Free Fall from Grace by Wayne Arthurson

hookers.
    Artistic types had also looked to the neighborhood as a place to buy (and then renovate) a cheap house without selling out or working a day job to pay for a huge mortgage. A good idea because, though the houses were old, they were also big and sturdy, with deep yards and paved alleys in the back.
    I parked the car in the lot, taking note of the mayor’s SUV parked in the handicapped spot by the front door. In my head, I wrote a few sentences of a story describing this infraction but pushed the idea aside. No doubt the mayor would be embarrassed by such a story, but was it an actual story? The mayor did this all the time, everyone knew about it, but it was one of those things the city decided to let go. Instead, I probably did what everyone else did when they saw his shiny SUV, I kicked up gravel as I walked by.
    The main hall was filled with various members of the city’s Aboriginal community, people in suits looking like Joe Businessman with Aboriginal faces, folks in leather fringed jackets, and others in various types of casual dress—T-shirts, leather jackets, jeans. It could have been any gathering at any community hall in the city, but for the few white faces, the mayor and his entourage near the stage, and me.
    Glances were sent my way as I entered and then, once I was filed away in the “another white man” category, I was put aside. I wasn’t ignored; a white man couldn’t be ignored when he walked into a room full of natives, the same way a native person wasn’t ignored when he walked into any restaurant, club, or public space in the city. The difference was that when a white man walked into a room full of natives, he wasn’t automatically assumed to be drunk and looking for a handout.
    The mayor stood on the stage as he gave a speech. His Worship Robert Johnson was the kind of mayor you’d expect for our fine city at this point in time: white, nearing middle age, an ex-CFL place kicker who turned to selling cars after winning his fourth Grey Cup. Stocky without being fat, he was friendly, with a big wide smile that made him look like he was honestly happy to see you and wanted to help. He wasn’t known for his brightness; he had the tendency to think that the best idea in the world came from his most recent conversation. But then again, he wasn’t stupid; he was quick with a joke and had an almost savant ability to remember the faces of people he’d met only once.
    But there was always something about Mayor Johnson that bugged me. Maybe it was the fact that no matter how nice his suits looked or how many times people called him Your Worship, et cetera, he couldn’t seem to shake that car salesman look. Although I could hear the mayor speaking, I didn’t really listen to what he was saying. It was something about building bridges between the city and community, as if the Aboriginal community was separate from the rest of the city like some kind of mysterious island. I clicked on my recorder. I knew I should also have taken notes, but I figured one of the communications flunkies would have a transcript of his speech in case I missed something.
    There were a bunch of other suits lined up on stage, various government and business types who were all part of this new Aboriginal liaison initiative, and it seemed that everyone was supposed to say something. Larry had also said I was expected to say a few words on behalf of the paper, introduce myself, and pass my card around. So I moved to the front, waiting for my name to be called so I could shake hands with the mayor and the elders on stage and say something really intelligent to convince the crowd (and myself) that I could do this job without offending them.
    I reached the stairs to the left of the stage and felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked back and saw Lester Ghostkeeper, the shooter from the paper. Like all shooters, he was wearing a camera around his neck along with a brown vest covered with pockets. Despite this uniform, with his