by Pat Capponi
“No one has to work hard anymore, all you have to do is prey on those who do. And they know perfectly well the police won’t catch them, and even if they do, they’ll be back on the street the same day. Ask anyone who’s been victimized. It’s shocking!”
“How is he now?” This from T.J., who leans sympathetically toward her.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
She stares at him as if he’s missed the point entirely. “My husband is recovering. Thank you. Not a single piece that was stolen from me has been returned. Not one. After three years.”
“But you’re both safe, and well. We must be thankful for that, of course.”
“Must we?” she says, witheringly.
T.J. wisely turns to the cop. “So, Superintendent, is your task force more than window dressing here? Are the police really doing enough to protect the public?”
“As I’ve said, we’ve gathered our strongest investigators, some from the organized crime unit, some from homicide and various other squads. They are looking at all elements of these home invasions, looking at similarities and differences. We know what was stolen, and we’re out there looking for it. We have leads that we’re chasing down, we are working the streets, and appealing to the public for their help. And, of course, we have increased patrols in the affected areas. The chief has declared this our number-one priority. We all want to put these guys away.”
“It seems that they strike a different neighbourhood each time. How do you know where to concentrate your patrols?”
“That is difficult, of course. We do the best we can, but there are limits. We are also trying to determine if it’s one gang or more perpetrating these acts. As many as three houses have been hit in one night. And there are some differences in how they behave.”
“There is a reward posted now, isn’t there? Last I heard, it was up to twenty-thousand dollars”
“Yes, T.J., that’s correct. It’s come in from a variety of sources, and has led to an increase in the number of calls we’re getting. This results in more leads that must be tracked down.”
“This is a symptom of a much greater problem in our city.” This from Mrs. James, who’s looking somewhat Messianic. “We excuse crime and criminals, we create ‘court diversion’ programs so that the poor dears don’t have to spend time in jail. We wring our hands over their backgrounds, and blame ourselves for their actions. What utter nonsense! No wonder crime is so rampant. We need a justice system that dispenses justice, and it should be harsh enough to be a deterrent. And we need a police force, and a police chief, that is equally tough.”
“Are you suggesting that the current chief isn’t up to the job?”
“Draw your own conclusions. How long have these criminals operated with impunity in Toronto?”
“I have to object, Mrs. James—”
“Of course you do, Superintendent.”
“We’ll be right back to take your calls after these messages.”
The superintendent is red-faced with anger. T.J. speaks past Mrs. James, obviously trying to pacify him. Mrs. James looks triumphant, her pointy chin thrust out defiantly.
“Welcome back. Today’s topic is: How safe do you feel? Our guests are Superintendent Paully and Victims First advocate Mrs. Roland James. Let’s take our first call. Hello, you’re on the air.”
“Hi, T.J. My name is Esther, and I just wanted to say how much I agree with Mrs. James. The city has just gone to the dogs. I’m afraid to leave my apartment. Every day on the news something horrible has happened to an innocent victim. I don’t want to be next! We have to get tougher with these people!”
“Thank you, Esther. Superintendent, did you want to comment?”
“Yes, it’s very important that we don’t barricade ourselves in our homes and apartments, give in to fear. Violent crime is actually down across North America. I know the headlines can be frightening, but statistically—”
“Statistics mean nothing if you’re the one that criminals target. Every day I deal with men and women who’ve been terrorized, either in their homes or on the streets, by thugs who are little better than animals. I tell you, Superintendent, you have failed to keep this city safe!”
I think I can see steam coming out of Paully’s ears. He won’t win this one.
The hour goes by fast. The superintendent gets some support from police fans, but most of the callers side with Mrs. James. I’m starting to fade a little, surprising in this environment, where everyone is so “on.” I close my eyes—after lowering my head so that no one can see—and drift off.
“Dana! Hi! Did you enjoy the show?” It’s T.J. “The usual host is sick, and there I was, in the producer’s office talking about our project, when they got me to step in. Me! It’s a go, by the way, our project, the only holdup was advice from the lawyers about possible trespassing, but it turns out we’ll be fine so long as I get a receipt for a month’s rent. They’ll give me the cash for that. So we’re in business. What did you think of the show? I think it went pretty well, don’t you? It’s a really big break for me. Could you tell I was nervous?”
He’s like a little kid, a wired little kid. He beams at me when I heap him with praise. Clearly he’s part of the tooth-whitening fad that’s overtaken otherwise sensible people—he glitters. I tell him I need to go back to the green room for my coat, and he drapes one arm across my shoulder. So close we’re bumping thighs, he leads me out of the studio into the deserted corridors. “Let’s go get a coffee. I really appreciate your coming down. I have another standup in thirty minutes, so we’ll just go over some of the details.”
He doesn’t bother with a jacket, or traffic lights. We play dodge ’ems with the cars, eliciting angry honks and screeching brakes, before making it into a high-end coffee bar. It must be high end—there’s no lineup. A waitress, flirtatious and sadly star-struck, comes to our tiny table, right in the centre of the place for maximum visibility, and, eyes sparkling with reflected fame, takes our order.
“Now that’s a story, those home invasions. Everyone pays attention, because anyone could be a potential victim. I’d love to be working on that, it’s so high profile, but they gave it to our ‘crime specialist.’ Not that I think what we’re going to do isn’t newsworthy. So what’s our plan?”
He’s all jazzed up. He really has no idea what he’s in for. I think of some of the boarding homes in Parkdale, how dark and crowded and miserable they are. And the people he’ll meet are nothing like those he’s used to. Still, I’ve come this far, and he is enthusiastic.
“There’s stuff we have to do first. Work on your appearance, for instance. You’ll never get in the door looking like you do. We’ll have to shop for clothes, go to a second-hand store, pick up some pants and shirts and shoes, and a coat. Your hair—”
Now he’s alarmed. “My hair?”
“It’s too styled, you’d never pass. And your earrings and studs, they need to go.”
He’s shrinking right before my eyes. Clearly he hasn’t thought this out.
“You’re on television every day. We need to make sure you’re not recognized. We have to turn you into a ‘mental patient,’ someone who’s been poor for years, overmedicated, depressed.” I’m afraid I’m losing him. “It’s undercover work at its best. Your viewers will be amazed, and you’ll have a hell of a story.”
“No pain, no gain.” He mutters this under his breath, trying to find his courage.
“Exactly. We’ll get you some clothes at Goodwill, you’ll come over to the house, and the guys will help you with the finishing touches. How to walk, how to carry yourself. Give you some background, hospital wards, shrinks, that kind of thing. And Miss Semple, you remember her, she has volunteered to take you over, pretend to be your grandmother. She’ll do the talking to the landlord, all you’ll have to do is nod.”
He won’t have to manufacture depression, the poor guy. His clothes, his hair, his jewellery, all this is his identity. There’s a slight tremor in his hands a
s he lifts his mug, sips at the brew, but he rallies.
“Right. I’ll book a cameraman for the transition, okay? Before and after?”
“Absolutely. Great idea.” We set the time, a few days from now. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your doing this. It could help a lot of people. Make a lot of headlines.”
He sits straighter, the gleam is back in his eyes. Heroic, that’s my man. His mention of the camera reminded me of another detail I’d almost forgotten.
“One more thing. To make the most of this, you’re going to need some kind of hidden camera.”
“Right, I was just going to mention that.”
“It can’t be disguised as anything that could get stolen; I was thinking on the way here about a guy I used to know, he wore an old transistor radio around his neck, he tied a strap around the handle, and it just hung there against his chest.”
“That sounds weird.”
“It’s Parkdale. No one will give it a second thought.”
“I’ll check with our technical people, they’re pretty smart, wizards really. Hey, want to come back to the studio and watch my next piece? We can talk again about my ‘look.’”
“Jeez, I’d love to, T.J.,” I say, trying for a regretful expression, “but I really need to get back to the house.”
“No problem. Let’s get out of here, and I’ll hail you a cab.” He dumps a bunch of change on the table and waves goodbye to the waitress, who looks devastated that he’s leaving. On the way home, sitting warm and cozy in the back of the taxi, something I could definitely get used to, I decide not to tell Michael or the others about this venture yet, but to wait and surprise them when I bring T.J. to the house. Michael’s going to love this!
CHAPTER FIVE
In this kitchen, it’s possible to forget that outside the leaves are all off the trees, it’s snowing, and the wind chill is adding its effect. The illusion is strengthened by the lack of windows—the room being located in a basement—but the steam rising from huge pots kept at constant boil, the close quarters the half-dozen volunteers work in, and the frenetic pace all do their part to make it feel as though it’s mid-July.
“Where’s the box of salt?”
“It’s over by the vegetables.”
“Has anyone checked the hams?”
“I think Emily did a few minutes ago; they were fine.”
I’ve met and shaken hands with all the volunteers. They’re decent people, mostly seniors but with the occasional middle-aged person, bursting with purpose and good will. And they are working really hard.
“Careful, clear a path, coming through!”
“Would you look at those desserts, they’ll be a hit tonight.”
“How are we coming with the potatoes?”
That’s aimed at me. I’ve been following the snippets of conversation as they’re tossed back and forth among the volunteers, not picking up on anything useful as yet. And I’m a third of the way through a fifty-pound sack of New Brunswick potatoes.
“Getting there, Mrs. Fitzsimmons.”
“I’m sorry to have left you all alone like that, there’s just so much to do. Oh, you have been busy. Let me help now.” Mrs. Fitzsimmons is an elderly dynamo who’s in charge of this afternoon’s meal preparation. I was referred to her when I phoned with a little white lie about wanting to do a piece on their program. She was thrilled at the idea, as were the other volunteers, and I was invited down to see for myself.
“Where were we now? It’s so easy to lose track when there’s so much to do. Oh yes, you were surprised that we aren’t officially part of the Out of the Cold program. Well, we are an independent-minded congregation, perhaps that’s a fault, but when we looked at all the regulations and the compulsory meetings and the structures, well, we thought we’d be better off just going our own way and being open more often to the public. Jim, the salad tongs should be hanging on the wall over there in the corner. We have so much, in terms of resources and volunteers, we don’t need any government help, and it’s not as though Out of the Cold will suffer losses—there are certainly enough poor and homeless to go around, I can assure you. When we looked at everyone’s schedules, three nights stood out as the best for all who wanted to help: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. So we announced that we were open, and we’ve been rushed off our feet ever since!”
She’s a substantial woman, our Mrs. Fitzsimmons. The seat of the stool disappears as she settles down on it, her bum overlapping the edges. Her plump, round face is bright red from the heat, and I’m sure her dress is sticking to her body the same way my clothing is.
“Lettuce, lettuce, who’s hiding the lettuce?”
“In the box over by the sink, the tomatoes too.”
“Is Ethel coming in today?”
“No, her cousin’s in from Cleveland, she’s showing him around town. Cory’s filling in for her this week.”
“Oh, how is Cory? I haven’t laid eyes on him in a dog’s age.”
“Good, good, you know his wife’s been ill?”
“I heard, cancer, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
My hand is starting to cramp around the peeler. Maybe I’m being punished for lying to these good people.
Mrs. Fitzsimmons continues: “At first we made mistakes, even found ourselves in a little trouble. I suppose we were a bit naive, but that goes hand in hand with being Christians, don’t you think? We didn’t expect that some people might be aggressive, angry. You’ll find the margarine next to the freezer, Gary, and the bread should be in the big cartons under the table. We weren’t really prepared to handle that kind of thing; though it didn’t happen often, it could be quite frightening. We were fortunate that one of our former guests—a young man, temporarily homeless—has all kinds of security experience. He—his name is Jesse—has been a godsend. He stepped right in during one incident, calmed everything down. We’re very lucky to have him. He’s trained a ‘crew,’ that’s what he calls them, young men who are down on their luck, to provide us with assistance whenever we’re open. And even though Jesse is back on his feet and doing very well lately, he hasn’t forgotten us and he helps us keep order. It’s very gratifying, really.”
Mrs. Fitzsimmons is called away to make a decision about a sauce, and I take advantage of her absence to pry the paring knife from my poor cramped hand, wandering as far away from the potatoes as the limited space allows. I find a large bulletin board with the volunteer schedule prominently posted. There’s lots of crossing out and adding in until it’s barely legible, but it seems to serve them well enough. In one corner, an index card is thumbtacked on, and I murmur a brief aha! as I read what’s written there in bold, black felt pen lettering for all to see: Flowers and good wishes may be sent to Mrs. Preston care of the Rosedale Rest Home at 46 Miller Road.
“Looking at the schedule?” Mrs. Fitzsimmons is back at my side. “It can seem awfully complicated, with all the comings and goings, but we manage to cover every shift.”
“I know Mrs. Preston. At least, I know her son. I didn’t realize she was in a home.”
“Oh, it’s not like that, not a ‘home’ home.” She reaches up and takes down the card, tearing it in two and throwing it into a wastebasket. “She didn’t stay there long. At our age, we must be careful, our bones are brittle, you know, and down she went, right in the back, in the storeroom, fractured her hip. If Millie hadn’t gone back there looking for an extra scarf for one of the guests…But she did, and we called an ambulance for Mrs. Preston. Everyone was very upset, especially our guests.”
“Was she a favourite of theirs?” I ask, though I find it hard to imagine.
“Oh, not a favourite, we hardly get to really meet anyone, few of us do. There’s no time, between getting the meal ready and served, then clearing it all away. Speaking of which, let’s get back to work.” She takes my arm and leads me back to the counter. I squelch the urge to make a run for it as she pauses. “Mrs. Preston. She is one of our best volunteers. I never woul
d have thought it. I may be telling tales out of school here, but she’s a bit austere, even I was nervous of her, and I’m supposed to be the coordinator. Yet she showed up for her shifts without complaint. Always worked hard, and donated her money. Just goes to show, you never know about people, the good they’re capable of doing. Now,” she says, pointing at the handful of potatoes left on the counter, “finish with this bag so we can get a good start on the other.”
I left the formidable Mrs. Fitzsimmons before permanent damage was done to my right hand. I claimed a pressing engagement, grabbed a cab home and changed my clothes. I’m never eating potatoes again, but I may have learned how the bad guys knew where Mrs. Preston went. At the rest home, randy Sam said the woman who visited Mrs. Preston looked like she’d been sleeping rough, and that bulletin board is placed so that almost anyone can read what’s on it.
I’m returning to the shelter as a guest later on. I don’t have to worry about being recognized by the volunteers; the difference between a well-dressed, confident interviewer and yet another beaten-down denizen of the street will be enough of a disguise. I’ll leave earlier than Michael and Gerry. They’ll take the bus to the stop right near the church, while I want to walk at least part of the way. I know that, no matter what time the place opens, people will start gathering at least an hour or two before. I expect to see some of the homeless trudging up the road—not everyone would be lucky enough to have TTC tickets. For now, though, I’m quite happy to be in my own room, stretched out on my couch, resting my eyes.
Unlike in Parkdale, where they would be unremarkable, in this neighbourhood with its big houses and expensive cars in every driveway, they are easy to spot. Like some lost infantry battalion on a long, endless march, the homeless have to keep moving; their legs must carry them from agency to agency, from street corner to temporary shelter. I adopt the same plodding pace, let my shoulders slump in defeat, keep my eyes mostly on the snowy ground I must cover. Just a few feet in front of me, a woman on crutches, one empty pant leg flapping in the wind, struggles valiantly to stay upright. Her companion, a burly, bearded fellow, staggers beside her. He’s had a few.
