The journey to Fort Myers on Thursday morning was a nightmare for Calvin. Not because of the weather, though the flight was delayed more than an hour and the wings had to be de-iced. Not even because of Mother, despite the fact that she never stopped complaining for one moment until the plane took off, when she immediately fell asleep. No, it was because he expected to be arrested at every stage of the journey. At the check-in he noticed two airline officials huddled to one side talking, and occasionally they seemed to be looking in his direction. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But nothing happened. Next, at US Immigration, just when he expected the firm hand on his shoulder, the hushed ‘Please step this way, Mr Bly,’ the immigration officer wished him and Mother happy holidays after barely a glance at their passports.

Could getting away with murder really be that easy? Calvin wondered when he disembarked at Fort Myers and found no policemen waiting for him, only Frank and Vicky in the crowd waving, ready to drive him and Mother back to the condo. Nothing had happened. Nobody had come for him. He must have got away with it.

Though the locals thought the weather cold and farmers were worried about the citrus crop, Calvin found it comfortable enough to sit out on the deck. As he poured himself a Jack Daniels and looked out over the long strip of beach to the blue-green sea, Charlie’s murder began to seem distant and unreal. After a few hours and three or four bourbons, he could almost believe it hadn’t happened, that it had merely been a bad dream, and the following morning he imagined that when he got back to Toronto and walked into the bar they would all be waiting there, as usual, including Charlie, flashing his winnings.

In the late afternoon Florida sun, how easy it was to believe that snowy Tuesday night in Toronto had never happened.

By Christmas Eve, Calvin was already two games up, having picked the Bills to beat a three-point spread against the Seahawks and the Broncos to win plus seven over the 49ers on Saturday. He’d lost the Giants-Jaguars game, but even with his system he could never expect to win them all.

He was sipping a Jack Daniels on the rocks and watching Miami against New England, hoping the Pats would beat the spread, when during the half-time break came a brief interview with a convicted killer called Leroy Cody, scheduled to be electrocuted early in the New Year. Instead of pushing the mute button, Calvin turned the sound up a notch or two and leaned forward in his chair. He’d read about Cody in USA Today and found his curiosity piqued by the man’s nonchalant, laconic manner and his total lack of remorse.

The interview was a special from death row, Leroy in his cell in drab prison clothes, hair cropped close to his skull, no emotion in his eyes, his face all sharp angles.

‘You shot a liquor store clerk for fifteen dollars, is that right?’ the interviewer asked.

‘I didn’t know he’d only got a lousy fifteen dollars when I shot him, now, did I?’ Leroy answered in his slow, surprisingly high-pitched drawl.

‘But you shot him, and fifteen dollars is all you got?’

‘Yessir. Sure was a disappointment, let me tell you.’

‘And then you shot a pregnant woman and dragged her out of her car to make your escape.’

‘I didn’t know she was pregnant.’

‘But you shot the woman and stole her car?’

Leroy spat on the floor of his cell. ‘Hell, I had to make a fast getaway. I don’t have no car of my own. I had to take a goddamn cab to the store, but I was damned if I was gonna hang around and try to flag one after I done robbed the place.’

‘And you feel no remorse for any of this?’

‘Remorse?’

‘Regrets.’

‘Regrets? Nope. No regrets. I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’

‘You regret nothing at all?’

Leroy smiled; it looked like an eclipse of the sun moving slowly across his features. ‘Only getting caught,’ he said.

Calvin’s attention wandered as the presenter started to comment, and then they were back at the half-time show, catching up on scores. But even as he checked the numbers, part of Calvin’s mind stayed with Leroy Cody. ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’ He liked that. It was honest, direct, had a ring to it.

Calvin tried it out loud: ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am.’ It sounded good. He let the fantasy wander, trying on his new self and finding it a perfect fit. ‘I’m a killer. That’s what I am. Me and Leroy. Yeah, man.’ And if he was a killer, he could kill again. Why stop at Charlie? He could kill Heidi’s husband. Could even kill that bitch Heidi herself, maybe make her beg a little first. He could kill…

There was no upstairs in the condo, but he heard the click-click of Mother’s walking stick on the tile floor before he heard her voice. ‘Leroy,’ she said (he was sure she called him Leroy), ‘are you going to just sit here and watch this garbage all Christmas? Why don’t you come and play cribbage with the old folks for a while?’ Calvin sighed, picked up the remote, turned off the game and muttered, ‘Coming, Mother.’

There were no cops waiting at the airport when Calvin and Mother got back to Toronto on Wednesday. It was over a week since Charlie’s death, and still nothing to fear.

After settling Mother at home, against her protests, Calvin decided to drop in at the bar. As he had suspected, the usual crowd was there. Minus Charlie.

‘Calvin,’ said Marge, patting his arm when he sat down beside her. ‘Welcome home. You’ve heard the news?’

Calvin nodded sadly. ‘Heard just before we left for Florida. It’s tragic, isn’t it?’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Marge. ‘He always seemed so…’

‘Alive?’ Calvin suggested.

‘Yes. Alive. That’s it. Alive.’

‘Is there any progress?’ he asked the table in general.

‘No,’ Jeff answered. ‘You know the cops. They’ve put it down as a hit and run, asked for the public’s co-operation, and that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’

‘Unless someone comes forward,’ Calvin said.

‘Yes,’ Jeff agreed. ‘Unless someone comes forward. By the way,’ he went on, ‘here’s the final scores on the pool.’ He handed Calvin the sheets of paper.

Kelly, the waitress with the walk out of a forties’ noir movie, finally came over with his drink. Calvin desperately wanted to see the final scores, but he didn’t want to appear too anxious. After all, Charlie was dead. So he sipped some beer, talked a little about his Christmas, and then, casually, glanced down at the sheets.

The first thing that caught his eye was his weekend’s score: 5. That had to be wrong. Calvin had checked the game scores after the cribbage game and found he had nine. He had also won the evening game, the Raiders over the Panthers, and the Monday evening game, when the Titans had creamed the Cowboys. So how could he end up with five? He had eleven.

He turned to the column of picks and noticed scrawled across the line where his should be, the word ‘DAWGS’. Charlie, of course, had got the same. It meant they hadn’t got their picks in on time.

But Calvin had got his picks in; he remembered phoning them. It was late in the afternoon, four-thirty to be precise, but definitely before the five o’clock deadline. So what was going on?

‘Calvin?’

The voice came as if from a long way. ‘Huh? Sorry. What?’

‘Just that you’ve gone pale. Are you OK?’ It was Marge, and her hand was on his arm.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Must be… you know… Charlie… delayed shock.’

Marge nodded. ‘I don’t suppose it seemed real until you got back here, did it?’ she said.