her.
She didn't respond. He looked at her bum as she walked. It was nice and small. When he raised his eyes a little higher he realized that she was standing in the door of the cafe looking at him looking at her bum. He looked away.
A minute later she hurried back to the car. He rolled the window down again to collect the change. But she ignored him and walked round to the other side and slipped into the passenger seat. 'She looked like she'd never seen a hundred before,' Madeline said breezily, then looked expectantly at Corrigan. 'The least you could do,' she said, 'is give me a lift back to my car.' She handed the change to him. He started to count it.
'Don't you trust me?' she said.
'No,' said Corrigan. He took out five dollars and handed it back to her. She looked confused. 'What's that for?'
'A taxi.' He reached across her and pushed the door open again. 'I told you, I'm in a hurry.'
She nodded. Then she pulled the door closed again and said: 'Who's Tarriha?'
'What?'
'Annie Spitz mentioned Tarriha. What's he, another Indian?'
'That's Native American.'
'Native American. Is that what he is?' Corrigan nodded. 'What was he doing? He her lawyer?'
'Translating,' Corrigan said.
Her brow crinkled. 'Translating what?'
'What do you think?'
'Do you know where he lives?'
'I could tell you if I knew you better, but at the moment I have my reservations.' He smiled.
'You can trust me,' she said. She smiled winningly, but not winningly enough. Corrigan shook his head. Another time, another place. 'Ask around,' he said. 'You're the reporter.'
She looked at him. The smile had become a scowl. 'OK,' she said, 'I get the message.' She crumpled the five dollars in her hand and dropped it into his lap. 'I'll survive,' she said, and got out of the car.
13
Pongo looked up. He was a pitiful sight. 'I want you to understand,' Corrigan said, 'that I have no idea who you are, and I haven't a fucking clue what your songs are like. On that basis, shall we proceed?'
Corrigan pulled out a chair and set it down in front of him. He straddled it. Stirling remained at the door. There were tears on Pongo's face and snot above his top lip. His eyes were poisoned rabbit red and his gums were bleeding. He was one step down from miserable, coke-miserable, or lack-of-coke-miserable. Diet Coke. 'I wanna make a deal,' he said.
'A record deal?' Stirling said from the door.
Pongo buried his face in his hands. His shoulders started to shake.
Corrigan reached forward and slowly eased the hands away from Pongo's face. 'Son, there's a little girl has died. She fell out of your car. And you had an awful lot of drugs in that car. Do you mind telling me what kind of a deal you had in mind?'
'I can't tell you. They'll kill me.'
'Of course you can.'
'I can't!' Pongo sat back on the bed and wiped something green and stringy away from under his nose with the sleeve of his white jumpsuit. 'And even if I did, they'd kill you. So what's the point?'
Stirling rolled his eyes. 'Just tell him,' Stirling said. 'You told me.'
Corrigan sighed. 'Son, do you want me to call your lawyer?'
Pongo sprang forwards. 'God-fuck no. He's part of it.'
'Part of what?'
'Can't you get me the FBI? Please?
'Son, we are not getting the FBI for you. This is Canada.'
'K-A-N-A-D-A,' Stirling said from the door.
Pongo shook his head against his hands. Then his eyes appeared above his fingers. 'I can't go to prison,' he whispered, 'they'll kill me.'
'I didn't say they'd kill you,' Stirling said, 'I said they'd fuck you.'
'You don't understand!'
Corrigan shook his head. 'Plainly not,' he said. He turned for the door.
'Wait!'
He stopped.
'Can we make a deal? To keep me out of prison. To let me stay here. I like this cell. It's good.'
'It doesn't work like that, son.'
'C'mon!' He was having trouble catching his breath.
'Just take it easy, son.'
He took a deep gulp of air and then let it slowly out. 'You mean,' he said, 'if I offered you something big, so incredibly big
She didn't respond. He looked at her bum as she walked. It was nice and small. When he raised his eyes a little higher he realized that she was standing in the door of the cafe looking at him looking at her bum. He looked away.
A minute later she hurried back to the car. He rolled the window down again to collect the change. But she ignored him and walked round to the other side and slipped into the passenger seat. 'She looked like she'd never seen a hundred before,' Madeline said breezily, then looked expectantly at Corrigan. 'The least you could do,' she said, 'is give me a lift back to my car.' She handed the change to him. He started to count it.
'Don't you trust me?' she said.
'No,' said Corrigan. He took out five dollars and handed it back to her. She looked confused. 'What's that for?'
'A taxi.' He reached across her and pushed the door open again. 'I told you, I'm in a hurry.'
She nodded. Then she pulled the door closed again and said: 'Who's Tarriha?'
'What?'
'Annie Spitz mentioned Tarriha. What's he, another Indian?'
'That's Native American.'
'Native American. Is that what he is?' Corrigan nodded. 'What was he doing? He her lawyer?'
'Translating,' Corrigan said.
Her brow crinkled. 'Translating what?'
'What do you think?'
'Do you know where he lives?'
'I could tell you if I knew you better, but at the moment I have my reservations.' He smiled.
'You can trust me,' she said. She smiled winningly, but not winningly enough. Corrigan shook his head. Another time, another place. 'Ask around,' he said. 'You're the reporter.'
She looked at him. The smile had become a scowl. 'OK,' she said, 'I get the message.' She crumpled the five dollars in her hand and dropped it into his lap. 'I'll survive,' she said, and got out of the car.
13
Pongo looked up. He was a pitiful sight. 'I want you to understand,' Corrigan said, 'that I have no idea who you are, and I haven't a fucking clue what your songs are like. On that basis, shall we proceed?'
Corrigan pulled out a chair and set it down in front of him. He straddled it. Stirling remained at the door. There were tears on Pongo's face and snot above his top lip. His eyes were poisoned rabbit red and his gums were bleeding. He was one step down from miserable, coke-miserable, or lack-of-coke-miserable. Diet Coke. 'I wanna make a deal,' he said.
'A record deal?' Stirling said from the door.
Pongo buried his face in his hands. His shoulders started to shake.
Corrigan reached forward and slowly eased the hands away from Pongo's face. 'Son, there's a little girl has died. She fell out of your car. And you had an awful lot of drugs in that car. Do you mind telling me what kind of a deal you had in mind?'
'I can't tell you. They'll kill me.'
'Of course you can.'
'I can't!' Pongo sat back on the bed and wiped something green and stringy away from under his nose with the sleeve of his white jumpsuit. 'And even if I did, they'd kill you. So what's the point?'
Stirling rolled his eyes. 'Just tell him,' Stirling said. 'You told me.'
Corrigan sighed. 'Son, do you want me to call your lawyer?'
Pongo sprang forwards. 'God-fuck no. He's part of it.'
'Part of what?'
'Can't you get me the FBI? Please?
'Son, we are not getting the FBI for you. This is Canada.'
'K-A-N-A-D-A,' Stirling said from the door.
Pongo shook his head against his hands. Then his eyes appeared above his fingers. 'I can't go to prison,' he whispered, 'they'll kill me.'
'I didn't say they'd kill you,' Stirling said, 'I said they'd fuck you.'
'You don't understand!'
Corrigan shook his head. 'Plainly not,' he said. He turned for the door.
'Wait!'
He stopped.
'Can we make a deal? To keep me out of prison. To let me stay here. I like this cell. It's good.'
'It doesn't work like that, son.'
'C'mon!' He was having trouble catching his breath.
'Just take it easy, son.'
He took a deep gulp of air and then let it slowly out. 'You mean,' he said, 'if I offered you something big, so incredibly big
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