Chapter Six
“Come on, Fred,” Mickey yelled through the men’s room door. “It’s closing time.”
The only response he heard was a loud snoring sound.
“Not again.”
“Come on, Fred. Let’s get those pants up.”
It wasn’t the first time that Mickey had dealt with a customer in this state, and though he may not have been tall, Mickey was fit. He was in as good a shape as he had been while serving in the military as a medic. Even so, with a man Fred’s age, he needed to be careful.
“Angel, can you come in here and give me a hand?” Mickey yelled.
Angel popped his nose in, then left. A moment later he returned with a wheeled desk chair from the office.
“Smart,” Mickey said.
The two of them got Fred upright, trousers restored to their decent position, and wheeled the bar’s hero out into the main room.
“What next?” Angel asked.
“I’ll get my truck. You can help me get him in and I’ll drive him home.
One of the attendants there’ll give me a hand getting him to his room.
While I’m gone, just take the trash to the bin in the alley and give the washrooms a final clean.
That should do it for the night. I should be back soon and I can give you a ride home. ”
“Thanks, Mickey.”
Everything went with military precision, just like Mickey’d hoped.
He managed to drop Fred off at his home and return to the bar within twenty minutes.
As he pulled back into his parking spot behind the bar, he noticed the back door was open.
He stepped out of the truck and glanced around.
It seemed odd that Angel would have left the door like that, even if he was coming right back with another load of trash.
“Angel?” he called out.
There was no response. Mickey walked into the bar and called out his name again. Nothing.
He must have gone home. But he wouldn’t have left the door open. Not Angel.
Mickey went back to the bar and noticed Angel’s jacket and pack sitting on a bar stool.
Something’s wrong.
He grabbed a flashlight from his office and went back outside.
“Angel! Are you out here?” he yelled.
It took a few minutes, but eventually he spotted him—or his legs at least…sticking out from behind the dumpster.
“Angel!”
Mickey ran over and pulled the dumpster away from the wall. He knelt down beside Angel’s body, hoping that he wasn’t dead. He checked and found a pulse—not strong, but a pulse nonetheless.
“Angel, can you hear me?” he hollered.
There was no response. The boy had been badly beaten and was unconscious.
“Hang in there, buddy. I’m getting an ambulance.”
Mickey called nine-one-one from his cell phone and as he waited for the paramedics to arrive, he kept talking to Angel…reassuring him that he was going to be all right.
He has to be all right, Mickey thought.
He would do whatever he could to make sure that happened.
The police arrived first. They helped roll the dumpster well out of the way.
The paramedics arrived a few minutes later.
Mickey knew that Angel wasn’t in great shape, but it seemed like he was stable.
As the paramedics put him in the back of the ambulance, Mickey said, “I’m as close to next of kin as that boy has. Which hospital are you taking him to?”
“Foothills,” one of the paramedics grunted.
“Well, I’ll be at the hospital as soon as the police are done. Do you need anything else before you go?”
The other paramedic shook his head. “We’ll check him in under the name you gave us. They might need a bit more information for the paperwork when you get there.”
The ambulance pulled away and the pair of policemen approached Mickey. They both seemed as though they’d been in the service for a long time. One had a close-cropped beard and a substantial belly. He wore the insignia of a sergeant. The younger one, a constable, was tall—over two metres in height.
The older one said, “Just need some information on the victim. He didn’t have any ID on him. Any idea what his name is and how old he is?”
“Might be twenty-four or twenty-five. Definitely over eighteen,” Mickey replied. “He’s a street kid, and most of them don’t have standard ID. His name is Angel, but I can’t even be sure that’s his real name.”
“But he works for you, doesn’t he? Here at the bar?” the younger cop asked.
“He helps out where he can. He tidies up at the end of the day. Cleans the restrooms, that sort of thing. I pay him in cash.”
“Do you know where he lives?” the sergeant asked.
“Not specifically. I give him a ride home when the weather sucks, but that just means driving him to the corner of 36th Southeast and International Avenue at an all-night convenience store. He may crash there, or some place near there. I don’t know.”
Mickey was mostly telling the truth. At least enough to keep the cops happy.
He knew that Angel lived in a flop house across town.
Like most of the Kids who worked on-and-off at the bar for cash under the table, Angel may or may not have turned tricks for survival money.
That was none of Mickey’s business. He didn’t judge people for what they did to survive.
The sergeant looked over at the constable, then turned back to Mickey. “We suspect this is little more than another gay-bashing. Here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you hear anything else, give me a call.”
That’s it then, Mickey thought. Just like another parking ticket for these guys.
“So, you’re all done here?” Mickey asked.
“I’ll just get your name and contact info and, yeah, that about wraps it up.”
As the cops headed back to their cruiser, the constable turned to Mickey. “I hope your friend’ll be okay.”
“Sure.”
As the police car headed off, Mickey took one more look around the dumpster for any clue as to who might have done this to Angel, but there was nothing. He locked up the bar and headed to his truck for the drive to the hospital.
Maybe the police were right—maybe this was just a random gay-bashing, but deep in Mickey’s gut he knew that wasn’t true.