She pursed her lips, and then smiled at me. “OK. Whatever. Let’s go get that yogurt.” Talk about being off balance. I had a sneaking suspicion that Cynthia was not the type of woman to let go so easily. I put on my sternest look, and said “I’m serious now.” All the while watching her reaction. She smiled again, “I said OK, didn’t I?” I smiled back, and put the van in gear.
On the way down to the village we listened to the ‘new country’ station, with their ‘ten in a row, no commercials’, and talked about each other a bit. Just getting to know who we were, that sort of thing. The sky was grey from horizon to horizon, of course, and it had been raining earlier, but so far, it just looked like rain. It was actually drying up a bit, and the streets were fairly clear of water.
July 6, ‘96
I headed over to Avenue Rd. and turned south towards downtown. I turned east when we got to Davenport, then south on Bay, and west on Belmont, and lo! there was a parking spot right in front of the Belmont Café. I could see a red Ferrari growling slowly up looking for a spot. Between the obligatory ‘I’m Driving a Ferrari’ sunglasses and the point of view being about sixteen inches above pavement level, the driver hadn’t spotted it yet. I dropped the van’s 3.3 Litre computer controlled and electronic fuel injected V-6 engine into first gear and leaped the last fifteen metres into the slot, barely beating out the Ferrari, which turned out to be driven by a blonde goddess of some sort. From the vantage point of the captain’s chair in the van, all I could see from my side was long blonde hair, and long blonde legs to match. And dark sunglasses. My goddess was better, and also smarter. Since the sun hadn’t shone since Cats! was still in pre-production on Broadway, she had opted to defer the accoutrement of dark sunglasses. I felt like walking on air. Weird.
As we got out of the van Cynthia smiled sort of politely at the Ferrari goddess, and with a flip of her braid, turned and walked away toward the corner. The Ferrari grumbled off down the street. I sensed a link of ownership to the little victory, a sharing if you will. Who needs sunshine anyway?
We walked across the street kitty-corner to the Belmont Café, to the frozen yogurt place. Kind of casually, like we were doing something that we had done many times before, only we hadn’t. She got there first. And held the door for me, inducing me to enter with a flourish of her free arm and a slight bow. “Après vous, Monsieur” She caught my eye with a sly look, and I almost tripped over the doorstep.
“Merci mademoiselle, vous êtes très gentille.” I just managed to recover. We both laughed as she followed me in. I felt like a kid again, just walking around with her. This was fun, but it was dangerous too.
The place was small, and there were two customers in front of us trying to make up their minds, so we all stood around, scrunched into this little corner yogurt joint staring at the selections and options sign on the wall behind the counter. The number of variations was close to infinite. Cynthia could probably have calculated them in her head, out to at least four decimal places. We waited while the couple in front of us had their choices prepared for them, then it was our turn.
Cynthia leaned up against the counter, frowning, then reading the server’s name from her name-tag said with a serious tone, “Well Mary, what would you recommend today?” This apparently was taken as a serious request by Mary, who was all of seventeen if she was a day. Hands on hips, Mary pondered the issue for a good ten seconds, gave us both a quick once-over, then answered.
“For you folks? I think a large custom combo in a sweet waffle bowl. I’ll start with a layer of smooth whipped pineapple, then a thin layer of fresh diced raspberries, then three small scoops of firm low-fat black cherry, and topped with freshly powdered dark bakers’ chocolate. It comes with two long-handled spoons, and our table is currently free. Grab a seat and I’ll bring it right over.” She gestured to the only corner in the place, and sure enough, there was a table. One of those old-fashioned ice cream parlour kinds. Tall, with a white marble top the size of a large dinner plate, on black wrought iron legs and tall stools with small matching iron backs.
Cynthia looked at me and smacked her lips. “I don’t know about you mister, but it sounds mighty good to me.” She turned and walked over to the table and settled onto the stool facing backwards to me. I followed her lead, taking the chair against the wall, facing out towards the street.
Mary, the yogurt wizard, was all business behind the glass counter. Blue cap and matching t-shirt with apron, she had machines whirring and scoop flying. Quite the professional. I leaned my elbows on the marble tabletop and considered where to start the small talk. Cynthia saved me the trouble.
“So, Jeffry, tell me, what’s a good looking guy like you doing single in a lonely world like this?” I did an actual double-take, and then I started laughing, I mean really laughing, not loud laughing, but from the heart laughing. Cynthia started smiling, then joined in. Just as I was getting myself back under control, Mary came over with the best looking yogurt concoction I’d ever seen. Not the biggest, but definitely the best. Laid beautifully into a large glass bowl with bas relief fruit on the outside. And two long-handled rainbow-coloured hard plastic spoons with matching napkins. Not hard plastic, rainbow-coloured. She smiled at the both of us, said “Enjoy!”, and walked away wiping her hands on her apron. There were already two more customers waiting back at the counter.
I looked down at our order. I picked up my spoon and held it out across the bowl and said the only thing I could. “En Garde!”
With a quick flourish of her own spoon she was right back at me. She crossed hers over mine and spoke in a deep falsetto. “The only rule is, ther’ ain’t none.” Then we both dived in.
Aside from the occasional Uummm!, or Ohhhhh!, there wasn’t much conversation at the table. We polished off the whole damn thing in record time, I’m sure, and when we were done, there was a big sigh of satisfaction. In stereo. I checked my watch, and it seemed there was just time to get down to SkyDome in time for all the action. I paid the check and we walked back to the van. As we left the frozen yogurt emporium, Cynthia slipped her arm through mine as if it was the mast natural thing in the world. The odd thing was, it did feel natural. And good too.
We didn’t say much until we were under way again, in the van. I went back over to Avenue Rd., and continued south towards the lake, and the ‘dome. Cynthia started poking around looking for something, and as she popped the glove compartment open I glanced her way and casually asked, “Is there something specific you’re looking for? Maybe I could help.” Just at that moment she noticed the tape/CD bin at the bottom of the central console, near the floor. She answered me lightly, “No, it’s Okay, I’ve found them.” She hit the button to open the bin, and I put my attention back on the road. I felt a funny little flutter in my gut as I drove. It never even occurred to me to ask her to cease & desist, and it didn’t bother me in the slightest that she was making herself right at home, including taking over the sound system, which would normally be enough for me to pull over to the side of the road and ask the interloper to step out. In fact, as I drove the notion popped into my head that I was having fun. This was a pretty radical concept for me so I didn’t dwell on it much, just sort of jumped right off of it after touching down briefly.
The next thing I knew, the opening acoustic guitar rhythms of ‘Street Fighting Man’, from the Stones’ album “Stripped” began drifting and reverberating through the cabin. Then she actually cranked it until I could see the bass notes vibrating the rear-view mirror each time it locked step with Charlie’s kick drum. She leaned forward in her seat and looked over at me, her eyebrows raised in a questioning manner. From the smile on my face she appeared to be satisfied with the response. She adjusted the seat belt to give herself a bit more slack, and using the power controls on the base of her seat, adjusted it into a more reclined position, sat back and stretched her legs out full.
By the time, I’d found a parking spot on Queens Quay and pulled in, we were just starting into the depths of emotional
despair invoked by that old chestnut ‘Wild Horses’. I sat and let the song finish before I turned the van off. Cynthia sighed and reached for her belt release. “That was always one of my favourites, and I still can’t make up my mind which version I like the best. The guys don’t have Bill on this album, and it shows, but so much of the performance by the rest of them is superior to their performance on the original. The arrangement is completely revamped for that good old ‘sitting around the woodshed on a Tuesday afternoon’ feeling of course, so it’s an apples to oranges comparison in one sense. The one thing that always sways me back to the first release is Mick Taylor’s guitar. It just leaves this big empty hole in the new one. He was sooo good. It’s too bad he dropped off the map, here in North America anyways. In the final analysis, ‘Stripped’ is their best effort to date since ‘Beggars’ Banquet’, in the assessment of the release of a complete work.” I kept my quiet as we locked up and headed for the elevator. I was processing data.
Cynthia got to the elevator first, and hit the down button. She stepped closer to me and slipped her arm through mine again, and looked me in the eye. “Penny for your thoughts mister?”
Her eyes were bright with expectation. I got the feeling she wanted a real answer. I was beginning to get the feel of her, on the inside, at least that’s what I was telling myself, and I believed it, so I went right ahead with her. “Yeah, Okay. I want you to give me a name I can call you besides Cynthia. One that other people don’t use. One that might lend itself more easily to a personalization. Does that sound too pushy to you?” I smiled softly and waited for a heartbeat or two before she answered me. Without taking her eyes from mine she said “The elevator’s here.”
I managed to break away from her eyes, looking over at the door, and it was still closed, but in the same fragment of time I noticed the light for the down button was no longer lit and then the door opened. There were two other people in the small elevator, both men, in their early thirties, wearing Jays’ caps & jerseys, and obviously headed for the game too. We got on and rode down from the fourth floor in silence, stopping on three and two, taking on four more game-goers. With one level of attention I picked up the background talk, the first two guys talking about the game to come, and what kind of strategy Cito Gaston should take against the Tigers. They differed in their opinions, but I thought they were both wrong anyway. The other four were couples, one older, one teenaged, and neither of those spoke to each other or to the two guys. It was pretty crowded, but Cynthia just pressed up close to me, and I felt the moment that we had been having just before the elevator doors opened lingering on.
The mobile broom closet made contact at ground level and the door opened onto a fifty-foot concrete walkway, leading to double glass doors which in turn, had their own walkway, inlaid with flagstones and leading to Queen’s Quay. We all disembarked and set out on our trek to the SkyDome. Immediately stringing out into our own individual little squads of two. It was busy when we hit the street, but everything was getting pretty well dried out by now. It had been several hours since the last rainfall, so the breeze off of the lake across the street wasn’t chilly. In fact, it was kind of hot, and heavy with humidity. Definitely hotter than uptown, which is the reverse of the usual state of affairs.
We had an easy ten-minute walk from the Quay to the ‘dome, and with all the people on the sidewalk flowing along at various speeds, I thought Cynthia would let go of my arm, to make our walk among the multitudes easier. As we hit the sidewalk she was on my right side. Then she took hold of my arm with her right hand and pulled me down a bit as she leaned upwards and said softly in to my ear, “Jean, and you can’t call me Jeanie until I’ve performed a certified magical feat.” As she let go of my arm with her right hand, her left slid down my arm and took hold of my hand. There was this warm rush that came over me, like being washed over by the humid breeze out on the lake. But it wasn’t from the breeze. Ten minutes later Jean and I were at the SkyDome, circling around from the west side, headed for gate seventeen.
The crowd was heavy now, and despite the grey skies everyone was up for the game. Smiling and laughing, gathering into groups, checking tickets, buying brochures and souvenirs, generally getting into the spirit of the thing. Anytime you went to the ‘dome, it was an occasion, and people made the most of it.
As we got closer to our gate I leaned down and gave Jean a ‘heads up’. “From here on in, just keep your eyes and ears open, and even if you vaguely suspect that it might be time to duck, do it. Okay?”
She nodded her head in agreement and took a good scan around us. Fine, it seemed she was going to do alright. I hit on the first scalper that looked over forty and had an expensive sports outfit on. He had what I wanted. Four seats that cost me three hundred, but that put us practically on first base. It would take a while to make a quick getaway from there to the exit. Which would give George’s people plenty of time to make an interception, if required. We passed through gate 17.
~
Chapter Seven
W
e had only walked about fifty feet into the SkyDome when I spotted George. He had made no concession to the event, as far as dress code goes. He was still in his suit. It looked like he had left the fedora and trench coat in the car, at least. The boys must have been around somewhere, but I didn’t see them. Cynthia-Jean had smoothly walked away, looking for the seats, and I handed off the fourth ticket to George as I walked by. We didn’t even look at each other. I headed straight for the McDonalds lineup.
When I was in the lineup, I checked my watch. It was 1:01 PM, not too bad for timing. I was trying not to make an issue out of checking out the other people around me, so I didn’t even see her coming. There was a tap on my shoulder, and I turned around.
The woman standing there looked frazzled about the edges, but even so, her natural beauty shone through. She was lean, I guess you could say. With her hair cut short and wearing a sort of L.L. Bean outdoorsy kind of outfit, something more in line for a camping trip maybe, it gave her a boyish look. Not that anyone would ever mistake her for a boy, mind you, just boyish. She pointed to my Canadiens jersey, and said, “You like the Canadiens monsieur?”, in a voice that I knew. Therese. I gave her an answer. “Well of course. They are the greatest team in the history of hockey itself, aren’t they?” That earned me a smile. Weak, but it was there. I leaned closer, “Follow me, I’m going to my seats, I have a ticket for you too.” I handed her the last ticket, and turned to leave just as I heard “Can I help you sir?” I refocused my attention on the world around me. Can you beat that? I’d made it to the front of the line. I picked up a few cokes and a few Mickey D sandwich specials. Who knew? Maybe everyone was hungry. Therese was still beside me, sticking close. Since her hands were free, I gave her the bag of food to carry. She made a face as she took it and we turned around and headed for the seats.
George was standing about five feet from the entrance to our stair set, casually eating a corn dog. He appeared to be looking past us at someone else, even so far as to wave hesitantly, as if trying to attract their attention, as we started down the stairs. I had memorized the seats as soon as I had gotten the tickets. We were still a bit early as far as getting settled into the seats, so the stairs were fairly navigable. I still had a hard time trying to assess everyone going up or down as we passed them, or they passed us. So far, so good.
I spotted our row and Cynthia at the same time. She had been watching our progress and got up and greeted me as we got there. Therese looked a bit apprehensive, and I was glad that Cynthia had come, because if a woman made her nervous, a man might have made her bolt. So, my idea had been better than George’s. I always liked that. Cynthia stepped by me and introduced herself to Therese, and they both sat down, holding hands, while I was trying to figure out what to do with four cokes. A low-volume exchange rapidly ensued, with both women holding their heads close together. Figured.
I sat down with cokes on my lap, and then I noticed that, as usual, the Mickey D server-
person had been overzealous in the filling of the containers. It was slowly dripping into my lap, and I had probably left a trail all the way from the counter. I quickly set them down on the fourth seat and turned to the ladies. They were still talking. I wondered, what about? Leaning over their way, I attracted Cynthia’s attention by tugging on her jersey. This produced no effect whatsoever. I tried again. She held up her hand. Like an executive to an assistant meaning “wait”. I thought about it for a moment, then I waited. It only took a few heartbeats, and the hand went down. Cynthia turned my way and said, “Sorry about that.”, then got up and motioned me to switch seats with her. I complied willingly. Now I was seated between them. I leaned over and basically took Cynthia’s place in the conversation even though I had no knowledge of where it had left off, or what it had been centered on. I started with the basics.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Therese, I just wish the circumstances were more favourable. I’m sorry about your loss.” I stopped at that point just to see what might come next, and to judge her level of composure. She gave me a smile, small, but not weak this time. Then she started talking. Her level of composure turned out to be just as good, if not better than, mine. She told me about the telephone call, that Friday evening. About going to the new cottage they had purchased together. About making some home-made green pea soup, for Johnathon. About waiting, calling, waiting, more calling. First she was worried, then she was angry, then she was worried again. The vicious circle that locks you in when you can’t make contact with the one you love. At a time when you’re supposed to be able to. There had been no answer on his cellular phone, or at his office. He had indicated that he was going to come straight from work to the cottage, so she hadn’t called the apartment until quite late. And there had been no response there either. Finally, she had gone to sleep sitting in a big chair by the fireplace, with a blanket wrapped around her and the telephone within arm’s reach. It had never rung. The next morning, she had woken up in the chair, stiff from sleeping in an uncomfortable position half the night. She had done her morning workout, and then had breakfast. She had been worried, but not excessively. By then she had talked herself into a rational explanation as to why John had not made an appearance the night before. It was still far too early for him to be awake. It was only 6:00 AM. John never rose before seven. She would call then, and he would explain that his meeting ran until midnight, and he didn’t call because he hadn’t wanted to wake her. Something like that. But it was not to be. During breakfast, she had heard the news on the radio about the death of a banker in the Citebank tower downtown, the previous evening. That had sent her over the edge. She had dropped everything and pointed the Jag at the city. Apparently when she had gotten to her street, the police had already been there. Parked out front. That was when she realized what she had lost. John had told her just a few weeks before, that a deal had come into his hands. The deal of a lifetime, one that would put them on easy street forever, apparently. He had gone on and on about it, and then… nothing. All quiet on the western front. I quizzed her about exactly when this had happened. That’s when she told me about the telephone call in the middle of the night. From his brother. His brother was always getting into trouble John had told her. Time and again. It had been the next evening when they both got home from work that he had started talking about it. But no details. I couldn’t get her to give me one single detail. Either she was holding out, which I didn’t believe, or John had ranted and raved, but not divulged.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 16