Shit. This didn't feel good. Everyone else was busy. What was wrong with me? My last paying client had been Bohdan Mazurchewich who paid me less than four hundred bucks two week; ago to find out what his wife did while he was out of town on business. Turns out she ordered-in, rented Meg Ryan movies, drank daiquiris and banana milkshakes, hung with girlfriends, laughed a lot and in general enjoyed life. Something she apparently didn't do while Mr. Mazurchewich was at home. This was definitely information he needed to know. I should have charged him more.
I selected a Diet Pepsi out of the mini bar fridge that holds up one end of my desk and took a seat, pulling my Daytimer front and centre to study its contents. What was on my schedule? Lunch today with Anthony. Next week was Darrell and Nick's seventh anniversary-I had to remember to send a card-and Brutus was due for a dental exam at the end of August. Today was July fifteenth. I sipped my drink and stared at the phone.
Fringe Festivals, with their culturally diverse, mind challenging- and sometimes boggling-array of live theatre and off-the-wall entertainment, occur annually in cities across the continent, and Saskatoon's version is reputedly one of the best, maybe not for its size, but certainly for its heart and energy. Everything takes place in a handful of venues and blocks in the historically rich Broadway/Nutana area of the city, and it was along these busker-lined, poster-plastered, sun-drenched streets that I meandered until it was time to meet Anthony for a late lunch.
Owner of several high-end menswear stores carrying his surname (with a small "g") gatt, Anthony is a man of indeterminate age (far beyond his forties and maybe even his fifties?), immeasurable means (lots of dough), and unquestionable breeding (speaks with a smooth English-accented flourish), all topped off with a dashing Robert Redford/Jay Gatsby handsomeness. He and his partner, Jared Lowe, are in the vanguard of the Saskatoon society set. Anthony is wise in the ways of the world, gay and straight, and determined to make me so as well, taking his role as my friend/instructor/occasional pain-in-the-ass very seriously. If I didn't love him so much, I'd hate him.
"You cannot be serious," Anthony said a little too loudly as he strode towards me wearing exquisitely tailored pants just this side of white, a shirt of orange and pink that defied the odds by looking just right on him, and a pair of white leather shoes that were making a comeback that week.
I looked at him questioningly, pretending I didn't know what he was talking about when of course I did. Anthony can be a bit of a snob and as much as he tries to mentor me, insisting that I hold wineglasses properly by their stem and keep my elbows moisturized, I also have a role to play in his life in teaching him how to loosen up and get a little down and dirty.
"You really don't expect me to eat meat that's been marinating in sun and flies since six a.m. off a stick, do you?" He'd obviously caught sight of some of the wares being offered by food vendors who were lining the streets, selling everything from corn on the cob to sushi to deep-fried Mars bars. "And without a seat or a glass of wine to choke it all down with? Barbarous!"
I nudged him forward with my right arm, me in my messy flip-flops and him clip-clopping in his fancy shoes next to me. "Anthony, you haven't even given it a try. This is what you do at the Fringe."
"No, this is what you do if you live in a Third World country and have vultures eating carrion in your backyard. Seeing as that fate has yet to befall us, I have a better idea."
"You said I could pick the restaurant."
He shot me a disgusted look above the rim of his Maui Jims.
"That is correct. And, even without consulting my Oxford, I can tell you that the definition of restaurant includes tables and chairs, handsome servers, menus listing outrageous prices and suggestions for jaunty aperitifs and..."
"Okay, okay, I give up." I knew my friend well enough to have mentally given up five minutes before.
"Suspecting your treachery, I took the liberty of calling ahead," he told me as he ably maneuvered me by the elbow across the street toward one of his favourite local dining establishments.
In the bustling game of restaurant roulette, Calories is one of Saskatoon's better established players. And in a city-apparently one of many-that purports to have more restaurants per capita than any other in North America, its chances of continued survival and thriving success are surprisingly good. For whereas the city is rife with Asian, Greek and Italian (i.e. pizza) establishments, Calories is one of only a handful of Saskatoon restaurants that offers a truly gourmet dining experience and one of considerably less than half a handful that are listed as "French" in the Saskatoon phonebook. From a menu pasted behind a window near the front entrance, I could see that today's offerings included a vegetarian special of herb ragout in a Taleggio cream sauce; sautéed frog legs and asparagus tips persillade with a tapenade drizzle and raw arugula; along with a towering blah-blah-blah of blah-blah-blah infused with blah-blah-blah that sounded absolutely irresistible. Not a pepperoni, avgolemeno soup or bowl of special fried rice in sight.
Anthony yammered on. "...And I was able to secure one of the outdoor tables so we both can have our way. You can still be out in nature amongst the odours of beef jerky and unchanged infants while I get to keep my nose over a glass of chilled rose. How's that?" We pulled up to a scant collection of blue, bistro-style, metal tables pressed tightly against the restaurant's facade and roped off from the maddening crowd by a row of black metal poles with chain strung between them. Indeed one of the tables had a Reserved sign on it. A pretty girl with a sweating pitcher of cold water swooped down and removed it as soon as she caught sight of Anthony.
We sat down; Anthony discussed the menu with our cute, shaved-headed server, consulted me and then ordered.
"So tell me what's been going on," Anthony asked with knowing eyes and concern in his voice. "You strike me as a bit melancholy."
"Nah, I just really wanted some of that meat on a stick," I answered back in full smart-ass mode.
"It's Sereena."
I looked away, making a show of being busy drinking my water and watching a fire-eater perform on the median. Sereena is my neighbour-that is she was my neighbour until she disappeared last year...or rather, never came back from a Mediterranean cruise. Her house went up for sale (still was) and I've not heard from her since. I don't know why I was so surprised. Sereena Orion Smith has always been an enigma to me and to most people. When people ask me about her, I tell them to listen to that song from the early eighties, "I've Never Been to Me" by Charlene. Like the gal in that song, I have no doubt that indeed Sereena has been "undressed by kings...and seen some things that a woman ain't s'posed to see." That is the easy answer, the answer I give because really, despite all the time we've spent together, she remains elusive, shrouded in mystery parts of her forever unknowable to me. Yet, I do know her; I feel an undeniable and intimate connection with her. The question for me isn't "Who is Sereena Orion Smith?" but rather "Who was Sereena Orion Smith?". There is something guarded about her, as if protecting a past she never wants fully revealed. Still, there were times she'd tossed about names of places she'd been and people she'd known, adventures she'd had, not to gloat or boast, but in loving memory of a life lived well (and perhaps a bit raunchily). Yet somehow, the reality of what she was before she came into our lives remains illusory, like some fantasy story that is never told the same way twice.
"Actually," I said off handedly, "I've pretty much given up on her."
It was a bit of a lie. Or maybe not, I wasn't sure yet. I'd spent considerable time and energy attempting to track down my ex-neighbour over the past few months. And money. Truth be told, my investigation into her disappearance was a big reason why my bank account was about to file for social assistance. As a detective - and Sereena's friend - I felt a responsibility to find her and guilt when I continually failed to uncover even a sliver of a hint as to where she'd gone. In indomitable Sereena fashion, she'd pulled off the perfect disappearing act. All I or anyone else had to go on were bits and scraps that added up to…bubkes.
I nodded and was glad to see our wine arrive.
"But that's not all, is it?"
Ah geez, here it comes.
"Someone is turning thirty-five in about ten days," Anthony said after he'd tasted and approved of the wine. "And not embracing the idea I take it?"
"Y'know," I said, leaning in towards Anthony, suddenly wanting to talk about this. "I wouldn't mind the age thing so much if there weren't so many reminders. I was paying for gas the other day and this young dude behind the counter complimented my wallet and asked where I got it. I thought, hey, a hip, young guy thinks I have a hip, young wallet. I told him it came from Birks. And do you know what he said to me?"
Anthony winced in anticipation.
"He said, 'great, that'll make a perfect gift for my dad's birthday'! His dad! Anthony, I have a dad's wallet!"
"Nonsense. I've seen your wallet and it is a stylish, sophisticated accoutrement. And it should be," he sniffed. "I gave it to you."
I kept on with my barrage of woes. "Sometimes the best I can do on the treadmill at the gym is a fast walk instead of a run, I found a white chest hair, and...aw shit, Anthony...the other night...my wonderpants felt tight around the waist."
My wonderpants. Everyone has a pair. They're black, never wrinkle, I've owned them forever yet they're always in style, and, most importantly, I've been told they make my ass look great. The whole point of wonderpants is that they always look good and always fit-even if you did eat a bag of Doritos the night before.
But now, I had to face the very real and undesirable possibility that my ass had outgrown their otherworldly powers.
Anthony sipped his wine contemplatively, then said, "It's much too soon for a mid-life crisis, puppy. You're a six-foot-one, fresh-faced, sandy-haired Adonis for goodness sake, so don't rush out for a barbwire tat around your bicep or an age-inappropriate wardrobe from Abercrombie & Fitch. This isn't about aching traps or greying hair."
I gulped at my wine, hopeful for good news. "It isn't?"
"You just need a really good date."
Crap. Wrong answer. "I date."
"I’m not talking about random crushes followed by randy sex, I'm talking about meeting a man who gets your heart and head and blood racing."
"But-"
He shushed me. "Just wait, Russell, I'm not done. I'm not talking about marriage. I’m not talking about a move-in-set-up-house-get-a-crystal-pattern relationship. I respect your judgment on when and if that's right for you. I'm talking about at least opening yourself up to meeting some guys who might...shall we say, befuddle you enough to at least momentarily sway your judgment... regardless of the final outcome."
With sun reflecting off his shiny pate, the server delivered our food with quiet efficiency. For once I was hoping for a chatty waiter. I looked down at our plates. Somehow Anthony had ended up with a beautifully arranged but inconsequential salad of frilly greens whereas I sat before a pile of meat smothered in sauce. No wonder my pants were beginning to revolt.
"I don't understand a word of what you just said," I told my friend.
"No," Anthony said with a wicked smile. "I wouldn't imagine that you would. Therefore I've taken the liberty of arranging a birthday present for you that will explain everything."
"Oh?" Suspicion.
"His name is Doug Poitras."
Jiminy Cricket crack house cracker! And other curse-filled cusses raced through my head but not quite out of my mouth.
"You got me a man?" I asked in astonishment. "You got me a real, live, breathing man for my birthday?"
Anthony gave me a look drier than crust. "He can be returned, Russell."
"How about we cancel the order altogether?" I suggested with little humour left in my voice. I did not want this. "I'll make the call. Where did you get him? The Hudson Gay Company? Boyfriends-R-Us?"
He ignored that. "Even Errall is getting back in the game. She's bringing the new woman in her life to your surprise birthday party."
Whoa. Too much new information at once. How did I-a detective, no less-not know about any of this? "Errall is dating? I'm having a surprise birthday party?"
"I know little else about Errall's guest so don't ask. And I tell you about the party only because no one should be surprised by a social gathering in their honour. Ever. Especially you. The chances of you showing up in...well, in something as disastrous as your current costume, are much too high to risk. I'll send something over from the store of course."
I slumped into my plate of meat. "Now I really am melancholy."
"Ah, it never rains but it pours," he responded, nibbling on his delightful wee salad.
"Spouting overused cliches, Anthony? So unlike you." I had more wine. I usually don't go for roses - a Chateau de Sours Bordeaux from France - but this one wasn't bad and I needed the thirteen per cent sustenance.
Anthony delivered his next line with his smile awry. "In addition to Mr. Poitras, you seem to have another admirer." He nodded to somewhere over my shoulder.
I surveyed the street crowd but saw no such admirer. I gave Anthony an inquiring look.
"Over there," he said. "She's loitering near the Bulk Cheese Warehouse. Rather menacing looking really, a fetching Grace Jones meets the Terminator type. Staring daggers into you."
How could I miss that? I moved my gaze to the two-storey, grey brick building across the street and just caught the tail feathers of a tall, black woman with wide shoulders and a storm trooper gait before she disappeared around a corner.
She must be one of the street performers, I thought to myself. The Fringe brings out all kinds of characters into the streets. But something in the back of my mind warned me that I was horribly wrong.
The officious rapping on my front door came at the crack of dawn-not quite 9 a.m.-Thursday morning. I was just out of bed and barely dressed (a pair of loose, threadbare, grey cotton, U of S sweatpants) and a bit grumpy (no coffee yet).
My house is on a large lot at the dead end of a quiet, little-travelled street; a grove of towering aspen and thick spruce neatly hide it from view of the casual passerby. Inside, the house is a unique mix of open, airy rooms and tiny, cozy spaces, each appealing to me depending upon my mood. A six-foot-high fence encircles the backyard and at the rear of the lot, accessible by way of a back alley, is a two-car garage with a handy second storey I use for storage. My home is my castle, a place where I re-energize and take refuge from the world and expect to have my morning coffee in peace. So enough with the knocking!
I pulled open the front door ready to berate the devil in a blue dress behind it. Darren Kirsch may not exactly be the devil, and as a Criminal Investigations Division detective, he doesn't wear a blue uniform anymore, but close enough.
"Ever hear of calling before making an early morning raid?" I greeted him with a scowl. "Do you have the phone number for the police complaints department? You must know it off by heart. I'm sure you must give it out often enough." Low blow, I know, but no coffee is no coffee.
Darren Kirsch is the archetypical City of Saskatoon policeman-six feet plus with a top-heavy, muscular body; short, dark hair; neat, dark moustache; deep-set, stern eyes and a snarly nose, but that particular combination on this particular big lug is actually pretty darn cute. Cute and as heterosexual as wearing socks with ugly sandals in the summer. He looked me over, from the freak show that was my morning hair, down my bare chest all the way to my unshod feet. He shoved the rolled up, plastic-wrapped copy of the morning paper that had been lying at my front gate into my abdomen and pushed past me, barking the command, "Read it."
I closed the door and watched the warm reception given this intruder into my morning by Barbra and Brutus. Turncoats. "Don't you need a warrant to barge in here like this?"
He crouched down to schnauzer level to scruff up the erogenous zones behind their ears. "These two don't seem to mind. Now read the pape
r, Quant. Page A5, the local news column." He stood up and headed toward my kitchen. The dogs and I followed.
I figured out pretty early on that to make a go of being a private detective in this city, I needed a contact in the police department. Kirsch is mine. We're still working on figuring out where the line is that we shouldn't cross, and we most definitely are still working on deciding whether we even like one another, but we help each other out when we can. Although I suspect him to be a closet homophobe and he suspects me of suspecting him, it works for us.
By the time I freed the StarPhoenix from its protective packaging, flopped onto a stool at my kitchen island, found the page Darren directed me to and read the news column, he'd managed to find the makings for coffee, set it to perk and let the dogs out the back to enjoy the start of what looked to be another bright, shiny day.
Anthony Bidulka Page 2