01 - Old City Hall

by Robert Rotenberg

  The people around the table were smart and friendly. Although Kennicott hadn’t liked practicing law very much, he’d almost forgotten the pleasure of the companionship of working with a group of bright, energetic people.

  On the police force, he was an oddity. A rookie cop in his early thirties, a former lawyer who lived downtown and wore handmade shoes. Most cops married young and, at least before they got divorced, lived in the suburbs, and in the summer they’d get together for barbecues in the backyards of their town houses. Kennicott had gone a few times when he first joined the force, and once, the wife of a young cop tried to set him up with her sister. He and Andrea were back “on” at the time. After that he’d found excuses to duck the parties, and soon the invitations petered out.

  The meal seemed to fly by, and when the dishes were cleared by the waitress, who simply folded the plastic sheet at all four ends and lifted everything up with one simple pull—like a stork delivering its bundle—Summers put her hand on Kennicott’s arm.

  “I have a theory about Chinese food in Toronto,” she said. “The closer you are to the lake, the better it is.”

  Kennicott nodded. “Never eat Chinese in the suburbs.”

  “Never go to the suburbs,” she said. “I live as far south as you can go—on the Islands.”

  Toronto was originally chosen as a townsite by the early British settlers because a chain of islands about half a mile offshore formed a perfect natural harbor. The Islands, as they were known, had been a cottage destination for wealthy Torontonians at the start of the twentieth century, then were turned primarily into parkland in the 1940s. In the sixties a group of adventurers took over a number of the dilapidated old homes and, after years of fighting with the city council, established a freestanding community across the water from the most expensive real estate in the country.

  “You like it out there?” Kennicott asked.

  “Love it,” Summers said.

  “Does it take long to get to work?”

  “Exactly forty minutes, if I don’t miss the ferry. The ferry’s the only real problem. It makes me into a Cinderella. The last boat leaves downtown at eleven thirty—so at night I’m always watching the clock.”

  “And if you miss the ferry in the morning?”

  “You’re stuck for half an hour, unless you steal a boat or find Walter, the water-taxi guy who’s been there for a hundred years.”

  Just as she spoke, Kennicott heard a beeping noise coming from her waist. She reached down and turned off her cell phone alarm.

  “Hey, everybody,” Summers said, “Cinderella’s got to say nighty-night.” She got up and kissed and hugged her way around the table. When she got back to Kennicott, he’d already stood up. She stepped away from the table, and he followed her. “Thanks so much for joining us, Daniel. It was great.”

  He considered saying he was ready to go too and walking out with her. But under her gregarious affect, he sensed that old shyness. Something told him to stay put.

  “Thanks, Jo. I don’t get to socialize like normal people very often, so I really appreciate it.”

  “I meant what I said about your brother,” she said under her breath. “You must miss him.”

  Kennicott forced a smile. “Everyone says you must miss your family during special times like the holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries, but it’s more the everyday of it that’s not there. Going to a good movie and wanting to talk about it after, coming home from a trip and reaching for the phone to call. Sometimes I’ll go days and not think about him, then I’ll start reading a new book or hear a funny joke, and suddenly we’re having a conversation in my head.”

  She touched his arm. And in a moment she was gone.

  “That Jo is really something,” her big friend Roger Humphries said, coming up beside him. “We really miss her at the firm.”

  “I can imagine,” Kennicott said. “Looks like she was very popular.”

  “Oh, yeah. Everyone loved Jo,” Humphries replied. “And smart. Man, she was really going places. But it just wasn’t her thing.”

  “I guess it wasn’t,” Kennicott said, still feeling the touch of her hand on his arm.

  “Jo’s great. But no one could quite figure her out.”

  “I guess not,” Kennicott said, watching the beaded curtain she’d just walked through settle back into place. “I guess not.”

  41

  The snowbanks on the little side street were piled almost two feet high, so Ari Greene had to circle the block five times until he finally found a parking spot. He flicked off the car radio and, before he turned off the engine, gave the heater one last blast. Not that it would make a difference. By the time he met his father at the synagogue and walked him back, the car would be freezing. But maybe, Greene thought, it will be a little less cold.

  The snow was high on the sidewalks too, so Greene walked down the middle of the street. The falling snow was illuminated by the lampposts, creating an eerie, almost stagelike feel—as if the snow didn’t exist at all until it hit the light, making its quick entrance onto the streetscape and then falling to the ground to its assigned position as part of the complex theatrical set.

  It was three blocks to the little synagogue where his dad went to pray every Friday night. The parking lot, which took up almost as much land as the building itself, was full every other day of the week. Tonight it was chained off, this being the Sabbath. That meant that everyone who drove—which included most of the congregation—had to park on the side streets, much to the annoyance of the local residents.

  As Greene approached the white brick building, he saw four or five other men, all about his age, walking in the same direction. He nodded at them, and each nodded back. Every Friday night he saw most of these men—or men who were obviously their brothers. They were all Shabbat chauffeurs for their fathers.

  “I heard the Leafs are winning two to nothing after the second period and the new goalie stopped twenty shots,” Greene’s father whispered when he came out of the chapel to meet his son, after he made sure the rabbi was looking the other way. “I told you that young goalie was the problem.”

  Greene nodded. Despite the fact that listening to radios or watching television was strictly prohibited on the Sabbath, somehow, someway, news of the latest sports scores always magically penetrated the walls of the sanctuary. How the news arrived, Greene’s father steadfastly refused to explain. “It’s like the war,” his father once told him. “We always knew how far away the Allies were from the camp. Don’t ask.”

  “That older goalie was incredible,” Greene whispered back. “You were right, Dad.” He didn’t bother to mention to his father that the “goalie was the problem” theory was the fourth or fifth solution his dad had promulgated for the Leafs’ woes since the New Year.

  “Where’d you park?” Greene’s father asked when they got to the front door and he stuffed his kipa into his pocket.

  “Three blocks up, on Alexis. Half the usual spots are snowed in.”

  “And the snowplows? Not one in sight, I bet.”

  “Dad,” Greene said, helping his father on with his coat, “let me go get the car and drive around.”

  It was an unspoken but faithfully observed Shabbat rule that no one drove right to the synagogue door. Somehow it was okay to drive, just as long as you pretended you didn’t. Greene’s father gave him a sideways look.

  “Dad. Let’s just wait a few minutes until the rabbi’s gone. It’s minus twenty out.” The synagogue owned a house on the very same block, which they rented to the rabbi, making it simple for him to get home and back. As Greene’s father liked to say, “Easy for him to preach about not driving on Shabbat, when he can walk home to take a leak.”

  A tall younger man came up and slapped Greene’s father on the back. “Good shabbos, Mr. Greene,” he said. The man spoke with a trace of an American accent, probably New Jersey or New York, Greene thought.

  Greene’s father frowned toward his son. It was the new rabbi. He had been ther
e for a year and was generally despised by the elder members of the congregation. This was not too surprising. It usually took them about five years to break in a new man.

  “Good shabbos, Rabbi Climans,” he said.

  “You’re blessed to have such a loyal son, Mr. Greene,” the rabbi said, then strolled over to another congregant.

  His father rolled his eyes in Greene’s direction. “Rabbi Climans? Why is he called Rabbi Climans?” Greene’s father liked to say. “They should call him Rabbi Cliché. What does he think, he’s auditioning for Fiddler on the Roof?”

  “Where do they find these boring rabbis?” Greene’s father asked as they trudged silently through the white streets, their boots crunching sharply on the cold snow. There was not a trace of wind.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” Greene said as he opened the passenger door for his father. The inside of the car was the exact same temperature as outside. So much for preheating it, Greene thought as he put the key in and pushed the reluctant engine to turn over. It finally caught, and they sat, waiting for the engine to warm up. There was no point in trying the heater yet—it would just blast out cold air. He flicked on the wipers, and the cold, dry snow flew off the windshield, which was still covered by a layer of frost.

  “How’s your case going?” Greene’s father asked.

  Greene shook his head. “Here is what I haven’t worked out yet. I’ve arrested thirty, maybe forty people charged with murder. They all say something when we take them in. Maybe just ‘Fuck off, you cop,’ or ‘I’m not saying anything,’ but they say something. But Brace, not a word. Not one word. I put a guy in his cell, and it’s been almost two months. Not a bloody word.”

  “Not a word?” Greene’s father turned his head away. He started to scratch a small hole through the frost on the inside of his passenger-side window.

  When his father grew silent, it was a sign that he was thinking deeply. They’d been discussing his cases like this for years. Greene would come to his father when he was at a crossroads or a dead end. His father’s insights, often so simple, were always useful.

  “Brace had his son taken away,” Greene’s dad finally said.

  “The boy was autistic,” Greene said. He bent down and flicked on the heater. Freezing-cold air flew out of the vent. He flicked it off. “Back then it was pretty brutal.”

  Greene’s father swung his head and looked at his son. “In the camps, often men would not talk for months. Especially when they got bad news.”

  Greene nodded. He switched the fan setting to the windshield and cranked it up. The inside of the glass gradually defrosted, slowly opening a round hole, like a fade-in scene in a silent movie.

  “He has two girls?” his father asked. “What are their names?”

  Greene shrugged. “Amanda and Beatrice,” he said.

  His dad nodded. “Very British.” He whispered, “When my first family was murdered, it took me almost a month to say a word.”

  Greene nodded. The times his father talked about his first, lost family were few and far between.

  “Dad, the chief offered me tickets to the Washington game at the end of this month. Want to come? You’ve never been to the ACC.” The Air Canada Center was the fancy new home of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

  “Maybe.”

  Greene knew his father would never come. Years ago, before Greene made Homicide, Charlton had given him a pair of tickets to the old Maple Leaf Gardens. His dad had spent a lifetime in Canada watching the Leafs on TV, but he’d never seen a game live.

  The evening was a disaster. Greene’s mother was worried about the parking downtown, so they took the subway. At the Eglinton station they got on a crowded car, and as soon as the door closed, Greene’s father began to sweat. People started to jostle them. His father began to shake.

  At the next stop, Davisville, Greene pulled his dad off the car. It was a busy Saturday night, so it took twenty minutes standing in the brutal cold to hail a cab. By the time they got to the Gardens, the first period was almost over. They had to pass through a long tunnel to get to their seats, and halfway through, Greene’s father became panicked. When they emerged into the brightly lit open arena, his father seemed to shrink. At just that moment, the Leafs scored a goal and, in unison, seventeen thousand people stood and cheered. For the first time in his life, Greene saw fear on his father’s face.

  Somehow Greene managed to get them to their seats. His father remained glued there for two periods. Even in the intermissions he refused to budge. Halfway through the third period he leaned over and whispered, “I’ve got to piss.”

  By that time the Leafs were already losing by three goals. Greene scooped up their jackets and guided his father back through the tunnel and into the men’s room across from the popcorn stand.

  The washroom was surprisingly large. The floor was cold tile and the walls were a stained, lackluster green. There were no individual urinals. Instead, the room was dominated by a long, two-sided porcelain trough, where a clutch of men stood on both sides urinating, generating a foaming yellow river of piss. The stench of urine hung heavy in the air.

  His father froze. He clutched Greene’s hand like a child. Then he vomited all over himself.

  The heater in the car was gradually beginning to warm up, and the frost on the front window was clearing. But the falling snow gathered on the windshield, blocking Greene’s vision again, wrapping them in a foamy white cocoon. The air was dry, and Greene’s skin felt scaly.

  “A man doesn’t forget his children,” his father said. “Never.”

  PART III

  MAY

  42

  Mr. Singh found the lengthening days at the beginning of May to be most agreeable. Especially enjoyable was the early-morning sunlight, which meant that when he rose at 4:13 a.m., he knew the light would soon be upon him. Usually this made him feel very alert. By 5:02, when he was making his way down Front Street toward the Market Place Tower to commence the day’s deliveries, there was just a hint of brightness in the sky.

  Still, he felt just the slightest fatigue. Last evening the grandchildren had been over for Sunday dinner. He’d stayed up rather late explaining to Ramesh, his eight-year-old grandson, the principle of liquid displacement. His wife, Bimal, had made a fuss because they’d spilled some water onto the kitchen table. Why such a bother? How else was the boy to learn the principles of physics?

  Ramesh was an inquisitive child. “Mommy says you saw a dead person,” he said as Mr. Singh returned a large bowl to its place above the stove.

  “Unfortunately, this is true,” Mr. Singh said.

  “Do dead people have their eyes opened or closed?” the child inquired.

  “It can be either way,” Mr. Singh said.

  “What about the dead person you saw?”

  As he walked along the south side of Front Street, Mr. Singh shook his head at the memory of their little talk. The city was very hot for May, and already it was quite warm. Nevertheless, Bimal had insisted he bring his raincoat in case it rained. And because today he was to testify at Mr. Kevin’s preliminary inquiry.

  “The air-conditioning might be very strong in the courthouse,” his wife had said.

  “That is true,” he agreed. And he would feel uncomfortable going to court without a proper overcoat.

  All weekend the newspapers had been filled with stories about Mr. Kevin. Even, it seemed, Mr. Singh’s small grandson was aware of it. But lately the biggest story in the newspaper had been about Toronto’s ice hockey team. Remarkably, they were still playing, even though it was almost summertime.

  Many mornings, on the front pages of all four major newspapers were photographs of a helmeted player wearing a blue-and-white jersey, raising his hockey stick in the air, embracing other helmeted players in similar uniforms. And on many nights one could hear vehicles driving up and down the street honking their horns, with young men hanging out of car windows waving blue-and-white flags.

  Mr. Singh knew that today Mr. Kevin’s story would
be prominent. So he was not surprised when, as he approached the Market Place Tower, he saw a group of reporters at the front door. Mr. Rasheed had kept them out of the lobby. Thank goodness.

  It would be best to walk around the crowd, Mr. Singh thought. He was about halfway past them when a man called out, “There’s the guy who found the body.” Suddenly a horde of microphones descended on him.

  “Mr. Singh, Mr. Singh, we understand you’re the first witness. Correct?” This was a woman’s voice.

  “How does it feel to testify against your former customer?” another female voice demanded.

  “I will ask you to kindly excuse me,” Mr. Singh said. The sun was not yet fully up, but it was warm. The reporters were wearing inappropriate clothing for people of their profession. Many of the men wore T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. And the women. A number had on shirts that revealed parts of their torsos.

  Mr. Singh had learned that such a spell of warm weather in Toronto was labeled a heat “wave.” This was in contrast to chilly winter days, which were called cold “snaps.” Why heat should wave and cold should snap, Mr. Singh could not understand.

  “I am already two minutes behind with my deliveries,” he said as he stepped around a woman with extremely short hair and colorful glasses who had jumped in front of him.

  “But Mr. Singh—,” another reporter started to say.

  “Did you not comprehend what I just said?” Mr. Singh asked. “Kindly allow me to pass.”

  That seemed to quiet the rabble, and the reporters stood aside. Mr. Singh made his way into the lobby, took out his penknife, and cut the binding off his first stack of newspapers. The papers would be heavier again this week because it was Mother’s Day this weekend. What will these Canadians think of next for their holidays? Mr. Singh wondered.