DAVID A. LLOYD
for a moment.
Tonight a moment was all John Riel wanted.
Across the dance floor people were packed together in a frenzy of spasmodic bumps and grinds. All hips and arms and thighs. Avoiding the orgy of movement, John found a place at the bar and ordered a draft. When John placed his emptied glass back down, a hand touched his shoulder. “Mind?” asked a throaty voice.
John glanced over and found a tall dark-haired beauty smiling at him. It took John a moment before he recognized her. “Be my guest,” John said to Amber, the Realtor who gave him the key to his house. When he first saw her in the office, Amber was dressed in her company blazer with her hair up and glasses. He stood and slid out the stool next to him for her. Amber nodded graciously and sat down. “There are very few men left in this world that would do that for a woman.”
“And who said chivalry was dead,” John replied returning to his stool.
“You found your place all right?” she asked.
“It came back to me pretty quickly.”
“In all my years here I wondered about that place.”
“It’s a sight all right,” John grinned.
Amber smiled and motioned toward the bartender. “Screaming Orgasm.”
John choked on a mouth full of air.
“It’s a drink,” she said, “Vodka and…? What’s so funny?”
John’s grin was wide. “Nothing. It just caught me off guard. I know what it is I just never heard anyone order it.”
“Sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“Don’t be.”
Her drink arrived and John paid. Amber held it up and nodded before taking a sip. She sat the glass back down and faced John. “Would you like to dance?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the floor. “It’s a little too crowded for me.” John turned back and looked at his empty glass. “I’m probably not going to be good company tonight.”
Amber sipped her drink again as she eyed John. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m still here,” she said after a moment.
John, who was not accustomed to have gorgeous and almost illegal looking women approach him in bars, glanced looked at Amber and raised his eyebrows.
“Two reasons,” she said. Amber ticked them off with her fingers, “One. 154
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You are one of the few people here of legal drinking age.” That drew a savage look from the bartender. Amber crossed her black stockinged legs and continued, “Second. You are— ” she was cut off by a scrawny kid with orange dread-locks asking her for some Ink and a blow-job. Amber refused both. He gave John an evil gaze and moved on. Amber continued, “As I was about to say, you are the only man here who has looked me in the face and not in the chest.”
John could not suppress a laugh.
“That’s my favorite ice breaker.”
“I can see why.”
Amber finished her Orgasm and gripped John’s hand. “Let’s dance,” she said and pulled him off his stool.
As they reached the floor, a slow romance song started up. John hesitated but Amber pulled him close. They slowly drifted around the floor. Amber’s fingers slid along his spine and came to rest at the base of his skull as she nuzzled her chin onto his shoulder. John cocked his head to one side to accommodate her. Her bodily fragrance was pleasant, familiar, and strangely stimulating.
Amber’s plush form felt pleasant beneath her black lace blouse and short cut jacket. Shifting his hand across her back John inadvertently touched naked skin beneath the jacket. Amber shivered and held him tighter. Her lips brushed across the side of his neck. They were warm and inviting. Suddenly John stepped back and stared at Amber. Oh man! What the hell am I doing? How can-!
“What is it?” Amber asked.
“I-I’m sorry. I can’t,” John stammered. He ducked around her, returned to the bar and grabbed his jacket.
Amber was instantly at his side. “You look like someone who needs to get something off his chest.” She signaled the bartender. John hesitated.
The bartender sat another draft and Orgasm on the bar before them. Amber paid before John could reach for his wallet.
“I’m sorry I came on so strong,” Amber apologized. “Do you want to talk? I’m a very good listener.”
John met her large dark eyes then, after a moment, nodded.
“Come on,” Amber said. She curled her arm around his waist. John carried the two glasses as Amber lead him to a booth on the patio.
“Sometimes the best way to work out a problem is to tell a stranger.” She sat 155
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down and gently squeezed him arm. “Maybe I can help?”
John placed both drinks on the table and sat down. After a moment he looked at Amber. “Someone very close to me died recently. It’s the second time that has happened in about a year. I guess I’m not dealing with it as well as I thought.”
“You loved her. Both of them.”
“Very much so.”
“But you are over the first one,” Amber stated as much as asked.
“How did you know?” John asked.
Amber smiled. It was pleasant. “Girls know these things,” she said, “How about the second? You loved her?”
John smiled. “Very much so. We didn’t know each other for very long. We were brought together during a traumatic experience. I know that in the long run those relationships seldom work out. But we knew it would,” John was horrified when he realized he just quoted St. James. We would have proved her wrong. If we only had the chance. “We knew.”
“What was her name?”
“Catherine.” The sound of her name almost caught in his throat.
“Catherine,” Amber repeated. “That’s very lovely.” She smiled again.
“Tell me about her.”
John rubbed the back of his neck, “She was… perfect.” While remaining vague on key facts, John told her what Catherine and him shared. All the time Amber listened intently. When John felt like he had burdened the stranger enough, he downed the remainder of his beer. “It’s late. I better get going.”
“Sounded like you really fell for her.”
“Yeah, I did.” John slid from the booth and stood up. “Thanks for listening.”
Amber joined him. “You need a ride?”
“No, but thanks,” John said and disappeared into the crowd.
*****
“Damn it,” John turned the key again and still nothing happened. He slammed his fist down on the dashboard hoping, but knowing that only works in cartoons, the engine would start. John climbed out and popped the hood. In the poor illumination of the club’s parking lot everything looked fine,
“Nuts.”
“Need a hand?”
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John spun around. He did not hear Amber approach. “Uh, yeah. I think my battery is shot, but with all I know about cars unless there is a switch that says ‘go’ and ‘stop,’ I haven’t the foggiest. Do you have any jumper cables?”
“No, but I can give you a ride. We could come back for your car in the morning.” When it looked like he was going to protest she continued, “Listen John, it’s no problem. I live just down the road from you.”
John considered that then slammed the hood back down. “Okay, thanks.”
*****
He did not intend to be rude, but John was silent for the twenty-minute drive home. He just did not have anything more he felt like talking about. John was grateful that Amber did not push conversation. Amber turned her Saturn into his lane and stopped the car at the caboose.
“Well, here we are.” A hint of anxiety rode her voice.
“Thanks for the ride Amber.”
“No problem. As I said, I live down the road.” She smiled. “I’ve said it before. In all my years here I’ve wondered who lived in the train set.”
John smiled. He heard that joke more times than he could remember when he grew up, but somehow
Amber made it fresh.
“I’ll come by in the morning. You’ll treat me to coffee, then we’ll figure out how to get your car back home.”
“You don’t have—” John faced Amber. Illuminated by the soft orange glow from the dash, her face was strikingly beautiful. His breath caught.
“Uh, sorry.” He quickly turned away. “I guess I haven’t been very good company tonight.”
“I understand.”
“Thanks,” John said and pushed open the passenger door. Amber placed a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, John. If you ever need to talk, or anything, anything at all, here’s my number.” She slipped a business card in his shirt pocket.
“I might. Thanks,” he said and climbed out of the car.
Amber waited until he turned on the inside light before backing out of the driveway. She drove two kilometers, then stopped behind a telephone repair van parked on the side of the road. She climbed out of the car and slipped into the van.
There she found Smyles and DeTully crammed in the back, surrounded by listening equipment. The air around them had the bitter odor of cigar 157
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smoke, sweat, coffee, and old socks.
Smyles pulled off his head set. “You said you were going to ride the meat-stick tonight.”
“Amiable as ever,” Lydia replied distastefully.
DeTully leaned around his tape recorder. “Amiable? What does that mean?”
“Kind. Good-hearted,” she explained.
“Oh.”
“When?” demanded Smyles.
“I don’t know. He’s still infatuated with Wildman. It may take a little longer,” Lydia said and drew a cigarette from her purse.
“Right now’s the best time. He’s vulnerable.”
“Not all men are like that, Smyles.” She lit up her cigarette. “Some need time.”
“Bullshit,” Smyles snorted. “All men stand and salute at the crack of dawn.”
“You’re vulgar, Smyles.” Lydia blew a ring of smoke in his face. Smyles ignored it. “How did the perfume work?”
“Like a charm. A few pointed questions and he opened up,” Lydia said.
“What is that stuff anyway?”
“Don’t know what it’s called,” Smyles said. “The lab boys came up with it when I was with ‘The Company.’ The base chemical is derived from Sodium Pentothal.” He neglected to inform her that C-Pen One Five, as it was known, was pulled from use by the CIA because it caused violent reactions on test subjects after prolonged use. “I want you to get him in the sack by tomorrow night. Use your charms, babe.” Smyles eyed her breasts. “Both of them. Heh.”
Lydia grunted in frustration.
“What plans did you make with him for tomorrow?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No. Your wire tap quit when you hit the dance floor. I better check it.”
Smyles opened her blouse and tapped the bug pinned on the front clasp of her bra. “It’s dead as DeTully’s dick.”
“Hey!”
“Do you mind?” she said bitterly.
“Not at all,” Smyles answered.
Lydia’s upper lip curled as she glanced at DeTully. He quickly turned away with a pious look on his face, but continued to watch in the reflection 158
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on the rear window. Lydia felt a shiver crawl up her spine. “You’re a total bastard Smyles,” she said. There was fire behind her large dark eyes.
“Done,” Smyles said and left her to button up. “DeTully! Call the pilot and tell her I’m on my way.”
“You the Man.” DeTully waved cheerfully. “Bring back some more coffee when you return, and some doughnuts, you know the kind with the cream in the middle.”
“Whatever,” Smyles climbed out the side door. “Come,” he said to Lydia. With barely concealed rage on her face, Lydia followed Smyles out into the warm night air.
“Give me a ride to the drop off point,” Smyles said.
“You’re leaving? Now?”
Smyles just looked at her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Vancouver,” he said. “I’ve got me a date.”
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25
The Riel Residence
North of Cobourg, Ontario, Canada
05:30 hours 20 August, 2020
The alarm buzzed.
In the observation blister on the top of the sleeping car, John grudgingly dragged himself out of bed. He pulled on a pair of shorts and eased his way down the circular iron staircase, massaging his temples. How much did I drink last night?
In the dining car he downed a quick breakfast and skimmed the local newspaper.
After finishing his coffee, John checked out the yard behind the dining car. There he found a scattered pile of wood, some old railway ties, and a beat up picnic table. In the utility space under the caboose, John found an axe and assorted tools. In less than an hour he transformed that ragged pile of wood into a stack of firewood worth being proud of. John returned the axe to the storage unit under the sleeping car and returned inside, feeling good about himself. It’s about time I started getting myself back into shape and out of this dysfunctional rut.
Following a quick shower, John dressed and entered his office located in the sleeping car. There he began reading the papers Amber gave him the other day. At precisely nine o’clock the expected phone call arrived. Jay Stryker, the international news editor for the Canada-World News Network, called with his offer.
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“That’s the offer,” said Stryker.
John knew the numbers before he left Vancouver and had already agreed.
“Listen Jay, I need a few more days to sort out my affairs here. Just a couple of days.”
“I can give you two.”
“That’s good. One more thing,” John said. “Do you know anything about a small plane crash in the Toronto area?”
“I haven’t heard. I’ll check with Manjit at the regional desk. If there’s anything I’ll get back to you.”
“Good. Thanks Jay,” John ended the transmission and leaned back in his chair. No crash. Maybe.
The shrill of the doorbell derailed him from his thoughts. John switched on the security monitor and discovered a thin woman with short, chopped red hair supporting herself with a cane at the front door. Who the hell is that?
John locked his office and crossed into the caboose. He opened the front door. “Yes?”
“Mr. John Riel?” she asked. Her voice carried a soft accent John could not place right away.
“That’s right,” John answered. He noticed her ice blue eyes. They were eyes that spoke of great pain.
“Mr. Riel, my name is Nikita Triska and I need your help.”
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26
Downtown Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada
13:56 hours (local time) 20 August, 2020
An achy and constipated Raymond Smyles stared down at the sheet of paper in his hand. Through bloodshot eyes he matched up the number on the paper with the apartment before him. “M. Sahni, J. Riel,” he mumbled reading the names on the door. “So this is who Riel called. His roomy.”
Smyles straightened his tie and rapped on the door. After a moment he spotted a shadow move behind the peephole.
“Yes?” a voice called out.
A dame? Smyles dropped his chin and articulated, “Miss Sahni? Ray Marsden, RCMP. I would like to speak to you about John Riel.”
“Do you have a badge?” Madhuri asked.
“Yes,” Smyles replied. “Yes I do.”
When it was not forthcoming Madhuri added, “Could you hold it up please?”
Smyles bit back a remark and fished around in his jacket for a badge. Finding the one he wanted he held it up before the peephole. He heard the door’s bolt being pulled back. Then two clicks and a thud. Finally the door slowly opened and revealed a lovely woman of South Asian decent. Smyles was barely able to hol
d back a prejudiced remark as she invited him in. He glanced around the large apartment then looked at Madhuri.
“Do you know of John Riel’s whereabouts?”
Madhuri broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “What did he do this time?” She 162
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laughed. “I haven’t spoken to John in weeks. Last I heard he was on a spiritual quest somewhere in northern Saskatchewan.”
Her cockiness irritated Smyles. He snorted.
Madhuri’s smiled faded, “No, I don’t know where he is.”
“How long have you known each other?”
“Since college,” she said, growing uneasy. “What did he do?”
Smyles looked at her sideways.
Madhuri felt a bead of sweat roll down her back. This ugly guy can’t be a cop. “May I see that badge again?”
“Have the two of you ever engaged in wild frenzied sex?” Smyles asked in his best Jack Webb, “I’m from the Bureau of Interracial Perverts and I heard you and white boy have been doing the doggie.”
Madhuri’s eyes widened as fear gripped her chest. She started to back away.
Smyles frowned and wiggled his first finger at her.
Madhuri fumbled for her stun gun somewhere in her purse hanging on the back of a chair. She never got to it as Smyles’ fist connected with the back of her head. Madhuri hit the floor dazed.
“Help!” she screamed.
Smyles yanked Madhuri to her feet and backhanded her in the mouth.
“You should yell fire if you want help. How long have you lived in the big city, little girl?” he said and laughed. “You and I are going on a little trip.”
“Go to hell!” Madhuri snapped and spat in his face.
Like a blood red slash opening across his face, Smyles smiled. “Been there.”
Smyles struck Madhuri again, knocking her unconscious. He then slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried her out of the apartment. Smyles failed to noticed the loaded syringe and vile of insulin waiting on the kitchen table.
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John handed the Nikita a mug of hot tea. “Now let me get this straight,”
he said and sat down across from her, “You’re a Russian Operative and you’re looking for help from me.”
“That is correct. I received your name from Sylvia St. James. I was a member of the Russian-Canadian Task Force,” Nikita said. Her voice was soft, almost ineffectual.
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