Free Milk Chicken Bomb by Andrew Wedderburn Page B

and Lou Ellis both scratch their chins. McClaghan smokes.
    I’ll be back next week for that primer, she says. Late next week, says McClaghan. She stares at him. Her lips are narrow and she breathes through her nose. Next week, she says. She turns around and walks back up the sidewalk.
    Goddamn, says Lou Ellis.
    McClaghan squints. Once she’s far enough away down the sidewalk he picks up his new telephone, punches the numbers. Fleer, he says. Right, damn cold. Hey. What? No, at work. Listen, have you got thermostats? An old one, I guess. For a boiler. What? You know, hot water and steam, piped all around to radiators. Yeah, there’s a few different makes, I guess. I guess steam. They don’t build gravity boilers anymore. ’Cause they’re not safe. He holds the phone between his shoulder and cheek and smokes. Yeah? Just one? Look, put it under the counter. Don’t sell it to anyone. What? Sure, I’ll buy it eventually. But don’t sell it to anybody. I don’t know, it might be a while. Not to anybody. Right. What? Fleer, the RCMP can’t curl for shit. Keep your money. No, the Elks. TheNanton Elks will win that match. Don’t sell that thermostat. Right.
    He pushes a button and sets the phone down in his lap. Glares at Deke. Tell that fat Russian he’s lucky not to live under a bridge, says McClaghan. Right, says Deke. A bridge.
    At the credit union, the doors slide open automatically. We get in line in the roped aisles. People shift on their feet and pop their gum, some of them still soggy from the rain.
    Now, you don’t need to talk, Deke says to me. Just look respectable. Give them those big eyes, like when you found out that all the fish had died. Sure thing, Deke, I say. Davis, Deke says, Davis Howe. Right, Davis Howe.
    The man ahead of us wears a wide-brimmed straw hat. Flat, stringy hair pokes out from underneath. He holds a thick black leather book under his arm. When the teller waves he takes two long steps and sets the book down heavily on the counter. I need $4,400 in cash, he says. Withdrawn from my account. Also, I need twenty-seven envelopes. The teller plays with her pen. Sir, we aren’t authorized to give out that much. On the fourteenth of October, bellows the Hat Man, I stood in this line and watched you dispense $5,600 in cash to Glen Trottner from Black Diamond, a man whose credentials I could say a thing or two toward. I have the funds available in my account and I’m sure that the institution will remain solvent. He drums his fingers on the cover of the book. The teller backs up and whispers to another teller.
    They bring him the envelopes and go off to whisper at a desk. The Hat Man takes a thick black marker out of his jacket, starts writing on the envelopes. I stand up on my tiptoes but can’t see. Hey, Deke, I whisper, what’s he writing? Davis, says Deke. What’s he writing, Davis? People’s names, says Deke. One name on each envelope.
    Hello, I’d like to apply for a loan please, my name is Howe, Davis Howe. I’ve brought these forms. And here are some affidavits, and releases.
    The teller scribbles on her white pad. How much do you need a loan for?
    I need $400,000.
    She coughs. She scrunches up her eyebrows real tight, like she practices scrunching them. We can’t loan you $400,000.
    This here, says Deke, is a signed testimonial to my credentials and character. Notice all the signatures.
    We can’t lend anyone $400,000. We haven’t got the capital. We can’t cover the liability.
    I have these forms.
    You might try in Calgary, says the teller, with a larger institution. Someone with a broader investment base.
    Deke leans on the counter. How much money can you lend me?
    It depends, she says, on what you need it for. Are you starting a business? Deke picks up his papers, taps them on the counter to make the edges all even.
    I need to buy a submarine.
    A what?
    A submarine. A surplus Soviet diesel