Race (22 page)

“Call Burrows,” she said.
 
“Let’s have a word with him.”

A few minutes later, Ed Burrows entered the room, looking weak and tired.
 
He’d spent all his waking hours trying different combinations of the drug, but nothing so far that could get the results they wanted.
 

“Mr. Burrows,” Ms. Zee said.
 
“Do you have any news for us?”

He thought hard about his answer.

She rephrased her question, “Will we ever be able to produce
Nex
?”

Ed Burrows didn’t have an answer.

***

We drove to DAS to meet our analyst, Eileen
Mathers
.
 
She motioned us to follow her.
 
We went inside the lab and to a corner.

“What have you found?”
Beadsworth
asked.

“What we already knew,” she said.
 
She was holding several sheets of print-outs.
    
She pulled out the first sheet.
 
It showed two graphs. The graph resembled the display of a sound synthesizer or a heartbeat monitor with steady lines, but sudden abrupt peaks.

“As you can see—” she started.

I interrupted her, “Can you explain how this gas photography machine works?”

“Gas chromatography,” she corrected me.

“That’s what I mean,” I said.
 
I was curious.
 
Also, I needed something to divert my mind from the conversation with Aldrich.
 
  

“Gas chromatography is an analytical method used to separate mixtures.
 
It indicates, based on the component’s volatility, solubility and absorption of the relative quantity of each component.”

I stared at her blankly.

She tried again.
 
“Gas chromatography separates the different components in the sample.
 
The mass spectrometer identifies the atomic composition of each of the components.
 
This data is then compared by a computer to a database of hundreds of known drugs and other compounds to see if there are any matches.”
       

“Interesting,” I said, nodding.
 
I had no idea what she was talking about.
 

She was not talking to an intelligent adult; she was in fact talking to an eight-year-old who, as far as science was concerned, was more interested in looking at comic books than reading a text book.

“How does that work exactly?” I asked.

“First we dissolve the solid with a solvent, and then, using an injector, pass it through a long tubular column with a stream of helium gas.
 
It separates the liquids on the basis of their boiling points.
 
As they exit the columns, the mass spectrum detector records the drugs.
 
Then you have this.” She held up the graphs again.

“Yes,” I said, not understanding.
 
“The graphs.”

“Each peak represents a single component.
 
If we have several components in a drug then we’ll have several peaks.
 
The first graph shows the amount of each component, the other the time it took to emerge from the drug.”

She pointed to the one peak.
 
“This is the analysis of the first sample—the orange tablet.
 
From the
Mandelin
test we already knew it contained
Ketamine
but this further verifies it.
 
Ketamine
is the sole component in the tablet.”

She pulled out the second print.
 
This one had two peaks.
 

“This is for the green tablet.
 
Earlier, through the Marquis test, we had verified it contained
Ketamine
and caffeine, but we did not know how much.
 
If you look at the graph, caffeine has a higher peak, almost five times as large as
Ketamine
.”

She pulled out the third graph.
 
This one looked like it had gone berserk.
 
It had many peaks.

“This is a mixture of many components.
 
The largest being
Ketamine
—just by looking at the peak you’ll agree.
  
Then caffeine, then MDMA—”

“What?” I said.

“Ecstasy.”

“Thank you.”

“Then pseudo ephedrine.” Before I could say something she said, “If taken in large quantity it has the same effect as speed. You’ll find it in Sudafed.”

I looked satisfied so she continued.

“Then DXM, found in Vicks formula.
 
Finally, methamphetamine, more potent than amphetamine.”

“That’s a lot of components in one drug,”
Beadsworth
said.

“Yes, but not uncommon.
  
That is why it is so dangerous.
 
This particular tablet contains components that give you the speedy effect with ephedrine, caffeine, and methamphetamine. The relaxation effect with DXM. And the altered state of consciousness effect with
Ketamine
.”

“So it
can
numb you, relax you, and then pop you back out?” I asked.

She thought about it and then said, “Yes.”

Beadsworth
and I looked at each other.

“But, it will not take immediate effect,” she said.

We both blew a sigh of relief.

“Is there any way for it to take immediate effect?”
Beadsworth
asked.

“Intravenously.
 
That’s the only way I can think of.”

She handed
Beadsworth
a brown envelope: The Certificate of Analyst.

Beadsworth
didn’t look inside; he just nodded and thanked her.

SIXTEEN

The ride through downtown was tough.
 
I was upset.
 
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get myself in a good mood.
 
I kept seeing Barnes’ face—bloodied on the floor.
 
I couldn’t shake off the fact that it could have been me.
 

I shook my head.

That was too much to think about.

As we drove by I saw people sitting outside on benches eating and chatting away.
 
I wished I were outside eating on one of those benches.
 
I wished I worked in one of those big financial buildings.
 
All I would do is get up in the morning, dress, and go to work.
 
Work eight-to-four, or my
favourite
, nine-to-five.
 
Not ever having to worry about your co-worker getting hurt.
 

I hate to admit it.

My mother was right.

She’s always right.

On my sixteenth birthday my mom got me an entire year’s subscription to
Business Weekly
magazine.
  
She hoped by reading these I would somehow be enticed to enter the world of finance or commerce.
 
I remember now what a lousy birthday that was. I was hoping for the latest Nike Air Jordan’s.
 
I can truly say my heart was broken.
 

It suddenly struck me.

“Shit,” I yelled.
 
“Tomorrow is—”

“Is everything okay?”
Beadsworth
said.
 

“Yeah, great,” I said.
 
“Just thinking.”

“You want to talk about it,” said
Beadsworth
.

“Talk about what?”

“I mean what happened at the House of Jam.
 
You’ve been unusually quiet.”

“No.
 
I’m fine.”

“Yes, of course,” he said and abruptly shut up.

We drove in silence, passing more of Toronto’s magnificent buildings.
  
“Can you drop me off here?” I said.

He stopped the car.
 
He didn’t say anything.
 

I said, “I just need some time to myself.”

He nodded and drove off.

***

I walked down
Yonge
Street.
  
I saw a store and entered.
 
The place smelled nice.
  
A girl behind the counter smiled as I walked up.
       

“I’m looking for a perfume,” I said.

It was obvious. This was a perfume shop.

“For someone special?” she asked.

“Very.”
 
I smiled.

“Do you know what she likes?”

“Perfumes.
 
That’s all I know.”

“That’s not a problem,” she said, and began showing me different brands from the display counter.
 
She handed me a strip of hard paper and sprayed one of the brands on it.
 
I smelled it.
 
Nice.

She sprayed another.
 
Nice too.

Then another.
 

And another.

By the fourth one my nose had had enough.
 
After that, all of the brands smelled the same.
 

“Any you think she might like?” the girl behind the counter said.

“I’ll take that one,” I said pointing to the first brand, not because I thought it was better but because it was the one that registered most accurately in my nose.

I thanked her, paid, and left the perfume shop with a bag containing Elizabeth Taylor’s Black Pearl.

***

With the bag of perfume under my arm I strolled out onto the street.
   
There were too many things on my mind.
    
What was I doing in Operation Anti-RACE anyways?
  

I was walking along the sidewalk when I felt something—on the road—follow me.
 
I could feel a presence, as if a car was right behind me, moving at my pace.

I stopped.
 
I sensed that it stopped, too.

This was bullshit.
 
I turned.

A familiar orange and navy green taxi had come to an abrupt halt.
 
The driver instantly looked away as if he was sightseeing.

I shook my head.

I went over and knocked on the window.
 
The driver rolled down and innocently looked at me.

“Sir,” I said in my police-like tone.
 
“Are you following me?”

“No, sir,” he said.
 

“Then you’re stalking me.
 
That’s illegal in this country.”

“No, I was not stalking.”
 
He shook his head.

“Then what were you doing?” I demanded.

He paused and then said, “I was waiting to run taxi over you.”

I laughed.

Mahmud
Hanif
laughed back.

I got into the back.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked.

“Nowhere special,” I said, stretching in the back, but then suddenly I went upright.
  
“Did you turn on the meter?”