We waited patiently and watched carefully for days, but there was no retaliation. The days turned into weeks, so we looked into it further. As it turns out, they were scared shitless; word on the street was that they left the area after something spooked them. To verify, we checked out the house, and they were gone. The weeks turned into months and months without seeing our friends again, so I stopped caring.
I bought a car. It wasn’t anything special, just an old ’69 Cadillac; I wanted a slicker car, like a Shelby, but I figured I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. I drove it around quite a bit, but I found that Toronto traffic and pedestrians generally made me an angry man, so I tended to drive in moderation. Yeah, night driving wasn’t too bad, but it got ridiculous during the day.
On this particular day, I was walking. I had to run a few errands, which were basically comprised of buying some new clothes and some groceries, but that was about it. I don’t really have anything exciting to say; I got two pairs of jeans that fit me very well and I bought some food.
I turn the corner right before my apartment, when I see something peculiar. I turn around and go back quickly; there are two guys in suits sitting in front of my place reading the newspaper. It wouldn’t be too much of a surprise if there was, say, a bus stop in front of my place, but no; they’re waiting for someone. I peek back out. It looks like they’re been here for a little while, since they went through at least two coffees a piece. I stay behind the corner, pull out my cell phone, and dial Bill.
“Pick up,” I say, hoping it’ll help cause Bill to be home.
It rings twice, and then he answers it, “Yeah?”
“Bill, it’s Max. Two cops are outside my apartment. I think they’re waiting for me.”
He pauses. “Like, they pulled up in front of your place with a cop car? They’re just sitting there?”
I peek back around the corner, so as to give an accurate description, “Well, no. They’re in suit suits, not cop uniforms. But I can tell they’re cops. I need you to get Sammy and come over, quick. I’ll meet you at the back; we have some cleaning to do.”
I sneak around to the back, and both of them are here shortly. “Where’s Caroline?” Sammy asks as we go inside.
“She’s out with friends, thank goodness. I’ll bet they buzzed up here and didn’t get anyone, so they’re waiting.”
We get up to my apartment, and I let us in. “Okay, fellas,” I say, “Let’s clean this up as fast as we can. Remember, neatness counts. And – Sammy, wait!”
He freezes in place. I continue, “Whatever you do, don’t go near the window. If they see someone up here, the jig’s up.”
We take a good half-hour making sure there’s nothing around that can incriminate us. By the end of it, we load all the glassware and ingredients into my car. “Here, Bill. You drive, and I’ll have to walk up to the front with my groceries now,” I toss him my keys. “Oh, and take this,” I take off my holster and revolver and hand them to him.
I start to turn around, but then I stop and say, “Wait. Remember, drive the speed limit. Oh, and don’t do anything stupid like getting in an accident; something like that’s liable to get us all in jail.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. We’re in the clear,” he reassures me.
I sneak back around and walk up to my apartment with my keys out, pretending to be oblivious to the two men. I see one motion toward me, and the other looks, at which point they approach me. “Maxwell Turner?” one asks me.
I put a puzzled look on my face, “Uh...Hello there. How can I...help you...?”
The other one speaks, “I’m Detective Flannigan and this is Detective Lubic.”
I shake Lubic’s hand, and Flannigan continues, “Can we come up with you to your apartment, sir?”
I ask, “What seems to be the problem?”
“We’ve got a report of a methamphetamine lab in your apartment,” answers Lubic. “We’d just like to look around a bit.”
“Oh-okay,” I continue my confusion, “If you have to. Are you sure you don’t have the wrong person? I can assure you-”
“Sir,” Lubic cuts me off, “just let us in.”
I lead them up and into my apartment, and they proceed to look around. “Would you two care for anything? Coffee?” I say, as I think of the irony of offering them coffee after seeing several empty Tim Horton’s coffee cups at their feet outside.
“No, we’re just going to look around, if that’s okay with you,” says Flannigan.
“Sure, no problem,” I respond as I walk into the kitchen and start putting my groceries away.
I finish, and I realize I need to go to the washroom. “I’ll just be in there for a second if you need me.”
Lubic nods and I go. As I’m washing my hands, I notice three small bottles of iodine tincture sitting on a shelf in my bathroom. I mutter under my breath, “Oh, man. What the hell are those doing there?”
My mind races quickly. How am I going to explain that being here? “Oh, no, officer. They’re for sanitizing my drinking water. Toronto water, you know.” I probably would be able to say that I use it as an antiseptic when I cut myself, but seeing the tincture would probably give them reason to keep tabs on me, especially with there being three bottles. I look around frantically: the window. I open the window and place them on the ledge out there, just out of sight, closing the window afterwards.
Once I come out of the bathroom, Lubic checks in there and Flannigan frisks me. Lubic comes out, Flannigan looks at him and says, “He’s clean.”
Lubic shakes his head, “Nothing in there either. We’re sorry to have bothered you, sir.”
They both leave and I breathe a sigh of relief. My relief is short-lived, however, when I grab the iodine back and get enraged. “Who the hell puts ingredients in the bathroom?” I say to myself. I then pause, and my rage changes gears, “And who the hell called the cops on me?”
I walk over to my living room window and watch the cops drive away in their car. Suddenly, it dawns on me. I mutter, “Roeper.”