Spoiled Rotten

by Mary Jackman

  Unable to get my Danish in the hospital’s food court and feeling peckish, I drove east along Front Street to the St. Lawrence indoor market. A cavernous building open from the ground floor to the vaulted, sky-lighted ceiling above, it was large enough to hold a plane inside its belly. Hundreds of vendor stalls and cafés crowded the floor instead.

  At the bottom of a sweep of terrazzo stairs, hidden in one of the corners of the basement, behind a massive, supporting stone pillar, and next to the men’s washroom, an elderly Dutch lady wearing authentic wooden shoes sold me an aluminum pie plate brimming with cheesy garlic perogies. I am the private eye of food, if it’s good, I will find it.

  I took my stash to my car parked outside the Old Spaghetti Factory and ate them while watching the nine-to-fivers leave work for the day. I used a half a box of Kleenex to wipe the dripping oil from my face (to my dismay, the supply of wet towels I kept in the glove box had run out). By the time I finished cleaning myself up, it was time to head back.

  Rick still hadn’t called, making me apprehensive about our reopening tonight. Rick was one of those people who liked to keep the channels of communication open at all times. I called him at the restaurant, but there was no answer and no response in the office. I drove home and changed into heavier clothes. The weather was a lot colder than when I left the house this morning.

  I met Mrs. Wong in front of her fruit store at a 6:00 p.m., meticulously locking the old wooden door with bolts and chains. Citing numerous break-ins amongst the area vendors this year, she was considering the installation of a metal security gate across the front entrance. We walked around the corner to St. Timothy’s church through a light rain, not hard enough for me to want to be burdened with an awkward umbrella.

  The meeting was held in the church’s basement Sunday-school room. I recognized a few familiar faces from the meat store, sales girls who had waited on me over the years. We smiled at each other. None of us had exchanged phone numbers or even first names, but we shared common information about each other: whose husband shovelled the snow, whose kids were in what colleges, and where vacations were spent. The girls knew I owned a restaurant, but I doubted any one of them could tell you its location.

  Maria was sitting in the front row beside Louise Kozinski, owner of the Cheese Emporium, and when I tried to catch her eye, she pretended to be engaged in a riveting conversation. She was obviously avoiding me and then it dawned on me. She hadn’t mentioned the community meeting when I saw her at the hospital. Was she suddenly embarrassed about not inviting me, or was she afraid to acknowledge our acquaintance in front of the others?

  The Superior Meats sales girls and a several butchers took up the remainder of the seats along the first row. I wondered if the girl with the false working permit was there, too, or was she in police detention awaiting a boat trip to take her back home? Eddie and Louis sat in the second row with fellow produce sellers, including Joseph Hamilton, who supplied the best plantain outside of Jamaica. Eddie waved to me gleefully and his grandfather nodded solemnly.

  Mrs. Wong answered my question about the two German brothers, Hans and Karl Jorgen, the bakers. According to her, the brothers still lived over the sixty-year-old bakery their father started when he immigrated here after the Second World War. The market was predominantly Jewish at that time and Karl senior, their father, had found it hard fitting in. His kindly old neighbour, Mr. Solomon, felt sorry for the young immigrant with a family to feed and suggested he make steamed bagels and flatbreads.

  Mr. Solomon went so far as to give Karl his mother’s treasured Hebrew recipe bequeathed to him and kept under lock and key in her documents box. Mr. Solomon was long gone now and so was Mr. Jorgen, but his two sons continued to get up at 4:00 a.m. every morning to bake the delicious Montreal bagels, flatbread, and poppy-seed cakes that were famous city-wide. The two brothers, their wives, and six noisy children took up an entire row.

  A few of the seats remained empty on both sides of the fish-store owners, reeking of — you guessed it — fish, and a group of nattily dressed second-hand clothiers filled the rest of the seats. The trendy new and used clothing stores were spreading steadily, replacing the overly populated vegetable stands. I loved wearing vintage dresses when I was younger. I’d look like a bag lady if I wore one now.

  Mrs. Wong and I sat in the back row. I didn’t want to stick out and she had to leave early to cook for her family. She counted on her fingers out loud to me: a husband, her mother and father, his mother and father, two sons, two daughters, her sister, her sister’s husband, and their infant baby. I find it hard cooking for two. Just because I own a restaurant doesn’t mean I like to cook.

  Louise stood and walked purposely to the fold-out banquet table at the front of the room. She asked if she could get started with the meeting and everyone settled down.

  “First, I want to thank all of you for attending tonight’s meeting. I realize it’s not a nice night out and many of you would like to go home. Again, thank you for coming. Some of you are full-time residents and some of you own businesses in the area. Many of you are employed by the local businesses, as well.” She nodded at the girls in the front row. “Nevertheless, we all have the same agenda tonight. It is very important that we welcome Mr. Tilson; our new representative from City Hall. We are a community that needs to speak out and be heard. As Mr. Albright’s assistant for the last few years, Mr. Tilson has become familiar with some of our more serious concerns. Crime on the street has risen. Drugs and drug users have become more noticeable, even during daytime hours. Garbage litters the streets and stores sit vacant, inviting rats and other vermin. The future of the market depends on action. Hopefully, tonight our new representative will be able to answer your questions.”

  I was relieved that Louise didn’t start the meeting with the words “my friends.” Most likely the other residents of the market had deciphered her secret code by now.

  “Albright pretended to listen to our problems and never did a ting. Full of excuses, him missing deadlines, and not enough names on our petitions.” Joseph stood, half turning, to allow his question to reach the others. “Is Mr. Tilson going to be our new representative or is he just standing in temporarily because Albright is dead?”

  Good question, I thought, and took note of the absence of “Mr.” in front of Albright’s name. He didn’t warrant much sympathy from Joseph.

  After looking toward the door and then at her watch, Louise offered an explanation: “Unfortunately, Joseph, since our new city councillor is not here, I can’t answer that. I’m sure the traffic has held him up and he will be arriving momentarily. And I’m sure he means no disrespect. We all know how clogged the streets are at this time of day, especially with all this rain. Regardless, I think we should give Mr. Tilson a chance. Whether he’s a permanent replacement or temporary doesn’t matter. We need to get things done. The meeting tonight is about bringing the market back to life. Once we have made ourselves clear, city council will recognize our wishes and have no choice but to follow through on previous promises, regardless of any changes to the board.”

  “I haven’t met the newcomer. What’s he going to be like to work with?” asked Hans from his chair. He didn’t have to stand. His voice was deep and resonant and I picked up on a slight northern European accent. “Mr. Albright was all talk and as Joseph pointed out, never did a ting.” He and Joseph grinned at one another.

  Louise answered, tight-lipped, “I understand Mr. Tilson is extremely supportive about this committee’s objectives.” Her face was becoming mottled with colour. She clearly wanted to move on to dealing with the new city representative. The fact that he hadn’t showed yet wasn’t being taken as a good omen. Tongues had begun to wag.

  “So where is he?” asked Karl angrily.

  Just when I thought Louise was going to pop a cork, the double doors to the church’s meeting room burst opened and a young man bustled into the room. He was probably in his mid-thirties, still dealing with adult acne, and was pale and
thin with a slightly concave chest.

  “I apologize for my tardiness, Mrs. Kozinski,” the man said nervously, obviously trying to ingratiate, and placed his rain-stained leather satchel on the table. Stepping in as area replacement, I thought he might be overwhelmed by his new station in life and a bit of a featherweight for the job. He reminded me of the type you see volunteering at voter’s booths or going door to door for the Humane Society.

  He slipped off a noticeably wet coat and glanced around for a suitable spot to let it dry. Not finding one and getting no help from Louise, he finally hung it over his chair. “Hello, everyone, my name is Arthur Tilson. Again, I apologize for being late. I was Mr. Albright’s office assistant for three years and have assumed his position as councillor to the area. I’m sure all of you were just as shocked as I was to hear of his death and will miss him very much.”

  “If you were with him for so many years, how come you don’t know we couldn’t stand the son of a bitch?” asked a grocer whom I didn’t recognize.

  “Now let’s watch what we say, Tomas, there are children in the room and I think we should forget about the past and focus on our future,” said Louise patronizingly.

  “Yes, yes absolutely,” said Mr. Tilson, looking at his hands, which I could see shaking from my seat in the back, “that is precisely why I’m here, of course. Unfortunately the rain and traffic is not the sole reason why I am late. I went to the hospital to see Mrs. Cecilia Vieira.”

  “Mr. Tony’s wife,” whispered Mrs. Wong, in case I didn’t know.

  “She called me this morning and asked for a private meeting. She wished to personally inform me of her plans for the neighbourhood and since she is fully aware of this meeting, she thought it would be good for me to get this out on the table tonight.”

  Mr. Tilson cleared his throat like he had a canary stuck in it. “Superior Meats is closing. Now that she is the sole owner of the store, she doesn’t want to manage the operation or live with the constant memories of her late husband.”

  “I wouldn’t want to either,” said one of the girls sarcastically.

  “Who is she selling the business to?” asked Maria sharply.

  “Ah, well, that is the problem. Mrs. Vieira is not selling the business, she is selling the building.”

  “What? She can’t do that!” cried Maria jumping to her feet.

  “I’m afraid she is,” he responded. “She has also inherited the properties adjoining the meat market building, one on either side, and another one a few doors down. They are hers if she decides to sell.” Mr. Tilson’s voice was quavering and I wondered if he hadn’t said too much.

  In the hospital, Mrs. Vieira boasted she would be rich as a result of her husband’s death. Being an addict to searching online real-estate properties, I knew that land in the downtown sector sold at a premium. The Superior Meats building alone spanned two property widths and the depth of the lots were about three. Together with the connecting properties, the square footage of the land would be substantial and could be sold as a parcel to developers for millions; a quicker and more lucrative means of return, by far, than from her husband’s retail meat supply business.

  Right across the board, the sales from red meat were diminishing. With the growing concern of growth hormones and the massive slaughtering of animals, I was buying less meat not only for the restaurant, but for personal consumption, as well. Chicken and fish entrees have substituted the heavy meat specialties that once dominated most restaurant menus. Although, at Walker’s we still serve a freakishly large number of steak and frites. Sometimes you have to treat yourselves to sodium-injected cholesterol, nothing else will suffice.

  Maria was fuming. She pointed to the group around her. “What about his employees? They haven’t been paid last week’s wages and haven’t been given any prior notice of this sale.”

  “Your outstanding paychecks will be mailed to you and Mrs. Vieira will compensate all the employees with severance pay. I’m afraid she is not willing to reopen the store under any circumstances.” His voice cracked. “Although I’m not really the one who should be telling you all this, I have been advised by Mrs. Vieira to speak freely — closure of the store is immediate. Your services are no longer required and her lawyers are handling your cases now. You should be hearing from them soon.” His voice was almost gone.

  The room of people seemed too stunned to answer. Louise was the first to speak. “Listen, everyone; I am very sorry for the men and women who are losing their jobs. This is terrible news and I realize it’s a great shock for you all. But we must welcome Mr. Tilson as our new representative at City Hall. We are here to support changes in the market and should try to get beyond this to matters that concern us all.”

  “If you think we are going to sit here quietly after we have just been told we lost our jobs, then you’re insane, Louise,” Maria announced. “I don’t care if they bulldoze this whole place now. Come on, girls, let’s get out of here and find a drink.” She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and tied a tight knot in the silk scarf around her neck. Pulling the strap of a large purse over her shoulder, she made for the door.

  “Okay if we come, too?” asked one of the butchers. A defeated manner had replaced the nonchalant attitude he had initially arrived with. I was guessing he had a family at home to feed, but could use a drink before he delivered the news.

  The former employees scrambled to their feet and ran after Maria, leaving two empty rows behind. Mrs. Wong stood up beside me and said she was leaving, too. She felt sorry for the girls, said she didn’t feel right about discussing the beautification of the market now. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Several others left, as well. Now there were only a dozen members left in the room and me sticking out like a sore thumb in the back row surrounded by vacant seats.

  I tried to blend into my chair by pulling my head down between my shoulders blades. The collar on my shirt rose up to my ears. I peered out from my lapels to find Louise watching me. She zeroed in on me with beady eyes and asked pointedly, “What are you doing here, Blondie? This is a members-only meeting.”

  “Oh. Hi, Louise. I came as Mrs. Wong’s guest.” I pulled myself up. “She had to leave early. I hope you don’t mind if I stay?”

  “I can’t imagine why this meeting would interest you. I heard your restaurant is closed. Your chef has been arrested, hasn’t he?” Before I could answer, she continued, “It’s his fault we are in this mess. If Tony hadn’t been killed, his wife wouldn’t be selling the business and all those good people wouldn’t be losing their jobs.”

  “Hey Louise, that’s not fair. My chef did not kill Mr. Tony and he is not responsible for the sale of Superior Meats or those other buildings. Why don’t you accuse Mrs. Vieira for selling out before her husband’s body is even cold? I’m not making a dime while my place is closed. The market people aren’t the only ones affected by the murders.” Angry at first, I instantly regretted speaking with such insensitivity.

  What was I doing spying on the market people? The police had the power to investigate, not me. I looked around at the remaining guests and felt embarrassed. I stood and left out the side door of the church’s basement.

  It was more than a light rain now and I longed for my umbrella. I was reminded of poor Mr. Tilson’s soaking-wet entrance. As I climbed up the cement steps to the street, I did the buttons up on my new wool coat, which was getting drenched, and made a run for it. The car was parked around the block in front of the fruit market. I had to pass Superior Meats on the way. A piece of the police blackout paper had slipped down the inside of the window glass, revealing a hole to look through. I stopped and put my face against the window. Pitch black. Not a single light was on inside the store, not even a dim glow radiating from the refrigeration units. I jumped when the wind blew a page of newspaper against my leg.

  I crossed the street to get a better view of the buildings attached on either side of the meat store that would be sold, as well. What the heck, I was already soaked, a
few minutes wouldn’t make any difference. The Vietnamese toy store on one side of Mr. Tony’s was already boarded up with a SOLD sign glued to its front. The store on the opposite side had been closed for some weeks and I remembered guessing what might go in there next, never dreaming it could be condos. The area didn’t seem quite right for a condo development. Smack in the middle of the market, it would be out of place. This is how neighbourhoods changed without anyone noticing until it was too late. The market was vulnerable and the realtors knew it.

  Empty storefronts didn’t help. Half the time the dingy stores were let out to tenants hoping to make a living on inventory they bought sight-unseen off the cargo ships. Merchandise weighed out in pounds was packed in crates and dropped off at the docks. Most vendors took what they can afford. The assorted goods were displayed randomly on sidewalk tables meant to lure curious shoppers inside. I’ve been drawn in to the murky interiors before. A faux-leather purse or silk scarf would strike my fancy, and claiming my prize from the table, would take it inside to pay. Wind-up mechanical toys, sundry canned goods, men’s wallets, or satin purses share the long, half-empty shelves. A hopeful face always asks me to look around, perhaps I need something else. After one minute all I would need was to get out of there.

  I wished I knew what other buildings Anthony Vieira owned. Mr. Tilson hinted there was one more on the block ready to be sold. Over the pattering rain, a murmur of voices rushed past me, but the street was void of signs of life. Resembling a black-and-white glossy film clip, I expected to see Jack the Ripper standing under a street lamp haloed with mist. The street was desolate. Still no sign of the owners, the voices grew more distinct, closer, suggesting it was time for me to move along.

  I almost took a header out in front of a fish store, righting myself with a jerk of my back and a little hop. The pavement was slick with rain and newly fallen leaves. A few flakes of silvery fish scale stuck to the sidewalk, which was reflective in the store’s security light. Suddenly the rain came pelting down. I hurried to where I had parked my car, around the corner near the vegetable store. Jumping puddles and stepping into concentric waves of water pouring out of the gutter pipes, I had one last stretch of block to go. I was thinking I better call Rick.