by Orca Various
“Good,” she says. She tucks some hair up under my hat. “Excellent. Go for it.” Then she says, “I’ll keep the engine running.”
I give my beard-and-’stache combo one more pat, climb out of the Porsche and head back along the sidewalk. I’m stiff as a board from yesterday’s skiing, and I’m not used to cowboy boots. Like the cap, they’re a shade big. The heels make me feel as if I’m going to tip over. The fisherman cap sloshes around a little. I wish I had my glasses on, even if they are weak. Go slow, I tell myself. Act confident. Bond. I try to lean back, hands in the deep pockets of the curling sweater. There’s a curling stone in my stomach. There’s also a patch of ice on the front walk at Roz Inbow’s. I skid but hang tough. Why aren’t there treads on cowboy boots?
The house is a little bigger than ours and ten times tidier. My boots clomp on the wooden steps. I press the doorbell with a black-gloved finger. Deb’s gloves. It’s cold, but a drop of sweat slides from under my hat and nibbles the glue at the top of my beard. I manage to swipe it away and give the beard a quick pat before the door opens. I stuff my hands back in the sweater pockets. And now here’s Harv the Smurf Cop, barefoot, in jeans and a gray Toronto Argonauts sweatshirt. This morning he seems even bigger, because the doorsill he’s looming over is a few centimeters higher than the porch. His chin is even bluer. Harv does not seem to be the type who wakes up cheerful. He gives me the once-over. “Yeah?”
“David McLean,” I say, giving him the mirrored aviators back. Only it comes out “Dive-id McLine.” I seem to have acquired a new accent. “Yew ’ave somfing fer me.” I don’t know where this is coming from, but I’ll run with it.
Harv’s hands are empty. He folds his arms across his chest and says, “I’ll need some ID.”
I don’t move either. “Dowent be ridicooless.”
“This how CSIS operates these days?”
“D’yew hev a list of stewpid questions, Harvey, or do they just come to yew?” What am I saying? I seem to have gone on some kind of Cockney kamikaze automatic pilot. Harv’s blue chin juts out. His nostrils flare and his chest inflates. More sweat runs into my beard glue. I can feel it loosening. Harv stares at me. Before I get an instant shave or he can mush my ears into Jer’s boots, I hear myself say, “Now stop muckin’ abaowt and gemme that case. I’ve got bedder things to do than mess wit you, unnerstan?” I recognize the voice: I’m not a Bond, I’m channeling Harry Palmer in The Ipcress File. Why? Go figure. All I know is, it works: Harv goes purple above his blue chin. Then he snorts and steps back into the house. As soon as he does, I slap my drooping beard back into place. He’s back with the laptop case. “Givvid ’ere.” I hold out one black-gloved hand. “An turn aroun’.”
Harv snorts again and does his eye roll. He hands me the case and turns his back. I unzip the case, pull out the calendar, check for the music, then slide the papers inside the curling sweater, pinning them there with my arm. I zip the case shut. “Now, turn aroun’, tike the case and go beck in the haowse. There’s a good lad.”
Harv turns around and jerks the case out of my hands. “Bleep you,” he says.
“Tut, tut. You need to work on your bedside manner, old son. Almost a pleasure doin’ bizness wiv you, Harvey. An’ just to show there’s no hard feelin’s, you might wanna hev a look in the Baby Breeze Motel, las’ unit. They’ve got an indoor garden there you’ll love, and the handcuffs you lost. Just watch out for the alligator, heheheheh.”
Harv slams the door. My mustache falls off.
I make it back to the car without skipping for joy or falling over. One would be tough with sore muscles and in cowboy boots, the other not so hard. “Your mustache is crooked,” AmberLea says.
“Doesn’t matter now. Let’s get out of here.” I peel it off, and we peel away.
TWENTY-SIX
We’re barely a block away when the Bond ringtone sounds from my pocket. I dig out my phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Spencer.”
“Bunny?” I’d have fallen over if I hadn’t been sitting in a Porsche. As it is, AmberLea swerves, then pulls over. “Bunny! Oh my god, you remembered my number. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“Jade gave me your number. I called her.”
“You’ve been gone two days now, Bun. Are you okay?” I think about them arguing over how sharp the blotzing ax should be. “Can you talk?”
“That’s what we’re doing. I’m pretty hungry.”
“Okay, good. Listen, Bun, where are you? We’ll come and get you.”
“I don’t know exactly, Spencer. The mailbox on the house said Newman. I was in the basement. I could see out the window.”
“Newman, okay. What can you see out the window?”
“Well, there’s a fence, then the road and some stores in the distance. There’s a guy talking on a phone, like us. And a speed-limit sign by the road. It says thirty.”
“What else?”
“Um, up at the corner there’s a muffler repair, there’s a pizza place—”
“Wait,” I say. Something starts to buzz inside me. “What kind of pizza place?”
“You know, it’s got the blue sign with the white holes.”
“Domino’s?” AmberLea’s hand is squeezing my arm. “Is there a Christmas wreath in the window?”
“I dunno. It’s too far away. Then there’s a wall and an alley.”
“And the wall is covered with tags, right?” I’m practically shouting now.
“Yeah, and—”
“Just like the gym on Fifteenth Street!”
“Hey, that’s right. I never thought of that.” Buns sounds genuinely amazed. I remember the cheesy brainwashing scene in Ipcress again and Harry turning out to have been in London all along. Could it actually work like that? All I can do is play it slow and not confuse Bunny any more. Who knows what he’s been through?
“Okay,” I say. “I think I know this place, and it’s closer than you think. Help me a little more, Bun. Is there a street number where you are?”
“I dunno, Spencer. Can’t see any.”
“Okay, Bun-man. We’re on our way. Be careful.”
“Spencer? What do these guys want from Grandpa?”
“It’s about that spy stuff, Bun. They say it was Grandpa in the movie too. This guy named Dusan—”
“Susan?”
“No, Dusan. A guy with a beard. Maybe. He told me. It’s complicated.”
“Dusan has a beard. Him and Vi and Lubor kidnapped me. They put me in the car and took me away. They’re the bad guys.”
“That makes us the good guys, Bun. We’re on our way. Stay cool.”
“I will.”
I punch off and turn to AmberLea. “AT will have to wait. We have to go to Fifteenth Street in Mimico.” She lets go of my arm and punches it into the GPS. I punch Jade’s number into my phone. The good guys are the ones on your side. We need a few more.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Fifteenth Street Posse is run by a guy named Scratch. We kind of met last year. Scratch wasn’t on my side then. Bun seems to think he was on his though. More to the point, he’s here now.
Scratch is a dapper-looking guy, not much bigger than me, who dresses like he works in a bank but is planning to own it. I spot him through my fogged-up glasses as AmberLea and I walk into the Tim Hortons where Jade works. He’s sitting at a table away from the windows with his back to the wall, wearing a fitted black overcoat and white silk scarf combo that Bond would go for. I shrug my Harry Palmer curling sweater higher.
Beside Scratch is a guy I’m guessing is one of the Posse. He’s black, too, and in full hip-hop gear, from his giant NY fullback cap to unlaced Timberland boots.
“Buffalo Boy,” Scratch says as we reach the table. “We meet again.” He half stands and nods to AmberLea. “You were there too. That was a sweet bluff.” AmberLea nods back. “This is X,” Scratch goes on, nodding now at the other guy. “Ran with your man Bunny, who is our man too.”
“X-Ray.” The other guy winces. “
I’m not some no-name X.”
“That’s true,” says Scratch. “Now that you’ve told the world, let’s take a walk.”
“I’m not done my hot chocolate,” says X-Ray.
“We’ll get another later,” Scratch says, buttoning his coat. “It’ll taste better after some fresh air.”
“Man, it’s cold out there.”
“Meter’s running, X.” Scratch slips a black tablet case under his arm.
“At least let me roll up the rim.” X-Ray fumbles with the paper cup. We wait while he doesn’t win anything.
We head out into the cold and walk the block back to Fifteenth Street. There’s car traffic but not many people out walking. “Run it down for me again,” says Scratch. AmberLea and I give him a recap about Bunny being snatched by the SPCA, Bunny’s phone call and how what he sees from the window seems like Fifteenth Street. “We need your help to find him,” AmberLea finishes. “We thought if he’s in your territory, you’d know where he could be. Newman is the name on the mailbox.”
“If it is Fifteenth, why wouldn’t Bunny know it?” Scratch asks.
“They might have brainwashed him,” I say. I know it sounds lame, but it’s all I’ve got.
Scratch looks at me while he chews that one over. Finally he nods. “Okay. Uh-huh. It could fit. There’s a house partway down Fifteenth we’ve been wondering about. Weird people moved in last month. White, with funny accents. Lots of coming and going, and they act strange. Don’t know about the mailbox.”
“Any of them drive an old Civic with a sagging rear bumper and a loud muffler?”
Scratch looks at me. “Dude, the whole neighborhood drives that car. You might recall that I drive one of those—though I’m upgrading shortly.”
“Right,” I say.
“Doesn’t matter what their ride is. Today is the day we get acquainted.”
We turn down Fifteenth Street by the muffler place. We pass the Domino’s Pizza, the tagged brick wall of the gym. Up ahead, the speed-limit sign with a 30. “My god,” says AmberLea, “it does all fit.” My heart starts revving.
“All that’s missing is a bus saying London Transport,” I mutter.
“Huh?” AmberLea says. “Oh, like in The Ipcress File? I loved that bit.”
I told you we were perfect for each other.
“Next block,” says Scratch, his breath clouding the air. “Five houses in.” I count down to a tired-looking frame house with smeary white siding. From here I can see a side window with a view up toward us. That could be the one Bunny looked out of. He could be looking out of it now. Scratch says, “You two turn down the next street. We’ll take it from here.”
“No way,” I say. “Bunny’s my brother. Besides, I might recognize someone.”
“Right,” says AmberLea.
Scratch sighs a little cloud. “They more likely recognize you.”
“Not with this.” I pull out the beard and mustache. AmberLea grabs the mustache and slaps it on herself. I stick on the beard and my shades.
Scratch just shakes his head. “Let’s make it more difficult.” He sighs. “Come on then.”
A white SUV turns out of the side street ahead of us and rolls farther down the block, pulling in near the first low-rise apartment building. It has red-and-white government plates. Nobody gets out.
“Check it out,” Scratch says.
X-Ray shakes his head. “New to me.”
Then a police cruiser passes, like one did the last time I came here. X-Ray hunches into the collar of his down vest. Scratch just struts along. The cruiser passes the SUV and keeps going right to the end of the street, down by the lake, where it starts to turn around. It’s just another day in Mimico, I guess. It doesn’t feel like it to me.
Just before the cross street, Scratch says to X-Ray without looking at him, “Dress me up.” He slows as he steps off the curb, just enough for X-Ray to jostle him. AmberLea nudges me. From a half-step behind, I see something slip from X-Ray’s hand into the pocket of Scratch’s cool black overcoat. A gun. As we cross, Scratch says to X-Ray, “Who’s around back?”
“T Bird and Ripple.”
“Dressed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good,” Scratch says. To us he says, “Here’s the rules. If you’re really with this, I do the talking, you do the smiling and staying out of the way. If things, uh, escalate, bail. You don’t want to have to go to emerg; they get nosy about puncture wounds.”
“Got it.” I swallow hard.
“Okay. Together we fly. Know that?”
“It’s what Bunny’s tattoo should have said. From Grandpa’s squadron in World War Two.”
“It’s on my shoulder. That means, Bunny’s in there, he flies with us, no matter what it takes. That’s all there is to it.”
We’re almost there. Walking like this reminds me of the second-last scene in a ’60s movie I watched in the fall, called The Wild Bunch. The old outlaws walk down the deserted Mexican street to the last shootout. Then the camera cuts to around the corner, where there’s a whole army with machine guns waiting for them. The last scene, in slow motion, I’d rather not think about, especially in cowboy boots.
We go up the walkway and crowd onto the tiny concrete porch. On the siding by the door are two screws and an oblong patch of cleaner white where a mailbox would hang. My heart skips. There’s a ratty blind hanging askew in the front window. Scratch takes a business card out of his tablet case, then knocks. We hear the tread of feet from inside. I draw in a quick breath. Then the door swings open.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Welcome!” Standing in the doorway is a chunky, red-haired guy in his twenties. He’s got a chin beard like the one I’ve slapped on and a smile wide enough to show off two acres of teeth so blindingly white that I’m glad I’ve got my shades on. His eyes are weirdly bright too. He’s wearing an impossibly clean short-sleeved white shirt, tucked into black dress pants that are held up with a belt and suspenders. His right forearm has a big tattoo I can’t quite make out. Pinned above his shirt pocket is a name badge: Dwayne.
Scratch nods and gives him the card. His hand goes back in his gun pocket. “Morning. City Planning and Building Department. Just here for a quick inspection to make sure that the required repairs and upgrades were done as ordered. This is a rental, correct?”
“Shore is!” the guy says, “but CNI is hoping to buy when we take root here. C’mawn in.” It’s not what I’d call a Pianvian accent—unless Pianvia is really in someplace like Idaho.
Dwayne waves us in. We crowd into the little hallway. It smells of baking and fresh paint. In the little front room on the right I glimpse drop sheets, tins and a stepladder. I can see into a kitchen at the end of the hall. A dark-haired girl is at the counter, working away at something in a mixing bowl the way Jer does—except Jer doesn’t wear a blue gingham dress with a white apron on top. Through the doorway on my left I see a man and woman in paint-spattered coveralls, putting down more drop sheets. “Welcome!” they call too. I give a little wave back.
“This won’t take long,” Scratch says, moving ahead. “Few things around the place we have to check for. Attic, basement, the usual. Wiring and plumbing refits mostly.”
“Shore,” Dwayne says again. “Hep yourself. Cellar’s through the kitchen. We want everythang to be jes’ right when we go doors open with CNI nex’ week.”
“CNI?” says Scratch.
“Church of Norman Intergalactic. This is our first missionary outreach in a foreign land. When our founder Norman Floog discovered the Book of Norman in the Walmart Dumpster in Boise, one of the first things the Throgs told him was that their mission was intergalactic, but we should start with international. Toronto seemed like a real good place to start.” As he talks, I get a better look at his tattoo. It’s a corncob with rocket tail fins at the bottom, blasting off. Houston, we have a problem.
It doesn’t take long to go through the place. Ten minutes later we’re back on Fifteenth Street. AmberLea has a Book of
Norman bound in fake leather, Scratch has a DVD called Alien, Not Alienated, and X-Ray and I each have a stack of pamphlets and some cookies. The top pamphlet says AlphaWays to the Lords. Below is a graphic of the rocket corncob blasting off toward a stack of halos. “Thanks for trying,” I say. “Bun would appreciate it.”
Looking up from her Book of Norman, AmberLea says, “I just realized it couldn’t have been there anyway. The speed-limit sign is facing the wrong way for anyone to read it from the house.”
I groan. She’s right.
“Hey, you win some, you lose some,” Scratch says. “We hear anything about Bunny, we’ll let you know. Good luck. X, if I was you, I wouldn’t eat those cookies.”
TWENTY-NINE
We race across town to a part of the city called Leslieville. The big film-industry soundstages are down there. I got a tour of one in September with one of my classes. We park at Industrial Arts Studios between two white SUVs. There must have been a special on this month. “Have you figured out what you’re going to say?” AmberLea asks.
I groan. Aiden Tween is my only chance to save Bunny, and I’ve been too busy cursing the SPCA to think of what to say. “Well, I thought I’d…tell…uh, no.”
“Leave it to me.” She slams her door.
AT and Sumo are in a sleek Airstream trailer parked at one side of the giant soundstage. Other people are leaving, striding off into the dimness. On the practice stage, dancers are running a routine under the lights. A bass line thunders. The trailer door is still open. As we reach the steps, I hear Sumo say, “You’re sure about this? It’s not your—”
“Mah fans would freak if we cancel,” AT says. “Remember Berlin? They’ll have it covered. Besides, this is the right thing to do. It’s mah risk.”
“Our risk.”
AmberLea shoves me up the steps. The talking stops. They’re sitting in a mini-living room. Sumo is still in black. AT is in shimmery cargo pants, a sky-blue bomber jacket and a wooly blue-and-yellow hat with earflaps I’ve seen before, plus the gloves AmberLea gave him. Sumo gives us a Transylvanian Death Glare. “Talk to us.”
