Milk Chicken Bomb by Andrew Wedderburn Read Free Book Online Page B

front of him, then heaves it up like a baseball bat and swings.
    Right, perfect, says Solly. He opens his hand and Mullen grabs the quarters. Vaslav and Pavel pass the flask around. Who are you playing? I ask. Solly points over to the RCMP team, all of them drinking coffee out of paper cups. The tips of their moustaches get damp. You going to beat the cops? asks Mullen. Yeah, Solly says, we’re going to beat the cops. Their second’s got no shot and their skip ought to stick to desk work.
    What about the United Church? I ask. Will you have to play them? Just one match today. We’ll play them in a few weeks. Today the posties are going to make a mess out of the United Church, says Solly. All that ideological moderation is bad for your concentration. It’s the Pentecostal church you’ve got to watch. Mullen rubs his hands together. Right, the Pentecostals. Right.
    Some second-grade kids play marbles over by the water fountain. Flick their glass cat’s eyes and speckled eggs at each other. You hit a marble and it’s yours, and if the other marble is bigger you’ve got to hit it more than once. All the kids keep their marbles in purple bags with drawstrings – they get them from their dads once the rye whisky is all gone.
    Mullen watches them playing marbles for a while. He starts flipping one of his quarters. Flips it and catches it, like he’s going to call heads or tails. Eventually the second-graders stop shooting marbles and look up at him.
    United Church match is about to get going, says Mullen. Against the posties. Gonna be a good one.
    The second-graders look at him funny. What?
    They’re just about to start. How many ends do you think it’ll go?
    The kids keep on looking at him, really confused. The kid with the most marbles snaps his fingers. Come on, let’s play marbles. Hey, come on.
    What are you doing? I whisper to Mullen.
    Well, we’ve got a good hand here, he says. We can stand to lose a few until we spot out the way things are going.
    What are you talking about?
    You know, he says. Covering our bets. Doesn’t Deke always talk about covering bets? All right, he says to me, you’ve got to drum up some interest. You know, get kids running their mouths about the matches. Who’s throwing how many ends and all that stuff. Get their fingers itchy. Hey, grab that empty can of nuts, he says to me.
    Mullen, kids don’t want to bet on curling.
    Sure they do. He shakes the last few crumbs out of the can. Think of all the jerky and chips they could buy if a big score comes in.
    Curlers start to shove all the rocks from the house back down the ice. They get down and stretch, up off the ice, their brooms down flat on the floor. The United Church reverend has a big yellow beard, round wire glasses. Pats the other curlers on the shoulders. The post-office skip slides down to the other end of the ice, a quick step and then a long slide, leg trailing behind her.
    I dig in my pocket. Pull out a dime. I drop it in the can beside Mullen. Tell you what, I say, I bet the posties really sock it to them in the first end.
    Ooh, Mullen says, big bet. That’s some tough talk. Some tough talk.
    The kid with all the marbles starts to say something, but one of the other second-graders cuts him off. What, all those ladies? With the sweaters? You think they’re going to win?
    I think they’ll at least finish the first end ahead.
    No way, says the kid. They’re all girls. The other team only has one girl. No way they’ll win.
    Mullen shrugs. Rattles the can. The second-graders look at each other, then they all pull dimes out of their pockets.
    Kids press their faces up to the glass, their runny noses make streaks. The church throws first. The reverend stands down in the house, broom forward. The organist sets up to throw, drags herself back with a little wheeze, slides out of the hack. Purple sweaters rub their black-bristled brooms, shuffling down the ice.