After the Horses

by Jeffrey Round

  “What will you do now?” Lionel asked. “To find Santiago, I mean.”

  “I want to go back to Yuri’s house and have another look. In the meantime, I’ll keep asking around until I find him.”

  “I certainly appreciate all the work you’re doing for us. Don’t get me wrong about Charles — he appreciates it, too. We’ll have you over for drinks some time. We’ve got a great view from our balcony.”

  “Something to look forward to,” Dan said, wondering how wise it would be to get close to the pair as long as they were his clients.

  The trail veered around a corner. They raced along like a pair of adventurers flying off into the unknown.

  Fifteen

  Menthol or Unleaded

  Dan had barely spoken to Donny since the initial meeting with Charles. Once his most reliable go-to source for consolation and commiseration over life’s inanities, Donny’s current relationship with an attractive man named Prabin meant that he and Dan now spent far less time together than at any point in their friendship. The absence was significant.

  If truth be told, Dan missed the sound of cigarette smoke being inhaled on the other end of the phone. It had come to seem as comforting as the click of knitting needles to children under Grandma’s care, knowing all the vigilance and devotion it signified.

  Donny had been there for Dan from the time Ked was a small boy. He was one of the few people with whom Dan had shared his history, who knew of his mother’s tragic early death, and of his father’s brutality. He was always first to caution Dan away from the edge of the abyss. “What’s done is done,” he would say. “Mourn the loss and move on.”

  Donny the Practical. Donny the Wise. Dan felt in need of a little good common sense right now. It was confession time.

  They stared at one another across coffee cups filled to the brim. Donny had discovered yet another dark and dingy café to satisfy his low-life urges. Dan never failed to find them dreary, though the advantage of speaking without fear of being overheard, or even understood, in a roomful of immigrants was not to be underestimated.

  Dan looked disconsolately at the saucer where he’d slopped a small tide of brown liquid. The napkin sopped it up like a chemical spill on the banks of some Eastern European river. If he looked, he might find wildlife flapping out the last of its life under the silverware.

  “Do you even think there’s caffeine in here?”

  Donny picked up a menu and pointed to the word “coffee” then to its equivalent in Korean characters.

  “You see that lettering here? I happen to be an expert in Korean. I should have translated it for you before you ordered. The exact translation for coffee is not, as one might imagine, ‘coffee,’ but rather ‘brown drink.’ So no, I suspect it does not in fact have caffeine of any sort. And if you look over here under flavours, it says ‘menthol’ and ‘unleaded.’”

  “That’s not reassuring.”

  “Probably not. Anyway, it’s the atmosphere I come for.”

  Dan glanced around at the handwritten pages of menu items Scotch-taped to the wood panelling. “Yes, some serious decorating for sure.”

  “Never mind all that. Sorry to hear Hank was a bust. What a jerk. I didn’t think people did such childish things outside of high school, where it’s practically de rigueur that you do terrible things to the other kids as a rite of passage.”

  “Did you do terrible things to the other kids?”

  “No. I was the kid they were doing terrible things to. Children are horrid. They can tell when you’re different. Someone once hung a sanitary napkin dipped in ketchup on the outside of my locker. They were calling me a ‘bloodcloth.’ That’s not an expletive to be taken lightly in Jamaica. I got the distinct impression they didn’t like me.”

  “Nasty. Though I think anything would be preferable to what Hank did to me.”

  Donny gave him a knowing look. “Well, look at it this way: at least you found out early on that he’s a waste of time. He didn’t make you wait till after the wedding.”

  Dan rolled his eyes. “All the same, I’m beginning to think marriage isn’t in the cards for me in this town. Not now, not ever. People are here for their careers, not to find a partner.”

  “You know what the French say about marriage. It’s like a besieged fortress. The people on the outside want in, and the people on the inside want out.”

  “There’s consolation for you.”

  “You know me — I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

  “Keep trying. How is Prabin, by the way?”

  “Divine, as always. He sends his love. The stock market keeps him busy. When it doesn’t, we do silly things like go to Ripley’s Aquarium and find that we’re vastly entertained by the wildlife. All those jellyfish going up and down in slow motion in glowing colours. It’s exciting. We spent three hours there last weekend, in fact.”

  “Sounds reassuringly mundane.”

  “It is, but don’t worry — I’m not going to try to sell you on the benefits of Grindr. That little app has probably put an end to long-term relationships forever. But there must be something you could do to improve your love life.” Donny smiled. “You know, I just read an interesting article. They’ve discovered that house mice court their mates with ultrasonic sounds.”

  “Very creative. Is that a dating suggestion?”

  “In your case, it couldn’t hurt.” Donny’s eyes flickered around the room. “Funny how you’re the one who wants a relationship, but I’m the one who’s in one.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better, too?”

  “No, but I would like to go on the record and really put my neck out by saying that dating a bartender is not a good idea for someone with a disreputable past when it comes to alcohol issues.”

  “I’d already considered that.”

  “Then consider it a lesson well learned.” He paused. “What’s going on with Charles and Lionel? Have you solved their problems yet?”

  “Not yet, but I visited Yuri Malevski’s house. It’s quite a museum piece. Huge, filled with tasteful antiques rather than the junky kind. You’d be impressed.”

  “I’ve heard the lore. It’s a legend on the party circuit.”

  “Ever been there?”

  “No. I never really made it with the country-and-western set. Not to say I’m a snob, but horses just aren’t my thing. I knew Yuri, of course — who didn’t? — but I never made a closer acquaintance with him. Too many drugs in that crowd to interest me.”

  A rough-looking character came in the door, big, cumbersome and on the “tetchy” side, as Dan’s Aunt Marge might have said. Dan caught sight of the man’s dark glances and scowling face, thinking it fortunate they were in a public place. If this bruiser was a gay basher looking for trouble, he could certainly give a few people a run for their money. The miscreant looked over, caught their table on the fly and headed directly down the aisle toward them. As he passed, he tapped Donny on the shoulder. Dan’s muscles were tensed and at the ready, set to lurch to his friend’s defence. The colossus leaned down and whispered in Donny’s ear. “Hi, sweetheart,” came the gravelly voice. “Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

  Dan caught the residue of lacquer on his nails. He took a second look at that bulbous, ravaged face and thought he discerned another one underneath, dolled up by layers of cover-stick and mascara for her moment in the spotlight. A transvestite by daylight. Carol Channing leered down at them, incognito, having put aside her diamonds and ermine for an afternoon’s outing.

  Donny smiled. “Hey, Cherry, baby. Been off the market. Finally caught a good one.”

  “How darling for you! Come and see me sometime.”

  With that, Carol passed on to her own private booth around the corner.

  “You lead such a colourful life,” Dan commented.

  “Yes, I’m blessed.” Donny took a sip of coffee and gave an uncharacteristic look of disapproval, leading Dan to wonder if that was the first time he’d actually bothered
to consider the taste. He set the cup back down. “As I was saying, I don’t really partake of the drug scene. Never have. My brain has its own permanent happy zone.”

  “Tell me about Charles and Lionel.”

  Donny’s face lit up with a smile. “Has Charles made a pass at you?”

  “Not yet. Should I anticipate it?”

  “Don’t discount it. It could happen. Though he’ll behave himself if you rap his knuckles. They’re the perfect couple, don’t you know.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “They’re a powerhouse. They give great parties. Everyone wants to be on the guest list. They have a penthouse in Radio City. Best view of the city. It looks south over all the towers and high-rises. You can see the lake from all around. CN Tower, whatever. It’s all there.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Charles? Mostly a pussycat, but he’s got a bit of a temper. That I’ll-get-even kind of lawyer’s temper. Slow burn. No hysterics, just a telling bop on the head at the right moment.”

  “Anything violent?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. What have you heard?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering.”

  Donny gave him a curious look. “I never felt unsafe with him when we dated, if that’s what you mean. Not like I had to lock up the razors or anything, but I wasn’t dazzled by the warmth of his personality. You might say he’s controlling. He expects obedience from his partners and can be quite assertive. But then some people like that sort of thing.”

  “What about a kid named Ziggy? I’m told he used to hang out at the Saddle and Bridle. Ever hear of him?”

  “Sure, everyone’s heard of Ziggy. Cute kid, but something not quite right with him.”

  “Like what?”

  Donny considered then shrugged. “Apart from the Goth thing, which is worrisome enough, there’s something off about him. I can’t put my finger on it. A little spooky. He was brought up in care.” He gave Dan a knowing look. “You know what they say. When a kid goes into care they see it all: drugs, violence, prostitution. It can take decades to get over it. Sometimes the street’s preferable. I’ve seen him go off into long, staring-into-space episodes for considerable periods of time. You never know what’s going on inside his head.”

  “You know him from the bars?”

  Donny gave him a strange smile. “No, through Lester, actually. Ziggy’s a ghost from his street days. I don’t encourage Lester’s association with him, for obvious reasons, but he slept on our couch once or twice when he didn’t have a place to stay.”

  Dan started. “When was this?”

  “He stayed with us a few times last year. Lately, not so much, though he was there for nearly a week a couple months ago.”

  “Mid-February? Right around the time Yuri Malevski was killed?”

  Donny went silent for a while.

  “Could be,” he said at last. “I gather he had a more permanent place to stay, but couldn’t get in for a while.”

  “Yes. Yuri Malevski’s.”

  Donny gave Dan an assessing glance. “Really?”

  “In fact, I think he still lives there. In a cubbyhole in Yuri’s upstairs. I found his diary.”

  “Well, I hope he gave me a good write-up. I served him a veritable feast of back bacon with blueberry-glazed crepes one morning.”

  “Not to worry. He gave your cooking five stars.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Donny sat quietly for a moment. “I have to ask. Is he a suspect in the murder? He really was a bit weird. Troubled, you might say.”

  “Not as far as I know, but I don’t know much about the investigation yet.”

  “Yet? Meaning you might know more later?”

  “Remains to be seen. For now, I’m concentrating on finding the missing Cuban boyfriend.”

  “Ah, yes. The one with the shady past and the slipperier present. Yuri always had a taste for wild boys.”

  Dan shot him a look. “As in?”

  “The scruffy, dangerous ones. I gather Santiago was a handful when Yuri took him in, but he tamed him quickly enough.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Of Santiago? Not much. I met him a few times at the club. I wasn’t all that impressed, to be honest. I gather Yuri was grooming him to take over as manager. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought Santiago was the owner, the way he lorded it over the clientele. He certainly had the gold-digging gene and pretensions of grandeur to go with it.”

  “Do you know anything about their history?”

  Donny wiped his mouth with a napkin and set his cup down. “I’m a bit iffy on the details. I think he and Yuri met when Santiago was still a teenager. Maybe four or five years ago? Probably at the club. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I heard he left Cuba by hiding out in the cargo of an Air Canada jetliner and nearly froze to death on the way here. He’s a survivor, though, and by the time he met Yuri he was looking for a sugar daddy. A real beauty, that’s for sure. He charmed the pants off half the gay men in Toronto, not to mention a few women who were susceptible to his charms. He isn’t that discriminating. And when I say he charmed the pants off them, I mean that quite literally.”

  “How did he and Yuri get along?”

  Donny’s eyes had drifted outside the window where two smokers were lined up to have their nicotine levels boosted. Dan clanked a spoon against his saucer.

  Donny’s eyes bounced back. “What?”

  “He and Yuri. How did they get along?”

  “Oh, like cats and dogs. I gather it was a rough-and-tumble relationship from beginning to end. Lots of scrapping. I can’t say over what, but probably the usual — older man meets younger boy. One wants commitment, the other wants credit cards charged to the max. A young man’s financial needs are not easy to fulfil. Nor are an older man’s demands for sexual exclusivity.”

  “Nevertheless, they managed to live together for the last four years?”

  “From what I heard, yes.”

  “Do you think he killed Yuri?”

  Donny stood up. “I would hate to incriminate anybody with a careless word spoken in haste. I’ll go get another cup of coffee and think about that before I answer.”

  Dan shook his head. “You’re being far more evasive than normal.”

  “It comes with domestication. You learn to keep secrets.”

  Sixteen

  Under the Eaves

  Dan left the coffee shop thinking about Yuri Malevski’s “wild boys.” He knew some gay men liked to get close to younger guys who appeared threatening on the surface — tattoos, muscles, rough talk. It was one way of making peace with the demons who’d terrorized them in high school, but few of them expected to be murdered in the process. Malevski, it seemed, had wanted a wild boy to domesticate. Apparently he thought he’d found that in Santiago Suárez, the missing Cuban. Ziggy, on the other hand, seemed to be more of a dark horse. He was a moving target waiting for an expert marksman to hunt him down. Whatever there was to be learned about him was still inside Lockie House.

  Dan parked across the street. From the front stoop, everything looked the same. He punched in the numbers. Red turned to green. Definitely something to be said for all that accounting consistency.

  It was still daylight, making the false twilight inside seem eerie. Dan’s MagLite swept a beam along the floor. No need to announce his presence to the world outside. Had Fred MacGregor still lived here — Dan dispensed with formalities, feeling he knew the man well enough by now — had Freddie still lived here, this might be one of his at-home days when he received callers, but Dan wasn’t in a receiving mood.

  He made his way to the third floor and looked around. All was calm. He pressed the panel and watched it swing open, just the way things did in the movies. And why not? Movies had to take their inspiration from somewhere.

  Ziggy’s diary lay beneath the window where he’d left it, the baggie of dope still in place. He skimmed the pages, moving backward in time to when Ziggy fir
st came to stay with Yuri. My family, he’d called Yuri’s collection of friends and misfits. Still, he had his perspective right: All families are weird, he wrote, so this one isn’t that different from any other. At least I feel at home somewhere.

  Dan could relate.

  Yuri didn’t seem to have asked for anything from Ziggy for his room and board. In fact, if the diary was to be believed, Yuri’s interest lay more in rehabilitating the boy: Need to get clean. Yuri told me that a month ago. I have to stop doing drugs and get my life in order. A little grass now and again is cool, he said, but he won’t tolerate hard drugs in the house. He said my days of drug use are over if I want to live with him.

  That, Dan thought, was a different Yuri from the one everyone else seemed to think they knew. Ziggy expressed admiration for Yuri several times in the passages he read. The only note of dissent lay with his feelings about Santiago, who appeared as the villain in the pages. Santiago has another lover! I saw them together and now he hates me. He cheats on Yuri with everyone. Should I tell Yuri before he tries to get rid of me? Two days later, Ziggy confided to the diary’s pages that he’d told Yuri about Santiago’s lover: Yuri was furious. He said he didn’t believe me, but they had a fight and now Santiago is gone.

  Rather than exult in his triumph, Ziggy felt remorse for having hurt Yuri: Why do I always hurt the ones I love? he lamented.Way of the world, Dan wanted to tell him. Oscar Wilde wasn’t the first to note the sentiment. He read further till he caught the name Charles again. There was no mention of sex this time, just anger that Charles had told him he couldn’t repeat the episode, being a “happily married man.” Happily married! Ziggy wrote. Ha! That asshole. Then what was he doing with me?

  An apt question, Dan noted, though there seemed little concern from either party on Lionel’s behalf. He felt a surge of anger for the absent accountant. Why was it always the nice guys who got used?

  He felt his emotions tug as he discovered that Ziggy had contemplated killing himself, his anger at being rejected by Charles compounded by guilt over having hurt Yuri. Dear Darkness, I want to die, he’d written. I shouldn’t care what Charles thinks, but Yuri is my friend. I need to make him see I’m the only one who treats him well, even though he doesn’t care. Instead, he treats me with disdain. Maybe I should just end this here and now. Anger, confusion, manipulation, sadness. It was a regular soap opera in those pages. But, as Donny said, that wasn’t unusual for someone brought up in care.