Up in Smoke

by Ross Pennie

Your liver fell apart from centrilobular necrosis, as if you’d inhaled a bottle of carbon tetrachloride, old-fashioned dry cleaning solution.

  “Good work, Hamish. I presume Natasha’s making sure no one in Canada chews any more of that stuff.”

  “No worries. She’s on it. Called the CFIA’s hotline immediately.”

  She’d probably had to leave a message on their machine. The Canadian Food Inspection Agency’s hotline wasn’t all that hot after three o’clock Eastern.

  “Now,” Hamish said, sounding calmer, “I guess you don’t have to worry about Dennis Badger and his contaminated tobacco.”

  “How so?”

  “If people don’t chew that gum, they can smoke all the rez tobacco they can get their hands on and not get sick . . . oh . . . sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Well, you know what I mean.” Was Hamish suddenly getting sensitive, thinking about Zol’s mum slowly dying of lung cancer acquired from forty years of smoking?

  “It’s okay, Hamish. I know what you mean. But,” Zol reminded him, “there must be dozens of other chemicals, herbal and otherwise, that can send 5-FNN down that poisonous pathway.”

  “Like what?”

  “Ginkgo biloba is in all sorts of so-called natural remedies, many of which are improperly labelled and could contain high levels of amentoflavone without anyone knowing it.”

  “Shouldn’t you leave that to Health Canada and the CFIA?”

  “And watch more livers shrivel and die after smokers consume other enzyme modifiers? I’m thinking St. John’s wort, milk thistle, or even plain old grapefruit juice.”

  “I suppose, when you put it that way, but —”

  “Of course I’m putting it that way. Can you imagine if we lobbied for a worldwide embargo on grapefruit juice so Dennis Badger could keep selling his contaminated tobacco to unsuspecting smokers all over the planet?” He had a strong image of the Badger sitting in his Learjet, the fringe of his deerskin jacket fluttering every time he lifted a flute of Moët & Chandon champers to his lips.

  “You’re exaggerating. There’s no evidence that grapefruit is a problem here.”

  “But it could be. It interferes with the metabolism of quite a few drugs.”

  “But how are you going to get around the Badger without putting us all in danger?”

  “You’ll just have to watch.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Zol drew the minivan into the garage and popped the back open. It was going to be fun putting a meal together with the two bags full of treats from Four Corners. They had the best hummus, which he’d have on the sourdough baguette while he prepared the pork tenderloin for roasting: garlic, onion, Herbes de Provence, and his secret ingredient, Tap 357 rye whisky flavoured with real maple syrup. Delicious.

  He hit the garage-door button and braced for the screeching of the closing door. He walked into the mudroom and cursed himself for forgetting to set the alarm on his way out this afternoon. How dumb to be that distracted over a meeting that never happened. He threw on the lights and went to drop the groceries on the kitchen counter, but . . . what the hell? The place looked like San Francisco after the earthquake. Every drawer was hanging open, the contents dumped on the floor. Every cupboard had been ransacked. Even the fridge and dishwasher had been gone through. He grabbed a baseball bat from the garage and ran from room to room, throwing on the lights as he went. It was the same everywhere. Their entire life thrown to the floor. The computer room was particularly bad. Every one of Max’s DVDs had been cleared from the shelf and tossed onto the carpet. The computer monitor had been upended, but not smashed.

  When he thought about it, this wasn’t vandalism. Nothing had been trashed. And neither was it wanton theft. None of the valuable electronics had been stolen. Even his collection of watches — some elegant, some fun, but none over the top in price — was still in the dresser in the bedroom. The boxes had been opened and tossed every which way, but the timepieces were still there.

  Whoever had done this had been looking for something specific. Had they known what they were looking for or making an educated guess? Shit. He ran down to the basement, sweat pouring down the back of his neck. Had they found her? Oh, please, no. Please, let her be safe in the dryer.

  When he got to the laundry room, he saw the clothes from the drying rack scattered on the floor along with a box of laundry detergent, a bottle of bleach, and another of fabric softener. The place had be turned over meticulously. The detergent box was upright, not a single granule spilled from it. Cursing at his stupidity, he forced himself to look in the dryer.

  The door was closed. Had he left it that way? He couldn’t remember. He pulled it open, knelt down, put his hand in. Nothing. Shit. He felt further up, brushed against the metal fin, found the smooth cotton of his boxer briefs, then yes, the box underneath. When he lifted it out, the weight of it told him the little bird was still there. Unless . . . would they be cruel enough to replace her with a rock?

  He held his breath and removed the lid. She winked at him as if to say It’s about time you showed up. Thank God.

  He removed her from the box and slipped her into his jacket pocket, then went upstairs to call the cops. Colleen would be pleased. Finally, he was calling the police.

  CHAPTER 46

  “Hi, Dad,” Max said the next morning, through the 7-Eleven phone.

  Zol was standing in his Simcoe office, gathering the notes he needed to fax to Elliott York in Toronto. He didn’t trust the landlines here, though the security company promised the bugs had been dealt with. He was going to use the fax machine at the mailbox store on Norfolk Avenue, just to be sure.

  “Is it true, Dad? Colleen says the bad guys aren’t following us anymore?”

  How could he phrase it so it approached the truth yet sounded reassuring? “They’re not actually bad, Max. They don’t happen to agree with some of the things I have to do at work.”

  “I thought they had guns.”

  “I haven’t seen any weapons.” Which was true, remarkably enough, considering what had been happening these past few days. “They promised me they’d leave you alone as long as you stayed in Toronto for a little while longer. Are you having fun there?”

  “I guess. Allie is a good sewer. She makes her own clothes and sells them at a store. She’s making me a Halloween costume.”

  “Fantastic, bud. What are you going to be?”

  “A zombie pirate.”

  “You mean with an eye patch and a wooden leg?”

  “No, a real zombie. Wicked hair, grey skin that will make me look like a corpse, striped legs, and blood oozing from everywhere.”

  A corpse? Great. “Allie sounds pretty talented.”

  “She’s really nice,” Max said. “But Dad . . .” He’d lowered his voice. “Soksang is kinda different.”

  Sok-sang? Who was she? Did Allie have a maid? Or maybe it was a he? It would be no surprise if a friend of Francine’s had a gardener on a day pass from a halfway house.

  “Who?” Zol asked, trying not to sound anxious.

  “You know. Francine, remember? She changed her name when she became a nun. And that’s what I’m supposed to call her, Soksang.”

  “Sorry. I remember now.” Soksang, Cambodian for peace. Zol cleared his throat. “Do you mean different in a nice way? She’s not being mean, is she?”

  “No. But she doesn’t watch movies and she can’t buy me anything. She’s not supposed to touch money. Not even a credit card.”

  “So is Colleen paying for what she needs?”

  “Soksang never goes shopping. She showed us her robe. She doesn’t have any other clothes. It has to be orange, no other colour. And it has three different parts. She says it’s so comfortable she doesn’t need anything else. Not even jeans. Her suitcase is very small. She let me carry it for her. It wasn’t heavy.”

  “That was good of you. I’m sure
she was thrilled to see you at the airport.”

  “You know, Dad, it never gets cold in Cambodia. Kids there have never seen snow.”

  “I guess they wouldn’t, would they?”

  “Soksang doesn’t eat dessert and she doesn’t know anything about computers. Or how to use a cellphone. And she doesn’t know who Hermione is in Harry Potter.”

  “But you’re having a good time?”

  “Sort of. Soksang sits by herself and prays a lot. She says I watch too much TV.” It was sounding like Max had discovered for himself that Francine made a better pen pal than a mother figure. Music to Zol’s ears. “Dad, when can Colleen and I come home? I miss Travis and my other friends.”

  Zol pictured the chaos in the house. No kid should have to see his room pulled apart by professional thugs. Max would have bad dreams for a month.

  “It won’t be long,” Zol told him, not sure how normal their life was ever going to be again.

  “I won’t have to go trick-or-treating here on Halloween, will I? I don’t know any of the kids.”

  “I hope not, Max. I hope everything will be settled before then.”

  “Promise? You mean I can go to school on Monday? Wear my costume, go to the Halloween assembly, and everything? Promise, Dad?”

  Zol crossed his fingers and thought about the plans that were taking shape. Everything was hanging on Sunday morning. If things ran off the rails, Monday would have to take care of itself.

  “I’m doing my best, Max. All I can do is my best.”

  CHAPTER 47

  At five on Sunday morning, Matt Holt turned right off Bay and right again onto Murray, using his GPS for guidance. He’d only been down here once before, when a grateful client had taken him out in his sailboat. Sailing on Lake Ontario was okay, but he would have preferred something faster, with a nice throaty engine you could tinker with.

  Dylan with the Irish accent had said to look for a two-storey detached brick with a large front porch, and he’d leave the lights on.

  “You can’t miss it,” he’d added. “In my corner of North Hamilton, a detached house is as rare as an honest Yugoslav general. Look for the Sicilian Fratellanza Racalmutese, a social club that’s basically a floodlit sign sitting atop a few blocks of Lego. Nice people and good neighbours, if you like garlic. We’re half a block further on.”

  Matt parked at the curb in front of the house and knocked on the door. The living room curtains parted briefly before the door opened, and a presence filled the doorway. It introduced itself as Dylan and said what a pleasure it was to meet face to face after spending much of yesterday talking to each other on the phone. He looked about thirty-five, bushy beard, black shirt and jeans over an athletic build. It was amazing how hairy some White people could be, but what was most impressive was the guy’s height, about six-six. His eyes were grey, like a wolf’s, and he flashed one of those big smiles White people use when they’re anxious. Though on this guy, the smile seemed sincere. Perhaps that was because he was some sort of priest. At least, that’s what Dr. Szabo had called him when he’d set them up. Or maybe that was his code name, Dylan the Priest. A real priest wouldn’t have a Fisher-Price trike in his front hall beside a pair of women’s boots.

  “Good morning to you, my good man,” said Dylan the Priest. “Come in. I’ve everything ready. Twenty boxes of fun.” His eyes strayed to the massive scar running from Matt’s left eye, through his cheek, down his neck to his collar bone.

  “I see you like my scar,” Matt said.

  The smile vanished from the big guy’s face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have —”

  “It’s a beauty, eh?” Matt said, touching it. “But it’s fake. A friend did it for me last night. He works in the movies.”

  Dylan the Priest relaxed and let out a chuckle. “You certainly played me for a fool. It’s going to make quite the fine impression on the guards.”

  That was the idea. They’d remember the scar and nothing else. His movie friend had lent him a Detroit Tigers baseball cap with a realistic fringe of blond hair sticking out from under it. The black work shirt and matching pants he’d bought at the Brantford Mall, where they’d embroidered Upper Canada Security above the shirt pocket. The woman had done it while he waited, without batting an eyelash. It was amazing what people let you get away with. Especially around Halloween.

  The cardboard boxes stacked in Dylan’s living room were each the size and weight of a two-four of Molson’s. They’d been dabbed with green, grey, and brown paint. The camouflage looked pretty cool. It didn’t take long to load them into the van Matt had prepared for the job. As per usual on a Saturday, he’d sent his staff home at noon, and then he’d spent the afternoon alone in his shop spray-painting the made-up name on the van’s side panels: UPPER CANADA SECURITY. He’d added a fake but operational phone number to make everything legit. He was pleased with the paint job, although it didn’t have to be perfect. This little charade didn’t have to last long. The plan was to get the set-ups done before sun-up.

  They stopped at an all-night Tim’s on Barton Street for a couple of large double-doubles, but the caffeine didn’t touch his partner. Instead of riding shotgun, Dylan the Priest snored all the way to Grand Basin.

  Five hundred metres from their first destination, Matt stopped on the gravel shoulder of the rural side road running through the bush. He shook Dylan the Priest by the arm. “Wake up, Goldilocks, it’s showtime.”

  “What? Oh, are we here? On the rez already?”

  “You got it. Indian territory.” Matt winked and pointed ahead through the windshield. “The first Rollies factory is just ahead. Target number one. You ready?”

  “Most certainly,” he said, sounding more confident than the look on his face. If he’d grown that bushy beard to hide behind, it wasn’t working. “But would you be so kind as to run through the steps again.”

  “Good idea, partner.” It was kind of fun having a White guy playing Tonto to his Lone Ranger. Although the real Lone Ranger was Dr. Szabo.

  They ran through the details of the plan they’d worked out yesterday over the phone. Dr. Szabo had bought them pay-as-you-go cells from 7-Eleven to minimize the chance that Dennis and his boys could listen in. The Badger was a superior mastermind who controlled an impressive empire, but he wasn’t a magician. The phones were secure. Weren’t they?

  Matt put on the Tigers’ ball cap and a pair of safety goggles with yellow lenses, and drove the final half kilometre. Until now, this had felt like an adventure. It had been fun dreaming up the disguise and painting the van. But when the headlights caught the first glimpse of barbed wire through the trees, the double-double began to churn in his stomach.

  He ignored the ruckus in his guts and stopped the van at the unmarked gate. Of course it was unmarked. Regular folk weren’t supposed to know that this was one of the two major Rollies factories on Grand Basin Reserve. Factory seemed too fancy a word for the single, plain building enclosed in a ten-foot perimeter of barbed wire. One storey high, the placed looked like a long, narrow warehouse with an A-line roof, aluminum siding, and security cameras at the gate and above the front door. Colleen had said there were four more cameras mounted on the eaves — one on each corner. She’d also said there was only one guard on duty after midnight and on Sundays, and the shift changed at eight-thirty in the morning. The machines that made the cigarettes ran Monday through Saturday. The large gravel parking lot was bordered on three sides by dense bush. And all that barbed wire, of course. In the far corner were two cube vans — white, no special markings. A two-litre Acura CSX was parked close to the front door. It looked well taken care of, though you never knew the state of the shocks, the brakes, and the exhaust until you put a vehicle on the hoist and made a thorough inspection.

  Matt put his window down and pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Can’t you see the sign?” said a voice through the speaker. “No t
respassing?”

  “Upper Canada Security, sir.”

  “We’re closed.”

  “We’re answering an alarm situation.”

  “I didn’t hear no alarm.”

  “It’s a silent one. Signalling a problem with your security cameras.”

  “Nobody called me.”

  “It’s company policy to respond in person, sir. To be sure you’re not experiencing a personal emergency situation and nobody’s tampering with your equipment.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I have orders to see that the guard on duty is not in danger and to check the security cameras immediately.”

  “I can’t let you in here.”

  Shit. This was more difficult than he’d expected. “I do not need to enter the premises, sir, only the grounds of the compound. The situation in question is an exterior problem. If necessary, I can adjust the cameras with my handheld device. You can observe everything I do on your interior monitors.” Sometimes it helped to use big words. What you said sounded good, so people felt your authority without admitting to themselves they weren’t entirely certain what you’d said.

  “You’d have to sign in.”

  “Certainly, sir. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m sure you take security as seriously as we do.”

  The gate opened, and by the time they’d drawn next to the Acura the guard was standing outside holding a clipboard.

  “Just two o’ yous?” the guard said through the window of the van. His eyes widened at the sight of Matt’s scar and stared at it longer than was polite. Good, he wouldn’t forget it.

  If the scar wasn’t fake, and this was a normal encounter, the guy would have pissed him off. He was young, Asian, Canadian accent, and about twenty-two, though with Asians you could hardly tell whether they were twenty or forty. He had the bloodshot eyes of someone who’d been up all night and was desperate to get home to bed. Still, there was a tough-guy edge to his attitude, probably supported by the handgun clipped to his belt.