says, pulling out a gold necklace and showing it to me. “You can have it.”

  “No, she didn’t give it to you as payment. You would have hawked it if she had. Did she steal it? Are people looking for this piece of shit?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is I’ve been having some rotten luck and I’m ready to pay whatever it takes to get rid of it, okay?”

  That’s the thing about me, you know. I can always get rid of James’s problems. I remember when he dated Christine and the looks she gave me, like she was wondering why some hot smooth-talker like James would be hanging out with a bitch as ugly as me, with the fucked-up teeth and the fucked-up skin. And it was, it has always been, because I could save him from himself. Maybe there was a time I liked being his own personal superhero, but that shit got old real fast.

  “Hey, look, all I’m saying is let me hang out for a bit, let me figure this. “

  “You’ve gone from wanting a damn gun to a hotel room. Nice bargain you strike.”

  “Alright, just…just a roof for the night. I’ll sleep on the floor, not even the couch. What’s that gonna cost you? We’ve known each other for what, fifteen years?”

  “Fifteen long fucking years, James,” I mutter.

  “Well, yeah. You can’t throw fifteen years down the drain. All the stuff I did for you…”

  That amounts to barely nothing, of course.

  “…come on, Xochi.”

  “I’ll say the same thing I said the last three times you got yourself into something stupid: fuck off.”

  A knock on the door makes us both turn our heads. Before I can say anything there comes a loud voice I recognize.

  “Xo Doza, it’s Wick.”

  I motion to James to head into the den, and he does. I don’t grab my gun. It would look too suspicious. But I have my knife tucked safely at the wrist.

  I open the door, and there’s Wick with two dudes I haven’t met before. But if they’re with Wick then they’re also bounty hunters sniffing some trail. Bail bondsmen and bounty hunters are illegal here, but Wick and her friends don’t exactly do stuff by the book.

  “What’s up, Wick?” I ask.

  “I got a line out for your buddy JD is what’s up.”

  “He’s been playing cards again? Don’t bother. He always manages to get the cash.”

  “You think they’d get me to collect some measly tab? Who the hell do you think I am?”

  “Well, I have no fucking idea what you’re doing lately, and I don’t care. Fuck off. I’ve got a gig in a couple of hours and I need my beauty sleep.”

  Wick takes out her phone and shows it to me. Big round number, she shows me. Lotta zeroes. I tilt my head and frown.

  “That much?”

  “That much, baby.”

  “Who’s looking for him?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Have you seen him?”

  “He owes me money.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No, Wick. Haven’t seen him. Now let me get my power nap,” I say and move to close the door.

  Wick steps forward. She’s tall; she’s a damn six-foot-two of Amazonian muscle and I’m
much shorter, much lighter. I’m knives and punches and I work the occasional special event. Lately I’ve been doing night work at an abandoned factory. Lots of foot patrols and chasing bums away. Bums. Not the same line of work as Wick.

  “Look, Xo Doza, girl, I like you. You’re smart. You’re quiet. You’re a nice person. But this is a lot of money. Tell you what. I give you a 10 percenter if you let me walk quietly into your apartment. If you don’t let me, I walk in, break your skull, and smash your boy’s face into a pulp anyway. So you get a smashed skull and no money. I’ll give you three minutes to gather your thoughts.”

  My first thought is: no way. This is James we are talking about.

  My second thought is: exactly.

  If our positions were reversed I know James would gracefully bow out of the way and let three fuckers beat me up, no problem, ma’am.

  My third is whatever shit James has gotten himself into is too thick for me to wade into. It’s probably time for the Yukon, anyway.

  James was bound to have a bad ending. I just expected him to go in a slightly different fashion, killed by too much booze and drugs, not Christine Chao.

  I have a knife but it’s three of them. James is no good for fighting, couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. That’s me and three, then.

  Sure, once upon a time I was crazy-crazy for James but that was when I was nineteen and James was this pristine daydream.

  If I could grab my gun and put a couple of good ones in Wick, maybe. But what about the other two?

  James.

  Beautiful, beautiful James.

  I stand by the doorway thinking very, very hard and to tell you the truth, I don’t know, man.

  What’s that gonna cost you?

  I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.

  MOOT

  Corey Redekop

  “You’re moot.”

  She was worth a stare, and knew it. Late twenties. A face of superbly crafted beauty. Five feet nine inches of unblemished curvature sheathed within a dress formulated to be gawked at.

  Not what I was used to seeing at nine in the morning. Or any time. My clientele tended toward the shabby.

  She’d walked in as I was polishing my eye. Dumb luck I hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on. The dim from the morning sun barely cut the smog, let alone the window that hadn’t known clean since the Allies won. I popped it in before she could notice.