Flight of Aquavit (32 page)

Mr. Quant?”

I had no answer.

Without another word, she did an about-face,

marched across the small landing and descended

the stairs. From over the upper floor railing I

watched her progress until I saw her leave

through the front door. After she was gone I

returned to my desk and pulled a Great Western

Light from my desk-fridge along with a mug

and small container of Clamato juice. I mixed the

beer and clam into the frosted mug and reclined in

my chair to think about what had just happened. I

was relieved Cheryl Guest hadn’t requested a

referral for another private investigator after she

learned I couldn’t help her. But that didn’t mean

she wouldn’t find someone else to do the job her-

self. And if she did, well, Daniel was in trouble.

Although Daniel had told me he hadn’t slept

with another man since receiving the blackmail

note, I had no way of knowing whether he was

telling me the truth. But even if it were true, I was

betting Daniel still managed some sort of activity

that a detective worth his or her salt could uncov-

er, like maybe he bought gay porn magazines or

parked his car in known gay cruising spots to

watch the action. And if that was the case, Daniel

Anthony Bidulka — 253

Guest would soon be outed. Maybe the better

choice was for him to come out before some PI dis-

covered all his secrets? At least then he’d have an

opportunity to control who got the information

and how.

I also had to wonder, if Daniel Guest decided

to come out, at least to his wife, what that would

mean to my case. Would I even have one? The

more I thought about it, and sipped my beer, the

answer to that was probably yes. Daniel might be

convinced to tell his wife about his dalliances

with men, but he certainly wouldn’t be keen on

having everything revealed to the public in a

StarPhoenix
exclusive.

Even telling Cheryl Guest the truth had risk,

other than the obvious ones to their relationship

and marriage. Right now she suspected another

woman, not a man (or men). What would she do

knowing her husband was bisexual? Would she

want to cover it up or would she want to rant and

rave and tell the world just to hurt him? Both were

possibilities and no matter which was true, the

experience wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs

for my client.

Today was the seventeenth, two days past the

due date for Loverboy’s payment and he’d appar-

ently not yet gone to Cheryl Guest with his reve-

lations. If he had, I doubted she’d have come to

my office. Or she’d have been asking about an

affair with a man, not another woman. So why

not? Why hadn’t Loverboy made a move? I knew

Daniel hadn’t heard anything from the blackmail-

er. Had Loverboy been bluffing? Had he gone run-

254 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

ning? Or was he still hoping to find the money in

the mail?

I fixed myself another beer and clam. Office

hours were long over so I took my drink with me

downstairs to raid the kitchen for supper…I mean

dinner. I found an apple, a plastic container of

brown rice that looked relatively fresh and a slice

of carrot cake. I knew my PWC mates wouldn’t

mind. Actually they counted on me to keep left-

overs in the fridge from going bad. After giving

the rice a quick blast in the microwave, sprinkling

it with soya sauce from a plastic, take-out pouch

and selecting utensils, I gathered my meal onto a

tray and took it back to my office.

I decided to keep on working while I chowed

down and picked up the phone.

“Kirsch,” the black-bear voice answered.

“Quant,” I replied, mocking his serious tone.

“Geez, Quant, it’s been a few days since I last

heard from you. I was beginning to think maybe

you’d run off with the gay circus or something.”

Ha. Ha. Not so funny. “You wish.” Great witty

comeback by me.

“You bet I do. But you’re lucky today, I’m in a

good mood, so what can I do you for?”

“What’s with the good mood? Was there a dou-

ble episode of
Cops
on TV last night?”

“Hilarious, Quant. Now whaddaya want? I got

tonsa paper work here and it’s time for me to go

home. So make it quick.”

“What happened to that good mood? It disap-

pear already?” I asked, shovelling some rice into

my mouth.

Anthony Bidulka — 255

“You have that effect on me,” he said dryly.

“Listen, I had a bit of an altercation the other

night.”

“That’s what happens when you use outdoor

parks as singles’ clubs.”

I ignored the slur. “It just so happens I was

attacked.”

“Oh?” His voice was immediately alert and

concerned. Despite everything, Darren is a good

cop and, though I hate to admit it, probably not a

bad person either. “What happened?”

“I was at home on Friday night with my moth-

er…no smartass comments please…and she saw a

peeping Tom. I chased him down the street. When

I caught up with him I got sprayed in the face with

something.”

“Mace?”

Damn. I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell him this

part. “No. It smelled more like hairspray.”

“Excuse me? Did you say hairspray?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So your attacker was a gay hairdresser?” His

voice lost its concern.

“Darren, I’m not kidding. This happened. It

really scared my mother.” I added for dramatic

effect, “And me too.”

“Okay, okay. You had a peeping Tom. Any idea

who it might have been?”

“None.”

“Could you describe him?”

“I’m afraid not. It all happened so fast. And it

was dark out.” I freed the carrot cake from its

Saran wrapping and began dessert.

256 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Could it have been a woman?”

“What? A woman?” Sexistly I had not even

considered that. “Why would you think that?”

“The hairspray. Not many men…real

men…carry hairspray around with them, espe-

cially if they’re planning to do some peeping

rather than primping. If it was hairspray, or even

if it was mace or some other such defensive spray,

the chances are good your peeper was a woman.

That MO just doesn’t fit a man.”

Darren was making sense. I should have seen it

myself. And perhaps my female peeper was the

same woman who showed up at the DGR&R

offices asking about Daniel. But who was she?

And why peep in my windows?

“You could be right.” I hated giving him the

compliment. “So, do you know of any female

peepers in town? Any other instances of the same

thing on the dockets?”

“Gee, let me search my memory of everything

there is to know about crime and criminals in

Saskatoon.”

“Hey, you’re doing better with the sarcasm.”

“Good

teacher.

I’ll

check

around…maybe…and don’t call me like in half an

hour…I’ll get to it when I get to it. Don’t expect

anything.”

“Never do.”

Sereena’s carry-on was smaller than mine. I could-

n’t figure it. How can such a high-maintenance

person require so little? We were on the three-and-

Anthony Bidulka — 257

a-half-hour flight from Saskatoon to Toronto. From

there we’d catch a connection to New York City. I

don’t know how it happened, but after Sereena

flashed a card or two and maybe some shapely

thigh, we were bumped up into Air Canada exec-

utive class—wider seats and better treats. As soon

as we settled in with our champagne and orange

juice, I spent my time gazing smugly at passen-

gers embarking after us and heading for the back

of the Airbus while Sereena began to accoutre her-

self with the necessities of
le grand voyage
. She nes-

tled her politically correct silk-lined fake-fur coat

around herself like a luxurious nest and proceed-

ed to pull from pockets and bags and places so

hidden not even Sir Edmund Hillary could find

them, a selection of moisturizers—some for the

face, a different kind for the hands and yet anoth-

er for the fingernails—a magazine on fine art, bot-

tled water (which I wouldn’t be surprised to find

was laced with vodka), a palm pilot that con-

tained a dizzying array of personal and business

information and a hardcover book about how

globalization was the system replacing cold war

geopolitics as the defining force in world affairs.

Landing in LaGuardia Airport after the fifty-

five minute flight from Toronto was like landing

in Sim City. Having seen it all before, Sereena had

kindly allowed me the window seat. Everything I

knew about this place I’d gleaned from movies

and books and magazines. I gazed down at the

countless buildings, like the pieces of several

puzzles squeezed into one, and thought it was a

dream city—not quite believable. As the plane

258 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

descended, quiet apprehension over the appear-

ance that we might land atop one of those build-

ings, gave way to ascending excitement. This was

New York City! At the mouth of the Hudson River

and bordering the Atlantic Ocean, here was the

USA’s most populous city. Downtown! Midtown!

Uptown! Harlem, Chelsea, Gramercy, Tribeca. The

Financial District, Garment District, Theatre

District. East Village, West Village, Greenwich

Village. China Town, Little Italy and Brooklyn.

Laid out before us like a map of the world on a

stamp-sized piece of land, each colour-coded sec-

tion as distinct from its neighbours as tall build-

ings are from short, heavily treed parks are from

concrete jungles, bohemian is from couture, and

haves are from have-nots. The shopping, the

museums, the shopping, the historical sights, the

shopping! How could it all be in one place?

Sereena reached for my hand and held it on our

way down, her fingers near my quickening pulse

spot, as if hoping for an infusion of a first-

timer’s excitement. She answered my many ques-

tions with knowledgeable precision and seemed

quietly pleased with my appreciation for the behe-

moth below, about to swallow us like a beast of

grandeur.

We made it through the airport with surprising

ease and found a cab—promising an incense-free

environment—to take us to our hotel. We were

dropped curbside on bustling Fifth Avenue, across

the street from Central Park and The Plaza Hotel

and next door to The Pierre at our equally exqui-

site, temporary new home, The Sherry-

Anthony Bidulka — 259

Netherland. Sereena had insisted on “The Sherry”

and supplemented my client’s per diem to make it

so. I stepped out of the vehicle in a daze, barely

registering the driver who was attempting to free

our amazing haul of luggage from where he’d

bungee-corded it into his trunk. Sereena was mak-

ing jovial small talk with the doorman with whom

she seemed well-acquainted.

Although the air was cool, there was no snow

on the ground and barely a trace of wind. Tropical

by Saskatchewan December standards. I pulled in

a deep whiff of city-scented air. Nothing like it on

the prairies. Despite the hoo-hah about polluted

city air, I always find it oddly exhilarating; city air

is air that has lived. And this, the air of New York

City, especially so, having swirled around masses

of people doing exciting things, floated through

world-class museums and theatres and restau-

rants, this is air breathed in and out with vigour,

this is air that has tasted the money of Wall Street,

the sorrow of Ground Zero, the passion of a million

honeymoons and the intoxication of a thousand

opening nights. I was, immediately, under its

spell.

The Sherry-Netherland is an elegant building

still reflecting the glory days of old-world class.

The heavily gilded and chandeliered front

entrance is not so much a lobby as a well-appoint-

ed check-in area with a pair of gold-doored, staffed

lifts to the right and down a short hallway from a

discreet front desk. According to Anthony (in

training mode), unless you plan a change of

clothes between the airport and hotel, you should

260 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

always know your hotel and the impression you