by Ross Pennie
“How did I get here?”
Hosam described their hair-raising ride in the back seat of the Ford F-150: Mo deeply unconscious and barely breathing, Hosam sick with worry that Mo’s heart was going to give out before they reached the hospital, and Saramin driving at a donkey’s pace, afraid the cops might nab her for speeding.
“So the bitch dumped me here and took off?”
“She had to return the, um, borrowed vehicle.”
“She never came back to see if I made it. My wallet and ID are missing. She must have taken them off me — so if I died, I’d be some nameless corpse that nobody claimed. And she and the Caliph would be in the clear. As always.”
Mo was right, of course. But Hosam said nothing. He was not going to get between Mo, Saramin, and the Caliph.
“For shit’s sake!” Mo continued. “I know what Saramin is like. If it weren’t for you, she’d have left me for dead. She may be gorgeous, but she’s one harsh bitch.”
“I do not know. She seemed pretty cut up when it looked like we were going to lose you.”
After Saramin let it slip last night that Mo had special status with the Scarpellinos, Hosam borrowed Omar’s computer to look the family up on Google. He discovered they were Hamilton-based Italian mobsters currently involved in a turf war against their longstanding rivals, the Michelinis. Il Proppo, his monicker derived from the Italian for landlord, was said to be a man called Giuseppe Michelini. Unnamed sources said Il Proppo was the driving force behind the Michelinis’ current campaign for dominance that had seen two Scarpellino brothers gunned down in the past month. One brother had been killed outside his home in Hamilton, the other at a suburban restaurant north of Toronto. It was expected that a Michelini or two would soon be meeting a similar fate.
Hosam figured that the operations of the Italian families would have much in common with whatever the Caliph was into. In fact, if the Scarpellinos had put their trust in Mo, it sounded as if the Caliph had entered into a business agreement with them. The Syrian war had turned many young men into sharpshooters, some of whom had made their way to Ontario as refugees. Out of work in a strange land, marginalized by their inadequate English, and craving the surges of battle-fuelled adrenalin that had once flooded their veins, some ex-militiamen would be eager to prove their mettle inside Ontario’s mobster fraternity.
“You know, Saramin, she . . .” Hosam paused, unsure how much he should say. “Well, she mentioned something about the Scarpellinos trusting you more than anyone else. I gather the Caliph considers you a valuable asset. That gave me the impression that —”
“Fuck Saramin,” Mo said, scowling fiercely into Hosam’s face. With his deep-set eyes, long nose, and crooked teeth, he looked like a wolf sizing up his prey. After a tension-filled silence, he lifted his arms and studied the bulky bandages hiding his hands. “Tell me the truth, Doc. Do I have any fingers left?”
“Sorry, Mo. It was too dark last night to see much. And I was so busy restarting your heart that I thought about nothing else. You tell the nurse I am your interpreter, and I will . . .”
Hosam wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers. If he and his family were to have any chance of escaping the Caliph’s predatory grip, he had to know exactly what the boss was up to with the Scarpellinos. He had faced a lot of bullies these past few years, but that did not make facing this one any easier. He did, however, have the upper hand. Mo knew he would be downstairs on an ice-cold slab if it were not for Hosam’s quick actions last night. Still, with a bruiser like Mo, he had to be careful. The key word was subtlety.
“Yes,” Hosam told, aiming his gaze at Mo’s wolfish eyes, “I can ask the nurse to tell us the exact condition of your valuable . . . trigger fingers?”
Mo’s face tightened then relaxed slightly. And though he looked away without a word, his eyes betrayed him. Mo was the Caliph’s hitman for the Italian mob. There was not the slightest doubt about it.
Chapter 29
“Come in, Love,” Zol said as he extended his arms to her that Tuesday afternoon. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?” He threw her a fake frown and added, “And I bet you haven’t taken the time to grab even a quick sandwich for lunch.”
He glanced at his office door, to be certain it had closed behind her, then he stood and held her close. As they kissed on the lips, he knew he could never get enough of this smart, beautiful, compassionate woman who was soon to be his bride.
He closed his eyes and let Sarah McLachlan sing a few bars of “Angel” somewhere deep inside his brain. His post-concussion synesthesia never bothered him when Tasha was in his arms smelling of sandalwood. He enjoyed the dreamy sound of Sarah’s voice, and he loved everything about Tasha. Well, except for maybe her mother.
“Jesse put Mummyji through to me,” he told her. “At eleven thirty on the dot.”
“Oh, Zol, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I was glad to talk to her.”
She gave his arms a playful squeeze. “You don’t have to fib. Did she want something specific or was she just calling to be annoying?”
“She wants me to abandon the idea of wearing a business suit at the ceremony.”
“Oh, not again! I already told her you’d look ridiculous in a sherwani and turban. What did you say?”
“I told her I’d gone and had my measurements taken at that Punjabi tailor’s place in Mississauga. The exact one she recommended.”
“No, Zol, you didn’t! Please, we have to stand up to her. As a couple. Believe me — where my mother is concerned, the wedding turban and sherwani are just the thin edge of a queen-size wedge. You know how manipulative she is. I’ve spent my entire life —”
“My dearest bride-to-be, it’s okay, I’ve got it all planned.”
“But —”
“Just trust me on this, Tasha. There will be no turban, no sherwani, and no business suit.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think both you and your mother will be pleased with what Mr. Gupta is going to make for me.”
“That doesn’t sound possible.”
He kissed her again. “Well, I know for certain you will love his bit of made-to-measure tailoring. It’s going to be perfect, but I’m not saying anything more about it. Like your wedding dress, my attire will be under wraps until our big day.” He let go of her arms and pointed to the chair next to his desk. “Now, have a seat and tell me about the rest of your morning. You had impressive success with those teachers.”
“Did you catch Dr. Polgar?”
“We had a brief chat,” he said and dropped into his chair. “But she’s expecting a call from you this afternoon with the details.”
“Was she surprised that her Aedes Tigers seem to be transmitting Zika?”
“I’d say disappointed.”
Stephanie Polgar had hoped the mosquitoes her staff had trapped in Virgil would test virus-free at the Toronto lab. Tasha’s investigation suggested they’d been transmitting the virus to at least a few casual visitors to her region.
“Those school groups stayed how long in Virgil admiring the tulips?” he asked.
“About half an hour.”
“Damned efficient little buggers.”
“And still, Dr. Polgar doesn’t have a single case of polio anywhere in Niagara?” Tasha said.
“None,” Zol told her. “Zika is still only half of our polio story.”
“Did she have any more ideas about how the virus and the mosquitoes got to that tulip farm?”
“She’s concentrating on the migrant workers at this point. Many of them come from Guatemala.”
“And from Haiti, according to Muriel Simon.”
“Stephanie’s going to send her staff to find out exactly when the workers arrived, what routes they took, and test them for Zika.” And, of course, she’d be trapping and testing as many mosquitoes in that gr
eenhouse as she could.
Tasha fingered the silver peacock locket she often wore around her neck. Crafted in Punjab, it had belonged to her grandmother and had survived the cataclysm of British India’s bloody partition in 1947. Tasha saw her simple locket as symbolic of the enduring strength of the human spirit.
Something — a concern, a bright idea, a distant memory — was niggling at her. He could tell by the faraway look in her eyes. “Do they ever employ women as temporary agricultural workers?” she asked.
“I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted. “Any of the articles I’ve read on the subject have featured men. We work those guys incredibly hard for half the year so they can put food on our tables. We pay them meagre wages that allow them to accrue minimal savings. We ship them back to their wives and kids for the winter. And then we start the cycle again when spring comes.”
“I was thinking of those babies born to Zika-infected mothers in Brazil. They had small heads and tiny brains. You’ve seen the photos on the internet.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I was soapboxing there. But, yeah, microcephaly is the nasty side to Zika.” And Tasha’s discovery this morning of the ease of Zika transmission had magnified the potential scope of the problem. “Oh my God,” he said, “you’re right. Stephanie will have to offer Zika testing to virtually everyone in her region who’s of childbearing age.”
“We’re only next door and we’ve got cases already. Are we going to do it too?”
“Another thing to discuss with Hamish tonight.” Zol checked his watch. “My task-force meeting on cannabis legalization starts in a few minutes. Hamish and I agreed to meet tonight over supper. At our place. I hope that’s okay?”
She looked serious. “Well, it depends.”
Shit! What commitment had he forgotten? “Oh no. On what?”
Her scowl dissolved into a teasing grin. “On what you’ll be cooking.”
He laughed and swept his phone, pen, and keys from the desk. He stashed them in his jacket pockets. “I thought I’d do a . . . well, I’m not sure. It depends on what looks fresh at Kelly’s on the way home.”
He rose to his feet. “I’ve gotta run. But in words of one syllable, how did you make out with Bhavjeet and his auntie? Has he been tiptoeing through Niagara’s tulips?”
She stood and reached for a kiss. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you tonight over that delicious meal you’re going to whip up.”
Chapter 30
“Okay, Hamish,” Zol told him, pointing to the ingredients he’d assembled on the kitchen counter. “Throw those into the food processor and give them a whirl.”
“Everything? You mean . . . all at once?”
Unable to suppress a grin at Hamish’s hesitance, Zol gestured to the fresh basil, spinach, pine nuts, peeled garlic, and cubed parmesan awaiting their fate. “Yep. The whole lot.”
Hamish jiggled the processor’s tight-fitting lid several times then slapped it with his palm. “Stupid thing,” he said. “How do I get this part off?”
“What are you talking about? I thought you guys had one.”
“I’ve never used it. That’s Al’s domain.”
“Hasn’t he shown you the many things you can do with a food processor?”
“He’s afraid if I learn to cook anything more complicated than scrambled eggs, I’ll have designs above my station and he’ll lose his subservient dishwasher.”
Zol laughed and removed the lid with a quick twist. He tipped the basil and other pesto makings into the processor. After he’d secured the lid, he pointed to the pulse bar and told Hamish, “Hold this down for a few seconds at a time. Keep at it until the machine stops rattling and just hums.”
“And that’s it?”
“Not quite. See this hole in the top? Pour a couple of glugs of olive oil through it, then two generous tablespoons of mayo and a teaspoon of mustard.”
“How much is a glug?”
“Doesn’t matter, just go for it. Then run the machine for half a minute more.”
Hamish returned him a skeptical look then focused on his task.
“Table’s set,” Tasha said, returning from the sunroom. Nowadays, the place doubled as a dining room because it was her favourite part of the house. “What else can I do?”
“Um . . . Pour the wine.” Zol pointed to the fridge. “There’s a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and a Chilean Pinot Grigio in there. Your choice.” He was pretty sure she’d pick the Sauvignon Blanc.
Tasha turned to Hamish, whose gaze was still fixed on the pulse bar of the silent machine. “Do you have a wine preference, Hamish?”
“You know me. Just half a glass of anything white.”
While Tasha opened the New Zealand, Zol unrolled his puff pastry onto the counter. These days, he used the factory-made stuff from the supermarket. His instructors at cooking school — it was hard to believe it was nearly twenty years since he’d received his diploma — would have a fit if they saw him using store-bought pastry. A trained professional was supposed to make everything from scratch. But what the heck. This was a helluva lot faster and worked perfectly well for a homestyle Salmon Wellington.
He centred the salmon filet on the sheet of pastry and listened to the food processor labouring under Hamish’s awkward but diligent fingers. “Sounds pretty good, sous chef. Is the parmesan totally pulverized?”
“If you mean, is it in tiny crumbs, then yes.”
“Great. Now add the wet stuff.”
After the machine had whirred exactly thirty seconds by Hamish’s Omega, Zol told him, “Okay, turn it off then twist the handle towards you and lift the bowl.”
Hamish twisted one way, then the other, then back the other way. Finally, the bowl separated from its base and he handed the whole thing over.
Zol removed the lid and scraped the bright green mixture onto the salmon. Then, recalling the technique he’d learned all those years ago, he folded the pastry over the fish as if wrapping a fine present.
“Looks perfect,” Tasha said as he placed the pastry parcel in the oven. “But when will it be ready? I’m starving.”
“Then you’d better get out the cashews and put them in a bowl,” he said. “This baby has to bake for forty-five minutes.”
“What about the boys?” Tasha said. “I’m surprised they’re not in here sniffing around. They must be starving too.”
“They’re okay. They’re both masters of the microwave. Filled themselves with the house specialty before I got home. And now they’re doing their homework . . . I hope.”
Hamish dried his freshly washed hands and grabbed a handful of cashews. “What’s the house specialty?”
“Mac and cheese layered with bacon,” Zol said. It was a dish that froze well and was always a hit. Even Tasha liked it. She avoided beef and pork, but she’d try a bit of bacon every now and then. As a frequent sleepover house guest at the home of three carnivorous lads, she’d come to accept that bacon was its own food group and occasionally too good to pass up.
She lifted a glass of Perrier and the bowl of cashews from the counter. “Shall we retire to the sunroom, sirs?”
Zol raised his glass in a quick toast then let a citrusy mouthful of New Zealand’s south-island finest tickle his throat. As often happened with Sauvignon Blanc, the wine’s grassy bouquet conjured Daft Punk from the ether. The opening riff of their “Get Lucky” erupted in his head.
The foot-tapping tune — it was one of his favourites — carried on as he followed the others into the sunroom. He settled next to Tasha on the sofa and took another sip of the wine. Once Daft Punk left the stage, he asked her to bring Hamish up to date on today’s events.
Without looking at her notes, Tasha summarized what she’d gleaned from the elementary school principal and her friend the high school guidance teacher.
When Tasha finished, Hamish told her, “Of course, you
r theory will have to be confirmed by an expert examination of the mosquitoes at that greenhouse. Reports from a couple of school teachers that they might have seen mosquitoes, which might have been striped, just isn’t good enough. We have to know for certain that what those women saw are Aedes albopictus, and they are carrying Zika virus.”
Zol felt his face flush, and it wasn’t the wine. Hamish took that arrogant tone with Tasha far too often. He seemed to think he could get away with it because she wasn’t a physician. Zol figured it was a status thing with Hamish. She was a woman, and she was smarter than most of the physicians he worked with. The guy couldn’t accept those two bare facts.
“Just wait a darn minute there, Hamish,” Zol told him. “Tasha did some great detective work today. And the evidence she uncovered is strong. Five people who visited that particular greenhouse in April now have lab-confirmed Zika.” Those five also had Parvo-W virus infection along with their clinical poliomyelitis, but for now, he considered that beside the point.
Tasha tapped her notebook. “If there is Zika transmission in that location, it appears to be sustained. The two school groups — Cathcart Elementary and Sir John A. Macdonald — visited the greenhouse several days apart.”
Hamish dropped his gaze and studied his wineglass, as yet untouched on the coffee table in front of him. “The vast majority of human Zika infections produce no obvious symptoms. And that means —”
Tasha leaned forward as she beat him to the punch. “If we’re going to find every case of Zika acquired on those school trips, we’ll have to blood-test everyone who participated.”
“Exactly,” said Hamish. “Kids, adults, drivers . . .”
“We’ve got a team at the Health Unit who can arrange that,” Zol said.
Tasha then described her afternoon phone conversation with Stephanie Polgar. “She’s going to Zika-test the Vander Zalm greenhouse employees and any mosquitoes her traps catch inside the facility. She’s making it a top priority. After that, she’ll consider testing the wider Niagara community. Starting with women of childbearing age and their partners, for obvious reasons.”