by Pat Capponi
I tell her she deserves better, that she should kick him out and find herself a new man. She nods her head frenetically, bobbing it up and down and up again; this woman does everything in high gear. I get her settled after another twenty minutes of commiseration, but still there’s a loud buzzing in my ears that stays even as the holy terror clatters her way down the stairs. I tap the side of my head with the palm of my hand, but the damage is probably permanent.
Next up, sidling into the room, shoulders hunched and eyes darting everywhere, is number four. He looks like a jailhouse snitch, runny nose, bad complexion, missing teeth. He mumbles his name, and though I can’t hear it, I don’t bother to ask him to repeat it. He pulls out a sheaf of wrinkled and stained paper from a torn pocket of his equally wrinkled and stained overcoat, and hands it to me.
“It’s all there.”
I stare in some confusion at the top page. It’s covered in tiny printing from edge to edge, not a period or a comma breaking the flow.
“Good.”
Maybe he’ll leave, now that he’s delivered it.
“I been watching them for weeks. Don’t worry. They don’t see me.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve, stabs at the papers with his finger. “People go in. Never come out. Interested?”
“We, ah, we don’t pay for information,” I say, hazarding a guess as to his motives.
He snarls, “Screw you!” Snatching the papers out of my hand, he backs out of the room, yelling on his way downstairs, “You owe me, you bitch, weeks of work on this, and you try and stiff me?”
I hear Gerry’s chair hit the floor. My obese but determined knight is up and ready for action, bellowing, “You watch your dirty mouth!” I almost trip over my own shoelaces rushing down to get between them. Gerry has one meaty hand twisted around the lapels of the dirty coat, flattening the man against the wall.
“It’s okay, Gerry, let him go.”
“Not till he says he’s sorry!”
The guy’s a slow learner, he kicks out, bruising my shin, writhing and wriggling all the while, only making Gerry madder. Then he’s down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it behind him. Gerry’s left with the coat, which he throws down in disgust.
He huffs and puffs, then asks, “You all right?”
I decide not to mention my leg, right his chair, and get him to sit for a moment. Miss Semple appears, her eyes wide with alarm, and starts to fuss over Gerry, brushing his long, greasy hair back from his face, telling him to take deep, slow breaths, watching as the brilliant scarlet colouring gives way to his usual pallor. I notice there’s a tiny run in her stocking, and her blouse is buttoned out of sequence. Telltale signs that these disturbances are getting to her too.
There’s a silver lining, a little late but nevertheless welcome, as Michael calls up that our fifth visitor, spooked by the brouhaha, has vanished. We make our way to the blessedly empty common room and collapse around the card table, staring bleakly at one another. Gerry says what we’re all thinking.
“We got to go out of business. I can’t do this anymore.” Even Michael, who was the most hopeful in the beginning, assigning roles to everyone, keeping our spirits up, is nodding agreement.
“I’m sorry. I thought it was a good idea.” He sighs, drapes an arm around Gerry’s shoulders. “I was sure we’d all be working by now. Solving things.”
Michael looks crestfallen. In spite of the hard life he led as a former street kid, he becomes filled with energy and enthusiasm and a sometimes reckless commitment when he believes he can help. We almost lost him when he went off on his own against Mallick. I can still see the scars from the beating he took then.
“It was worth trying, but you’re right,” I tell them. “This is crazy. I’ll make a sign, stick it on the door. I should have done it weeks ago.”
We don’t move, don’t speak. Weariness and disappointment are weighing us down. We all hear the knock on the front door. Gerry groans, places his hands flat on the table to push himself up. “Stay here,” says Michael. “I’ll deal with it.”
I should do something to break this mood, but my brain is too fuzzy to come up with something positive.
“Relax, guys, it’s just Pete.” Michael leads him in, grinning happily. Pete, my friend and mentor from the drop-in centre, takes one look at us and says sympathetically, “Star Television. A ten-minute segment on Mallick. He was beaten up in prison, they broke his arm, his nose, a few ribs. I figured you’d be having a busy morning.”
“Not anymore. We’re done,” says Gerry, firmly.
“Oh. That’s too bad. I guess you don’t want to hear about this call that came in on the weekend, looking for…” He waits a beat then points a finger at me, “Dana Leoni, Private Investigator. A man by the name of Bernie Preston. He says he went to school with you, Dana, and he has a job for you.”
We’re speechless, all of us, even Michael. After all, we’ve just thrown in the towel, accepted that this venture was ill-conceived at best, and here’s Pete with a last-minute reprieve.
Miss Semple recovers first. “Dana, do you know who he is?”
“I’m trying to remember. Bernie…?”
“Preston.”
“Bernie Preston. No, nothing.”
“Well, he knows you. He asked if you could come to his office this afternoon, around two. He’s some sort of bigwig in the office towers at First Canadian Place, King and Bay.” He hands me a folded slip of paper with the floor number and the name of a firm. “Good luck, Dana. I’ll be waiting to hear all about it. Michael, want a lift in?”
Pete has been true to his word, arranging for Michael to plead guilty to old break-and-enter and failure-to-appear charges in return for a sentence of 120 hours of community service. Working at the drop-in has given Michael a new respect for himself. He’s a natural with the clients, able to relate well to lives limited by poverty and histories of abuse. Not that he hasn’t slipped from time to time. “I want to hear all about it, as soon as I get home. Promise?”
“Of course. Go on now.”
Miss Semple, the lights in her eyes back on and bright, chirps, “Wonderful. This is wonderful. Just what we needed. But we should still put that sign on the door. I’ll write it up and find some tape.”
Even Gerry’s found new energy. “Yeah, yeah, for sure. No more riff-raff, no more sickos. We’re known on Bay Street now.”
Normally, I would walk downtown instead of heading toward the streetcar stop. It takes less than forty-five minutes in the right shoes. Not so in these pumps I have on, a gift from Charlene, my actress friend, who with her uncle Jeremy runs a successful theatre company in the High Park area of Toronto. The pumps match the dress her uncle gave me perfectly. Both Charlene and Jeremy felt it would be better for me to have a business outfit of my own, instead of always having to raid the theatre’s wardrobe department.
It was Miss Semple’s idea to dress up. “You’ll look so much nicer, dear,” she said, “and you’ll feel better. It is an office building, after all.”
Gerry chipped in, “Yeah, you don’t wanna give them the idea that we’re a Mickey Mouse outfit, do ya?”
Even Diamond, who rarely comments on things like this, threw in his two cents. “I think Miss Semple’s right. We should look professional if we’re still serious about doing this.” I could tell that he was impressed by the Bay Street address, and I wished he were going with me. He’d fit in a lot better.
I’d caved and gone upstairs to change, unsure why I hadn’t dressed properly in the first place. Maybe I was displaying some ambivalence about meeting anyone from my past, even someone I had no memory of. I’ve kept an almost entirely separate existence from “before.” I haven’t attempted to get in touch with even the closest of friends. It’s as though my life started only when I walked through the doors of Delta Court.
They were all waiting for me when I came back down, Michael managing a piercing wolf whistle, and Miss Semple clapping approvingly. Diamond had his coat on. He could be somethin
g of a mind reader at times—he said he’d ride with me as far as the subway, since he still had some work to do at school.
There are low clouds hanging in the sky as we walk to the streetcar. They look full to bursting with snow or rain, I can’t tell which, but it doesn’t really matter to us. Diamond keeps shaking his head, murmuring “Bay Street!”
“I know, it’s weird. I’ve been racking my brain, but for the life of me I can’t remember anyone by that name. And you know how cliquey students are. I was in arts; so were all my friends.”
“Yes, but I was in medicine, and now I’m studying economics. It happens. People change.”
I turn to look at him, smile.
He’s changed over the time I’ve known him. Gained a little weight—he’s not looking nearly so skeletal anymore—and though he’s still not a great talker, he doesn’t have the same difficulty finding words as he did back then. He’s become confident, self-assured, and he’s doing really well in his courses. And now he tries to reassure me with a one-armed hug as we’re walking, not something the old Diamond would ever have thought to do.
“You can’t let the address intimidate you, Dana. You’re just as good—actually, you’re probably better than anyone in there. You know that, don’t you?”
I laugh. Diamond is as precious as his name, given to him by Maryanne, implies.
We board the streetcar and spend the time chatting about his courses, the weather, his parents. He keeps it light until we reach his stop, then squeezes my hand for luck. “You’ll do great, Dana, no worries!”
When the streetcar reaches Bay Street, I step onto the sidewalk and am immediately jostled by crowds of purposeful people rushing from place to place. My watch tells me I’m just on time, so with a deep breath, I cross at the lights and try not to look up.
CHAPTER TWO
The office tower in front of me is not a warm, welcoming place. There’s such a thing as too big, too much metal and glass. Everything is rigorously polished, from the badges on the security personnel to the elevator doors, which open to display people who are also buffed to a high sheen, glowing with health and prosperity, making me wish I’d worn sunglasses as I crowd in with them.
I get out on the 42nd floor, turning right to the offices of Bernie’s company, Preston Inc. Everything speaks of conspicuous consumption, from the flower arrangements to the art on the walls. There’s an attractive, tanned receptionist talking into a phone; her desk is bigger than my room. When she puts the receiver down, I tell her why I’m here. My voice is making a slightly squeaky sound, as though the air here is too rarefied for common folk, but she politely ignores this and responds perkily, “Oh, yes, Mr. Preston is expecting you. Just one moment, I’ll have his assistant escort you.” It’s not just my voice that has the jitters. In spite of Diamond’s pep talk, I feel totally out of my element here, and worried about who is waiting for me down the hall.
The assistant, all legs and high heels, poise and fashion sense, appears in seconds, smiling falsely but broadly, and I follow her through a maze of doors and corridors, wishing I had some bread crumbs to scatter to find my way back. No doubt they’d be vacuumed up as soon as they hit the floor. All this is making me feel drab and undernourished. I’m expecting Bernie to be a clone of the elevator people, which is depressing me further. He’ll take one look at me and realize he’s made a mistake.
My guide stops abruptly, taps on an open door, and steps in. I can’t see anything at first, dazzled by the sun (I’m sure it was cloudy when I stepped into the building) pouring generously through a wall of windows. I can just make out the top of the CN Tower and the roof of the Rogers Centre, a dizzying view. A shadow rises from a leather chair behind an expanse of glass desk. I blink rapidly to clear my vision but before it returns I’m locked into an embrace with…a dwarf.
“Dana, how wonderful to see you again after all these years!” The dwarf is speaking into my armpit, which is where his head is resting. I try to politely extricate myself, but we’re locked in here. I can just make out the top of his head and the oddness of his hair. I push back, enough to see he’s had a row of implants that haven’t quite grown in yet.
“Bernie, good to see you too.”
I look for clues, some spark to bring memory rushing back. He’s fat, there’s no other word for it, and going for obesity. And short, really short. I’m surprised they let him in the building; I’m sure they have height and weight requirements like amusement park rides.
He grabs hold of me by the arms, beaming up at me, but his arms are truncated and don’t allow for much distance. Instead of meeting his gaze, I’m checking out his suit, thinking he must use a private tailor, it fits him so well.
“Please, sit down. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“Thank you, no.”
I sink into the chair opposite his desk, holding one hand over my eyes to block out the glare.
“Let me take care of that.” He waddles to the window, fiddles with something, and the panoramic view disappears in a whisper of blinds. “You look better than ever, Dana. What’s your secret?”
My secret is that I have no idea who the hell you are, I think. I should bite the bullet here, and just tell him, but he’s off again, not waiting for revelations.
“I was so impressed by the media coverage you received. I always knew you were something special, destined for great things. Even back then. And when my mother, her name is Anna if you recall, went strange like she did, I said to myself, ‘Bernie, get Dana on it.’” He’s beaming at me. There is something familiar about that smile, so wide and open. For a moment there…but no, nothing. “The other day I was rummaging around in old boxes, looking for pictures, and guess what I found?”
Is this the first test of my detecting skills?
“A picture?” Part of me thinks this is all an elaborate joke, any minute now he’ll slough off the ugly duckling costume, and a six-foot-two blond bodybuilder will step from the ruins.
“Yes!” He has a lot of energy, in spite of his size, and he’s coming at me again, waving a little pile of photos. “Look, remember these?”
After a moment of staring, I do. “What hap—” I bite the inside of my cheek, preventing more damning words from escaping. I realize I’m shaking my head and I stop that too. Bernie. That wasn’t what we called him back then, the cute, elfin, beret-wearing sophisticate who attended all the parties and dinners, always bringing the best wine and the tallest, most willowy women he could find. Harp was his nickname, the economics student who preferred the arts crowd.
“You’re probably wondering what the hell happened to me.” I open my mouth to deny that vigorously, but he isn’t looking for a response. With one stubby finger he’s jabbing toward the walls of his office, the view, and the door his secretary has closed behind her. “All this happened. My father’s company. I didn’t want any of it. But it was expected. I didn’t even try to fight it. And damn if I wasn’t good at it.” His chair protests ominously as he sits again, leaning forward, elbows on his desk.
“Those days, back in university, were the only time I felt really alive. Remember those all-nighters? How we used to discuss everything? Politics, novels, music, philosophy? I would pretend I could do anything, be anything. But I knew what was waiting for me.”
Shuffling through the photos, I see people I haven’t thought about for ages. It’s like stepping through the looking glass; I can almost hear the conversations, the laughter. I see myself standing close to a boy I was dating at the time, but I can’t remember what I was thinking or feeling. Bernie is in the centre of most of the pictures, a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He was a graduate student when I was in second year, and he made quite the impression on my friends and me.
“I’m sorry, Bernie.” And I am. His voice is carrying me back to those stuffy student bars. I can almost see him holding court, mesmerizing us with his arguments, always well thought out, often deliberately provocative. He loved the verbal fencing. Ther
e was a charismatic quality to the younger Bernie, and it hasn’t totally been lost. I can even see the outlines of his lost self in the fleshy folds of his face, in that brilliant smile. His eyes are the same. I see that now. A bright, sparkly blue, the way they used to be. With more than a flutter of panic, I try to recall if I ever slept with him. Why else would I remember those eyes, and not those of the man with his hand resting proprietarily on my shoulder in the photo?
Bernie shrugs. “I’ve no one to blame but myself. I never learned to say no to my parents. They were cold people, and I was always looking for their approval. Wanting their love…”
An awkward silence falls. Bernie brings me back to the present as he clears his throat loudly and pulls out a handkerchief from deep in his pocket, blowing his nose vigorously before continuing.
“But that’s no matter. When my father passed away, almost five months ago now, I thought that was my chance to get closer to my mother. I moved back home temporarily, took care of everything for her—the notices, the funeral, sorting and packing up his things. I even made elaborate meals, brought them up to her room, hoping she’d, I don’t know, talk about him, them. But I was not welcome, that was clear.
“It wasn’t until one afternoon, while my mother was napping, that I decided to tackle the study. My father kept a large desk in there. He wasn’t terribly organized at home, and papers were all over, jammed into drawers, willy-nilly. I’d just made a real start when she appeared in the doorway. She was nearly hysterical and demanded that I stop interfering with her things immediately. She wouldn’t speak to me again until dinnertime. She’d recovered herself more or less by then, but told me she ‘preferred’—such a mild term under the circumstances—that I stay out of the study until she herself was ready to do the sorting.
“It got very uncomfortable over the next few days. She kept trying to explain, without ever admitting there was a need to. ‘I value my independence,’ she told me. ‘And part of that independence is the right to privacy.’ I threw up my hands. What could I do?”
