by Ron Chudley
The interior of the place was larger than might have been expected, with interconnected galleries on several levels, all with pale walls and thick carpets, and room for a considerable number of paintings. For two weeks, the entire space had been used to display the works of Walter Lothian: a prelude to the auction.
Greg had come over from Victoria the evening before the sale and stayed at the aging but historic Sylvia Hotel, on English Bay. Jill—who still had not visited the island since their parents’ deaths—made what was for her a conciliatory gesture by arriving early to have breakfast with him at the hotel. Although the meeting was cordial, neither had any illusions as to the real reason they had come together; as joint beneficiaries of a sale which had set up a country-wide buzz in the art world, they were merely looking after their own interests.
Enough time had passed since the terrifying events at the house by the Cowichan River that to Greg they were like a half-remembered dream. Because he had refused to think about that night, steadfastly diverting his mind whenever dark images appeared, and since—save for the meeting with Sergeant Tremblay—nothing more had occurred to remind him of it, the twin emollients of peace and time had performed a small miracle of reconstruction upon his equilibrium. Also, in a mild but unmistakable manner, the experience seemed to have brought him out of himself. What had first emerged as a relaxation in his attitude at work had expanded into convivial exchanges, which made him feel among friends.
Greg’s sister had also noticed the change in him. When, at 10:00 AM, they were seating themselves in the already overflowing gallery, preparing for the start of the sale, she said, with a sly smile, “All right, Greg, let me in on it.”
“In on what?” Greg asked, confused.
She shook her head. “Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve been wondering about it ever since we met this morning.”
“What, for heaven’s sake?”
“Something about you is different. Have you got yourself a girlfriend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
In fact, during the last months he had been seeing something of one particular girl: pending the sale of the Lothian property, Lucy Lynley had continued to use the studio. While he readied the place for the market, Greg had found himself spending quite a bit of time in her company, occasionally even repeating the enjoyment of her excellent cooking. But girlfriend? To tell the truth, he had occasionally thought in that direction; she was, after all, a very attractive young woman. But she was fully occupied with her mother and her art, while his life was a world away in Victoria. Anyway, what on Earth would an attractive woman like Lucy possibly see in a dull numbers-wrangler like himself?
“It’s not ridiculous,” Jill said tartly. “What is pathetic is you living alone in that stodgy little apartment in Oak Bay, like a crusty old . . .” She broke off, frowning and grinning at the same time. “Except—maybe you’re not quite alone. I never thought of that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Have you discovered you’re gay? Is that the difference I feel in you?”
Greg had just begun an indignant, if not unamused, denial when the audience was brought to order by the rap of the auctioneer’s gavel. The sale had begun.
From the start, it was like something out of a fantasy. The very first painting, one of Walter’s more modest West Coast seascapes, took flight, doubling, tripling, then quadrupling its reserve, heading for orbit so swiftly that the auctioneer made no effort to hide his amazement. Rather than being a flash in the pan, this merely served as a spur for the following sales, and excitement mounted until by midmorning, it was evident that what was taking place was a Canadian art-world phenomenon.
At 1:00 PM there was a pause for lunch, and Greg and his sister retired to a nearby restaurant, not so much to eat as to catch their breath.
After gulping half of the drink she’d ordered, Jill said, “God, Greg, I can’t believe it. Have you any idea how much bloody money was paid for that lot this morning?”
The question was rhetorical, but Greg answered anyway. Producing the envelope on which he’d been noting final sale prices, he made a brisk accountant’s calculation, jotted the total at the bottom and passed it across the table. When she saw the figure, his sister very nearly spilled the rest of her drink.
At 2:00 PM the sale resumed, with no reduction in pace or enthusiasm. Greg recognized no one, but evidently there were high flyers from all over the country. Some of the bids were relayed by phone. More knowledgeable folk around him whispered the names of a number of prominent institutions, including the National Gallery of Canada, that were represented.
Greg found himself overwhelmed, not just by the amount of money flowing, but by the fact that all this was happening because of his dad. For this memorable response made one thing very clear: somehow, without anyone realizing it—least of all the artist—Walter Lothian had quietly attained the status of a national icon. That this had become evident only after his death was ironic, but hardly uncommon. What saddened Greg was that the fruits of it had not been available, especially for his mother. The fact that he and his sister were now a good deal richer hardly crossed his mind.
The affair ended just after 4:00 PM with every single piece sold. The final tally, even allowing for the gallery commission, was staggering: over seven hundred thousand dollars.
Although, throughout the day, Greg had spoken only to Jill and, briefly, Jules Montisarian, the plump and very satisfied owner, word of his identity must have got about. As the crowd dispersed, several people approached, mainly with congratulations, but also with enquiries as to whether any more works would become available. The last of these departed, along with Jill, who begged off a proposed dinner; this day, though financially rewarding, seemed to have done little to add to the family feeling.
Alone, Greg was somewhat dazedly heading for the exit when he felt a light touch on his arm. A man had approached unnoticed. He was younger than most of the affluent auction crowd, but well dressed, with a pleasantly disarming expression. “Hey, Mr, Lothian,” he said quietly. “Went real good today, eh?”
Greg stared at the newcomer; his tone had been casual, but with an odd implication of intimacy. “Yes,” he replied. “Er—very well, I think.”
“Yeah.” The man produced an envelope. “I reckon it’s about time I delivered this!”
“What is it?” Greg said, taking the offering anyway.
“Open it. You’ll see.” He walked briskly to the door, where he turned back, smiling cheerfully. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “At last.”
He was gone. Only after several seconds did Greg remember the envelope in his hand. It was brown manila, portrait-size, sealed. Feeling a vague flutter in his stomach, he tore open the flap.
Inside was a single photograph. The lighting was harsh, the angle strange, but the subject unmistakable: himself—crouched over the dead body of Eric Molinara.
On the back was scrawled a brief message. I’ll be in touch.
TWENTY-THREE
For the week following the auction, Greg’s mind turned slowly on a spit of anticipation and dread. After the first shock, his impulse had been to tear the picture delivered by the cheerful stranger into a thousand pieces. But that would have been useless. Anyway, he had to keep it close, poring over it endlessly, searching for some clue to how this evil magic had been accomplished. Of course, he came up empty. But the evidence of what had happened that night by the Cowichan River must surely be in the hands of very unsavoury people. Otherwise, it would have been given to the police.
As the days passed and nothing happened, Greg did his best to carry on the appearance of a normal life, while feeling increasingly agitated. One thing was beyond doubt: whatever did finally happen, it was going to involve a price. But what?
When?
I’ll be in touch. Simple words, but with implications that grew ever more ominous the longer Greg waited for the other shoe to drop. Then, at last, it
did. One morning, two weeks after the sale, when Greg had settled again into some semblance of calm, the telephone rang. “Mr. Lothian,” the receptionist said, “I have a gentleman on the line for you. A Mr. Molinara?”
A chill ran through Greg, followed by a hot flush. Guiltily, he glanced about at his empty office. “Mr. Lothian,” the receptionist asked, “are you there?”
“Er—yes,” Greg gulped, fighting an urge to slam the phone down and run. “Put him on.”
“Hey, Mr. Lothian. About time we got together.”
The voice was pleasant, but, as before, with a distasteful nuance of over-familiarity. Considering that only a couple of dozen words had passed between them at their first meeting, it was strange how well Greg remembered it. “Is that really your name?” he managed to say at last. “Molinara? Are you a relative of . . .”
“Our river buddy? No way. Business associate. I just wanted to catch your attention. What did you think of the photo?”
Only one thing was in Greg’s mind. The words blurted out unbidden. “What do you want?”
“Straight and to the point,” the voice said. “Just like an accountant. Cool! Do you still have it, by the way?”
“The photo? It was ridiculous! I threw it away.”
The other man chuckled derisively. “Yeah, I just bet you did. Well, plenty more where that came from. Like, a whole collection, if you want to know.”
That sounded so preposterous that Greg began to think that this had to be yet another con. He asked, “Why did you wait so long?”
“To make contact? I needed to see if you were worth wasting time on. The big shot picture sale settled that one, eh? You did real good. After that—I guess I just wanted to see which way you’d jump.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Have it your own way. We should get together and talk.”
“I’ve got nothing to talk with you about.”
This time the laugh was pained. “Mr. Lothian, we both know that’s bullshit. Almost as stupid as me having to waste my pictures on the cops. Everybody loses then, wouldn’t you say?”
After a long pause, Greg said heavily, “Okay, how much?”
“What? Look, we can’t talk business on the phone. This call is just to make an appointment.”
Greg frowned. “You want to come in to the office?”
“No sir! The appointment is for you with me—at my office.”
“And where might that be?” After he was told, at some length, Greg said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No way. It’s a great place for a meeting. Very public, but people are so busy you could go bare-ass and no one would notice. See you there at 9:00 PM tonight.”
Before Greg could get out a word of protest, the line went dead.
• • •
The season now being full summer, Greg made the trip over the Malahat Drive to Duncan in evening light. The slopes above the winding road glowed green and gold, but to the west, a massive cloudbank reared, a disturbance building in the mountains. Greg paid little attention to his surroundings, however, so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the descent into the valley, the straight run to the village of Mill Bay, and the final fifteen kilometres to Duncan. Though he drove with his habitual care, his mind was preoccupied, replaying the grim events that had led up to this unwelcome journey. By the time of the art sale, he’d begun to think the horror was behind him. Now it was all beginning again. Where it would end he hardly dared speculate.
The Cowichan River at the south end of Duncan was the landmark for his unlikely destination. After crossing the bridge, he turned left, his eyes seized by the raw new structure on the southwest corner of the highway. It was enormous—steel, glass, sheet metal and heavy wooden beams, perched on a storey-high concrete platform that served as both parking garage and flood protection from the nearby river. A large sign on the building, its message repeated endlessly in smaller versions everywhere, read: “CHANCES—Cowichan—Fun is Good.” The “office” to which Greg had been summoned was a casino.
The building was almost completely surrounded by a parking lot, well lit, Greg was relieved to see. Evening was approaching, abetted by the fast-gathering storm clouds. He locked the car and, feeling like a conspirator in a cheap movie, made his way through the packed cars toward Chances. Though it was only mid-week, the place was jumping, and the broad steps up to the entrance bore a steady stream of patrons. Greg joined the throng, taking curious note of his companions. There were some natives, but they were in the minority. This was a band operation, but most of the punters—at least tonight—were older white folk, largely women.
At the top of the steps, there was a patio in front of a line of glass doors, which opened into the main building. And what a place it turned out to be. Greg, who’d never been in a casino, whose every instinct was to shun such places, was astounded. As he entered the main hall, ahead and to the right he saw banks of glittering, multicoloured slot machines, winking and flashing, each with its gaudy pictures and rows of rapidly changing numbers, letters or images, with names like Eastern Princess, Wild Eyes and My Rich Uncle. To the left was a row of booths for changing money or buying tickets. Two separate, glass-enclosed bingo halls, packed with intent patrons, took up the rear of the vast interior. Blinking signs, indicating two-, five- or ten-cent play areas or jackpots numbering in the thousands, hovered overhead like electronic wraiths. Lines of glowing stars defined the limits of each magical domain. Farther back, a life-size, eerily real blackjack dealer held court from a TV screen. Added to the visual stimuli was sound: a soft but insidious chorus of bells, whistles, pings and half-heard music: urgent, enticing, an auditory counterpoint to the atmosphere of glamour and promised riches.
To his astonishment, Greg found himself momentarily sucked in. The shrewdly calculated ambiance hit his senses like liquor. Excitement erupted, whispering of ancient longings, forgotten dreams, wealth beyond imagining. Then he drew a sharp breath in disgust.
“Man,” he whispered. “What a goddamn con.”
As he recovered, his attention was drawn to the behaviour of the patrons. Though tightly packed, everyone seemed in a separate world, perched like zombies over slot machines or bingo consoles, making rapid movements with buttons, levers and coins, immersed totally in the endless electronic ritual. As the man who’d called him had observed: anything could happen here and no one would notice.
To the rear, he’d been told, was a snack bar. It was there he was supposed to be having his meeting. Drifting through the throng, feeling invisible, Greg came to the place. A number of people were lined up for food, patient enough but only half there, longing to get back to the main activity. Nearby was a raised platform with a railing, chairs and half a dozen tables. Just four people were there: an elderly couple with identical hats, munching identical sandwiches, a muscular native sitting by himself in a corner—and the man he had come to meet.
As soon as their eyes locked, Greg knew he’d been watched for some time. The fellow was grinning knowingly, like an old buddy who’d planned a quaint surprise. This both annoyed Greg and made him freshly tense. He scowled as he climbed onto the platform and approached the table.
When he got there, the man didn’t move. He just kept smiling, in the end favouring Greg with a satisfied nod. “Cool!” he said. “Right on time.” He didn’t rise, but casually proffered his hand across the table. “Hey, Mr. Lothian. My name’s Jay.”
Greg ignored the invitation, sitting heavily opposite. “Okay, cut the crap,” he said. “I didn’t come to this pitiful place for a chat. You said you’ve got other pictures. You better show me, or I’m out of here.”
The man who’d called himself Jay stopped smiling. For a moment his eyes were very cold, then he shrugged and produced a cellphone. He flipped it open and pressed buttons, leaning over so Greg could see the screen, but keeping a firm hold on the instrument
. “There you go, Mr. Lothian,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”
The screen was small but very clear. The picture showed Greg and the late Eric Molinara, standing opposite each other in the master bedroom of the house by the river. Seeing it, Greg was forced to a startling realization: from the beginning of his encounter that night, someone else had been present. That could be the only explanation. As soon as the image registered, it changed. Greg and Molinara were now leaving the bedroom. Next came a shot of the two headed outside. Then just inside the studio door. Then struggling together, the distance and angle making it impossible to tell who was the aggressor. Then Molinara splayed out dead on the floor.
“Seen enough, Mr. Lothian?” Jay asked.
Greg wrenched his eyes from the telltale phone. “How the hell did you do it?” he whispered.
Jay grinned and snapped shut the phone. “Want a coffee?” he asked. “You look like you could use some booze, but they don’t sell it here.”
• • •
“Rick Molinara was an asshole,” Jay said a few minutes later, as Greg stared at him over untouched coffee. “But I guess I don’t have to tell you that, eh, Mr. Lothian?”
Greg nodded vaguely. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him most, the existence of the pictures, the mystery of how they’d been taken, or the demeanour of the man sitting opposite in the surreal setting of the casino. To his nervousness and discomfort, it was becoming evident that Jay was more than a little strange: what Greg’s father, in the lingo of another era, would have called a “weird cat.” The over-friendly exterior was an ill-fitting cloak for something darker, an under-stratum of cruelty and spite that peeked around the corners of his smooth façade. Molinara, the villain Greg had foolishly lured into his life, had been frightening in his naked power and aggression, but Jay, more subtly, gave off an even stronger feeling of menace. Having been spooked into this meeting, all Greg wanted was to be gone. But since he didn’t dare leave yet, it seemed he might as well succumb to curiosity.