Anthiny Bidulka

by Aloha, Candy Hearts (lit)

  "So I've made a few decisions," Errall kept on in a light voice. "And one of them will affect all of you. Which is why I called this meeting."

  I wasn't a psychic, but something in my gut told me I wasn't going to like what was coming.

  "I have decided," she began, a sharp smile cutting her fine fea­tures, "to leave my law practice."

  Oh. Well. That wasn't so bad. Was it?

  "Errall," Beverly said. "I'm surprised. You love the law. You love the work you do."

  "That's true. But I work too many hours. And the work is always so serious. People in trouble. People arguing with one another. People wanting to stick it to someone else. Kelly always said all that negativity was going to start wearing me down soon­er or later. She was right."

  But Errall thrived on negativity. She had it every morning with milk and a cup of coffee.

  "It's high time I started having fun in my life."

  Fun? Errall Strane? I didn't know if I'd ever quite put the two together before. Nor, for that matter, had she. I sat, dumbfounded, looking at the woman in front of me. I wondered who this creature was, and what she'd done with Errall.

  "What will you do with your time?" Beverly asked.

  "Here it comes," Alberta drawled, her voice low and caution­ary.

  "I'm opening a clothing store!" she announced. "For business­women. It's a niche long ignored in this city. If a woman wants to look cute and pretty for a party, there are stores for that. If you need a gown for a banquet, there are stores for that. If you want to hide those few extra pounds, there are stores for that. If you get pregnant, or go to the beach, or take up jogging, there are stores for all those things. But if you are a serious business person, and you don't want to look like Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies, there is nowhere to go in Saskatoon. Now there will be. Right here."

  Ding dong.

  "Right here?" Beverly repeated, her delicate voice admirably modulated.

  "At PWC. Isn't it perfect? It's a return to the rich history of this building."

  History, yes. Rich, I wasn't so sure about that. PWC stood for Professional Womyn's Centre. Yes, Womyn with a "y." It was orig­inally conceived to be a place where female entrepreneurs would run their businesses in an estrogen-fuelled environment. For a few years during the 80s the concept was actually a minor success, but eventually it degraded into a caricature of itself. Businesses failed and the building fell into disrepair. Errall purchased and refur­bished it, and eventually ended up with us four as her tenants.

  "You don't mean just your office," Alberta stated, already knowing the answer. "Do you?"

  Errall looked at each of us in turn. "No," she quietly con­firmed.

  I heard Beverly's breathing quicken. She was distressed. As was I. Over the years, we'd become much more than people who happen to work in the same building. We'd become friends.. .fam­ily. I'd attended Beverly's daughter's high school graduation in June. I once babysat Alberta's pet ferret (never again). I'd have to begin taking vitamin C tablets without daily injections of our receptionist Lily's sunny smile. And, not to get mercenary here, but with things hopping in old Toon town, downtown rents had skyrocketed. Finding another spot just like the one I had for the same price would be near impossible. I didn't kid myself. I knew Errall had been giving us a break. She could have charged us much more than she did. I loved my little office with its tiny balcony overlooking Riverside Park and the river. I had it set up just the way I liked it. This sucked! It was horrible news no matter how you looked at it.

  "How long do we have?" Alberta asked, as if we'd just been given a really bad diagnosis from our family doctor.

  Errall swallowed hard and looked away. "Three months."

  Chapter 7

  It felt right to be back in the bleak pit of the San site. It matched my mood. Hearing that I had three months to find someplace else to base my PI practice was a shock. I was mad and sad and hurt and worried, all at the same time. An ideal time to go treasure hunting in the dark.

  Garden shovel, trowel, and work gloves in hand, dressed in Cary-Grant-To-Catch-a-Thief black, I strode confidently toward the lonely trio tree. Walter Angel's poet hid something under this tree and I was going to find it.

  I scoured the night landscape around me for any would-be gawkers. All I saw were the shapes of trees outlined against a char­coal background. Perfect. I dropped to the ground and crawled under the tree. There was no right way to do this as far as I could tell, so I just started digging. I wasn't expecting this thing—what­ever it was—to be too deep. Whoever had buried it in the first place couldn't have gotten a spade under here. I was betting they'd just want it deep enough to keep it safe from the elements and wildlife.

  Ten minutes later, I was rewarded with a satisfying clunk.

  I'd hit something metal with my shovel. Barely containing my excitement, I began scooping away dirt with my hands. I cleared a moat-like ridge around something square, about ten centimetres by ten centimeters by ten centimetres. Given my awkward posi­tion under the tree, I couldn't actually see it, but I knew it was some kind of box. I wriggled it free, gently lifted it from the hole, and set it aside.

  Spruce trees don't like to have their roots exposed. So, even though I'd only made a shallow gap in the earth, I pushed all the dirt right back in and trowelled it over so it looked much the way it had before. I wasn't just being a tree hugger. I had other poten­tial treasure hunters in mind too. There was no guarantee I had the only map. As far as I knew, someone else with a copy of the treas­ure map could have been on their way to the lonely trio at that very moment. I didn't plan to give away any hints that I'd been here, or of what I'd found.

  Satisfied that I'd covered my tracks, I slipped out from under the heavy branches. I sat on my haunches and regarded my find. I'd done good; it felt good. What came next, however, did not.

  "You wanna hand that over, mister, eh?" a weaselly voice said.

  Of course.

  I tried to see who was talking, but it was difficult in the dark. He was just another outline against charcoal. I peered closer and caught a glimpse of something I'd rather not have seen. The moon had caught it just right. A steely glint was being reflected off the sharp edge of a knife.

  This was not good. It was the middle of the night. I was not far from a part of town renowned for its nasty elements. If you had a death wish or felt like getting stabbed one night, there really was­n't a better place to be in Saskatoon. To be fair to Holiday Park, the real bad area was a few blocks north of here. This guy was obvi­ously migrating south, like some kind of badass duck.

  "Suppose I don't want to?" It couldn't hurt to ask. At the same time, I told myself it also wouldn't hurt to carry my gun every once in a while. It would come in handy at times like this.

  The guy actually laughed. "Then my brother over there will take it from ya. How'd you like that, eh?"

  Not much. So there were two of them. And indeed, I heard a grunt of agreement from behind me.

  "So what is it you want? Money? How about my watch?"

  The guy laughed again. He was having a pretty good time. "Sure, man, we'll take those too. But we really want what you got there in your hand. That thing you just dug up."

  Curious. Why would they want the box? They didn't even know what was in it. Then again, neither did I, and here I was about to give up my favourite Calvin Klein watch and sixty bucks in cash just to keep it.

  "Take the watch," I said. "This box is just some junk I found."

  "Yeah, well, whatever, mister. We want that junk. You know what they say, eh? One dude's junk is another dude's treasure. And some dude wants your junk, man. So we're here to get it for 'im. Now hand it over already." His voice turned meaner. "Or do you want us to cut you up some first?"

  My ears began to quiver. "Did you say another dude wants this junk? Did someone tell you to come get this from me?"

  "Yeah, so what?"

  "Yeah, so what?" the other, quieter brother, spoke up, although not with a ve
ry original contribution to the conversation. "Who is this guy?"

  "Like I know, eh. Come on, we don't have all night, right."

  "Where are you going to meet him? Where are you supposed to hand over the box to him? Do you have a meeting place? Or a phone number? Are you supposed to call him when you have it? I'll pay you for whatever you can tell me."

  More laughter. "With what? We're gonna take your wallet, mister."

  That would have been kind of funny...in other circumstances. "Besides, got nothing like that happening. He's just right over there, eh."

  What! My eyes grew to owl-size. I spun my head around, but saw nothing. I really needed to invest in night-vision goggles. "I can see you!" I screamed out the lie, letting it out before I'd really thought through a plan. Then again, any plan that didn't involve my getting sliced and diced by these hooligans was all right by me.

  "Hey! What you doing, man?" the knife guy yelped. "Was he driving a white truck, a Ford?”

  “What?"

  "What's his name? How much did he pay you? If you let me go right now, I'll pay you double whatever he's paying you!”

  “Police! Put your hands up!" Did I say that? Who said that?

  After that, things started to happen very fast. And I still could­n't see a thing.

  The boys, wisely deciding to take advantage of the cover of night, took the "put your hands up" thing as their cue to take a powder.

  "Hold it right there!" the authoritative voice rang out. "Police!"

  I heard running feet. Then nothing. Then one set of footsteps running back in my direction. Uh oh. By this time, I'd gotten to my feet and was doing a little I'm-not-quite-sure-what-to-do dance.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Darren Kirsch shouted at me when he got close enough so I could see the veins pulsing at his temples. "Why did you tell them you could see me? Did you miss that day at the police academy when they talked about sneaking up on criminals?"

  Oops. "Darren." I like to call him that when I'm trying to make nice. This wasn't really my fault, but I still felt bad. "I wasn't talk­ing about you when I said, T can see you.' I was talking about the guy who paid those idiots to steal my box."

  Kirsch exhaled big. "You'll have to do a little better than that, Quant."

  "Yeah," I said, feeling a bit sheepish. "I know."

  And then, Darren Kirsch did the unexpected. He said, "Beer?"

  He was already sitting at a rooftop table, nursing a pint of some­thing manly, when I arrived at O'Shea's Irish pub downtown. "What is that?" I asked as I plunked myself down in the chair opposite his.

  He told the waitress who'd followed me what he was having and she went off to get me one too. I like samesies.

  "Good spot," I commented. Our table was street side, with a great view looking down at all the action of 2nd Avenue

  and beyond.

  "You ever been here before?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  That's just like him. Thinking that just because I'm gay, I'd never been to an Irish pub before. He probably thought I favoured martini lounges and wine bars instead. I stared him straight in the eye and told him: "Uh, nope."

  He smiled and took a healthy slug of his sudsy cold drink. Mine arrived and I did the same.

  "Well, consider this my contribution to your drinking educa­tion."

  Fair enough. "Listen, I'm sorry about back there. I was desper­ate. Those guys were about to knife me if I didn't give them what they wanted. When I found out that someone hired them, and that person was nearby, I took a shot. Either I'd get the distraction I needed, or I'd convince them to let me go after him. In a sense," I said in a vaguely accusatory tone, "you're the one who screwed up a good thing by running up like that, guns blazing, like some kind of supercop."

  Supercop choked a little on his drink. Then he spoke. "First of all, Quant, my guns were not blazing. I did not discharge my firearm. And second of all, from what I saw, you were down on your knees, crying, and about to get yourself filleted. All I did wa..."

  I didn't let him finish. "I was not crying!"

  "Okay, maybe not," he relented. "But the rest is true."

  "Well, maybe. We'll never know. How the hell did you end up at the San site anyway? Have you been following me?"

  He gave me a sneer. "I didn't think there was any reason to. When you gave me the treasure map, I thought you agreed this was now a police matter."

  "When someone rams my car, tries to break into my house, scares my dogs, and follows me around wherever I go, I make it my business," I rebutted in my tough guy voice. "So if you weren't following me, how'd you find me?"

  "I didn't find you, Quant. I was hoping to find whoever it is who's after this...this thing, this treasure. You told me about what you found at Trounce House. That led me to the San site. Then I..."

  "Wait, wait, wait, wait!" I stopped him, one hand up in the air, the other covering his beer. I didn't want him distracted by fer­mented hops. "You figured out the lily clue and the San site clue all by yourself?"

  He shook his head and used his forefinger and thumb to pick my hand off his beer stein. "You act like you're the only one in the world with the title 'detective.' And mine is backed up with signif­icant training, education, and the resources of an entire police department."

  For a moment I sat there speechless, properly chastised.

  I looked into Kirsch's eyes and I knew. "Your wife figured it out, didn't she?"

  "Friggin' hell, Quant! How did you know?"

  I couldn't help myself. I almost pissed myself laughing. And Darren laughed right along with me.

  "Apparently Treena did a paper on Catherwood when she was in university. She was a bit of a jock herself back then."

  Before she started spewing out Kirsch kids like a baby-vending machine, I was about to say, but held back. Treena and Darren had enough kids to have their home qualify as a hamlet. Had they never heard about condoms?

  "And from there it was easy for her. She's so damn smart, that wife of mine. It scares me some of the things she knows.

  "Unlike you, obviously, I figured there might be somebody else who had this map. And if that was true, they'd be looking for the same thing I was. I thought it couldn't hurt to stake out the San site for a coupla days to see who came digging around." He shook his head in mock disgust as he added, "And lookee who I found rootin' around in the dirt."

  I let the comment slide. I was too busy trying to figure things out. "What I want to know is, how did White Truck Guy know where to find me?"

  "You think that's who hired those guys?"

  "Of course. Who else? What I don't get is how he found me. I've been so careful about getting him off my back. I'm not staying at my place. I'm not going to...oh."

  "What?"

  "I was about to say I'm not going to the office. But guess where I was earlier tonight.”

  “At PWC."

  "Yup. He must have been hanging around hoping I'd show. And he was right. Damn! I should have noticed." I'd screwed up.

  "Yeah, well, it's hard to keep your guard up twenty-four seven," Kirsch said, in a rare display of empathy. "Now hand it over."

  This was what I was afraid of. The waitress came by and I ordered another two beers to delay what I knew was coming next.

  "Quant, I want whatever it was you dug up from under that tree."

  "And I want us to work together. This is the last clue. Two heads have got to be better than one. And by two, I mean me and Treena. You can watch."

  Darren's eyes darkened. "You are perilously close to having your ass thrown in a cell for interfering with an active police inves­tigation."

  "If it's so active," I shot back, "why were you out there all alone tonight? Is it SPS policy to send its officers on dangerous stakeouts by themselves?" I knew Darren Kirsch. He was working a hunch. A hunch he wouldn't devote expensive and already strained man­power to until he was sure about it.

  "Just show me what you got."

  I had been a good boy. I'd brought the bo
x with me. And I had­n't even peeked on my way to the bar. Nah, that's not true. I total­ly peeked. And I hadn't liked what I saw. That's why I was willing to hand it over. I needed help.

  Darren received the box and set it down carefully in front of him. What? Did he expect it contained a bomb or something?

  "So what's in it?" he asked.

  I shrugged and waggled my head back and forth and did whatever body movements seemed appropriate to convey the lie. "I dunno."

  His eyebrows shot for his hairline. "What do you take me for?" And with that he loosened the tin's lid and pulled it off. Popcorn. It was a tin full of popcorn.

  Kirsch slowly upended the container and let the popcorn slide out onto the table in front of us. I'd already done that in my car. There were probably a few stray kernels left on the passenger seat. There was nothing in the box but popped corn.

  "What the hell is this?"

  I shook my head again. This time I was telling the truth. "I dunno."

  "Jee-zus! This is crazyass shit! What does this mean?”

  “Well, I do have one unsettling idea.”

  “What's that?" Kirsch asked.

  "I've heard that some companies use real popcorn—instead of those Styrofoam ones—as packing material. It's more biodegrad­able."

  "So what does that have to do with all this? You th...ooooooohhhhh. Shit. You think someone got to the box before we did?"

  I nodded. "Yup. And all we're left with is the packing materi­al."

  I fell asleep on the cab ride back to Ash House. It had been a full day. Bit of an emotional roller coaster too. Everything from the early morning boat ride with Errall to spread Kelly's ashes, to find­ing out I was being evicted from PWC, to digging around in dirt and being threatened at knifepoint. So it was little surprise that, having ended up at an Irish pub with Darren Kirsch, that I said an exuberant yes to several "for the road" shots. And this was after we'd downed our third beer and started telling raucous jokes. As far as I was concerned, I had my reasons for over-imbibing. I don't know what Darren's excuse was. But I have to say, I'd never seen him laugh so much and so easily. Lots of beer does that to a guy, I suppose.