Fall from Grace Read Free Page A

that housed your typical neighborhood shops such as a place that sold knitting supplies, a butcher shop, a bank, one of those payday loan spots, a pizza delivery spot called Double AA Pizza, plus an independent convenience store, originally run by a family of Chinese immigrants in the sixties, then passed on to the Lebanese for the seventies and eighties, and was probably now in the hands of some family from the Indian subcontinent. There was also a possibility that the Punjabis had moved on and immigrants from the Sudan or Eritrea had taken over.
    Also in the mall was the ubiquitous liquor store, one that no doubt popped up during the Klein revolution of the nineties in which the selling of liquor was taken out of the hands of the provincial government and given over to the private sector.
    Probably the only good decision ever made during King Ralph’s fourteen-year reign over the province, because instead of being able to buy liquor at one of only twelve Alberta Liquor Control Board (ALCB) stores, with hours limited from noon to 10 P.M. and no sales on Sundays, you could now buy it from one of countless small corner liquor stores that popped into existence the instant the legislation was signed. Nothing like an ex-journalist in power to make booze more readily available. Don’t even ask me about the legal gambling options, because I could go on.
    But of all the stores in the strip, it was the bank I was looking for. I was still feeling a bit jittery from seeing the body in the tent so I felt the need to take care of a bit of business to get myself back into the world before filing my story. Even though the actual news deadline was midnight, I knew I would have to write a few paragraphs for the online edition of the paper.
    I had a couple of hours before that deadline, and in the paper business, two hours before deadline is an eternity. I could write and file the full story about the body in the field, highly readable and factual, in twenty minutes, even less if I was pushed. So writing a few paragraphs for the online edition was peanuts. I had plenty of time. Still, one of the city editors would be on my butt the instant I walked in the door, so I knew I had to be quick.
    There were plenty of empty parking spots right outside the front doors of the bank but I parked a ways away, snuggled in between a large, burgundy pickup and a late-model domestic sedan, an old-man car ’cause the only ones who seemed to drive those things were men sixty years old and over.
    After stepping out of my car, I waited a bit by the car, letting my glasses darken to the outside light. One good thing about having a regular job again was the availability of benefits. As part of the strike settlement, the paper gave each staffer five hundred bucks a year as a benefit top-up, for items not covered under the basic plan. Even though I had been a scab, I got the same deal, pretty much covering the cost of my new glasses.
    It had been almost three years since I had had new glasses and the world looked pretty wonky the first time I put on my new lenses. Everything was beautifully clear, in perfect focus, but it was a little disconcerting. It took me only a week or so to get used to the new glasses, but it had been only about six months since I had become a solid citizen, with a real job and a real place to live, and I still was not used to it. Every time I took a walk downtown, I had to consciously remind myself not to ask people for spare change. I would adjust, I knew that, but it was a gradual process.
    My piece of banking business was short and quick. If luck was on my side, I could get it done in less than a couple minutes and then I’d be back to work before anyone realized I was out longer than expected. Or I wouldn’t. The odds were about evenly balanced, which to a gambler like me are probably the best I could get anywhere.
    When my glasses reached the desired darkness, I adjusted my ball cap so that the brim hung a little lower over my face,