Flight of Aquavit (38 page)

since I’d scored what I felt was a winning blow in

that particular discourse, I decided a little bit of

truth might not hurt as a segue into a more useful

conversation. “I’m a private investigator and I’m

in New York working on a case.”

That seemed to shut her up for a few seconds.

“You’re on a case?”

Interesting. She didn’t seem surprised to learn

I was a detective, but she was surprised I was here

on a case. She’d obviously done her work on who

I was. What she didn’t know was what I was

doing. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m a private investigator too.” She admitted

slowly as if she was paying more attention to some-

thing in her head than to what she was saying. But

after a second she shook it off and asked, “What

Anthony Bidulka — 301

case are you working on? Who’s your client?”

“If you’re really a private detective, you know

I won’t tell you who my client is, but I will tell you

the case I’m working on involves blackmail. I’m

here investigating a suspect.”

“Blackmail?” Her face looked as if she was

working on a particularly hard arithmetic problem.

I imagined sprockets and coils whizzing and

whirring in her head as she tried to figure out what

was going on—and whether I was telling the truth.

“What about you? Who is your client? What

case are you working on?”

She frowned at me, looking a little bit like a

garden gargoyle. “That’s none of your beeswax.”

Ah. Nothing like some good old give and take

and fair play and all that. “Look,” I said, “I think

we need to share a little more information or we’re

never gonna get anywhere.”

She thought about this for a moment and obvi-

ously agreed—sort of. She began, “I’m not going

to tell you who my client is either, but…well, for

your own sake so you don’t go chasing your tail

for too long, why I’m here has nothing to do with

no blackmail.” She raised an unplucked eyebrow

high on her forehead and finished off with, “You

sure you’re not here for some other reason?”

Huh? “Huh? Like what?”

“Okay, never mind,” she said, sounding a bit

prickly.

I tried disarming her with a smile. Didn’t work.

“Jane, I think there’s been a big mistake here.”

She didn’t look any friendlier, but her head

was slowly bobbing up and down. “I’m beginning

302 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

to think that myself.”

For a moment we were mute. The air was elec-

tric with uncertainty and mistrust. I was sure that

if I touched her I’d get a shock. Although our

instincts were telling us that if only we’d talk we’d

figure out some important stuff, they also told us

to keep our backs up like barnyard cats.

“Who’s the dame?”

Gawd! Was she channelling Mickey Spillane or

something?

“If I answer a question will you answer one?”

“No promises, bub.”

“The dame is Sereena Smith, a good friend of

mine.” And for the first time another thought hit

me. Was this not about me or my case at all? Could

this be about Sereena? Suddenly I was sorry I gave

away her name. “Why do you want to know?”

“Next question.”

I took a stab. “Do you drive a blue car?”

She stepped back and stared at me in a way

that told me I had guessed correctly.

“What kind of hairspray do you use?” I asked,

not too friendly like.

She took another step away and gave me a

“whaddaya talking about?” look.

“It was you who hairsprayed me in the face,

wasn’t it? You’re the peeping Tom!”

She pursed her lips and looked at something,

anything, over my shoulder. It
was
her! I tried not

to get too mad. The one good thing she had going

for her was that I was in the same line of work as

her and could understand the possible need to hair-

spray someone’s face better than the next guy.

Anthony Bidulka — 303

“What about the landfill? Was that you too?”

She held up her hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, I know nothin’ about no landfill. You can’t

lay that on me.”

I wasn’t in the mood to trust anything she was

telling me. “You’ve been tailing me for…how long

now? A week? More? What are you looking for?

Who hired you?”

She glared at me but didn’t utter a word.

“You haven’t found whatever it is you’re look-

ing for…so that’s why you followed me here!”

The words came spilling out of my mouth as

quickly as I could think of them. “You probably

thought this was your first big break in the case.

You thought I’d become careless once I was away

from Saskatoon. I’d never suspect you were

behind me. In time you’d catch me at whatever it

is you and your client expect I’m doing! Wow, this

is very Jane Bond double-oh-seven of you.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

I said nothing.

“Are you making fun of me, bub?”

Oh, oh, I was a bub again. And each time she

repeated the phrase she got angrier and a small

vein began to pulse at her temple.

“Don’t blow a gasket, Jane, I’m just pointing

out the obvious. Whatever your client is looking

for, they’re wrong. There’s been a mistake. You

have nothing.”

“I can’t fucking believe this!” Jane began pac-

ing the room, shaking her head like a wet dog

fresh from a bath.

“You know I’m right.” I was just blowing

304 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

smoke, I didn’t really know what I was talking

about but Jane’s reactions seemed to be telling me

I was on the right track. There had been some mis-

take. She had made the trip for nothing.

“And that makes you some kind of hero?” she

spit out.

I knew she was mad at the situation, not me—

well not much at me. I wanted to cool her down.

Despite everything, I kind of liked this little spit-

fire. “C’mon, why don’t I see what sort of drinks I

can find in the mini bar and we talk this over?

Besides, how unlikely is it that two private eyes

from Saskatchewan find themselves pitted against

each other in a New York City hotel room?”

“About as unlikely as me having a drink with

you! I’ll catch you later, Russell Quant.” She

turned on her heel and headed out the door.

“Later, Jane Cross.”

She grumbled an inventively abusive turn of

phrase and was gone.

After helping myself to that mini-bar drink, a shot

of whiskey, I plopped down into a club chair and

tried to put together the pieces of my night. James

Kraft. Jane Cross. Sereena Smith. Related?

Unrelated? Was I in some spinning vortex of con-

fusion from which I’d wake tomorrow morning?

Hoped so. After several fruitless minutes I noticed

a red light on my phone blinking. Message. With

barely the strength of a Raggedy Andy doll left in

me, I pulled my body up from the chair and

allowed it to topple onto the bed (without spilling

Anthony Bidulka — 305

a drop of my drink) from where I could reach the

telephone. I pulled the handset to my ear and

pushed the button.

“Russell? It’s James,” the recorded message

began.

My heart did an involuntary leap. Why did it

do that? Stop it, Russell.

“I just wanted to…I wanted to apologize for

walking out of the bar like that, I know you’re just

doing your job and…oh, hell, Russell…”

It was quiet for a bit, but I could hear rustling.

He hadn’t hung up. Then, “Russell, I…can you

just call me, man? As soon as you get home? I

don’t care what time it is. If…if you’re not pissed

with me or whatever, call me. Okay?”

He hung up.

It was 1 a.m.

I went to the bathroom, finishing my drink on

the way. I peeled off my shirt and threw cold

water on my face and chest. My cheek looked a lit-

tle raw from being grated against the carpet, but

no blood.

I went back to the bed and sat on the edge,

pouring myself another shot from the tiny mini-

bar whiskey bottle. I pulled off my shoes and

socks. Ran my hand over my face and fell back

onto the bed. I reached for the phone and dialled.

“Hullo?” It was a sexy voice, thick and slurry

with sleep.

“James?” I whispered.

“Russell. I’m so glad you called.”

There was a moment then between us. We said

nothing but it was the beginning of a new set of

306 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

rules.

“What are you wearing?” he asked.

We both laughed.

“I hope you don’t mind that I called your room

like that?” he said.

“No. Not at all.” I propped the tumbler of liquor

on my chest and watched it gently rise up and

down. The cool drink ring on my skin felt good. “I

was a real jerk at the bar,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You were doing your job, man. I understand.

You got no reason yet to believe me. I know that.”

Yet. He said yet. It was a little word but it

brought colour to my cheeks. Was our history

together being written starting today? Was it

going to be something more than it was until

now? Jeez, I was being schmaltzy about this.

“It’s just that I like you, man,” he said. “There’s

something about you that I really dig. I know it

seems crazy because we just met, but I like the

whole package man. It’s for me. You’re it for me.”

Ohhhhhhhhmaaaaaaaaaannnnnn…

I was melting at the sound of his voice. This

guy did not beat around the bush.

Quant, you’ve got a job to do!

Ah, shut up.

Voices in my head. I may need pills for this.

“James.” That was all I had. My mouth was

dry, my ears were pounding and I could feel each

of the little hairs on my body quiver. I put the

glass of whiskey on the nightstand—it was no

longer stable on my chest.

“Come over,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Part of me was already hailing a cab.

Anthony Bidulka — 307

“I can’t, James,” I said.

“Why? Don’t you want to?”

“I do,” I admitted. “Yeah, I do.”

“Come over.” He told me his address.

“I can’t.” I didn’t sound very convincing even

to myself. I memorized the address.

“I’ll be back in Saskatoon before Christmas.”

Why did he tell me that? As a warning to

Daniel Guest? Or to tell me this didn’t have to be

just a one-night thing if we didn’t want it to be.

My mind was all over the place. This was all

wrong and all right for a million reasons.

“Come over.” Again.

“James, I just can’t tonight.”

“I wasn’t kidding,” he said then, his voice

never losing its sexual fullness.

“About what?”

“What are you wearing?”

This time neither of us laughed.

Saturday I toured a minuscule portion of the Frick

Collection, lunched in Chelsea, had a passerby

take my photo at the corner of Christopher and

Gay Streets and shopped in SoHo all without the

company of Jane Cross. At least not a Jane Cross I

could spot. Had she given up and gone home?

Was this something for my Herrings file or a hairy

tail of a big fat mouse? Sereena was—well, I don’t

know where Sereena was, but we’d promised to

get together that evening. When I returned to my

room early afternoon the message light on my

phone was blinking once again.

308 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Russell.” And once again it was James.

My cheeks reddened.

“Actually I’m kinda glad I reached your

machine, this way you won’t be able to say no this

time,” he said with his easy laugh. “But I don’t

think you will anyway.”

I stared at the phone, wondering what was

coming next.

“After…last night, I thought I owed it to you.

I’ve got something you’ve been looking for.”

My mind crashed. James. What are you say-

ing?

“I’ve got plans earlier, but why don’t you drop

by my apartment later—my roommate is out of

town until after the holidays—say about mid-

night? I’ll see you then.”

And that was it. What the hell was that? He

had something I’ve been looking for. I was looking

for one thing. Loverboy. But no. I had all but con-

cluded James couldn’t be Loverboy.

Or was it just that I didn’t want him to be?

That evening after a pan-Asian/fusion dim sum

dinner at Ruby Foo’s, I was led by Sereena (with

no little bit of trepidation on my part) to some dim

den of a theatre so far off Broadway the locals spoke

a foreign language. We saw a musical about a fam-