Inside, the space was small and cozy. Light filtered through the window and splashed over an unfinished floor. It was little more than a cubbyhole, but one that had been afforded the luxury of a small porthole. The attic beams were drywalled over. It would probably retain heat in winter, at least enough for sleeping. The ceiling wasn’t quite high enough for standing, but sitting wasn’t a problem.
A narrow futon lay across the floor with a single pillow, a sheet, and hand-knitted throw draped over it. A small lamp sat on the floor beside a baggie of cannabis — what was referred to as a private stash. Hardly a drug dealer’s den. Dan recalled the mysterious odour he’d smelled on his first visit. Someone stayed here, no doubt about it.
A child’s school report, pale blue, lay under the window. What he’d called a “scribbler” in grade school. Dan flipped it open to the title page: My Life So Far by Ziggy. Lionel had been right. Dan wondered if the police had discovered the room, but he doubted it. Otherwise, the notebook would have been seized along with Ziggy and his magic bag of tricks.
Dan quickly scanned the pages. It was filled with daily happenings, ranging from April of the previous year right up until a few days ago. It began with an account of how Ziggy came to take up lodgings in the Lockie House, describing his introduction to Yuri at the Saddle and Bridle, and how thrilled he was when Yuri offered him a place to stay. There was no mention of sexual favours or payment in return.
Further along, he wrote about going to clubs and trying to fit in, or how he wanted to be a journalist. Subsequent entries dealt with day-to-day minutiae of the house: Yuri received another shipment of orchids today. They’re worth $10,000 each! Santiago fusses over them like he owns them.
Then Dan turned a page and saw a name he recognized: Small party here tonight. I made it in the bathroom with a lawyer named Charles while his husband was downstairs. He said I looked like Santiago’s younger brother. Amazing how everyone’s in love with Santiago!
So much for the perfect couple routine, Dan thought. He wondered if Lionel was fooled or simply turned a blind eye to his husband’s doings.
Another entry stated: Day 30 of being clean! I am finally through with drugs. I told Yuri and he congratulated me. That was the condition he let me stay here: that I keep off the hard stuff.
Clean. Dan could relate. At twelve, it hadn’t been hard to get alcohol. There’d been plenty around the house and his father never missed it when Dan helped himself. He’d liked the light-headedness that came with a few gulps, the buzz that followed after a few more. He’d gone to school drunk a half-dozen times before he passed out in the locker room and his secret was discovered. Counselling followed, but he insisted it was just a lark, something he did for kicks.
By the time he reached his thirties, it was a habit that followed him and dogged his footsteps like a shadow. His willpower was strong enough that he could control his drinking and function reasonably well at the best of times, but there were other times that weren’t so good. His son had seen it. So had Donny. Together, they helped him walk away from it, like stepping backwards from a car crash one footprint at a time.
Ziggy probably didn’t have a family to shame him into sobriety, but it sounded like he’d had a friend in Yuri Malevski. He found other entries detailing parties, conversations with Yuri, and even small, essay-like pieces on Ziggy’s hopes for the future. Then: I fucked up! I used and Yuri found out. Not sure what he’s going to do. He said I had to leave until I get clean again.
The pages that followed were blank. Dan skipped ahead, around the time Yuri was killed: Finally back in! Stayed with friends while I got clean. I’m through with that shit. Fucking H! It makes me a crazy person. It’s like I don’t even know who I am or what I’m doing when I’m on it. Yuri doesn’t know I’m back yet. Don’t know what he’s going to do when he finds out.
Four days passed before he wrote again. Yuri’s dead. Fuck! I had to wait till the cops stopped coming around. That was a crazy few days. Not sure where I’ll go next. I don’t think they found my room.
He wrote a short passage about death and what it meant. Then a single line at the bottom of the page: If there is no morality, is killing wrong?
Dan took shots of the recent entries and replaced the book exactly as he’d found it. He had Ziggy’s diary, but where was Ziggy? And what happened during those blank four days? He withdrew from the space, closing the panel behind him.
Twelve
The Keening Edge
Dan looked around from the embrace of a rocking chair, taking stock of the home he and Ked occupied. It wasn’t big, but it was cozy and comfortable. Even the backyard, glimpsed through the kitchen window, was an extension of their living space, at least in the temperate months. Compared to others, their lives were the envy of much of the world. They could eat and drink without fear of contagion, travel where they wanted, love and marry whom they chose, educate themselves, take up professions, aspire to public life without fear of assassination, spend or save as much as they could manage, and fall asleep without fear. What must their existence seem like to those outside the tiny bubble in which they lived? An impossible dream? It was difficult even to comprehend such good fortune while standing at the centre of the charmed circle.
Ralph nuzzled his fingers, hinting that a treat would be appreciated, or even a walk should he feel so inclined. Dan and Ralph had long since made peace from their days of mutual antagonism. Dan suspected a good deal of Ralph’s newfound submissiveness had come with age rather than any testosterone reduction resulting from his neutering, which seemed to have little if anything to do with his outward behaviour and passive-aggression toward Dan in particular. Now when there was an accident in the house, Dan knew it was a senior moment on Ralph’s part rather than any youthful rebellion.
Dan had several hours to kill before nightfall. They took a long, leisurely walk, with Ralph stopping to sniff at every opportunity and Dan taking time to reflect on the tranquility of his neighbourhood, still amazed by its growth spurt over the past decade. When he first moved there, Leslieville was in a deplorable state of physical and aesthetic decline. He’d been the first on his block to landscape. The following year, a few tepid attempts by the neighbours showed initiative to at least try to match his. Rotting roofs were replaced, paint splashed on walls. The skinheads at the end of the block moved out and a lesbian couple moved in. But it was a beginning. Now there were trendy cafés, film studios, and even — sign of the times — gelato shops.
After unleashing Ralph, Dan went up to his office and dug out the file on Domingo’s son. His last correspondence on the subject had been more than four years earlier, when he sent out circulars with Lonnie’s photograph. All his queries were returned with nil responses.
Dan reread the file, but nothing came to him. Without a fresh lead, there was simply nothing new to try. He’d have to ask the old questions again, hoping things might have changed on the other end. The Quebec area code was still the best bet.
He sent of a couple of emails and set the pages aside. His mind turned to Santiago Suárez and his recent interview with his girlfriend, if indeed she was his girlfriend.
He called Lionel, giving a rundown of his conversation with Rita St. Angelo.
“So she did exist,” he said.
“Didn’t you believe in her?”
Lionel laughed. “I thought it was just one of those rumours. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. I guess you can fake anything if you try hard enough.”
“She claimed he was with her the entire week Yuri Malevski was murdered. I don’t know if I believe her, but at least he has an alibi.”
Dan described his discovery of Ziggy’s hideaway behind the panelling, but made no mention of the diary or the entry detailing Ziggy’s tryst with Charles.
Lionel was silent for a moment, and then said, “I guess it’s all right to let him stay for now, seeing how he’s been there all along. I’m legally in charge of the house until it’s sold, but I doubt there’s any point in making
him leave.”
“I don’t have any advice to give you on that count,” Dan said.
He hesitated on the next point, Lydia Johnston’s request to be told the names of Dan’s clients. Lionel surprised him by being forthright on that one.
“I spoke with Charles about it and we both agree it’s all right for you to use my name in your conversations with the police investigation, so long as they can guarantee confidentiality. We don’t want them to feel we’re being uncooperative or subversive in any way.”
“Good, that’ll be helpful,” Dan said. “Are you okay with being contacted by them directly, if they request it?”
“As long as you’re confident it’s the right thing, then I have no problems with it.”
“Thanks, Lionel. I appreciate your trust.”
The conversation concluded. Dan was left sitting in the vacuum of his home, contemplating a similar feeling he’d had in Yuri Malevski’s empty mansion.
Afterwards, he called Lydia Johnston and told her his client had reconsidered his request for anonymity.
“The chief was right,” she told him. “He said your client would turn out to be the accountant. My money was on the bar manager.”
“I won’t take any bookie tips from you then,” Dan said.
“Gambling’s not my thing. I only go for sure bets anyway.”
He updated her on Santiago’s girlfriend.
“So you think it likely there wasn’t much in the nature of true romance there?” she asked.
“I’d call that a sure bet,” Dan said.
Downstairs again, Dan heard Ked breeze in and out, stopping long enough to turn down Dan’s offer to make supper. He was on his way to meet his girlfriend, Elizabeth, who had more or less become a permanent fixture in his life. Dan was glad he approved of her; he’d hate for a woman to come between him and his only offspring. He’d heard enough of the sort of tales that divided families to ever let that happen to his.
Ked stood at the door looking guilty. “I’m sorry I won’t be here for supper.”
Dan almost laughed. “Go. Enjoy yourself. My greetings to Elizabeth.”
Ked lit up with a smile. “Okay. I won’t be late.”
Alone again, Dan turned to the kitchen. Cooking for one was high on his list of dreary tasks to avoid. Just one notch above that was eating alone in restaurants. While he wasn’t a fan of cooking for its own sake, he had over the years become a decent hash-slinger with some culinary coaching from the ever-capable Donny. If need be, he could spend a half hour in the kitchen and retreat with a fairly respectable meal for his efforts.
He opened the cupboard, picked out an unopened jar of pesto and a bag of pasta. A plateful of greens scooped from a plastic container did not dampen his enthusiasm for salads, fortunately, as this was the easiest way to balance his diet without a great deal of washing and chopping. In his estimation, food should be fun and not a chore.
While waiting for the water to boil, Dan went to the living room and drew out the final volume of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, which he was diligently making his way through for the second time. Proust’s love life hadn’t been all that successful, Dan knew. Mostly, it had been obsessive and unrequited. As a consolation, he reinvented and endlessly replayed it out in the pages of his massive epic. If he’d lived in the age of television, he probably wouldn’t have written nearly as much.
Dan drained the pasta and poured pesto over it. He ate quickly and without relish, then washed the dishes and put them away. Duty done.
He stopped for a moment and glanced at the cupboard over the fridge. Once it had contained his stash of liquor bottles. Now it held cleaning products. After he resolved to stop drinking, he hadn’t tormented himself by keeping alcohol within reach. While he considered it a battle largely won, he thought it wise not to stock up on temptation.
Whenever he felt the twinges of loneliness, as he did on days like this, it would have been simple to console himself with a drink that could easily turn into a second and a third. Back then, it seldom stopped with one. That was the problem. Not the passing through, as with Jane and Finch, but the stopping and staying.
He picked up his book and read till the light dimmed outside the window. Just as the words on the pages were becoming incomprehensible, he reached overhead and clicked on the reading lamp. Despite his obsessions, Proust was a good companion, equally lost as Dan when it came to love. Dan was pretty sure he’d known the same loneliness, the melancholy of azure skies at twilight. But Proust was dead; Dan was still alive and living his solitariness every day. Maybe Ked was afraid of more than abandoning his father. When it came to alcohol, leaving Dan on his own was not a good option.
Ralph had retired to his bed in the kitchen. He lifted his head and sniffed when Dan came in again, resting his chin on the side of his basket. Dan poured himself a glass of cranberry juice, plunked in several ice cubes till it threatened to overflow, then lifted the drink to Ralph. It looked like a cocktail, but it would taste very different.
“Here’s to independence, Ralphie.”
Ralph sniffed at the air, decided it was nothing he was interested in then let his chin sink back onto the pillow. Dogs were fine companions, Dan thought. And usually they were easier to get along with than humans; they just didn’t have a lot to say. Still, there was his date with Hank to look forward to Friday night.
He eyed his glass of cranberry juice. At least he knew he wouldn’t be waking up sprawled on the sofa, an empty bottle of rye on the floor beside him in the morning. Sometimes not giving in was as good as it got.
Thirteen
Let’s Dance
It was a nice evening, the spring air slightly cool on his skin as Dan arrived at Hank’s condo. He felt a slight trepidation when he realized he couldn’t recall his last date, but the feeling vanished as Hank greeted him with a chaste kiss, dressed in nothing but a towel. Before anything could start, Hank whisked himself off to the bedroom, returning coiffed and neatly dressed in chinos and a crisp navy T-shirt. This time he gave Dan a longer, more intimate kiss.
Dan breathed in Hank’s subtle scent, relishing the minty taste of mouthwash on his lips. Hank pulled back and abruptly left the room again.
“I can’t forget I’m your host as well as your chef,” he called over his shoulder. “Besides — we need to get through the main course before we try the dessert.”
Enticing aromas wafted in from the kitchen. Dan followed and leaned up against the counter. Hank uncorked a bottle of wine, splashed the contents into two glasses, then handed one to Dan.
“To passion,” he said with a wink.
Dan smiled. “To passion and its possibilities.”
“I’m making Peruvian chicken with fennel ragout.” Hank grimaced. “I didn’t ask. Do you object to eating animals?”
“Only if they’re still alive when I eat them.”
“Not a vegetarian then. Good! I hate pandering to other people’s weirdnesses. I’m a complete carnivore myself, but I like to experiment. And not just with food, by the way.” He leaned in and kissed Dan again, pulling back with an intoxicated expression. “I’m tempted to forgo dinner and drag you off to the bedroom right now, but I put a lot of effort into this meal.”
“Then let’s not waste it,” Dan said. “Besides, I came hungry.”
“I promise you will go away fulfilled.” Hank downed his glass and poured a refill. “I did a little asking around about your problem. Although my bosses were not entirely forthcoming, they told me a few things. They tried to laugh it off and make it sound negligible, but I gather they get squeezed regularly. Nothing too outrageous. After all, you don’t want to squeeze the bar owners out of business. You just want to get them into the habit of coughing up when they can.”
“Do you know if anybody ever gets threatened if they don’t make the payments?”
“I think it’s been suggested that it wouldn’t be wise to turn down a request. On the other hand, I don’t think anybody was worried about being kil
led. Just being shut down for a few days.”
“That was my first thought,” Dan said. “As you noted the other day, it’s a win-win situation if everybody plays nice. So why upset the apple cart?”
Hank shook his head. “Ego, maybe. Nobody wants to be told what to do. From what I heard, Yuri could be headstrong. If he decided he didn’t want to play the game then maybe he just opted out and thought to hell with it. He was probably prepared to have his place raided and would have had a good doorman for the weekend crowds — there’s always a million guys waiting to get in and have fun on a weekend. But I doubt he would have expected to be murdered because of it.”
“I agree,” Dan said. “It doesn’t make sense for them to kill him. Why risk a murder investigation?”
Hank shrugged and drained his glass again. He held up the bottle. Dan shook his head. Alcohol, he knew, was like sex. The first kiss was magic, the second sloppy, and then it was all pretty much down to business after that.
Hank smiled indulgently. “Chef’s prerogative. I cook better when I’m drunk. We need to speed you up a bit. Otherwise I’m going to be too far ahead of you.”
“It’s not a race,” Dan said. “You take things at your pace and I’ll go at mine.”
“Ah, you really aren’t a drinker! I was right. We need to loosen you up.”
Dan had no intention of telling this attractive man that he was a former drinker who had faced the abyss only recently. First impressions were better edited with time. In the past two years, it had become a badge of honour to imbibe without overdoing it. He could have a single drink and stop. In good company he allowed himself two, with a long wait between the first and second. Seldom had he advanced to a third. A fourth was out of the question.
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