Julian (18 page)

I sloped through the next morning, my stomach churning
with anxiety, and went directly to Curtis’s office as soon as my shift ended. When I opened the door, he was standing at a filing cabinet, his back to me. As if to confirm my doom, he slammed the drawer. He looked over his shoulder.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, his voice flat and businesslike.

I didn’t reply. I stood by the door, my hand on the knob.

“Better come in and sit down,” he said.

I took a chair. I swallowed. Here it comes, I thought. I had made a mistake, acted unwisely. Now it was too late. But I asked myself if I would have done anything differently and the answer was no. So I readied myself to be fired.

He linked his fingers together on the desk blotter. “Something has come up in the Rubashov case,” he began, his words clipped and impersonal.

“Look, I’m sorry, but—”

“Sorry? Why?” He smoothed his moustache and goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “How did you know?” he asked.

“Er, know what?”

“What I was going to say.”

Something told me to shut up until the fog cleared.

“I misunderstood,” I said. “What were you about to tell me?”

He sighed. “That the Rubashov case is beginning to resemble a B movie.”

That didn’t clear things up. I had no idea what a B movie was.

“The Rubashovs have been, er, approached,” Curtis continued.

“Approached …”

“By Jason Plath.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly. Well put. ‘Huh?’ indeed. It seems the estimable Mr. Plath has offered to leave town and, more to the point, their daughter.”

“Oh.”

“For a consideration.”

“Meaning a bribe.”

“Again, well put.”

I had dodged a bullet only to find myself in a funhouse with slanted floors and crazy mirrors. Plath was offering to abandon Marika for money?

“The parents won’t agree,” I said. “Will they?”

Curtis expelled a puff of air. “They already have.”

We were quiet for a moment.

“You did get my report, didn’t you?” I asked tentatively.

“Romeo and Juliet at the movies? Yeah.”

“And you informed the Rubashovs?”

“Yes, they know. It may well have tipped the balance in favour of accepting Plath’s offer. They’re going to fork over the money and keep it secret from Marika.”

How could they do that to their own daughter? It was clear she loved Plath. Then again, she had no future if Plath was the kind of snake who would take money to leave her, so why not pay him off and get rid of him for good? Maybe they had been right about him all along. But if they felt that way, why not tell her about Plath’s demand and prove it? They must have decided she wouldn’t believe them.

“Well, that’s that, I guess,” I said, pulling my notebook
from my pocket. I had decided not to ask for payment if I was getting fired, but now it was different.

“Not quite,” Curtis said, preening his moustache once more.

I waited, my book in my hand.

“There’s the sticky matter of the consideration. A bank transfer leaves a record, as does a cheque, money order or bank draft. Plath wants cash. A method of payment I support, if it must be done, as I told the clients.”

“Uh-huh,” I conceded.

“So we need a method of delivery,” he pointed out.

“How much are they going to pay him?”

“Many thousands.”

“Why not get him to pick it up here? Lawyer-client privilege et cetera.”

“Because it’s illegal. Technically, it’s a form of extortion—you know, like blackmail. I can’t get involved. But someone unconnected with this office, acting for the Rubashovs …” He let the sentence hang.

“I don’t think so. Not this time.”

I was firm with Curtis, determined not to let him talk me around the way he usually did, not even when he mentioned a “substantial bonus.” I held him off for at least ten minutes. I left the office with instructions on when and where to pick up the cash and where to deliver it.

I almost laughed. I was a character in—what had Curtis called it?—a B movie. I was the delivery boy; the mule; the courier. It was night. No moon or stars. Late. Ten o’clock, to be exact. I entered the lobby of a chain hotel in North
York, walked past the potted ferns and tired sofas to the elevator. Rode to the sixth floor. Walked down the hallway, my trainers whispering on the worn red carpet, looking for room 632. Found it, knocked.

The door opened. In the vestibule, on the floor, stood a mini-duffel bag. Dark blue canvas with fake leather trim. Following Curtis’s instructions, I stepped in, picked up the duffel and stepped back into the corridor. The room door closed.

Muttering to myself, I carried the loot down to the street and hailed one of the cabs sitting in the rank by the hotel. I slid into the back seat and gave the driver my destination, Bay and Elm streets.

“I’m on a secret mission,” I added. I couldn’t help it. The bag full of money was getting to me.

“Really,” the cabbie sneered, flicking on the turn signal.

Twenty minutes later the cab pulled to the curb. I paid the fare, collected my receipt and got out. I made sure to adjust my hoodie to cover my head, even though it was a warm, humid night. Gripping the cash-stuffed duffel, I walked west on Elm, leaving the lights and traffic noise of Bay Street behind. Barnaby Place was not much more than an alley linking Elm and Edward streets. My instructions were to walk down the lane until I was contacted. It was silent, unlit, so shadowy I could hardly see my feet as I made my way between two buildings that loomed above me into the dark. A cat screeched. Glass crunched under my shoes. Behind me, something scurried away. I clutched the bag against my chest and kept walking.

About thirty metres farther on, the lane opened up into a sparsely lit parking lot where a solitary tree stood like a
sentry among the scattered vehicles. In the distance was the Elm Street bus terminal. Suddenly the location for the drop made sense.

I stopped, checked my watch, straining to see the dial in the gloom.

“Over here,” I heard.

The voice, raspy, male, maybe a little nervous, seemed to come from the tree. A shadow separated itself from the trunk—a tall shadow. I walked toward the tree and stopped.

Plath was all business. “Put down the bag and step back.”

I did as he said. Eyes on me, he approached, reached down and picked up the duffel. Cradled it in the crook of one arm, unzipped it. Looked inside.

“Hey! What’s this!” he exclaimed, slightly tipping the bag so I could see.

I stepped forward, eyes on the jumble of bills barely visible in the gloom. Thunder clapped inside my skull and splinters of light showered before my eyes. I toppled backward, collapsing as the fragments of light flared and died, and felt a stunning crush of pain in the back of my head. I blacked out.

I came to lying flat on my back, my face on fire, my head throbbing. I groaned, rolled over, struggled to my hands and knees, head spinning. I waited until the dizziness faded, then hauled myself to my feet. And vomited.

Coughing and spitting, I stumbled to the taxi rank across the road from the bus terminal, got into a cab and mumbled my address. On the ride home I drifted in and out of consciousness, fighting the nausea racking my guts. An eternity later I pushed through my front door, climbed the stairs,
gripping the bannister with both hands, and pounded on Fiona’s door.

“God in heaven, Julian! What on earth—?”

“Fiona, I can’t see out of my left eye!”

Fiona helped me into her kitchen and I dropped onto a chair. I sat still, half blind, my head spinning. Around me hustled what seemed like three Fionas, clucking and fussing. A tap squeaked, a pan banged, water dribbled. I felt a warm wet cloth on my face.

“Have ye been in a fight, or an accident?” Fiona asked.

“Sucker punch. Clobbered. My eye—”

“Wait a bit,” she soothed, gently moving the cloth across my face. “Your eye is swollen shut. That’s why you can’t see. You’ve a goose egg high on your cheek, and a wicked abrasion. Here, this will hurt a bit but it’ll ease your concern.”

I felt fingers prying at my eye.

“I see light!”

“Good.” I heard her rummaging around in a drawer. “I’m going to check you for concussion,” she said. “Hold still.”

The thin ray of illumination played back and forth across my vision.

“Your pupil is dilated. Headache?”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Nausea?”

“Major.”

“Dizziness?”

“On and off. Mostly on.”

“You’re concussed. That’s not good, but you’ll live.”

Her fingers gently probed my skull, moving slowly through my hair, then she stood behind me.

“Head forward, please. There it is, another goose egg, bleeding. Come on, let’s get to the sink.”

Fiona was stronger than she looked. She half lifted me out of the chair and guided me to the sink and proceeded to rinse my hair with warm water.

“Men,” she muttered, drying my head with a towel that came away with pink stains.

Not long after, head in bandages, a plaster on my cheek, two extra-strength painkillers and a sleeping pill coursing through my veins, I fell asleep on Fiona’s couch under one of Roger’s blankets.

When I woke up Fiona’s apartment was empty. She and Roger had already begun their day. The clock on the stove read eleven. There was a note on the table inviting me to make a cup of tea and ordering me to swallow the pills beside my cup, then spend the day flat on my back.

“You’re concussed,” the note reminded me, the second word underlined twice. My headache confirmed the message.

But I ignored it. Moving slowly, I washed the pills down with water, folded the blanket and left it on the arm of the couch. Pulling her door hard until the lock clicked, I made my way carefully down the stairs to my own place, still unsteady on my feet. I called the store, explained that I’d had an accident, told Gulun I’d be back on duty as soon as I could, and said goodbye in the middle of his complaint.

Last, my head thudding harder, waiting for the pills to kick in, I sent a “Mission Accomplished” message to Curtis before crawling into my own bed. It didn’t take the sleeping pill long to carry me away.

Sometime during the night I heard a car in the driveway and the muffled clunk of the back door opening and closing.

I couldn’t have cared less.

I woke up to birdsong and a trickle of sweat crossing my face, stinging my cheek. Bars of afternoon sun shot between the branches of the maple behind the garage and blazed in the window, turning the room into a sauna. I rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, groggy with heat and the aftereffects of the sleeping pill. A dull ache throbbed in my head, but the dizziness had gone. I got to my feet and padded into the bathroom.

The strange creature in the bathroom mirror, with hair spiking out from under the bandage, looked like a cartoon accident victim. The swollen area under my left eyebrow resembled a slit in the skin of an overripe plum. Plath could throw a punch, for sure.

I stripped off the bandage, wincing when it parted from the cut on the back of my head, and gingerly probed the lump. My fingers came away dry. I stood under the shower for a long while, and by the time I had towelled off, my headache had receded to a faint pulse. I pulled on a shirt and pair of shorts, then took to my chair at the front window, sinking into the upholstery and letting my thoughts run free.

Plath had set up the drop—or the ambush—perfectly. A dark place situated a few dozen metres from the city’s
main bus terminal. From there, coaches took journeys to all parts of the country and beyond. All he had to do was buy a ticket in advance, time the drop carefully, collect the payoff, put Julian the delivery boy on the ground to prevent me from following, then saunter across the street and board the bus to who knows where.

Worse than the pain was the prickly humiliation, a burr under my collar. On the ice I had never been a fighter, but I never backed away when an opponent lost control and dropped his gloves, and I was always ready for a sneaky butt-end or elbow to the head. Plath’s sucker punch had caught me off guard. I should have been prepared.

I felt like a fool.

F
IONA WAS AT MY DOOR
the next morning with Roger balanced on one hip.

“Come on,” she said. “I’m on my way to work. We’ll drop Roger with Trish and I’ll take you into Emerg. You need to have a doctor look at you.”

She wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I spent an hour in the Emergency department of the hospital where she worked. A doctor—harried, frizzy-haired, with horn-rimmed glasses—pronounced me no longer concussed and added, “I wouldn’t enter any beauty contests just yet.”

I picked up some painkillers on the way home and added them to my Rubashov expense account. When I pushed open my front door I heard coughing from one of the guest rooms, and the downstairs hall smelled of cigarettes. Back in my apartment I took a couple of the pills and lay down on the couch in front of the TV, dozed off,
woke up later, made a coffee and took it to my window chair. I finished a novel and started a new one—a Ken Bruen. I figured no matter how lousy I felt I’d seem bubbling with cheer compared to Bruen’s characters.

Later, I made a couple of sandwiches and took them down to the verandah in time to see Rawlins haul three roughed-up instrument cases to the trunk of a cab, on the way to Kentucky and his bluegrass festival. He waved goodbye from the car.

It was a sunny day, with a light breeze rustling around in the giant oak. Even though the verandah was shaded I wore sunglasses. The sunlight hurt my eye. I had missed a couple of days’ runs and hoped I’d be able to get back on track tomorrow, but the thought of pounding the pavement with my head the way it was encouraged me to stay put.

Back in my apartment I called Gulun and told him I’d be back to work in the morning.

“I don’t pay you for the days you missed,” he reminded me before he hung up.

Mrs. Altan’s jaw dropped when she saw me next day, and she gaped as if Halloween had come early.

“Julian! What happened?”

I had worked out a story I hoped would explain the puffy, yellowish purple bruise that covered my upper cheek and encircled my eye. I told her I had fallen against the newel post on my stairway at home while I’d been vacuuming the hallway. She looked as if she didn’t buy it but didn’t pursue the issue.