Flight of Aquavit (15 page)

ings. Nothing constant. Hard life, I’d say.”

I wasn’t prepared or knowledgeable enough

to be an advocate for actors, after all I’d only

become one two minutes ago, but this guy

seemed to be a bit of a downer, especially when

he should be supporting his son’s career rather

than denigrating it. “I’d say it’s a much different

lifestyle than some others. And like everything, it

has its pros and cons.”

Anthony Bidulka — 115

“Hmphf,” was his answer.

I looked at Meredith Kraft who was sitting qui-

etly with a vacant look on her face. “Did James

happen to come home since I called earlier? I’d

really like to speak with him.”

“James doesn’t live here anymore,” the father

said, looking at his wife as if he’d caught her in yet

another in a series of lies.

And, come to think of it, why hadn’t she told

me
this news over the phone? “Oh?” I said. “I did-

n’t know that. I guess I haven’t seen him in a

while.”

“Lovers’ quarrel?”

Yikes! Mr. Kraft was indeed crafty. He’d caught

me off guard. The look on my face must have told

him so. I set down my water.

“You and my son, are you boyfriends? You’re

kind of old for him, aren’t you?”

Enough with the age cracks, buddy. “No, actu-

ally we are not boyfriends.”

“You don’t have to pretend with us,” he said,

pretty much ignoring his wife who looked as if she

wanted to crawl into an oyster shell. Finding a

pearl would be a delightful bonus. “We know

about the lifestyle James has chosen. As frivolous

as his choice of careers.”

I contemplated getting into a conversation

about the whole choice thing, but I could tell Mr.

Kraft had had that talk before and wasn’t buying

it. “Anyway, would you be able to tell me how to

get in touch with James?”

“If you’re looking for a date, you’re going to

have to go a long way.” Everything that was com-

116 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

ing out of Kelvin Kraft’s mouth sounded belliger-

ent, angry, like a man itching to pick a fight.

Obviously the son was gone and he needed some-

one to yell at. It looked like his wife wasn’t much

of a combatant.

“He comes home every two, three weeks,” this

in a quiet voice from Meredith. “He’s gone to stay

with a friend in New York City. He has some audi-

tions lined up.”

“Going for the big time,” Kelvin Kraft said

with a sarcasm-laden grunt. “Broadway! My son’s

going to be a chorus boy!” He laughed, but there

was little joy in it.

“He comes home when he can. Every two,

three weeks,” the blond woman repeated. “For a

visit.”

“For money and clean clothes,” the father cor-

rected.

And to pick up his mail? Pick up his blackmail

money to help pay for his life in the big city? Is that

how he planned to afford it? I doubted his father

was willing to put out a lot of cash to support a

lifestyle he so obviously abhorred. Or was I out of

luck? Did the fact that James Kraft didn’t even live

in Saskatoon anymore remove him as a likely sus-

pect? Or could he have perpetrated this blackmail

scheme from out of town? The collection address

was a local P.O. Box. Why not use his New York

City address? Or was he too smart for that? Would

he have realized it would have been an obvious

clue to his identity? If his mother was telling the

truth, James Kraft might be in town often enough

to be Loverboy—but then who was the person fol-

Anthony Bidulka — 117

lowing Daniel in the blue car? Regardless, I could-

n’t rule him out yet.

“Listen,” Mr. Kraft said, rising from his seat. “I

think it’s time you left.”

I got up too, as did Mrs. Kraft. “Could you give

me a phone number for James in New York?” One

last-ditch effort to get some help from these peo-

ple.

“Hey!” It was almost a yell. This was a man on

the edge. “You want to date my son, you want to

get into his pants, you find him yourself! I sure as

hell am not going to help you!”

That was pretty clear. By the time I made it to

the front door, Kelvin Kraft had it open and was

making an irritating motion with his wrist indicat-

ing he wanted me on the other side of it as quick-

ly as possible. What a jerk. Blackmailer or not, I

was feeling some sympathy for James Kraft.

The wind had picked up and, after the door hit

me on the ass on the way out, I stood in the pro-

tection of the house’s stoop fighting with my jack-

et zipper when I heard the door open again. I

twirled around fast, worried I was about to get my

butt kicked. But instead of the creepy father, it was

the mousy mother. She was holding out a piece of

paper. I took it and saw she had hurriedly

scratched on it a phone number with a two-one-

two area code. Manhattan. I nodded my thanks.

“You said you had something that belonged to

my son?” she said over the whistling of the wind,

pulling at a strand of hair that was being whisked

across her face. Was this why she originally neg-

lected telling me the truth about her son’s where-

118 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

abouts? Or had she just wanted to meet one of his

boyfriends?

“What?”

“When you called. You said you wanted to

return something that belonged to my son.”

Shit. I looked over her shoulder hoping she’d

get the hint that her husband might find her talk-

ing to me and she should forget about this stupid

“something that belonged to her son.” No such

luck.

“Yes, that’s right,” I said slowly, trying to come

up with something to give her. My hands were in

my coat pockets searching the contents. A loonie?

Nope, not believable. Gum? Nope. Lint seemed a

little inconsequential. With a sad curl in my lip I

slowly eased off the silver ring from the middle

finger of my left hand. It had only cost me forty

bucks, but it had a neat Grecian design and I liked

it. Sometimes this career calls for personal sacri-

fice. “Here it is.” I handed her the ring. Crap.

She studied it closely, as if it might carry a reflec-

tion of her son’s face on its shiny surface. Finally

she looked up, her hair now a fright wig around

her face. “I’ll be certain to get it back to him.”

Yeah, fine. “Thank you.”

She nodded and closed the door.

I looked at the paper in my hand. I hoped this

phone number was worth the forty bucks. I’d

have to remember to add the cost of the ring to the

disbursement portion of Daniel Guest’s bill.

I rushed to my car and hopped in before the

bracing wind had a chance to freeze me like a cod

fillet and for good measure slice me up into handy

Anthony Bidulka — 119

grilling portions. I started it up, cranked the tem-

perature to high and sat back to let an idle thought

percolate.

Daniel Guest lived on Poplar Crescent. I was

currently on Saskatchewan Crescent.

The Krafts and the Guests were almost neigh-

bours.

I shifted into first and in less than three minutes

I was back in front of my client’s house. Daniel had

told me it had taken James under twenty minutes

to get to his house that night by bike. James had

obviously taken his time. Anyone from the Kraft

household could have covered the distance to the

Guest house in less than five minutes.

Anyone.

It was getting late as I headed home and the

streets were as empty as a gay bar before mid-

night. So it didn’t take long for me to spot the tail.

At least I thought it was a tail. It was dark out and

the driver was clever, at first staying far enough

away so I couldn’t quite make out any details. I

first saw it when I pulled away from Daniel

Guest’s house. It had been parked on Poplar

Crescent, about a block down from where I had

stopped. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed

the headlights, behind me on Lorne Avenue: one

definitely a little dimmer than the other. Then they

were gone. I stopped at a convenience store for

milk. I couldn’t remember what I had in my fridge

but I was certain anything my mother would have

stocked up on would be whole, not the one-per-

120 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

cent I prefer. Driving away from the store I almost

immediately caught sight of the lopsided head-

lights about a block back, heading in my direction.

I decided to test my theory. I made a left on

Isabella for three blocks and then another quick left

on Victoria, heading towards the bridge. Nothing,

nothing, nothing, then bingo! There it was. I

decided to cross the bridge. It was a narrow, two-

lane bridge so if I drove slowly, the driver behind

me would have to slow down too and stay right

behind me where, hopefully, I could get a look at

his face, the make of the car and a license plate

number. A stupid driver that is. My stalker obvi-

ously guessed my ploy and loitered, as much as a

car can loiter, until I had pretty much crossed the

bridge before driving over it himself. Didn’t mat-

ter, I thought to myself. Once we were both down-

town, if I drove carefully, we’d eventually both get

stopped at a traffic light where I’d finally get a

good look at him.

As usual, it wasn’t as easy as I thought and we

played cat and mouse for several minutes.

While I drove I scoured my memory for any

similarities between tonight’s car and the ones

from the night at the landfill. Did one of the cars

from the night of the chase have a dim headlight?

I had to admit I didn’t know. Everything had hap-

pened so fast. There was however one glaring dif-

ference between the two events. Last time I was

chased. This time I was followed.

When had I actually picked up the tail, I won-

dered. At the Krafts? The Guests? Earlier? I couldn’t

be sure.

Anthony Bidulka — 121

And there was one more thing I couldn’t be

sure of: who was interested enough in what I was

doing to have
me
followed? And just then, I got

my answer. Sort of. The driver finally made a tim-

ing error. We were both coming up to a traffic light

that had just turned red. He’d have to pull up

behind me. Knowing he’d made a mistake, he

pulled a wicked U-turn and disappeared down a

back alley. But not before I clearly saw the colour

of his car. It was blue.

Chapter 7

AFTER LOSING MY TAIL I decided to make two more

stops before going home. At both I parked half a

block away and did my best to sneak up on them.

I peaked in the appropriate windows and then

snuck away under the cover of darkness. Daniel

Guest’s garage held two vehicles. Both black. One

was the Beemer I was already familiar with and

the other a Land Rover. More interestingly, Kelvin

Kraft’s garage was empty.

By the time I pulled into my own garage it was

after 11 p.m. and the temperature was dipping

below minus twenty degrees Celsius. I followed a

path of solar garden lights that squatted in nests of

snow along my backyard walkway like little fat

hibernating fireflies. The house looked dark

except for a light thoughtfully left on by my

mother, illuminating the back deck. I let myself in

as quietly as I could and was greeted by two snuff-

ing dogs. Barbra is used to my arriving home at all

hours of the day or night. She knows what a detec-

tive’s life is like. Brutus, on the other hand, was a

little more unsure of me, not only because of my

seemingly furtive entry, but because he was a

guest in unfamiliar territory. Barbra quickly

moved into staring mode, awaiting indication of

what was coming next and wondering if a treat

was likely to be involved. Her brother however

spent a few more minutes smelling the seams of

my new pants and urging a few head pats before

Anthony Bidulka — 123

settling down. Once that was over, I tiptoed

through the kitchen into the hallway that led to

the guest bedroom and listened for sounds of my

mother. I couldn’t hear a thing and there didn’t

appear to be any light under the door to her room.

I realized I had no idea what time my mother

went to sleep. Nine o’clock? Midnight?

Somewhere in between? I looked down at the

dogs who had already spent more time with my