Dan followed him. The others had resumed their positions like mannequins in a window display. Twenty minutes later, after two lucky plays, Jack was up nearly two hundred dollars. A smile returned to his face. The game was back on, winning in his grasp once again.
The dealer looked at Dan, waiting to deal him in for another round. They could go on all day and into the night.
Dan considered. He’d lost more than six hundred dollars. Even with Peter Hansen’s advance, that was still a good dent in his wallet. If he stayed another hour and really concentrated, he might make some of it back. He felt the itch, the prickling that said this could be the hand that put him back on track. Just a few good cards, just a bit more daring with his bets … say, fifty a throw rather than twenty or thirty.
He felt the chill coming through the floor as he calculated the odds. Truth was he could lose his shirt. He could go on to lose all of Hansen’s money, just like Tony Moran. If the bug really got him, he could eventually lose his home and then some.
The dealer was waiting. Dan felt all eyes on him as he checked his watch. It was later than he thought. Nick would be wondering where he was. Gravity seemed to have increased ten times since he’d first sat in the chair. It pulled at him, keeping him in his seat. A clear sign that it was time to go. At heart he hated to lose. That was a relief, of sorts. As long as he felt like that, he would never make a real gambler.
He shook his head and left.
Seven
Understanding the Third Reich
Dan opened his eyes. Last night’s dreams had been plagued by memories of his underground gambling episode. Visions of card suits twinkled and vanished as he rubbed his eyes. He got up, showered and dressed, then headed out.
Taped to his office door was yet another reminder that the building needed to be vacated by the end of July for a planned condominium development. Requests for extensions would not be considered. Signed, The Management.
And fuck you very much, Dan thought.
When he first arrived, the premises had been owned by a former client, a friendly man who’d given him a helping hand by offering the space at a reasonable rate. It enabled him to establish himself, working solo for the first time. That arrangement had ended with the new owners. From the start, they showed themselves to be more interested in establishing a bureaucracy than helping tenants cope with the change of management, announcing their ownership via form letter and implementing a series of rules restricting after-hours access for no reason Dan could see. Now, it seemed they were intent on turning over the premises and maximizing a cash grab.
Still, it was a good reminder that Dan needed to find a new place if he intended to stay in business. It had occurred to him to transfer his office to his home, but then he might not leave the house from morning till night, impinging on both his comfort and Nick’s.
His cell pinged. It was Simon Bradley: Thought you should see this. The link took him to an online article covering the Queen’s Park beat. Dan read the opening paragraph but the article stopped there. A second link at the bottom offered an app granting access to the entire website.
Praying he wasn’t opening himself up to spam, he clicked. In less than a minute he had access to the entire paper. He read Simon’s article from top to bottom. It hinted at scandal and made veiled allegations of government corruption — what would likely prove to be simple incompetence if properly investigated, Dan felt — but there seemed little of pressing interest. He had just started to type a note asking why Simon wanted him to see the piece when he realized he hadn’t clicked on the photo.
It was a crowd shot, people in formal wear gathered in a ballroom, the event impossible to guess. He searched the faces and found John Wilkens standing next to Tony Moran. The placement might have been accidental, random atoms moving in space, but while everyone around them looked amused by the goings-on, both John and Tony appeared grim, as though they’d been discussing something perturbing. It was nothing most readers would notice. But then most people wouldn’t be looking for a connection between two men at opposite ends of the political spectrum. It was like discovering two abstainers in a crowd of drinkers. There was no telling what they’d been discussing when the snap was taken, but it clearly linked the two.
Dan grabbed his jacket. He hadn’t bothered with breakfast before leaving home. Perhaps a nosh in the city’s west end and a good espresso to wash it down was what the morning needed to get going. That and a little Q&A with his newest client.
From the street, the house proclaimed: We’re nobody special. Still, it had its charms. A well-tended garden surrounded the modest dwelling. The wraparound porch seemed designed for gatherings, with a mishmash of chairs and a cedar swing for conversing with the neighbours. Old-style politics. Hand-shaking and a personal touch. Dan wondered just how often people actually dropped in on Peter Hansen and how much was for show.
Though short on social status, Little Portugal was a neighbourhood with a big heart thanks to its friendly eateries and popular bar culture. It said a lot that Hansen chose to live there. Clearly, the message was that he saw himself as a man of the people. A glance through a lead-paned window revealed Peter on his cellphone. He waved Dan in. The door wasn’t even locked. Welcoming, accessible. Another deft touch.
A grey corgi announced his intrusion with a series of sharp yips, twitchy and demanding like an officious little butler. Dan held out a hand. The dog took a sniff and backed off, no doubt smelling Ralph. With a warning growl, he promptly turned tail and ran back to wherever he’d come from.
The hall echoed with Dan’s footsteps, giving a regal feel to the modest-size home. A designer’s touch showed in the handpicked furniture and fashionable colours. Dan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the couple had regular consultations: “How Your Home Can Reflect the Latest Trends” or “A Politician’s Guide to the Buzz on Today’s Palette.” He could almost see the decorator’s anxious hand-wringing, hear the spiel on his personal vision for the pair.
Peter’s voice carried in from the next room.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for the minister to meet with the press before the conference,” Peter said. “I’ll be there in an hour. Tell him not to make any decisions without me.”
Dan peered around the corner. Peter held up a peremptory finger. A man used to giving commands.
“Good. Works for me.” He ended the call and turned. “Welcome. Have you found Tony?”
“Not in the flesh, but I’ve made progress. I went to an address you gave me and met someone who knew him at one of the gambling houses. Tony was asked not to return after losing twenty thousand dollars in a single evening.”
Dan waited for a reaction. There was none.
“I’m not shocked, in case you’re wondering,” Peter told him.
“Why do you think he would be so reckless as to lose that much money?”
“If you know anything about addictions, Dan, then you’ll know it’s not something you can control easily. I’ve had to keep a keen eye on Tony at all times.”
“It’s a hard road, keeping your eye on someone else’s addiction.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Did Tony resent that you made more money than him?”
“He did not. I understand human nature very well. I would know if Tony resented me. Is that what you came to ask me about?”
“Actually, I’m in the market for a new office and this area was suggested. I was just passing and thought I’d stop in to give you an update.”
Peter gave a short, unexpected laugh. “Checking up on me, you mean. I can give you the name of the top real estate agent in the neighbourhood, if you’re interested. But let me show you around, if it will reassure you.”
He waved Dan into an ante room. Modern art dominated the walls — loud, brash, and pricey. Here was the showy side of the people’s candidate.
“Let me introduce you,” P
eter said. He stepped in front of a grainy photo close-up of a man’s biceps. A tattooed cross showed deep pores, the skin’s flaws. Energy and sensuality fused. “This you may know. It’s a Robert Mapplethorpe.”
“Very nice.”
To the left a large panel of near-naked skinheads loomed in aggressive postures. The collision of sexuality and virile machismo was disconcerting, suggesting that savage brutality and gay attraction were not that far apart.
“Attila Richard Lukacs,” Peter said, as though introducing an august forebear. “Despite the subject matter, the formal qualities of his work are quite accomplished. I believe he may be the great gay artist of our time, as Francis Bacon was to an earlier generation.” He was the art critic now, elucidating his time-honed opinions. “Lukacs is a fan of Jacques-Louis David, one of the most important artists of the French Revolution. David was the first truly modernist painter, presenting history without embellishment. He personally signed the edict sentencing Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI to death by beheading.”
“Not easy times.”
“Politics is a messy business.”
Dan was reminded of the Queen’s Park tour guide extolling the benefits of bilingualism as Hansen flipped a switch and a paint-splattered garbage can lid appeared, glittering beneath a pin spot. On its surface, a crudely painted red devil’s head squared off against a green cow’s skull. Were it not for the light, the piece might have been mistaken for a cast-off from the street.
“This is an original David Wojnarowicz. One of my favourites. He isn’t as well-known as others of his generation, mostly because he didn’t live long enough for his name to proliferate, but he was an important figure nonetheless.” He gently touched the metal rim. “Wojnarowicz painted his rage at the world. He was a street hustler and early AIDS victim. In his day, he was as famous for his activism as his art. Much of his work was destroyed, because he considered the world his canvas. Some of his best pieces were done on abandoned piers on New York’s waterfront, even on street pavement. A true rebel.”
Dan looked beyond the work to a tall window. It gave onto a garden where a cherry tree was struggling into bloom. Security was nil. “Not worried about thieves taking off with all this?” he asked.
“Canadians only know about fine art. Their precious Group of Seven and whatnot. And we all know fine art hangs on walls in museums.” Peter laughed at his own joke. “This stuff is too decadent. Too weird. No one would steal it. They wouldn’t have a clue what it might be worth.”
Over in a corner, a framed pamphlet caught the light like a rare specimen trapped under glass. Someone had sketched a swastika on the lavender paper. Dan’s eye dropped down the page: die faggot cocksucker scum! AIDS carriers you are doomed we will kill you and that leftist minister of yours commie bastards!
“Art?”
“Of a rather venal sort. All the usual pleasantries. It was my first death threat when I came out.” Peter shrugged. “Some say it cost me the election, but I can’t hide who I am. That’s the trouble with politics. You have to pretend to be something other than what you are. That’s the one thing I’ll never do. I give Ford credit for that. He’s an ass, but he doesn’t pretend to be anything other than the colossal jerk he is. I don’t condone his behaviour, but at least with him you always know which way the wind is blowing. It’s the ones who hide their agendas I worry about. Our current prime minister, for one. He’s managed to disguise his crypto-Nazi agenda well enough to make himself palatable to a sizable proportion of the population who would otherwise be loath to vote for an obvious fascist.”
He nodded to the pamphlet.
“I could tell you tales that would raise the hairs on the back of your neck. There’s an up-and-coming Liberal minister who’s a classic homophobe. Well-disguised, of course. But he’s much too popular for the party to expose him. If he gets into power, the clocks could go back about a hundred years on gay rights. Women’s rights? Don’t even think about it. As far as he’s concerned, God created women to serve men, and all queers deserve to be castrated. End of discussion. You wouldn’t think it in a country as socially advanced as Canada, but it’s true. Rob Ford should be a lesson to us all. The fight is on.”
“Ignorance, poverty, and someone else’s dogma,” Dan said. “That’s where it all begins.”
“Yes, true, but try changing things. That’s why we have to keep our eyes on the board. The game can change overnight. People scoff when I say a man like Hitler could take power again, but the Weimar Republic had a very advanced gay community and liberal values. It was a golden era with many holding the same ideals we prize today. Gay nightclubs by the dozen, books and films dealing directly with queer issues. But Weimar led straight to Hitler and the Nazi takeover. Without realizing it, the entire country was just one step away from total insanity.” He held up a finger: from art critic to social historian. “The lessons of history are hard, Dan. In case you didn’t know.”
“You think we could lose everything we’ve gained?”
“Sadly, I do. Weimar was an era of immense cultural expansion, a time of philosophical and scientific achievement often compared to the golden age of Athens. It was also a time of progressive social reforms. Workers’ rights, public health insurance, child welfare, unemployment benefits. In short, all the things we value today. Germany had it all before the rise of the fascist clowns. Only they weren’t very funny. What we have gained here could all be gone in the wink of an eye.”
“If we don’t learn the lessons of history …”
“Absolutely. Make no mistake. Exactly how did they go from Weimar to the Third Reich? That’s what we all need to understand if we don’t want it to repeat. There are many out there who hate the very mention of people like us. They’d rather we ended up in the ovens with the Jews. If another Hitler gets into power, we won’t stand a chance.” His eyes swept the room, as though seeing what would befall his beloved art collection if the Reich made its return tomorrow. He turned back to Dan. “Drink?”
“I don’t drink as a rule.”
“Problem?”
“Not if I watch myself.”
“Very good. I understand.”
A phone rang in another room.
“Please excuse me.”
“Of course. Might I use your washroom?”
Dan followed Hansen’s nod to a powder-blue room at the end of the hall. The carved vanity looked as if it had been designed for some preening southern belle anxious to reassure herself before entering a room full of beaux. Fussy, he thought, though whether it was Louis Quinze or Art Nouveau he had no idea. Donny would, of course.
He opened the medicine cabinet. Inside was a regular little pharmacy containing a dozen or more plastic vials. Perusing the labels was like reading a medical tract on mood management. Tony Moran’s name was on every one. Was his anxiety due to a flawed genetic legacy or more recent problems of some sort?
Dan shut the cabinet and stepped into the hallway. Behind the next door was a small bedroom. A shelf held sports trophies — baseball, soccer, lacrosse — above a double bed. Here was the simpler personality. Tony’s room, Dan knew without asking.
A mahogany dresser sat against the far wall. Old and well-preserved, like an aged ballerina. The photo on top showed Tony with an older woman, smiling timidly. His mother, Dan guessed. He twisted a thick black key and pulled open the top drawer. Inside were all the usual things: socks, underwear, T-shirts. Even a Moran family Bible. But also something not normally locked away in a dresser: a cellphone. Dan flicked the On switch. No password required. Perhaps that was why it was hidden.
His thumb scrolled down a list of texts. Some went back months. Tony apparently liked to keep records of his conversations. Sweet nothings between him and his husband. A birthday greeting from a friend. A single exchange stood out, dated just before Christmas:
NUMBER BLOCKED: What did you hear?
TMO
RAN: I’m afraid to talk about it.
NUMBER BLOCKED: Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.
TMORAN: Will I need protection?
NUMBER BLOCKED: Not if I talk to the Magus.
TMORAN: I’m worried about the money.
NUMBER BLOCKED: Don’t worry. It will be there.
The conversation ended there.
Dan pocketed the phone and stepped back into the hallway. Peter’s voice carried from the far end of the house.
One door further along led to a master bedroom. A small end table stood to one side of a king-size bed. Dan slid the drawer open. Inside lay a .32 Magnum revolver. Death threats, Peter had said. Perhaps he took them seriously. He pulled a tissue from a box and used it to pick up the gun, checking the magazine. It was empty. For show, then.
Dan closed the drawer and returned to the hall. The corgi put in a reappearance, giving Dan a worried look. He heard Peter’s raised voice, followed by a brief laugh. Another governmental crisis averted. Footsteps approached. Peter appeared.
Dan looked over. “By the way, I meant to ask you: what was Tony’s connection with John Wilkens?”
Peter looked genuinely surprised. “My late colleague?”
Dan nodded.
“None that I know of. They may have met at some function or other, but John was the enemy, if you’ll pardon the expression. Tony wouldn’t have had much to say to him. Why?”
Dan ignored the question. “Would you say there’s been a marked change in Tony’s behaviour recently?”
Peter scratched his head. “Tony’s always been a bit high-strung, but maybe, yeah. The past few months or so he’s been a lot jumpier.”
“Since Christmas?”
“Possibly. It may have started before, but I’ve been quite busy with my job. Why do you ask?”
“Is there someone Tony’s afraid of?”
The God Game Page 7
