We came to this parking lot on a “date” in the car he stole from his grandmother. While we were in the back seat fooling around, we heard yelling and screaming. Then we saw this big greasy old guy drag his big greasy old girlfriend into the alley, beat the piss out of her, and try to light her straggly bleached blonde hair on fire with a Zippo. The cops showed up, cuffed ’em, and chucked ’em in the paddy wagon. Just when we thought the coast was clear, an officer tapped on the window of Weasel’s grandmother’s car, told us to get dressed and come out for a chat. He asked what we saw. Not much, we said. The cop laughed, giving Weasel a wink and an elbow as he said, “Right on, brother!” and recommended a few alternative places to go parking before he left. Moments later, Weasel informed me that it was a good thing they didn’t search the car, what with two pounds of hash and five hundred hits of acid in the trunk. The guy who beat up his girlfriend was Moose Matheson, who Weasel was supposed to meet at Pott’s Coffee in an hour to make a delivery on behalf of Paco Landry. Willy chuckles when I tell him the story. I’m too stoned and too old to know if it’s funny or sad. Or both.

“Nobody’s getting beat or busted here tonight. Not even any drugs in the truck, except the medicinals.” Gimp leans over and kisses my cheek.

Next thing I know, his hand is wrestling a tie around his neck. He drapes a black blazer over my shoulders when we step out into the weather, takes my hand and leads me to the rundown entrance. Part of me still feels like we’re breaking into an abandoned building to drink and smoke and screw like dumb kids, which would still be among the better ways I can think of to spend my thirty-ninth birthday. Instead, the dirty old door opens without kicking or jimmying. We walk down into the basement of the old bank.

“Welcome to The Vault,” Willy’s voice purrs in my ear as we glide into Cape Breton’s answer to high-end dining.

It’s a swanky little place. The texture and depth of the original brick walls are accentuated by a deep red glaze. Ornate antique picture-less frames have been painted black, slightly scuffed, and hung on the walls in a laissez-faire way. Candles and strings of fairy lights create a warm glow where shadows and light play together. Damn, Cape Breton, when’d you get hip and classy enough to spawn something like this?

“And they make the best pizza in the world,” Gimp says.

“How come you’ve been hiding from me since the whole reunion debacle?” I try to say all cute and coy, so as not to kill the mood before we get drinks and pizza and a chance to grope each other.

“Not you I’m hiding from,” he says. “Just stuff. With Chrissy.”