Flight of Aquavit (12 page)

As I dialled his number I schemed, as I always

do before we talk, on how I could get information

out of Darren without revealing my real purpose.

Sometimes I do this out of necessity, other times

just for sport. Today was a bit of both. I wanted to

Anthony Bidulka — 91

confirm that what I was dealing with wasn’t big-

ger than it seemed. I wanted to find out if the

police had any investigations, ongoing or other-

wise, that were similar to mine. Maybe there was

a rash of well-to-do men, closeted or otherwise,

being blackmailed. It wasn’t a pleasant thought,

but if this was the case I needed to know.

“Kirsch,” he answered gruffly on the third

ring.

“Darren, it’s Russell.” I use first names because

I like him to feel like I care.

“Quant.” A flat statement.

“No crimes today or is the cold keeping you

indoors?”

“The weather has no…” He stopped, realizing

I was pulling his chain. He was no dummy but

every so often I caught him in the act.

I chuckled because it felt good. “Glad to hear it.”

“Are you reporting a crime? Because if not I’ve

got better things to do than chit-chat with you.”

“I was just wondering if you guys had gotten

anywhere on those blackmail cases?”

He was silent. He knew when I was playing the

game and was wise enough to listen in case I actu-

ally had something to say he should know about.

“I’m handling your overflow,” I told him,

keeping my voice even.

“You’ve got a blackmail case?”

“I might,” I allowed, but acting as if I might

just as likely have a case of the flu.

“Details?”

“Yeah right,” I answered. “How about you?

Anything like that in your case files?”

92 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Gay guy?” he said. My ears perked up.

“Uh-huh.” My being noncommittal but atten-

tive.

“Rich?”

Shit, Daniel Guest wasn’t the first.

“Blackmailer caught him on video wearing no-

name jeans?”

I hung up.

I didn’t want to give myself time to smart over

being bested by Kirsch so I immediately dialled

into the internet and scratched the itch of a distant

memory by doing some archival-type research.

And indeed, it didn’t take long to find what I was

looking for. I’m not a particularly politically

savvy individual; at the best of times I can per-

haps recite the name of the mayor of Saskatoon

and premier of Saskatchewan, but that’s about it.

My research told me what I thought I’d remem-

bered from some long ago CFQC newscast or

StarPhoenix
article. Herb Dufour currently was

and had been for several years a city councillor in

Ward 10. And further, he was being touted as a

forerunner in the next mayoralty race expected

sometime in the next six to twelve months.

Huh.

I went back to my suspect spreadsheet and

began to write in the “Others” column, thought

better of it and instead labelled column number

seven: Herb Dufour.

Having called to check up on my mother, my dog,

Barbra, and my new dog, Brutus, Mom sounded a

Anthony Bidulka — 93

little lonely or bored, I didn’t know which. The

dogs were fine. So I again told her to be waiting

for me with her coat on. This time I took her to

Badass Jack’s on 2nd Avenue for lunch. Another

first for Mom. She’d never eaten a wrap before.

Unfortunately, both the jerk sauce she’d selected

for her wrap without fully understanding what it

was, and the somewhat unusual name of the

establishment, left her sporting a decidedly

unhappy grimace. I had work to do downtown

and my mother had mentioned she needed to fin-

ish up some Christmas shopping. With both our

after-lunch destinations handy, I pointed Mom in

the direction of the mall and sent her toddling off

down the street, well-anchored in the growing

winter wind by the ridiculously huge Christmas

corsage of pinecones and berries she’d attached to

her coat lapel.

I made my way to the corner of 2nd Avenue

and 21st Street which is, despite a bank on every

corner, a few fast food joints and dollar stores and

a larger than life-sized bust of Mahatma Gandhi

thrown into the mix, the apex of Saskatoon’s fash-

ion and entertainment district. Within a few hours,

throngs of holiday shoppers would be taking

advantage of the extra hours of Christmas shop-

ping but even now, early on a Thursday afternoon,

the foot and vehicle traffic was heavier than nor-

mal. I fought my way through the bundled-up

and package-laden pedestrians until I reached a

large sign hoisted high above street level display-

ing a single, elegantly scripted, black “g” on a rich,

cream-coloured background. I had arrived at gatt.

94 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Named after it’s bon vivant owner, my friend

and personal Auntie Mame, Anthony Gatt, gatt is

a high-end menswear store from where, for a

price, even the most slovenly can emerge a gentle-

man of breeding and exquisite taste. Anthony is a

man of indeterminate age and means (I’m think-

ing ’round fifty with a rich, pig farmer father; bite

my tongue) with a dashing Robert Redford/
Great

Gatsby
handsomeness to him. He knows every

word created by man and then some and speaks

them with a smooth English-accented flourish. He

and his partner, Jared Lowe, are vanguards of the

Saskatoon society set.

The store is two storeys tall, glass from stem to

stern—all the better to display the fashion candy

within. As I walked through the front door I mar-

velled at the exquisite Christmas tree that had

been erected by Anthony’s warren of elves. Like

everything about my friend, it was just a little

over-the-top and decidedly unique. Not only

was the tree twelve feet tall and only four feet at

its widest, but the needles of the super slim pine

were a mix of lustrous black and rich burgundy

and every branch was laden with crystal orna-

ments that shone like diamonds. At the top was an

angel of such unsurpassable beauty you might

guess she’d landed there straight from heaven. In

the air were the melodic strains of holiday classics

and the distinct scents of Bvlgari Cologne and

never-worn fabrics. I could sense the slightly

intimidating presence of Hugo Boss, Bruno Magli,

Alessandro Dell’Acqua, Neil Barrett and Prada. I

immediately caught sight of one of Anthony’s

Anthony Bidulka — 95

broad-shouldered, slim-waisted sales clones

whose names were always Derek. He made a

pointing up motion with his index finger and I

made my way through racks of
GQ
fodder to the

grand staircase that leads to the second floor.

Anthony, in all his blond glory, was wearing a

tight white, silk T-shirt, faded grey corduroy

slacks and grey moccasins and even from a dis-

tance I could see the glint of a magnificent dia-

mond ring on the third finger of his right, deeply

tanned hand. He was watching Maggie, the only

woman I’ve ever known to work in the store—

pretty, middle-aged, with crazy-curly, long ash-

blond hair—fitting a suit jacket on a customer. The

customer, a fortysomething stockbroker type with

greying sideburns was staring straight ahead at

his image in a floor to ceiling mirror but listening

intently to Anthony’s running commentary.

“Oh, Anthony,” Maggie said as she knelt down

to pin the trousers, giddily playing her well-

rehearsed role. “I love the Armani on him. Look

how nicely it falls from his big chest.”

Anthony’s face gave up an easy grin as the

stockbroker’s eyes fell, on cue, to someone else’s

big chest. “I’m not an expert at this, Linc, but I

think you’re being flirted with.”

Linc’s face lit up and he winked—maybe at

Anthony or maybe at his own reflection in the

mirror; I was too far away to tell. Anthony’s work

was done. He looked up and cocked an eyebrow in

my direction. I withdrew my hand from where it

had been caressing a selection of Miu Miu

sweaters and gave a little wave.

96 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“No, no, no, no,” he began speaking as he

walked towards me, the intonation growing in

volume and intensity with each repetition of the

word. “I can’t have you in here like that…or at

least I can’t have you leaving like that.”

I looked down. It certainly wasn’t the coat. I

had purchased it at gatt only a couple of months

ago. Had it gone out of style already? Couldn’t be

my shoes. If there were two pieces of fashion I

paid attention to it was my outerwear and my

footwear. It made sense—they were what most

everyone saw. It had to be the pants. Nice cotton

khakis. What’s the problem?

“So boring I could pass out,” Anthony said

with a convincing yawn as he held forth a pair of

pants he’d grabbed seemingly out of thin air. How

does he do that? “Diesel Kulter black leather

straight-legs or…” Poof! Another pair! “…Theory

Tristan Surf indigo stretch cotton jeans. I imagine

you’ll prefer the jeans even though a man with

such wonderfully long legs and shapely posterior

should go with leather, because so few can.”

I was in and out of a change room and we were

heading across the street for a “wee cocktail”

before I could spell my last name. We sat at the bar

and Anthony ordered a martini with Bombay

Sapphire Dry Gin while I opted for a glass of the

house white. Having a perky drink in the after-

noon is one of those “European” traditions

Anthony tirelessly encourages in “the Americas.”

“So, you’re working the store this week?” I

commented.

“Oh, puppy, it’s this Christmas thing. Busy

Anthony Bidulka — 97

busy busy and Maggie and the Dereks have a hard

time keeping up. It’s too insipid to even speak of.”

Then, as a whispered aside, “Though, to tell truth,

I rather enjoy it really.” Back to his normal voice.

“And what of you? Begun your yuletide vacation

yet?”

“Actually no, I’ve just taken on another case.”

“Really? I thought you’d had enough of that

drudgery for a while?” he said in his most droll of

Brit accents.

“I thought so too, but this one just fell into my

lap.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be entertaining dear

Kay?”

I was a little surprised to hear my mother

called by her first name. Most of my friends

referred to her as Mrs. Quant or “your mom.” But

Anthony had been partnered with my Uncle

Lawrence, so in a way, he was Mom’s ex-brother-

in-law. They had known each other, as much as

the strained relationship between brother and sis-

ter allowed, for years. “I’m trying.”

Anthony gave me one of those looks where he

suspected there was more to the story than I was

letting on but had decided not to pursue it. “So

what about this new case, what’s it all about? A

smoking gun? Death by untraceable poison? An

homme fatal
client?”

I chuckled. “No, nothing quite that exotic…or

erotic.”

Anthony is my unofficial liaison to the gay

world. He knows what we’re wearing, what

we’re drinking, what celebrities we’re building up

98 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

and which, sadly, we’re tearing down, what sun-

drenched holiday spots are hot, which ones are

not and, most of all, he knows who is, who isn’t

and which of the aforementioned are sleeping

together. I, on the other hand, had to be told to

stop styling my hair in the George

Clooney/
ER
/Caesar fringe. “Anthony, maybe

you can help me.”

“Wonderful. I’m a gumshoe. Shall I change?

Perhaps a cloak and spiffy hat, walking stick and

a pipe?”

“Have you ever heard of a guy by the name of

James Kraft? Youngish. Blond. Actor.”

He contemplated the name with a handsome

furrowing of his brow. As I waited I noticed two

women stare at my companion as they passed by

on their way to the exit. Anthony was sometimes

too good-looking for his own good.

“James Kraft. Hmmm…”

He was probably too young or too broke to