The Guardians

'You wouldn't guess, under that dumb referee outfit they make them—'

'Turn it off.'

Randy looks over his shoulder at me. 'What's your problem? We're not peeping through her keyhole or anything. The whole world can find this if they want.'

'I'm not talking to the whole world.'

He presses his lips together in a combined expression of puzzlement and pain, as though he'd let his hand linger over an open flame but was unable to figure out how to pul it away.

'She's a kid,' I say.

'Okay.'

'She's our friend's kid.'

'Okay'

Randy closes his eyes. Blindly, he slides the mouse over the pad. Clicks it—and Tracey disappears.

'Doesn't it rattle you at al?' I ask, leaning in close enough to whisper. 'The way the whole Heather and Tracey things overlap?'

'Sure. I'd say it rattles me a fair bit.'

'It's like someone is copycatting or something.'

'That might be taking it a little far.'

'Maybe. But on the same day we rol into town?' I shake my head. Part Parkinson's, part avoidance of this line of thought. 'We'l be gone soon.'

'I'l stay as long as you have to.'

'I'm fine, realy.'

'Oh yeah. You're just dandy.'

'Nothing a decent night's sleep won't fix.'

'And you're going to get that in Ben's bed?'

'Don't worry about me.'

'What, me worry?' Randy smiles, looking very much like Alfred E. Neuman. 'Al the same, I think I'l stick around so we can head out on the same train. How's that?'

'We Guardians stick together.'

'Goddamn right.' He pinches my cheek. Hard. 'You are goddamn right there, brother.'

From Insomnia, we make our way to the Grimshaw Community Services building, otherwise known as the cop shop. We present ourselves to the receptionist as patrons of Jake's Pool 'n' Sports a couple of nights ago, here to answer questions.

'Regarding Tracey Flanagan,' Randy says when the woman doesn't seem to register either us or what we've just said.

'I know what it's regarding,' she replies. 'Have a seat.'

When two officers finaly emerge, it's a Laurel and Hardy pair, a slim felow with jug ears and a short waddler heaving a basketbal around inside his shirt. The big one introduces himself to Randy and takes him down the hal to an interview room, leaving the tal one standing over me, nodding as though something in my appearance has just settled a wager and he'd won.

'Trevor,' he says. And then, when this fails to remove the puzzled expression from my face, he taps the name tag pinned to his shirt. 'It's Barry Tate.'

'Barry. I think I remember.'

'I was a year behind you. We even had a couple of classes together.'

'Hairy Barry,' I say, and then he's al there. The only kid in school with a handlebar moustache that, unbelievably, actualy suited him. 'You played hockey too, right?'

'I took your number the season after . . . after you stopped playing.'

'Did it bring you luck?'

'Eighteen goals.'

'Not bad.'

'Some goon broke my wrist in a game against Kitchener the next year, and that was it for me.'

'Now you're one of Grimshaw's finest.'

'Pension, dental, paid holidays. And you get to drive a car with lights on the roof.'

Barry starts down the same halway, but I have a little trouble lifting myself out of my chair. It brings him back to grip my elbow and heave me up. 'You okay?'

'Just a little stiff in the mornings.'

He gives me a look that says he's not buying that for a second, but hey, a man's body is his own business. I'm