Downfall
Page 28
“Detective, good morning.” Caldas, the owner, rushed up to greet them. “And to whom do I owe the honour?” he added, a giant smile on his face as he turned to Ramos.
“This is Dr. Ramos, a brilliant pathologist.”
“Bom dia, senhor,” she said.
Caldas’s eyes lit up.
“Brazilian?” he said. “Such a lovely accent.”
“Not quite. Northern Uruguay.”
Instantly the two jumped into an animated conversation in Portuguese. Ramos began pantomiming someone drinking from a cup, and Caldas nodded enthusiastically. Then she imitated someone eating. Caldas smiled. They were laughing together as if they’d been friends for decades. At last they shook hands, and Caldas bowed and rushed off toward the bar.
When he was gone, Ramos turned to Greene with a blank look on her face, as if nothing had happened.
“Well?” Greene said.
“Well?” Ramos said back.
“You spoke to him for about two minutes.”
“Yes. He’s a lovely gentleman.” She looked over Greene’s shoulder. “Here he comes.”
Greene turned and saw Caldas approach taking quick steps, holding his serving tray.
“Detective Greene,” he said. “I am most happy. After these many years, the beautiful doctor explained to me that at last you have started to drink coffee. And you wish to try mine.”
Greene looked across at Ramos, who stared back at him straight-faced.
Caldas put two cups of espresso and the inevitable pair of hard croissants on the table.
“Oh, did she?” Greene said.
“I was going to bring you sugar, but the good doctor told me you take it straight.”
“Do I? Well, thank you, Miguel,” Greene said, hoping that Caldas would now disappear and he could pass the coffee covertly over to Ramos and they could laugh about her little gambit.
Instead, Caldas crossed his arms in front of him, holding the round tray to his chest. “Dr. Ramos assured me that you would wish me to witness this historic event.”
Greene shot Ramos another look.
She smiled back at him with her perfect teeth. Under the table he felt her kick his leg.
“Excelente!” Greene said, grasping the little cup and throwing the coffee back in one gulp. He reached for the croissant and took a bite to cut the bitter taste in his mouth.
“Bravo,” Caldas said, swinging his tray down by his side and gliding away.
“You are very brave, Detective,” Ramos said, once they were alone. Instead of kicking his leg, now she was rubbing it up and down with the side of her shoe.
Holding her eyes, he reached across the table, took her cup of espresso, brought it to his lips, and slowly sipped it dry.
THE NEXT DAY
69
It was Babita’s idea, of course. It all started a month after the accident, when Detective Kennicott called Roshan and said the police no longer needed his damaged bicycle as evidence. Did he want it back, or should they destroy it?
Mr. Hodgson, the former club president and the driver of the black SUV who had accidentally knocked Roshan off his bicycle on that most unfortunate morning, had insisted on giving Roshan two thousand dollars to buy a replacement, and for what he called Roshan’s pain and suffering. They’d used the money to buy the twins snowsuits and Babita the new rice cooker she had always wanted. They’d put the rest into savings.
“If it is not too much trouble,” Roshan told Kennicott, “please, I would like to have it returned in order to do the repair.”
The bike was in rough shape. Later Roshan joked that the bike was in even worse condition than his bruised knee. There was little room in their one-bedroom apartment, and with the twins now crawling everywhere, he couldn’t leave the bicycle on the floor. He hooked up a pulley system to the ceiling that allowed him to lower it when he was doing work on it and pull it out of the way when he was not.
Soon word spread in the housing complex about Roshan’s bicycle repairs, and Babita’s specially made reflecting shirts. Within a month Roshan had five bicycles hanging from pulleys throughout the apartment. Babita became so busy with orders that she bought a second sewing machine, and a neighbour came by every day to work with her.
For months they had tried to get Detective Kennicott to come over for dinner so they could thank him for all his help through the ordeal. But each time they’d asked him, the detective had been too busy. Finally, he was free, and he’d brought his girlfriend, Ms. Breaker, with him. Babita made a delicious eggplant and dhal dish, with okra and spiced rice. As they were teaching their guests how to use their fingers to eat the meal, Ms. Breaker asked about the bicycles and Babita’s reflective shirts.
“Have you ever thought of opening a bike repair and clothing shop?” she asked.
“But where and how?” Roshan asked.
“We are running out of room,” Babita said. “We have only money to pay the rent and clothe the children.”
Ms. Breaker listened, nodded, and said, “Let me work on this. I know ways to find you start-up grants.”
A week later she’d come over, and together they’d filled out a pile of government forms to aply for grant money to rent an old building that had once been a candy store down the street from the golf club. To get the funds, Roshan and Babita had to agree to hire four homeless people, who would commit to come to work sober and show up at least fifteen hours a week.
Mr. Waterbridge, the golf club manager, collected funds from members to pay for a sign. His younger son helped him with the fundraising.
Detective Greene had a friend named Mr. Dent, who was their first homeless employee. He seemed to know everyone who lived in the valley and helped pick people he thought were reliable to work as other employees. The best seemed to be a young woman named Daphne.
The shop opened in March, and business was good right from the beginning, thanks mostly to the club members who brought their children’s bikes in for repairs. Babita’s shirts were popular too.
Daphne started off so well. She watched the others like a hawk, and if someone tried to steal something, or money from the tip jar, she was on them in an instant. Then one day she disappeared, and it turned out she’d been siphoning off the tips for weeks and had stolen yards of Babita’s cloth.
A few weeks later, Detective Greene’s daughter came by. She was a TV reporter and wanted to do a story about a shop that hired homeless people.
“That would be most helpful,” Roshan said.
“But I do not think they will want to have their faces on television,” Babita explained.
“We’ll film it in such a way as not to reveal their identity,” Ms. Greene said. “The audience will only see their hands at work.”
The story was on TV the next week, and after that, business doubled. People drove from all over the city to drop off their bicycles and buy Babita’s shirts. Now she had four sewing machines.
Sometimes on Saturday mornings Ms. Breaker stopped by on her early morning runs through the valley, and once in a while when he was not on a case, Detective Kennicott would run with her.
The previous week Ms. Breaker had asked Babita, “Could you make me a shirt for running?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Babita said. “I will have it for you next week.”
Early this morning, Ms. Breaker came into the shop with Detective Kennicott. Babita had hoped he would be with her, because she had also made a shirt for him.
“These are great,” Ms. Breaker said, pulling Babita’s shirt on. “All my running friends are going to want one.”
“Fits like a glove,” Detective Kennicott said, when he tried his on.
They thanked Babita and insisted on paying for the shirts. When they were done, Roshan walked with them outside. The sun was rising, and the air was warming.
Detective Kennicott’s cell phone rang. It had an unusual ring tone.
Roshan saw him exchange a knowing look with Ms. Breaker before he turned away and answered the ph
one.
“Ari, what have we got?” Roshan heard him say, before he walked down the road out of range.
A few seconds later he was back. “I have to run over to the nearest division,” he said to Ms. Breaker, pointing down the road.
“I’m going to head back down to the valley,” she said, gesturing the other way.
“Have a good run,” he said.
“But first, Daniel.” She put her hands on his face and kissed him.
Roshan smiled as he watched them run off in different directions.
“Roshan, we have a new customer,” Babita called out to him from inside the shop.
“I’ll be right there,” he called back.
Instead, he turned and looked up to the clear blue sky and let the sun caress his face. It had been a cold spring, but at last it was growing warm and there was a faint smell of lilac in the air. Something above him caught his eye. He spotted a bird winging past him, clutching a large twig in its beak. It was heading home.
Acknowledgments
It is a few minutes after five a.m. at the Caldense Bakery on Dundas Street West. Outside snowflakes are falling, dancing through the streetlights. It is not cold enough for them to stick to the ground. Instead they paint the street with a glimmering wet sheen. I’ve come here to put the final touches on the first draft of this manuscript, which is due today.
In the far corner of the café, TV commentators are having an intense debate about Portuguese soccer. Three men have just come in, wearing work boots, heavy coats, and safety vests, for their morning hits of espresso. A lit-up, bauble-filled Christmas tree is at my side.
People often ask what I do for research. Mostly it involves this: walking through the city, going to places, looking, listening.
There are many people to thank for their countless hours of assistance to help me with this novel. After having the privilege of seeing this, my sixth book, published, I prefer to thank them privately.
On my early-morning drive over to this café, I counted fifteen building cranes towering over new building sites. Soon I’ll head back home, where, within two blocks of where I live, five new condominium high-rises are under construction. I walk to work and I know I will pass at least that number of people begging on the street.
Another working day in this hard-working city.
Robert Rotenberg
Toronto
December 6, 2019
About the Author
© TED FELD PHOTOGRAPHY
ROBERT ROTENBERG is the author of several bestselling novels, including Old City Hall, The Guilty Plea, Stray Bullets, Stranglehold, and Heart of the City. He is a criminal lawyer in Toronto with his firm Rotenberg Shidlowski Jesin. He is also a television screenwriter and a writing teacher. Visit him at robertrotenberg.com or follow him on Twitter or Facebook: @RobertRotenberg.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
SimonandSchuster.ca/Authors/Robert-Rotenberg
SimonandSchuster.ca
@SimonSchusterCA
ALSO BY ROBERT ROTENBERG
Old City Hall
The Guilty Plea
Stray Bullets
Stranglehold
Heart of the City
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Downfall / Robert Rotenberg.
Names: Rotenberg, Robert, 1953- author.
Description: Simon & Schuster Canada edition.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200261045 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200261096 | ISBN 9781476740607 (softcover) | ISBN 9781476740621 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS8635.O7367 D69 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
ISBN 978-1-4767-4060-7
ISBN 978-1-4767-4062-1 (ebook)