The God Game

by Jeffrey Round

  Officially, Nick and Dan did not live together, though that was set to change with the marriage. Till then they were owners of two residences, one a spacious condo on Toronto’s coveted waterfront and the other a modest-size home in newly chic Leslieville. When Dan bought the house, it had been advertised as “two bedrooms plus den with basic backyard,” though in reality the latter turned out to be a veritable wilderness. At the time, Leslieville had been anything but fashionable, scorned by both hipsters and yuppies alike as an unremarkable lower-class pocket sandwiched between the Beach and genteel Riverdale. The yard reflected the city’s neglect. It consisted of a tottering wire fence enclosing a plot of weeds nearly four feet high. Dan cut the grass, built a deck, and erected a winding rock wall to shore up the flower beds before adding a pond in the far corner. High hopes. The pond’s goldfish supply was repeatedly plundered by marauding raccoons. An exploratory pair of turtles suffered the same fate, as did the half-dozen piranha Dan bought to nip some sense into the pesky thieves. While rats and cockroaches ruled the rest of the world, Toronto was lorded over by its well-fed Procyons.

  A few indigenous plants made a strong showing the first season: rhubarb and wild roses, even garlic sprang seemingly out of nowhere. Later, Dan introduced cultivated roses and miniature lilacs. Tulips, daffodils, crocuses, and trillium soon reared their heads alongside everything else. Before long, he’d established a backyard sanctuary that was frequented by a variety of birds and insects, as well as the occasional skunk and fox.

  The house, too, had been in a questionable state when he moved in, but it soon sported new doors and windows and a new roof. Dilapidated hardwood floors walked on by the house’s original inhabitants a hundred years earlier were soon refinished, while the fireplace, sealed for decades but now newly refurbished, took pride of place in the living room where he now stood.

  Dan stroked the lid of a decorative box perched on the mantel, sliding it open to a trove of snapshots. His cousin Leyla at ten, tomboy bangs and a grin, lay on top. She’d been like a sister to him. Next came Aunt Marge, his substitute mother, jolly and robust like the good wife from a fairy tale. From her he’d learned love and compassion. Dan’s real mother, Christine, had died when he was four. Her image lay further down. He knew where to find it if he wanted to. Those were the older photos. There were newer additions, many recent: shots of Dan and Nick together, of Ked right before he left for university, and of Ked’s mother, Kendra, a Syrian-born immigrant who had crossed Dan’s romantic horizon briefly, though neither had been contemplating parenthood at the time.

  Some of the pictures were pleasant reminders, others bittersweet. His long-time friend Domingo, who’d died of a recurring cancer, smiled up alongside Dan’s best friend, Donny, and Donny’s own bit of domestic bliss, the charming Prabin. They were his Found Family, though sometimes they felt more like a Lost and Found, these disparate bits and pieces of his life. Dan wasn’t given to sentiment, but all of them held meaning. His wedding photos would one day find a place alongside the others.

  There were no photographs of his father. Stuart Sharp had been a brutal man given to harsh words, black moods, and, when his son displeased him, a quick swing of the hand. The latter hadn’t happened often, if only because Dan learned early to stay out of his way, but on at least one occasion the drunken Stuart had slammed his son into a doorframe, giving Dan a lasting scar on his temple, a lightning bolt that was a permanent reminder of his father. Dan didn’t need photos for that.

  In truth, he felt he’d long since made peace with his father’s memory, coming to understand him as a frustrated and bitter man constrained by a lifetime of crushing labour in the mines, with few joys outside. He’d had little to give to others once his wife died and left him to raise a son who felt more fear for his father than any other emotion he could readily name.

  It had been a hard life in a city of rock. Sudbury: the nickel capital of the world. A rough place for rough people. Dan remembered a classmate, Pelka, whose father had drunk battery acid in a failed attempt to kill himself, and a shy, fatherless boy named Rex whom Dan had claimed hopefully as his best friend for a single semester before Rex and his itinerant mother moved on again for parts unknown. Another girl, Shirley, always had a boy’s haircut and wore blue jeans. She came to school looking alternately frightened and angry. No one spoke about these things. Dan had made the best of things while he lived there, knowing nothing else, then put it behind him when he moved away and somehow, inexplicably, wound up a father in the largest city in the country at age twenty-four. Over time, parenthood had proved the dividing line between the largely deserted shores of his past and the well-populated shores of his present.

  An additional marker was reached when Kedrick left for university, a day Dan had long known was coming but still felt strangely unprepared for when it arrived. Ked’s upcoming graduation would be the first time they’d seen each other in more than six months. And soon Dan himself would be facing yet another landmark: marriage to Nick. He hoped it suited them both.

  From upstairs came the sound of heartily shouted song lyrics under the shower’s stream. It was like having a teenager in the house again, Dan thought. After nearly two years, the ups had well outnumbered the downs of their relationship. Even their sex life had turned numerous corners, and it was still alive and well. A good sign for two men verging on middle age.

  They slept together when Nick wasn’t on the late shift and ate meals together when he was. Now all Dan had to do was make sure he didn’t get fat and lazy. Nights spent in front of the fire with Nick seemed filled with all the bliss in the world. All that he needed, anyway.

  Weekends, Dan felt no desire to stray from the idylls of his backyard, lounging beside the moss-covered wall beneath the locust tree and imagining the long-vanished snapping of goldfish foraging for food in the empty pond. Was there anything better?

  The thump-thump-thump of footsteps announced Nick’s arrival as he came downstairs wrapped in a towel, sleek and glistening from the shower and suitably hirsute. Without a regular trim, his chest would sport a full-frontal rug. He kissed Dan on the top of his head, then ­disappeared into the kitchen, humming to himself before returning with a tray of drinks like an exceptionally polished waiter, minus the tux.

  “Lounging again, your majesty? May I offer you a cranberry cordial?”

  Dan took up a glass, admiring Nick’s torso. It made life easy when your partner had a certain physical appeal, but Dan was sure he’d still be in love with this man when he was eighty, should they both live so long.

  “I could do with an appetizer,” he said with a wink. “Something hot and spicy.”

  “All in good time, sire,” Nick said. “Supper’s in ten minutes. Let’s not ruin your appetite.”

  With a quick bow he ran back upstairs to dress, leaving Dan to ponder his luck at having snagged the perfect partner. Nick had come to Canada from Macedonia as a teenager. In his twenties he’d picked up a wife briefly before deciding it wasn’t a life he was suited to. Before they could fight over the much-loved son their union had produced, the child died, precipitating a decade of alcoholic abuse on Nick’s part.

  By then Nick had grown accustomed to Canada’s rights and freedoms, including the right to determine one’s own sexual behaviour, and came out. As if to make up for the ease of choice, however, the following year he entered a rock-solid bastion of homophobia — the police department. It had been hard at times, and it meant keeping his private life private, but he’d survived. Then came Dan.

  Nick returned now, fully dressed. Dan let him in on the day’s news. Crisis one: he was being evicted from his office space. Crisis two: they needed to find another caterer for the wedding. Nick shrugged off both of these.

  “If we start looking now, we can find you something suitable at a good rate in the next couple of months.”

  Dan was inclined to be gloomy. “Have you looked at rental rates lately? I c
ould end up in some godforsaken neighbourhood on the far end of town trying to match the price I pay now.”

  “Then I’ll provide you with a police escort every morning. As for the other …” He glanced over Dan’s shoulder toward the kitchen. “Maybe I can put the menu together myself.”

  “I suspect you’ll be too busy on the day in question to be producing a gourmet meal. In the meantime, I’ve come into a bit of unexpected revenue, so perhaps we can afford a little more than I thought.”

  “Lucky day at the races?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I got a new case. That’s assuming I want it.”

  Nick cocked his head. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “Because it came with a very heavy cash retainer in a brown envelope. Ten thousand dollars heavy, to be precise.”

  Nick whistled. “You think it’s gangster money?”

  “Close. It’s political money. Ever hear of a guy called Peter Hansen?”

  “Sounds familiar. Didn’t he run for a seat at Queen’s Park a while back?”

  “He did, but he didn’t make it. Now he’s special assistant to the educational reforms minister. He’s gay and his husband has disappeared. Gambling debts, from the sounds of it. But he wants it kept out of the media. Apparently the legislature has had its share of scandal lately. An opposition critic committed suicide at Christmas.”

  Nick’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, I remember. He hung himself in the ravine.”

  “Not quite. You’re hung. He was hanged. There’s a difference.”

  Nick tried to suppress his smile. “Okay, Mr. Pedant. But it’s a given — where there are politics, there are scandals.” He paused. “Any connection between the suicide and the missing husband?”

  “Nothing I can see. Tony Moran isn’t in politics, just married to it. The suicide was cooking some books, by the sounds of it.”

  Nick shrugged. “It’s always the Conservatives who get greedy when they’re in power. The Liberals are egotists who make a mess of things because they think they know better, and the New Democrats are a bunch of flakey do-gooders.”

  Dan laughed. “Well, that pretty much covers the board. Between the crooks and the flakey do-gooders, I guess there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

  “Don’t underestimate the Green Party. The future is green, I always say.”

  Dan shook his head. “You’re a very funny policeman, Officer Trposki.”

  “The way I figure it, as long as I can make you laugh you’ll stick around for the wedding. After that, it’ll be too late to change your mind.” Nick glanced toward the kitchen. “Supper’s ready. Let’s eat.”

  They had just sat down when the hall phone rang. Dan stood to answer it.

  Nick gave him a warning look. “Don’t be long.”

  “I promise.” Dan picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  There was a brief silence, then a man’s voice said, “Is this Dan Sharp?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Sharp, I understand you’re working for Peter Hansen to find his husband, Tony.”

  Dan’s mind went on the alert. “Who’s calling?”

  The man’s name meant nothing to him. The caller continued. “Peter Hansen gave me your number. He said I could talk to you about the case. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

  “I do mind. If you want to know anything then ask Peter Hansen.”

  He hung up, fuming. First Hansen had showed up unannounced at his office, tossing money around while demanding discretion, and now he felt free to give out Dan’s private number to someone Dan had never heard of. Peter Hansen had all the makings of a nightmare client.

  Three

  Humpty Dumpty

  Dinner over, Dan cleared the plates and brought them to the kitchen. To the consternation of nearly everyone he knew, he did not own an automatic dishwasher. And because he had no dishwasher, the person who ended up washing dishes was usually him. That was the accepted arrangement when he and Nick ate together: chef gets to relax after the meal. Donny and numerous other well-meaning friends had tried over the years to convince him that modern technology had its merits, but Dan merely scoffed.

  “For one thing,” he’d say, “I don’t trust a machine to do as good a job as I can. For another, I like washing dishes. It relaxes me to submerge my hands in the soapy water and get scrubbing. It’s my happy space.”

  These statements usually elicited a few gasps, especially among a sophisticated downtown crowd. Sometimes there were murmurings of sympathetic understanding, but usually not.

  “You’re more than welcome to it,” Nick told him, after offering to buy a dishwasher and being turned down flat.

  More often than not, Nick sat at the table and nursed a coffee while Dan washed up, rather than rushing off to read or lounge in front of the television. Completely comfortable in each other’s presence, they were seldom apart during their off hours. Anyone seeing them might suspect there was an invisible force constantly pulling them together.

  Dan finished the dishes, then followed Nick into the living room. He plunked himself down on the sofa and grabbed the TV remote.

  “News?” he asked.

  Nick grumped. “Why? It’s always bad. I get enough of that at work. In fact, I can tell you the news without even turning on the TV: somewhere there will be wars, somewhere else a natural disaster, while closer to home we’ll have a suspicious fire and a car accident that tied up rush-hour traffic.”

  “You forgot politics,” Dan added.

  “Yes, I did. On purpose.”

  “You are one of the few people I can truly say is more curmudgeonly than me.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Dan aimed the remote. “Let’s brave it anyway.”

  They sat through the commercials with the sound muted until the news began. As Nick predicted, there was coverage of fighting in Africa and the Middle East, with an earnest detailing of the collapse of last-minute peace talks. The World Health Organization reported an outbreak of Ebola in West Africa. Disaster was the through-line, distressing despite its seeming remoteness. Only the local news featured a bright spot, with mention of a donation to SickKids hospital.

  Dan was about to turn it off when a shot of Peter Hansen and Tony Moran appeared onscreen as the anchor’s disembodied voice stated that the husband of the special assistant to the educational reforms minister had been declared missing. A former candidate for the legislature, Hansen had hired a private investigator. Dan felt a jolt when he heard his name cited. The anchor closed by saying that both Peter and Dan had declined to comment on the case.

  Nick’s hand stole over and gripped Dan’s thigh.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “No,” Dan said grimly. “So much for my client’s request for discretion.”

  Just then his cellphone rang.

  Dan looked at Nick. “What are the chances?”

  He picked up and heard Peter Hansen’s gruff tone.

  “Why did I just hear my name and yours on the evening news?” Hansen demanded. “What is this? Some kind of publicity grab? I told you I didn’t want this getting out.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t contact the press,” Dan said. “Someone called me to ask about the case. He said you gave him my number. I didn’t tell him anything.”

  “Who was it?”

  Dan repeated the name he’d been given.

  “Never heard of him,” Hansen growled. “Those fucking barracudas!”

  “Who?”

  “The political reporters. They must have followed me to your office, or else they’re hacking my email.”

  “We haven’t had an email exchange.”

  Peter snorted. “My phone, then. Who knows how they get this stuff!”

  “I would advise caution from now on. Let’s talk directly in person when we speak about it.”
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  “A little late for that!” Hansen rounded off his conversation with a few well-placed expletives. “Sorry. Not professional of me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Please just find Tony.”

  “I will,” Dan assured him.

  He’d just put the phone down when it rang again.

  “Sharp.”

  There was a short pause followed by a tenor voice asking, “Could I get a comment on the Peter Hansen situation?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Simon Bradley. I’m a journalist. I cover local politics.”

  The name rang a bell, Dan thought, but from long ago. This voice sounded too young.

  Bradley continued. “I’d like to ask a few questions about Tony Moran. I might be able to tell you something in return.”

  “Such as?”

  Dan heard cars whizzing past on the other end, a busy highway.

  “John Badger Wilkens. The Queen’s Park minister who committed suicide at Christmas.”

  “Why would I want information on him?”

  “I’ll explain, if you meet me.”

  Dan looked over at Nick, who had busied himself with a magazine.

  “When?”

  “I’m just heading back into town. Say half an hour?”

  Vesta Lunch had been open on the corner of Bathurst and Dupont, night and day, for as long as Dan had lived in Toronto. It never closed and never seemed to change. Not the servers, not the clientele, not the menu. As greasy spoons went, it was one of the best. Late-night comfort food for the lonesome and early-morning remedies for the hungover. Even an emergency shelter in a snowstorm, if need be. No matter how far your fall from grace, it was a place to hang your hat and call home.