I seldom call him Darren out loud or hear him refer to himself as Darren. Gosh, I was feeling close to him. "Darren, buddy, it's Russell."
"Insert swear word here," he said, obviously restricted from giving in to baser instincts by the presence of his young son. I had to give him credit, he was getting much better at the pithy retorts.
"Cute kid," I remarked, meaning it. He was, I was pretty sure, a good dad.
His voice softened. "Yeah, he's a pistol that one." Then hardened. "So what do you want?"
"The Pink Gophers, the choral group I asked you to check up on. Did you find anything yet? Any suspicious characters amongst the bunch?"
"All your gophers check out, Quant. None of 'em have more'n a parking ticket."
I heard something more in his voice and decided to push further. "Buuuuuuuuuut....?"
"Well, none of 'em have made trouble but several of 'em have reported trouble to the police over the past six months or so. Nothing serious, just petty disturbances, irritations, crank calls, tires being slashed, that kind of thing."
"More than you'd expect from a random group of people?"
He hesitated then admitted, "Yep." Then he added, "A lot of the complaints came from one person...I don't have the file here at home but it was a woman, Kim something I think."
Kim Pelluchi. One of the two Pink Gophers I'd yet to track down. "One more thing, Kirsch. Just because none of the Pink Gophers currently has a police record, doesn't mean there isn't a rotten apple amongst them, right?"
He grunted in the affirmative.
"Thanks, Kirsch."
"Don't call me at home ever again."
"Why would I?" I promised, without meaning it.
I reached behind the driver's seat for the Saskatoon phonebook I keep there and looked up Kim Pelluchi's number. I had a list of the choir's phone numbers given to me by Jared, but it was at home and I wanted to get back to work on my case immediately, I'd been away from it far too long. I dialled but got no answer. Back into the phonebook I found a number for R. Caplan, which, according to the address, I confirmed belonged to Richie Caplan, the other Pink Gopher I'd yet to talk to.
"Yeah?" came the unexcited-to-hear-from-me answer.
"Hi," I said. "Is this Richie?"
"Nah, he's got a show tonight. I'm his roommate."
Show? "Oh, right, where's that at again?"
"The tent thing, dude. On the river, the Shakespeare thing."
I was guessing the roommate hadn't spent much time reading Shakespeare, but he'd told me enough for me to know what he was talking about. Shakespeare on the Saskatchewan is a summer-long series of presentations of Shakespeare classics-with-a-twist. They've done everything from A Midsummer Night's Dream on a golf course to a punk rock Hamlet, a heavy metal Richard III and King Lear as a business magnate. Over the past twenty years the festival's huge, boldly coloured tents, erected every year upon the banks of the South Saskatchewan River, have become a welcome harbinger of summer in the city.
"Right," I said to the fellow, "and what time does he go on again?"
"Eight or something like that, dude."
"Thanks, dude. Buh bye."
"Uh...buhbye."
To take advantage of the beautiful summer night, I lowered the roof of the Mazda (which involved getting out of the vehicle) then pointed the car in a direction that would take me just out of downtown to the Shakespeare tents. Overlooking the river, the tents have a beautiful spot between the Mendel Art Gallery and the University Bridge. Across the river to the south one can see the sprawling grounds of the RUH and U of S campus, to the north is Spadina Crescent and beyond it, Kinsmen Park with its popular kiddie rides, all just 70 cent: a merry-go-round, Ferris wheel and a CN/CP Rail station with a fully operational miniature six-car train including a black engine and red caboose.
I pulled into a nearby parking lot at 7:50 and, leaving the top down, dashed down a paved pathway to a small, shack-like, A-frame ticket kiosk handily situated just outside the main stage tent. I was in luck, they weren't sold out and in I went. The interior of the big tent was just what you'd expect from such a venue, with bright blue folding chairs set up around three sides of a staging cirea that had been admirably decked out to look like some kind of forest setting. I hadn't even bothered to ask the ticket seller what I was about to see but saw by the program I was given that it was As You Like It, done as a soap opera. Fitting, I thought, as I found my seat and tried to recall a few bits about the play from having read it for a university English class eons ago.
I just had time to check the cast list before the show started. Richie Caplan was listed as one of the major players, portraying Orlando, the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. And it was Richie who first appeared on stage...
"As I remember, Adam," he enunciated mightily to an older man, "it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins my sadness."
And there began my boredom. I've never been a fan of Shakespeare. I've tried. I've read the plays, watched the plays, listened to the plays deconstructed by those more knowledgeable than I am. But whatever it takes to appreciate this, no doubt fine, art form, I do not possess it. So I sat there, intently watching my prey, and, even made up as Orlando, I was certain I'd seen Richie Caplan before. Of course I'd seen his picture in the group shot of the Pink Gophers, of which he was a member, but that was a small photograph and I could, at best, only get a passing sense of what each person looked like. But in real life Richie Caplan looked a lot like...like...damn, who was it?
At intermission I gratefully retreated outdoors for a leg stretch and bum massage (those hard plastic chairs are not meant for long-term sitting). The milling-around area consisted of wooden-slat pathways through combed gravel, several picnic tables and a small, decorative water fountain. I meandered about with other theatre-goers who, judging from snippets overheard as they too walked about, visited the outhouse or headed into the yellow and white striped refreshment tent for a beer or bottled water, were loving the show. So whadda I know?
Along the back edge of the main congregation area was a long narrow trailer, which I guessed was used as a change room/staging area for the actors. On its side was posted the usual theatre stuff: a sponsor wall, welcome signage, details about the theatre company itself and the production, which ran on the alternate nights from As You Like It (an Old West version of Romeo and Juliet). But what caught my eye in particular was the wooden awning over the slat pathway that led into the performance tent. I'd just passed through it, twice in fact, but I only now noticed that it was covered with photos of all the actors and production staff involved in the show. I gently elbowed my way through a small crowd admiring the artfully arranged display and quickly found the 8x10-sans makeup-I was looking for: Richie Caplan. I was right! I did know who he was, or at least where I'd seen him before. Richie Caplan was one of the ruffians who'd attacked me at the Exhibition fairgrounds a few days earlier.
Caught ya!
I sat through the last half of the performance with considerably more interest, not so much in the show but in its star who, as much as I hated to admit it, was a rather talented actor. I hoped he'd be as anxious to do some talking once he was off stage. I couldn't wait to hear how he would explain why a member of the Pink Gophers had followed and attacked me, a detective looking into the death of one of his fellow choir members. Or would he just keep on acting and read me some lines? I'd have to have my bullshit meter set on high.
As soon as Rosalind's epilogue was done, I snuck out of the performance tent and made my way around to the back, listening to the applause as I passed by several serious-looking "No Admittance" and "No Public Access Beyond this Point" signs. By its thunder I guessed the production was getting a standing ovation. The cast's exit corridor, a dirt path running between the tent and a chain-link fence directly to the dressing trailer, was not hard to find (out on a river bank there ain't too many p
laces to go). I stood back against a flap in the tent, in wait for my Orlando/Richie. I didn't have long to wait as the first of the troupe emerged, but in the excitement of it all as the actors left the stage and headed for the changing area, Richie and the others charged right by me, leaving me in the dust of their exhilaration. Gosh, I had to wonder: did I really want to spoil this night for him?
Damn right I did.
So I headed back to the public area and waited. I knew eventually Richie would come out, changed out of his costume, makeup off, ready for a cold drink and warm adoration from the gushing fans awaiting him and the others. In about ten minutes I got my opportunity. I caught up to Richie as he headed for the refreshment tent, a big smile on my face, all innocent looking. "Good show," I offered.
He stopped and turned to me with a goofy grin, "Thanks, I'm glad you liked it."
Richie was sandy-haired, probably twenty-four, with a friendly looking, oval face and a toothy smile. His pale skin showed smudges of makeup where he'd neglected to clean it off, in too much of a hurry to join the rest of the cast and crew in post-show celebration.
"Yeah," I said. "I especially liked the part where you tried to kick my ass behind the Ferris wheel with a bunch of your buddies."
He'd obviously not taken a real good look at me, thinking me just another nameless fan I suppose, but he did now. As he registered my face, he slowly began to back away from me, a frightened look building on his own.
"Shit man, you leave me alone. Get away from me."
I matched each of his steps back with one of my own forward.
"Just stop right there," he warned me off.
"Richie, I just want to talk with you."
"Yeah, I bet. I want you to bugger off, right now man."
By this point, we had made our way, in our weird backwards dance, away from the refreshment tent to near the ticket kiosk.
"Leave me be," he ordered, slipping on a bit of loose gravel.
"I just want to talk. Is there somewhere we can go?"
That's when he whipped around and took off, racing by the ticket booth and out the entrance gate at such speed he seemed to be a blur. I took that as a no and zoomed after him.
Richie flew by the powder blue porta-potty building and up the paved road into the parking lot. It was dark out now, but as he weaved his way through the parked cars I was able to keep an eye on him in the beams of the headlights of departing theatregoers. Did any of them recognize him as "Orlando" and wonder why he was being chased and if perhaps they'd mistakenly left before the final act was over?
The way to the street was up a slight incline, which I hoped would slow Richie's pace, but he seemed to be in pretty good shape and set on making a clean getaway. When he reached Spadina Avenue he caught some luck with a break in traffic and sprinted across the two-lane road directly into Kinsmen Park. Did he have a car waiting for him somewhere? Should I go back for the Mazda? Unfortunately I only had a few seconds to consider my options while I waited for traffic to clear before I could follow him. I decided to keep at it on foot. If I went back for the Mazda, I'd surely lose him for good, at least this way I had a chance.
By the time I got across Spadina I had temporarily lost sight of my quarry. I scanned all directions, my eyes doing their bit to adjust to the dark. Finally I spied a figure moving swiftly over the grassy field to my right. It had to be him; he was making for Queen Street. I took after him like a wolf on a rabbit. I didn't have time to think about why he was running, why he was so scared of me, but I did note that Mr. Thespian wasn't nearly so brave now that he didn't have his buddies around to help rough me up.
At first, despite the lack of lighting in the park (I guess city authorities didn't want to encourage late-night traipsing around), the going was fairly easy. Nothing lasts forever, I reminded myself as I fell, slipped, hit my head on a rock and rolled down a gulley. Suddenly the terrain had turned treacherous. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. Where was he? Where was I? With no lighting, ambient or otherwise, I couldn't make out where I was (except for the bottom of the gulley thing), but I could most definitely make out that something was climbing up my leg-something wet and cold. I made tracks scrambling out of the gulley that I now knew was filled with about two inches of water, sludge and unidentifiable creatures. Lovely. Out of instinct I ran to the right, following the gulley bed toward Spadina, thinking Richie might have circled back to the road. Instead of the road, I found myself confronted by a creepy-looking bridge spanning the crud-filled gulley, not unlike the one from Three Billy Goats Gruff. Somewhere along the way had I fallen through Alice's looking glass or been transported to the land of Oz? Was this still Saskatoon? Was there a troll under that bridge?
A shuffling noise behind me got my attention. I searched the area, barely able to make out the trees for the dark forest that lined that side of the gulley, but I was sure someone was there (which was okay because I was happy to have an excuse to leave behind that scary-ass bridge). I found a dirt path that led into the trees and tried to bully from my mind that song from Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and her companions are on the Yellow Brick Road (...we're off to see the Wizard...) This just wasn't the time, and really, I was more about wanting a pair of ruby red shoes to get me back home.
There was definitely someone in front of me, making their furtive way through the trees. I kept going until my foot caught the edge of something hard and I fell to the ground for a second time, scraping my right knee. I swore under my breath. When I pulled myself up I saw that what I had tripped over was the jagged edge where the dirt path abruptly turned into pavement. Jolly good. Now I'm sure this so-called park is a very picturesque and charming and lovely place to be-in the daylight-but not so much during a high-speed foot race at night. In an attempt to regain my bearings and catch a good sighting of my pursuee, I scanned the area surrounding me (mostly differing shades of black.) Where'd he go; where'd he go?
I swatted at a small swarm of mosquitoes who'd decided to perform an impromptu blood donor drive on my neck and became aware that, other than the whirring of the pesky insects, it had grown eerily quiet. I heard no footfalls nor other obvious signs of Richie, or anyone else for that matter. I crept forward along the paved path, searching the unfamiliar landscape for any clue. Eventually, again not unlike Dorothy on that yellow brick road of hers, I came to a fork in the road. Super.
Directly ahead of me, between the two paths and near some rather scraggly looking pine trees, I could just barely make out the silhouette of a small log building with a decrepit stone chimney propping up one end. Against it was the black blob of a lone figure, standing very still, perhaps hoping not to be seen. I pulled myself behind a nearby obliging ash tree. It had to be Richie. Had he seen me? I watched the blob for a while, waiting for him to move or make a run for it. He did neither.
I lowered myself to a crouching position and began a closer study of the area. At best, I was hoping to find a way to sneak up behind Richie, to catch him unaware, but I soon concluded it would be difficult, even in the thickness of night, to sketch out a route I might follow and still remain undetected. I considered a nearby clump of trees to my left and wondered whether or not I could make it from here to there without being spotted. Instead I noticed something else. There was something moving in those trees. My eyes strained to see what my brain was trying to convince me was there. I was finally able to discern the black-on-grey shapes of at least two people. Then I heard a noise. My eyes whipped to the right. There, next to a huge rock, was another person. And over by a collection of maple bushes-another one! My face felt hot as my brain screamed a taunting warning: You're surrounded, sucker!
Chapter 15
How had Richie Caplan managed it? He couldn't have known I would be at the show tonight. Or could he? Had his roommate figured it out somehow and warned him? Nevertheless there we were, Richie and I, along with his posse of rapscallions ready to have a second go at me. Including Richie there were five of them this time: Richie by the log cabin in f
ront of me, two more in a clump of bushes to my left, one behind a rock on my right, and another further off in a maple grove. What to do? I swatted at another mosquito and rubbed the spot to stop the itching as I considered my options: fight or flight?
There's the big-ol'-jock-dummy part of me that always hollers: "Fight, you wus!" and the big-ol'-wus part of me that yells back, "Catch me if you can!" I couldn't be sure whether any of these guys had spotted me yet. If not, then I had one more option available to me: do nothing. I could sit there, clinging to a tree, and wait them out. Sooner or later they'd get tired of waiting for me and head off for their lairs or dens or wherever badasses live.
Another mosquito bite, at the ankle bone this time where it'll itch forever. That did it! I wasn't going to sit there like some kind of blood buffet.
I began with another scan of the facts. By this time, my eyes had adjusted nicely to the dark and I could see the figures a little more clearly. The guy by the log building wasn't moving, but the two guys in the clump of bushes to my left certainly were-back and forth, back and forth, back and...hey...wait a sec...what the hell is going on here? I recognize that! It appeared that Richie's hoodlums were, yup, they were having sex.
Anthony Bidulka Page 22