by William Bell
“It’s a long story.”
“So the number you gave me is out of date already.”
“That number is for a different phone.”
“A diff—?”
“That’s a longer story.”
She gave me her lopsided smile. “And you say I’m mysterious. Anyway, I guess I should go soon.”
“Do you have to? No, forget I asked.”
“I had a nice time today.”
“I wish we could be together more often.”
“Maybe—”
“Like, every day.”
She stifled a yawn. “Sorry.”
A busboy descended on the table and began dumping our dishes into a plastic tub, setting up a racket that made conversation impossible for a few minutes. Then he heaved his burden to his chest, pirouetted, and backed through the swinging doors into a kitchen ringing with the high-pitched voices of people struggling to be heard above the clatter of pots and pans and dishes. As he passed through the doors I had a clear view inside. At the back of the room two women were chatting as they stacked dishes into trays for the automatic washer. One threw back her head and laughed. Turning, she glanced momentarily in my direction just as the door swung shut. White apron, white rubber gloves, white hair net, and a white bandage across her nose.
She was the young woman I’d glimpsed through the curtain at my house.
Ninon was getting to her feet. “I don’t see a bill,” she said.
“We don’t pay,” I told her, my eyes still on the kitchen doors.
“We didn’t pay last time. How do you manage that?”
“Oh, I did someone a favour once.”
Her eyebrows rose but she let it go.
Outside in the street I tried to think of something to say, to keep her with me a few minutes longer. The best I came up with was “So you have to go?”
“I’ll see you soon.” She patted her satchel. “I’ve got your number.”
“Okay.”
She moved closer and put her arms around my waist, resting her head on my chest. I held her against me, her hair soft against my chin, breathing in the odour of her skin and hair. The pedestrians on Spadina flowed around and past us as if we were a rock in a stream. I wanted to stay like that all afternoon.
But Ninon leaned back, kissed me quickly on the mouth, turned and joined the stream of shoppers flowing south. I watched her until she was out of sight.
Back at the house I cleaned up my apartment, then spent the rest of the afternoon mowing and raking the lawn, trimming the edges of the gardens and sweeping out the garage. Putting my tools away, I thought about the face I had seen in the downstairs window a few days before, then today in the restaurant kitchen. When I had cleaned the rooms there had been no evidence of the temporary occupants. There never was.
But now there was a link. I had the sense that some small part of the riddle surrounding Mr. Bai was coming into focus. One of the previous guests was working at the Chongqing Gardens. A coincidence? No. She had only had a quick look at me that morning when I was snooping around outside her window before she flicked the curtain closed, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t recognized me when I saw her working the dishwasher in the restaurant.
Assuming the Chongqing Gardens belonged to Mr. Bai—and I didn’t know that for a fact—sneaking hired help in and out of the house where I lived was suspicious, not to mention bizarre. If the woman with the bandaged nose was working for him, maybe some or all of the other “guests” were, too. Moving workers in the middle of the night like that strongly suggested something illegal was going on. But what?
They were all Asian. Bai was Chinese. Was he smuggling people into the country to use in his businesses? And if he was, did that explain the stakeout? Were the non-cops really immigration officers of some kind?
“Whoa!” I said out loud. “Slow down, Julian! You’re going too fast.”
I sat down and went on line, typed “human smuggler” into the search engine, punched Return and sat back. The websites that scrolled onto the screen included news reports, and sites representing governments, women’s groups and human rights organizations. I opened a few at random and read the first page of each. It was depressing reading.
The illegal moving of people from one country to another seemed to fall into one of two categories, smuggling and trafficking. The smugglers’ human cargo was poor, desperate people. Migrants were promised safe passage to another country where a better life, including jobs and a decent place to live, was waiting—or so they thought. Both the promises made and the fees charged by the smugglers were outrageous. Once the journey—by overcrowded boat, shipping container, a terrifying scramble across unfamiliar terrain in the middle of the night—was over, the smuggler pocketed his fees, disappeared and left the migrants to their fate. Often, people perished on the journey, drowning within sight of their destination or dying of thirst in the back of a truck. Often they were jailed by Immigration as soon as they arrived.
The second group, traffickers, was even more detestable. They seemed to be modern-day slave traders who provided bodies for the sex trade or forced labour. Some victims were even drugged and certain organs were removed and sold on the international black market. Victims of any age and either gender were tricked, kidnapped or hauled away at gunpoint to a fate they could never escape.
I shut down the computer. It made me sick to my stomach to imagine Bai was involved in the kind of thing I was reading about. He couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Maybe I didn’t know people very well, but I didn’t believe that the soft-spoken man in the office above the restaurant on Spadina trafficked in human beings. Okay, he wasn’t in the slave-trader group; that was certain. The smuggler group? I admitted it was possible, but the woman in the restaurant kitchen, chatting away with her workmate, laughing, hadn’t seemed exploited to me. I wished I could tell myself that I had no doubts at all.
I put on my gear and went for a long hard run, telling myself the whole time that my imagination was out of control. None of it was my business. My job was to clean the rooms.
Period.
EIGHTEEN
AFTER DINNER SUNDAY NIGHT I fired up the laptop, propped my notebook to the side and began to write a summary of my week’s activities for Curtis. It was a report telling him that I had nothing to report. I logged my hours, detailed Marika’s movements, included a list of my expenses and e-mailed the statement to him.
I had stacked up a lot of time with nothing to show for it—which was a good thing. Marika’s parents wanted Plath to steer clear of her and that was what he had been doing, at least in the afternoons when I was on the case.
The next day, Monday, Marika varied her habitual journey home from the university. When she left the old stone college building she didn’t turn left as usual and pass the Soldiers’ Tower. Instead, she crossed Hart House Circle and took the few steps down into the Arbor Room café. I hung outside for five minutes before going in, tagging onto a trio of athletic-looking types, then breaking off to get in line for a coffee. The café wasn’t busy but there were enough customers scattered around the room to give me cover. I took a table opposite the door, behind Marika and to one side. She sat alone, a cup of steaming liquid and a sticky bun on a paper disc in front of her, a thick textbook open on the table next to her cell. From the side I watched her marking the textbook here and there with a pink highlighter.
I fished a few library books from my backpack and stacked them on my table, opening one at random and pretending to read. There was a quiet, relaxed buzz in the room, low-level conversation, the shuffle of feet, broken by intermittent pings when the woman in the green smock rang up a sale at the food and beverage counter.
It was obvious that Marika was about as interested in her book as I was in mine. She sat quietly, head down, idly turning her untouched drink round and round. Her eyes repeatedly moved from the book to the cell as if she was willing it to ring. She let go of the cup and turned a page, used the highlighter in her other hand
, then reached for the cup again.
And knocked it over. The dark liquid raced to the edge of the table and cascaded onto the floor. Too late, she stretched frantically across the table, reaching for the cup. The movement pulled her shirt cuff from her wrist, revealing a vivid bruise on the white skin of her forearm.
She recovered quickly, snatching at her shirt cuff, yanking it into place. She darted to the self-serve area and returned with a wad of napkins, then soaked up the liquid from the floor and table. Her phone rang. She grabbed it and held it to her ear as she carried the sodden napkins to the trash receptacle, then returned and began to pack up her belongings, radiating a sense of urgency.
While she was distracted I gathered my books and left the café before she did, stopping outside on the grass, my back to the door. I slung on my backpack and, taking a guess, ambled in the direction of Queen’s Park. Marika hustled past me and turned north. At Bloor Street she crossed with the lights, walking briskly. I followed for ten minutes or so. Then, in the distance, I saw her slip into a movie theatre.
I quickly bought a ticket and entered just in time to see her pull open the door to one of the screening rooms, allowing a surge of music to spill into the lobby. It was the smallest of three theatres, showing a retrospective of Steve McQueen, whoever he was. I lagged a bit to allow Marika to find a seat, then stepped in myself. I stood at the head of the aisle, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark while images of a car chase flashed across the screen to the roar of engines and the squeal of tires. There were a few dozen seated patrons scattered in the darkness. I took a seat at the back and scanned the room, taking my time.
Marika was about halfway down, a few seats in from the aisle. Someone was sitting beside her, a tall guy. They kissed, came up for air, kissed again.
It was Jason Plath.
An hour or so later, I stood across the road from the theatre next to a bank machine. A few women gave me suspicious looks as they hurriedly used the ATM. I’m not a robber, I wanted to say to them. I’m an ace private eye, and I just made a big score.
Marika and Plath emerged from the theatre, blinking in the late afternoon light. I was ready for them, snapping photos as fast as the phone camera would repeat. When they kissed goodbye I had them in the frame.
Then they went their separate ways. I went mine.
Seeing a young woman with an ugly welt on her arm necking with the abusive ex-boyfriend who was under a peace bond she had brought against him because of mistreatment was enough to confuse anybody. I wondered if someone would write a song about them someday. Then I tried to put it all out of my mind. It was my job to document Plath if he broke the bond so Curtis could go to the cops, acting for Marika’s parents. I had fulfilled the assignment. End of story. But the whole situation certainly was strange.
Rawlins was sitting on the verandah when I got back to the house, his chair tipped back against the wall. He was barefoot, unshaven, his sandy hair rumpled. He held a guitar across his body, his flat pick dancing across the strings, his left hand sliding up and down the neck as his fingers skipped over the frets. In a deep mournful voice he sang a My-baby-done-me-wrong-but-I-love-him-still kind of song. I almost asked him if he knew Marika.
With a final strum he ended the song and said, “Julian. How goes it?”
“Hey, Rawlins. Practicing for a gig tonight?”
“Just whiling away a hot, lazy afternoon. Come on in and have a cool drink.”
His kitchen was a tight nook with just enough space for a table and two chairs and a window looking onto the backyard. He pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and poured two tumblers full. I drank my glass half empty before setting it down.
“Ahhh,” I said.
“Been doing thirsty work?”
“I guess so.”
Rawlins got to his feet. “Before I forget, I’m gonna be gigging for a while in Kentucky. There’s a big bluegrass festival down there. So I’ll give you the rent now.”
He disappeared into his bedroom. I heard a drawer open and close. He came back with a wad of bills held together with an elastic band. He plunked it beside my glass and sat down.
“Do you like travelling around and performing?” I asked.
“It’s a living. It’s hard sometimes, with the late nights. Crawling out of bed to get back on the road in time to make the next gig. But it’s easier than it used to be. Back in the day I was an awful man for the drink. And sometimes the guys in the band get on my nerves.” He laughed. “And vice versa. I’ve been playing for so many years it’s in my blood I suppose.”
He took a drink and put down his empty glass.
“Is it lonely sometimes?”
“Oh, yeah, it is that. There are always people around, but when you get right down to it, sometimes you can be lonelier in a crowd than when you’re by yourself, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” I thought again about the song Rawlins had just sung. “You must have met a lot of people over the years.”
Rawlins nodded, squinting a bit. He’d caught on that I was headed somewhere.
“Mind if I ask you a question?” I said.
He smiled. “You look dead serious all of a sudden. Go ahead.”
“It’s about girls—er, women. Do you have much experience with women?”
His mouth twitched, hiding a smile. “Not enough to write a book. I’m not a player, if that’s what you mean.”
“To be honest, I don’t know what I mean. I … read this story—I read a lot—about a young woman who goes out with this guy for a while—well, a long time—and he starts treating her bad—a bit like that song you were singing, maybe worse—but she doesn’t leave him. Her friends tell her she should, but she makes excuses for him.”
Rawlins got up, went to the fridge and retrieved the iced tea. He refilled our glasses and set the pitcher on the table before sitting down again.
“You can’t figure out why she stays with him,” he said.
“No. Why would she?”
“That question’s been around for a long time. I must know a couple of dozen songs on that theme. Bet there’s a hundred books about it, too.”
“I get it that she loves him,” I said. “What I don’t get is, how could she? And does he love her? Can you love someone and treat her like crap? None of it makes sense to me.”
He chuckled but his laugh had a bitter edge. “What you call sense doesn’t have a whole lot to do with it. This, um, story you’re talking about. Does the man hit her?”
“Not sure. Maybe. But he’s verbally abusive.”
Rawlins chuckled again. “ ‘Verbally abusive.’ Sounds a lot nicer than ‘He calls her names, insults her, swears at her, tears her down,’ doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Julian, here’s something you can take to the bank. A man who rips a woman apart with words is a breath away from throwing a punch. As for the woman in your story, I’ve known—still know—women like that, including my own big sister. They defend the man who mistreats them. ‘He didn’t mean it. He said he was sorry, he was upset. He’s having trouble at work. It’s really my fault, I made him angry.’ The list of excuses is endless. ‘Deep down I know he loves me’ is the worst.”
Rawlins’s face had coloured and his mouth was pinched to a thin line.
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
He recovered quickly. Cleared his throat. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”
“It sure is.”
“Well,” he drawled, “if you ever find the answer, let me know.”
Sleep played hide-and-seek that night, hovering out of reach for a long time. A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the maple behind the garage before slipping through my window screen, a cricket cheeped rhythmically—all sensations that would usually send me off to slumberland in minutes.
But Marika kept me awake, leading my thoughts around in circles. Her behaviour mystified me; maybe that was why, earlier in the evening, I had held back fr
om sending my report along with the supporting photos to Curtis. Plath had thumbed his nose at the peace bond; that should have been the end of it as far as I was concerned. Yet the woman the court had ordered him to avoid had spent over an hour in a theatre with him, romancing in the dark. Then again, Marika seemed like a person with no confidence, with no strength to stand up to Plath. One look at her, with her cowering manner, her way of shrinking inside herself, made her a candidate for intimidation and domination. A guy like Plath could bend her like a green twig.
Yet again, what did I really know about either of them?
I looked at my bedside clock. Three a.m. I told myself I should definitely, as soon as I got up in the morning, write that report.
But that wasn’t what I did.
NINETEEN
THE NEXT DAY found me loitering beside a hot-dog cart in front of the Sidney Smith building, where Marika took her class in the history of science. I had swung by Grange Park right after work and hung around as long as I dared without seeing Ninon, then made a dash for the university. The sky had cleared overnight, and the weather had cooled to a pleasant temperature. I tried to ignore the tempting odours of roasting sausage and fried onions as I watched students stream in and out of the building. Spies must have discipline.
Marika appeared. Wearing jeans, a powder-blue silk shirt and leather loafers, she hastened through the front doors with the crowd. When she made the bottom of the stairs I stepped in front of her. With her head down, she almost crashed into me.
“Oh!” she exclaimed.
“Marika Rubashov?” I said, keeping my voice low.
She stopped, looked left and right. “What—who—?” she stammered.
“Sorry to startle you. My name’s Paladin. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”
Before she could reply, I took the initiative. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”
Her eyes squinted with suspicion. “What do you want?”
