by Glenn Muller
“I went with my sister. She goes to Mohawk College. It was actually off-campus in some sort of mansion. There was a punk band playing in the basement.” Brandon paused in his narration to make a left turn. “The band was pretty good but the party was kind of weird.”
“How so?”
I think a bunch of people were on drugs—actually I know they were. Do you know what a zebra is?”
“Looks like a horse with black and white stripes,” said Fenn.
“This guy had a patch stuck on his shoulder, it had stripes. He called it a zebra. Said it was the best way to get high, and he was pretty high but he was also doing shots of Tequila.”
“Did you try any?”
Brandon shook his head. “No way. I only had beer.”
Fenn let it pass that Brandon was only seventeen. Been there and done that.
“There were also these two chics who kept disappearing upstairs with different guys. By the end of the night they just stayed up there and this line of guys formed outside one of the bedrooms.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” said Fenn. “Let’s change lanes for that cyclist ahead.” Brandon checked his blind spot and moved over.
“So how long did you stay at the party?”
“We left just after midnight. Things started getting out of hand. A television got busted and the guy with the patch started puking behind a sofa. One of the jocks from upstairs started hitting on my sister so she decided it was time to go.”
“How did you get home?”
“Well my sister was pretty bombed, and since I’d only drank six beers we decided I would drive.”
“Six beers. And you with a learner’s permit.”
Brandon started to smile. “Hey, I can drive as long as I have someone licenced with me, although she was passed out in the back seat.”
“Uh-huh,” said Fenn. “Now I really think you’re pulling my leg.” They both laughed then Brandon said, “My sister is in residence just a couple of blocks from where the party was. We walked there. Well, I walked, she kind of staggered back but we made it.”
“So what was that patch called?”
“A zebra.”
“And you know to stay away from crap like that.”
“I do.”
“I like your style, kid. Now find us a victim and we’ll parallel park.”
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, October 15th
Durrell was ready. He was more than ready. It had been three days since he’d bedded Little Red Ringlets, and he’d been hoping to do so again for the last two.
Problem was, she’d flown away. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t come back to knock on his door. Hadn’t left her number or even her full name. All she’d left were carnal memories that had haunted his thoughts as he walked the halls of Simedyne late at night. Memories that kept his clock ticking but the pendulum swung wildly between hope and frustration.
He emptied his coffee mug into the sink and opened the refrigerator door. There they were. Two bottles of white wine. Two bottles of proof she’d hung him out to dry. He shut the door and they rattled together.
Women!
The evening news was wrapping up which meant it was nearly ten-thirty. Time to put on his boots and head off to work. The running water that rinsed his mug drowned out the first ring of the phone. But not the second.
He sock-skated on the hardwood floor into the living room, drying his hands on his pants before picking up the handset.
“Hello?”
“Marty? Hi. It’s me!”
“Me who?” like, women always called this number late at night. Isn’t that why he worked the late shift, to get some peace?
“It’s Brenda. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. I sure haven’t.”
Durrell silently pumped his fist.
“Of course I haven’t. You’re all I’ve thought about!”
“Yeah. Me too. You, I mean.” Her giggles were like chimes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner.”
“No problem,” he said but wanted to add ‘just get your ass over here.’
“I had to go out of town for work.”
“Okay, So, what are you doing now?” A casual question. Stay cool.
“Getting ready for bed. I just got back an hour ago, and I’m exhausted.” She actually did sound tired.
“Bedtime, eh.” He tried to invoke a mood of passion. “And may I ask what you are wearing?”
“Well,” her voice was soft. “It’s red. It’s lacy. And, oh, it just came off.”
His lips were suddenly dry. “Then I have a suggestion.” He swallowed but couldn’t keep the huskiness from his voice. “You really shouldn’t be alone in such a vulnerable state. Perhaps I should come over.”
The pause was almost deafening as his ears strained for her response.
“As good as that sounds, Marty, I really am worn out. However, my girlfriend has loaned me her cottage for the weekend. I was hoping you could call in sick tomorrow and we could spend the next couple of days, and nights, together.”
What was this? A cottage, chilled wine, and three whole days to do the things he couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Sure!” His throat was so tight he could hardly answer.
“What?”
“Sorry. I said, sure. When? What time?”
“If I pick you up about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, that should give you plenty of time to rest up.”
Rest up. Right on.
“And,” she added, “maybe there’ll be time for a quickie before we hit the road.” Now she was sounding throaty.
“Hey, if you can fit me in,” he said suggestively. “I can certainly fit you in.”
There was another giggle and she rang off. Durrell reluctantly cradled the set, though now glad it was time for his shift. With his imagination locked in overdrive sleep would have been out of the question.
He calculated the timeframe. Sixteen hours. Eight for work. One for the commute. Maybe another hour to acquire an ounce of weed and a bottle of Drambuie. That left six whole hours for sleep.
For a date with an angel that was more than enough.
CHAPTER 10
Friday, October 16th
“So, do you want to know Dieter’s secret?” Asha asked when Fenn made his morning call from home.
He laughed. “What took you so long?”
“What do you mean?”
“It never used to take four days to get the scoop. You must be losing your touch?”
“I am not. It’s just that Dieter’s been milking this for all it’s worth. I finally ran out of patience and got Carole to spill the beans.”
“No surprise, there,” said Fenn, more occupied with updating his client files. “So let’s have it.”
“Well, the cop that was in the other day was interested in Ron Jenner.”
“Ron? Why?”
“He didn’t say why he was interested, only that the police needed some background information; you know, how long he’d worked for DriveCheck, what his hours were, stuff like that.”
“Pretty standard. Is that it?” Fenn continued to organize his appointments.
“Nope. Remember we thought he’d inherited his family’s recycling business. Turns out that wasn’t quite the story. He’s actually working for a funeral home, that big place on Walker’s line.”
“Harrowport & Dynes?”
“Yeah. What he really said was that he was going into the family recycling business; burials. Get it!”
“Jenner has a weird sense of humour.”
“Most jerks do. At least the ones I’ve dated.”
“We’ve never dated, have we?”
“Your sense of humour is dry, Chas, not weird. Might be a nice change—maybe I should try it sometime.” Asha let that hang. So did Fenn. Once, in conversation about other people, they had agreed that an office romance was a great way to ruin a good friendship. Occasionally, though, their flirting skimmed close to true feeling. Fenn steered back to less fertile ground.
“’Fraid not. Things are pretty quiet around here. I’m playing solitaire on the computer as we speak.”
“So what is the dynamic duo up to?”
“Not much. Sonny went out somewhere, and Cher is in her office with the door closed. Probably napping. She looked pretty bagged when she came in this morning.”
She paused. “Just a sec.”
Fenn heard some murmurings then Asha came back. “Looks like I spoke too soon. Her Highness wants to talk to you.”
Fenn didn’t have the chance to make a discreet disconnect.
“Chas! How are you this morning?”
“Just peachy, Carole. And, you?”
“Listen Chas. About this instructor’s union thing; Dieter knows he can’t negotiate directly so he wants me to ask if you’d look over his remuneration package.”
Fenn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Some days, Dieter’s way of thinking gave a whole new meaning to fuzzy logic.
“Why me, in particular?”
“Well it’s obvious, isn’t it Chas. You’re our most senior instructor, and the others respect you. Why don’t you talk them out of this certification nonsense like a good chappy, and we’ll see that something nice comes your way.”
He closed the binder and sank back in his chair. In general, driving instructors are an easy-going group of people—those that aren’t tend to burn out quickly. Dieter and Carole often mistook this amiability for malleability, but whatever they thought of Fenn, he was not one to put himself above his colleagues.
“Tell you what, Carole, if Dieter’s new package improves on his last offering then put it in an envelope and mail it to me. I’ll run it past a few of the others, discreetly, but I won’t peddle any influence.”
“Fine. By the way, I’ve got a couple of new client files and can’t decide who to give them to.”
Fenn wasn’t about to play that game, either.
“I’m sure Asha can find an empty spot in someone’s schedule. Anything else?”
“No. I think we’re done.” Carole hung up.
“And you have a nice day, too.” Fenn replaced the handset in the cradle and rubbed his eyes.
He spent a few minutes tidying his apartment just in case tonight was not like all the other nights. He put compact discs back in their cases; Springsteen, Tragically Hip, Sting, emptied the garbage cans and straightened up the bed.
Mogg, his large grey Persian cat, followed him around. The whole time he had been on the phone Mogg had sat on the desk sweeping pencils and paperclips to the floor with her tail. It was her way of saying ‘Feed me, you fool!’ Finally he did.
As he closed the refrigerator, Fenn made a mental note to buy eggs for an omelette. The Vietnamese couple were booked for lessons today, and he hadn’t used up the mushrooms from last time.
“Guard the house, Mogg,” he ordered as he left.
As if.
At the first sign of trouble she’d be under the bed.
CHAPTER 11
Tuesday, October 20th
The stairwell echoed, as stairwells do, with the scuff of leather soles on cement steps. The repetitive sound triggered images in Svoljsak’s mind of a ride taken years ago aboard a Peruvian prison train. He pulled deeply on his cigarette remembering the bitter taste of the ones he had shared in a cramped, fetid, boxcar as it was pulled higher into the Andes by a labouring steam engine.
Chuff. Chuff. Chuff.
The images merged into a cohesive memory. One of mountain passes, revolution, and corruption. He expelled the smoke and started up the next flight.
Hustlers, rustlers, and every other type of opportunist have been drawn to the natural resources of Central and South America ever since Hernán Cortés plundered the Aztec Empire in 1520. The attraction for Stanislaw Svoljsak had been the drugs.
Born in Warsaw, Poland, and raised in Point-St-Charles, one of Montreal’s poorest neighbourhoods, Svoljsak’s environment had never fostered trust or respect with regard to authority. His father’s heavy-handed guidance did little more than temporarily push him off the street into a fight club, and like many young males in that demographic he found that gangs were a means to an end and boosting a car was how you got around town.
Ten years of small time extortion, truck hijacks, and break-ins had kept him solvent. It had even supported a wife and baby for the eighteen months they stayed together. It was a life, that was all, and Svoljsak had harboured loftier aspirations.
It was the week after his thirtieth birthday that he made a five thousand mile lunge for the elusive brass ring. The plan was to supply South American cocaine to the overpaid toxicomanes of Montreal, and it started with a flight to Jorge Chávez International Airport in Lima, Peru.
From the initial vantage point of a bar stool in Quebec, it was hard to see that his scheme would fair no better than the ice in his whisky glass. Peruvian networks run through governments to every corner of the planet, and cartel gatekeepers have little use for gringos that try to splash in their pond. His clumsy efforts only managed to net a couple of minor-league contacts, and he would soon find that trolling for a top predator and actually reeling one in are two different things. In their world Svoljsak was a guppy, a small fish with a big mouth, so they used him for bait.
On a sleepy Tuesday afternoon the Policia burst into his apartment above the jewellery shop and practically plucked him off the jeweller’s wife. She screamed and they laughed. Then they beat Svoljsak in the kidneys with truncheons. A narcotics dog found a quarter kilo of high-grade heroin taped to the bottom of his bed frame. It was a blatant plant, as he had yet to make a score of his own, but the evidence was damning and Peru is not the place to be convicted of drug trafficking.
His trial got fast-tracked and the sentence of fifteen years hard labour, and unmentioned deprivation and torture, was essentially a writ for a slow and painful execution. He had only to look about the cattle car of the prison train to see confirmation etched on every face swaying with the rhythm of the narrow gauge rails.
Chuff. Chuff. Chuff.
The nightmare of Yanamayo, the high-altitude prison near Lake Titicaca, was but a few hours distant when an unexpected pardon arrived, courtesy of the Moviemiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru.
The MRTA were a Cuban-based rebel group waging a war of insurrection against the Peruvian government. Their explosive ambush blew the ancient locomotive off the tracks and killed the guards in a short exchange of gunfire. Organized and efficient, part of the attacking party liberated those prisoners significant to their cause while others ransacked the supply car. They occupied the site just long enough to complete the mission then, like the smoke from their powder, dispersed without a trace.
In the ensuing silence, shock quickly gave way to a communal surge for survival. Left with the sentry’s keys the remaining prisoners frantically disposed of their shackles. Two unfortunates had been caught in the crossfire. They could not be buried in the barren terrain but their fetters were removed and Last Rites hastily given. The dead guards were kicked, spat on, and relieved of their boots. Finally, the train was searched for anything of value though little had been left by the rebels.
Those with some sense of the geography estimated they were on a plateau midway between Arequipa and the ridge junction of Juliaca. At ten thousand feet above sea level, the wind sliced through cotton like a razor and ravaged exposed flesh like a wolf. A more immediate problem for the lowlanders was altitude sickness brought on by the lower oxygen density. The nausea and disorientation that Svoljsak felt were the first symptoms.
Limited options made their plan of action an easy decision. The escape route for most of them was downhill towards the coast, and the easiest most direct path was back along the rail line. The prisoner that Svoljsak had shared cigarettes with returned the favour and motioned for him to follow. For the immediate time it was a good way to cover distance but Svoljsak soon surmised that
every mile spent on the tracks increased the risk of recapture and, after a while, he’d suggested cutting off onto one of the intersecting paths.
Before long the sun dropped and they were in shadow, and then near-total darkness. Without cloud cover and only a thin layer of atmosphere above the temperature dropped rapidly, but the stars were multitudinous and so bright that the fugitives could continue to pick their way along the mountain trails. Svoljsak had lost track of time when his companion finally led him into a small settlement of huts. They were met with wary silence from the few men that stood in the doorways. The villagers were only mistrustful, though, not hostile.
Since the MRTA, or the larger and more sinister Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path), conscripted support from the highlanders with intimidation and displays of cruelty, and Government crackdowns with closed-door trials also swept many an innocent into tortuous incarceration, there was fear and hatred of both President Fujimori’s regime and the violent groups that opposed him.
Fugitives from one were often fugitives from the other, and the mountainfolk had a particular empathy for those out on the fringe. With a few words, Svoljsak’s companion was able to arrange for some food and shelter for the night.
The simple meal of puchero de garbanzos y arepas, chickpea casserole and corn bread, did much to restore ‘the gringo and his guide’ as did a few shivering hours of restless sleep at the lower elevation. They set off again when it was just light enough to see their breath. They walked the winding mountain paths in single-file, without talking, stopping occasionally to listen or reconnoiter from cover when open terrain had to be crossed.
Attempts by the militia to round up the fugitives were half-hearted at best. The occasional low-flying aircraft appeared to be the only visible threat and with each downward step Svoljsak’s hope for freedom rose. Soon the paths became roads and other travelers more frequent. By the following afternoon the pair were able to assume the mantle of locals going about their business. To his credit, Svoljsak’s guide waited until they’d skirted Arequipa—also a prison town—to decide his tobacco debt had been paid in full.