“He holds all the cards,” she added, pulling two fresh tissues from the box.
I told myself it wasn’t any of my business. From one angle, her ambitions had been pretty sordid; a desire for wealth and power had got her into a mess of her own making. Still, I wished there was something I could do to help her. I was surprised with myself for wanting to, but I did feel that way.
“Are you still angry with me?” she said. Her voice cracked and the tissues went to her eyes.
“You didn’t lift a finger to find me in ten years,” I said.
“No,” she replied. At least she was honest about that.
“Give me time to think about it.” I expected to be happy about how she had ended up. Even if she lost everything, she’s still be better off financially than me, with a lot better prospects. There’d be another male dupe along presently for her to exploit. My brain was clear on that, but maybe my eyes and my body were telling me something else. This should have been my moment of vindication, but right then I honestly didn’t feel it. Maybe I’d been angry too long.
There was a long moment of silence and then we both stood up. I don’t know which of us initiated it, I guess it was her, but somehow we were hugging. She sobbed gently on my shoulder.
We stood like that for a long time. Despite the circumstances, it felt good to be physically close to her again after all these years.
There wasn’t much for either of us to say after that. Eventually I uttered something trite about having to go. At the door we looked at each other and she put her arms around my neck and drew me to her. This time our lips met. The feel of her body tight against me generated the old response and I felt guilty about it. I felt like pulling away, as if this was too much, too soon. I told myself I had to find out more about this situation, that I didn’t really know this woman, never had known her, that she was a liar, maybe worse. Could I really be this stupid?
Then I realised I didn’t care.
“Build my gallows high.”
She took a half-step back. “What’s that?”
I smiled. “Just a line from an old movie. Funny the things that pop into my head sometimes. But you always knew that.”
“Can we see each other, Mike?”
She used the shortened version of my name. It brought back a flood of memories.
“Are you sure you want to?” I said.
“Yes. I want to.”
I felt I’d passed the point of no return. I gave her my number and she scribbled it down.
“You already have mine,” she said. “Call me tomorrow, won’t you?”
“OK. I will.” I’d worry about all this later.
And we left it at that.
*
I thought about her a lot that evening.
To put it mildly, it hadn’t been the kind of meeting I’d expected. Yesterday I’d seen her position in life, compared it to my own and felt small. A failure. Turns out, she had a lot more on her plate that I did.
I went to the storage cupboard in the hallway and pulled down a cardboard box from a high shelf. I hadn’t looked at it in years and it was covered with dust, rising up in a cloud into my eyes and leaving grey tracks on my clothes.
I set the box on my bed, ignoring the dust marks it was leaving on the quilt, and opened the flaps. What I wanted was at the bottom, a folder of old photos from my student days. I fished it out from under a heap of useless junk.
There was one really good one of her and me, my arm around her, the calm, deep blue of English Bay in the background. She still had her hair long then, a blonde fountain coming out the top of her head. On anybody else it would have looked ridiculous. Nowadays she wore her hair down, in long tresses, and her face looked a little fuller, more sophisticated. More make-up, I suppose. Otherwise she hadn’t changed much at all.
I took the photo out, propped it upright on my desk and stared at it for a while. My thoughts went to the night of the heist, as they always did whenever she came to mind. I replayed it in my head for the millionth time.
I discovered that, for the first time in a decade, the anger wasn’t there. In fact, it was completely gone. In the weeks afterwards, while I was still on the crutches or stick, I’d experienced sheer, uncontrollable rages, rising up and roiling around inside me, making my heart pound and my face redden. Then, over the months, this had changed to an intermittent, smouldering anger. In the last few years, when I’d thought of her at all, it had been with quiet contempt. But now all those anger feelings were gone.
Yesterday I had fully intended to tell her to stuff her apology and go to hell. I had had ten years to work on clever putdowns in preparation for the day. Sitting in the coffee shop I had even considered pouring my coffee into her five-hundred dollar handbag and storming out the door, never to lay eyes on her again.
The strangest thing of all was that I now no longer felt the burning curiosity about her that had – I grudgingly admitted to myself – consumed me for years. It wasn’t just anger that I’d been harbouring, it was a yearning to know why it all happened. Why, why, why, Emma? Why, for example, the name change, why the identity switch? It occurred to me that she’d married Zheng under a false name. I wondered how that affected her divorce and prenuptial, if at all. Presumably she’d looked into it and would have exploited any loopholes if they existed. Apparently they didn’t.
My anger, my desire to confront her; what else had changed? The biggie was that, now that we’d met and talked, I couldn’t accept the idea of never seeing her again. The truth was, I almost grudgingly conceded as I put the box back, she was even more stunningly beautiful now than back then. She had gained a kind of untouchable elegance, and lost nothing. Among all the emotions whirling around inside me now – filling the vacuum left by the evaporated anger and questioning of ten years – there was also an old, very familiar one when it came to Emma.
Sheer physical desire.
I looked around my bachelor apartment. It was exactly shoebox shaped, with one big window to my left, stretching nearly all the way across the wall. Next to my tiny desk there was just enough room for a low bookcase with my flat-screen TV on top, followed by a small dining table from IKEA’s bargain basement. I had a rickety old couch opposite it, bought second hand for twenty bucks because it was missing part of its back cushion. The little kitchenette stood beside it, with its drab brown cupboards, then the tiny bathroom in which I had to close the door before sitting on the toilet as it was much too cramped to do so afterwards. Apart from a few small closets, barely able to hold a normal-sized vacuum cleaner, that was it.
And this being Vancouver, the second most expensive city in the world to live, I was paying nearly three quarters of my bookstore wage to live here. It had its good points, chiefly the light from the big window and its convenient location, just a few blocks from Vancouver General and West Broadway. A place like this was sought after and could go for a lot more rent. At least that’s what my landlord kept telling me every time I was late with the monthly cheque. That was happening a lot more frequently these days.
I had a choice to make: go on living this boring, penurious, lonely, unglamorous life, or become involved with her again. I definitely liked the idea of having her back in my life. With her, maybe I could get back the sense of purpose I hadn’t felt in the last ten, drifting years.
The unresolved secrets from her past – the mystery of her false identity and her vanishing act from the roof – still bothered the hell out of me. I needed to resolve those sooner or later. But it could be, would be, later. In the meantime, maybe I could help her in her present fix. I already had an idea how to do that.
There was only one fly in the ointment, a pretty big one from earlier in the day. Namely, the ugly brute waiting for me outside Emma’s building when I left. That had been one hell of an unpleasant surprise.
I let myself out the glass-panelled front door, heard a deep clunk as it locked behind me, and realised that I was being observed by a stranger. He was leaning against a shiny
black BMW parked at the kerb directly in front of the building. I stood still and gave him a good stare in return. The longer I looked, the less I liked what I saw. Broad, muscular shoulders tapered up to a head that looked small in comparison. He was probably mid to late thirties, and wore a tight white t-shirt and jeans. Under the dark, buzz-cut hair he was watching me through aviator-style sunglasses. I expected his name to be ‘Rhino’ or maybe ‘T-800’.
It suddenly occurred to me that Zheng was exactly the type of control freak who would keep a beady eye on his soon-to-be ex-wife. He’d want to know where she was going and who she was seeing. This macho goon was probably just one of several on the job.
If he was waiting here for me, he had probably watched me go in too. He took off the sunglasses, and a sort of smirk, like the smile of a shark, appeared on his face. I had no doubt left: he was watching me and didn’t care that I knew it. In fact, he wanted me to know it.
I had to walk right past him on the narrow sidewalk. As I approached he stood to his full height, at least a head taller than my six foot. Sweat trickled down my armpits but I tried to walk normally and keep outwardly calm.
I concentrated on his feet but as I passed him I managed to force myself to look up into his face. Now there wasn’t any smirk or frown or sneer. In fact, no expression at all. His face was completely emotionless, the eyes hard grey stones. I could have been a bug that he was about to crush.
When I got to the end of the block and around the corner, I started shaking.
So it wasn’t just Emma I was thinking a lot about. I tried to convince myself that this guy could have been anybody, that it was coincidence, that he was just some rich dude waiting for his rich girlfriend.
Then I remembered the cold, dead eyes.
9.
GERM OF AN IDEA
My bright idea didn’t last long. She already seemed to know what it was. I phoned her the next day and, still keeping things a little formal, told her I’d like to discuss her situation. I didn’t mention the goon with the muscles and bad attitude.
We met at her place after work. Well after my work anyway. She wore a low cut purple t-shirt and denim shorts, the kind women call Daisy Dukes, her long legs and feet bare. I sat down and she disappeared into the kitchen for a while. I heard a machine gurgling and eventually she brought out some fancy layered cold drink, the sort you expect to be served with a cherry on top. She gave me a tall cold glass filled with something that smelled fruity.
“Orange mango smoothie,” she said, “To cool you off.”
She got straight to the point.
“I should have taken the papers from his safe that day,” she said, as she sat opposite me. “Or at least taken copies. You’re probably wondering why I didn’t.” It was a statement more than a question. She was right of course.
“I had an idea about that,” I replied. “I thought if you could get some hard evidence.“
She cut me off. “He still wouldn’t divorce me.”
“But can’t you get a divorce anyway?” I had to be sure about that.
She nodded. “Of course. But he’s making it a lot harder.”
“Well, if you had those documents it would come a lot quicker and the settlement would be a lot more generous.”
“Too late for that. He’s changed the locks to the house. The housekeeper is under orders not to let me in. He’d sack her if she did.”
I sighed. This Zheng guy seemed to be a typical mega-rich jerk used to getting his way about everything. Marrying Emma hadn’t been enough for him; he’d want to control her afterwards too. She needed some leverage against him. Maybe there was still a way for her to get that, with my help.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
”About what?”
“About breaking in.”
I forced a little laugh that sounded faked even to me. “Those days are long over,” I assured her.
“Are they?” she said, looking right at me, “You sure?”
“Totally.”
“Then what was this great idea of yours?”
“My idea was that you go there and get the incriminating documents. I could have kept watch from the road or whatever. That’s all. I see now that’s impossible.”
She sat back and sighed. “Yes it is. Even with your help.”
Well, maybe, maybe not. I was still reluctant to give up my bright idea. He might be a careless rich jerk.
“I guess his house has the latest security?” I asked her, hoping the answer would be ‘No’.
“Alarms all over the place.”
“I know someone who’s good with alarms,” I said. Maybe I could rope Charlie in with the promise of whatever else Zheng had in his safe.
She gave me a rare smile. “I knew that’s what you were thinking.” Then her mood changed. “But he’ll have changed the safe combination. I know him.”
I wasn’t giving up. “There might be a way around that too.”
She thought for a moment. “You were always brilliant at planning those things, Mike.”
“Just not the execution.”
She frowned and leaned over towards me. Her low neckline became a distraction and I forced myself to look up into her eyes. Her hand gently folded over mine. “Don’t say that. Your execution was perfect, apart from me messing it up.”
“So what are you going to do?” I said.
She looked deadly serious. “I don’t have much choice. I’m desperate. I don’t like it, honest I don’t, but I might have to take you up on your offer. If there’s anyone can figure out a way to do it, it’s you Mike.”
I tried not to gulp too obviously. My initial idea really hadn’t gone much further than sitting in a car, waiting for her to sneak in and out of Zheng’s house. What the hell had I just got myself into?
*
We kissed at the door, my hand resting lightly on her back at the gap between t-shirt and shorts. I considered telling her about the guy with the BMW and decided against it. He hadn’t been there when I arrived today, so perhaps he wouldn’t show up again. Best to leave things on a high note.
The next thing to do was go see Charlie. He was the one person I could trust with something like this and I’d need his help if anything was to happen. I’d talk it over with him. With any luck he’d tell me it was impossible and I’d be nuts to try. That would provide me with an escape chute out of this craziness.
I gave him a buzz on my cell phone and he said to come on over. He lived out near Kingsway, close to Mount St. Joseph Hospital, so I took the 99 bus along Broadway and walked the few blocks south. As I crossed Main Street at the lights I wondered what I had been thinking earlier. Emma’s faith in my abilities was extremely flattering but if Zheng’s house – no doubt some enormous mansion with no expense spared – really was stuffed with burglar alarms, then what could I do? Sure, I had foolishly toyed with the idea to impress her; I now admitted that to myself. But there was no way I was going in there on a kamikaze mission.
Being with Emma again was something I wanted very badly. Did it have to involve another kind of ‘going back’: a return to the only thing I truly excelled at – the heist business? I hoped not.
I needed Charlie’s help alright, but not to get in. I needed his help to get out of this crazy scheme. I’d just raised Emma’s hopes for nothing. That was too bad; we’d figure out something else that didn’t involve Mission Impossible. Maybe she just needed better lawyers.
Charlie owned a small, ramshackle house on a large lot, on a pleasant street in a pleasant neighbourhood. His neighbours hated him, not just because of Charlie’s lackadaisical attitude to home maintenance but for his distinctive ideas about recycling and garden decor. As I turned off the sidewalk and on to the broken concrete slabs that constituted the winding path to Charlie’s front door, I admired the latest examples of his creativity. As well as the usual cracked clay planters lying around on their sides, there was a life-size Holstein cow with antlers, a half finished robot constructed mainly f
rom wire coat hangers and, in the crook of a dead tree trunk, an old porcelain sink now serving as a birdbath.
I pressed the doorbell and waited, then two minutes later pressed it again. When still nothing happened I grabbed the doorknocker, a wonderful homemade job consisting of a smooth stone wrapped in wire resting on a brass plate, and gave it several loud thumps. That did the trick.
“Hey, no need to wreck the place,” Charlie said when he opened the door.
“Sorry, but your doorbell doesn’t seem to work.”
“Of course it doesn’t. Why do you think I put up the knocker?”
He led me inside to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” he asked, “I’ve just made some.”
“Sure,” I replied, without thinking, then rapidly regretted it as I watched him toss a large scoop of Nescafé granules into a chipped mug, pour boiling water on top, and hand it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, “Got any cream?”
He looked pained, as if I’d insulted him, but took the mug back and sloshed some two per cent milk into it until the contents became pasty white.
“So what’s the occasion?” Charlie asked.
I took a sip from the mug, discovered that the coffee was now lukewarm as well as tasteless, and made a mental note never to agree to coffee in Charlie’s house again. “I’ve come to ask you about something in your area of expertise,” I replied, “Something you might even want to be in on. It’s up to you of course.”
Charlie grinned. “Does it have anything to do with that sexy blonde we saw the other day?”
I nodded. “It does.”
We sat on two old deck chairs in his back garden, flies buzzing around us, and I told him all about it. I started at the very beginning, from the first day I met Emma, and included the warehouse shenanigans. By the time I was done my mouth was dry and, remarkably, my coffee mug was empty.
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