What God and Cats Know

by Sheryl Nantus

  “You got it. Handy Andy’s on Queen in about an hour. I’ll be the hot stud hanging out at the bar.” The line went dead.

  “Modest, ain’t he?” Setting the plate down on the kitchen table, I made myself another cup of decaf coffee, moving back to the computer screen. I already had a mailbox full of messages returning from various sources about Mr. Hanover, epic reporter for the Toronto Inquisitor.

  Still, sources could never take the place of an actual face to face with the person. I never forget that while my informants were good, nice people, most of them enjoyed making a few bucks by kicking back what little information that they had to me, they were also out for themselves and really didn’t give a damn about what I did for a living. That was something that must never be forgotten, because it could get me killed, or worse, destroy my reputation. Trust, but verify.

  Jazz slithered onto my couch, rolling onto her back to reveal a pink-furred stomach. I sat down beside her and began to stroke the thin hair.

  “You’re on guard duty. Don’t give away the place.”

  With her answering trill in my ears I snagged my jacket and headed out to the main street. There was no way I was going to try to find a parking place downtown then deal with having a drink or three, depending on how the meeting went. My reactions may be a bit higher due to my heritage but I ain’t no fool to think I could drive drunk, not to mention that I really didn’t want this joker to find out my plate number without having to work for it.

  Queen Street West is a wonderful, magical place late at night when the tourists begin to disappear from the bars and restaurants and leave them to the regulars. After the playhouses have shut their doors and the posh coffee places have been cleaned out you can find excellent food and conversation with the real inhabitants of Toronto—the clubbers and the night folk. Not to be confused with each other, since there’s plenty of night folk who never stick their heads inside a club, but for someone seeking information it’s a gold mine just waiting for the right poke to gush forth with just what you were wanting.

  I knew Handy Andy’s from years ago when it had tried to establish a niche for itself as a Goth bar, failing miserably because the owner figured Goths couldn’t count and wouldn’t know when they were being ripped off for drinks. It had passed through a variety of owners since then, finally settling on a nice dark place serving beer, good pub food and a set of pool tables in the back beside the oldest pinball machines I had ever seen. The damned things still worked, classic Williams machines like Pinbot and Space Shuttle—guaranteed to suck both your quarters and your night away if you let them. Being a recovering pinball junkie, I would be avoiding those tonight.

  The bar was still half-empty when I arrived, tripping over the clearly marked step even though it was marked with yellow fluorescent tape. A series of giggles and guffaws welcomed me into the pub, marking me as a newcomer. There was a single empty table, set up against the plate glass window looking back out onto Queen Street. I sat down at the circular wooden platform and waited.

  The waitress was the first to arrive, an older woman in my age group, with more wrinkles on her face than a grumpy Shar-Pei. Putting a photocopied sheet of paper in front of me, she smiled, almost a sisterly grin.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Molson’s Dry.” I wasn’t even going to try to guess what they had on tap and wasn’t interested. With any luck I could nurse this one for the entire conversation. The woman nodded then disappeared into the small crowd standing around the bar.

  The customers were the usual afternoon fare, businessmen trying to avoid going home to their wives and children, and businesswomen looking for businessmen. The meat market may have shifted and evolved, but the game never changed. I flipped over the menu, drawing my finger down the coffee-stained type.

  The waitress returned with a bottle and a glass. “What can I get you to eat?” Her tight white blouse had a blotch of ketchup on one sleeve.

  “Asian steamed dumplings, please.” I handed her back the glass. “I’m not that much of a lady.” We exchanged saucy winks then she walked away.

  I spotted a few fellows giving me the once-over before continuing their search. I wasn’t upset. A place like this threatened to overwhelm my senses, the rush of different scents, images and noises almost deafening me on all fronts. My nose couldn’t stop moving, hardly making me look approachable and certainly not all that sexy. Which, again, was fine with me.

  For example—one man stood at the bar in an obviously expensive business suit with his tie undone and hanging around his neck. He was nervous, sweating and probably on his first attempt to have an affair, putting out all the fearsome vibes of a cub on his first hunt, afraid to stalk and try the kill because if he missed there’d be hell to pay.

  Or that woman hanging around the bartender, laughing as loudly as the salmon-coloured blouse she was wearing. She was on a hunt and ready to take any male who offered, she threw off hormones in every direction in such quantity I was afraid of drowning. Of course, any man who wanted to dive into those obviously false breasts just might.

  Turning my attention back toward the window and the street I took a swig of beer while watching the sun dance away between the office towers and small shops dotting the skyline. Queen Street West has always been the last best place for those seeking to find the real Toronto, the place where rock bands could get their big breaks and a busker find a twenty dropped into his guitar case instead of just spare change.

  The dumplings showed up, little packets of pork happiness with a small dish of soy sauce on the side and, God bless them, a dash of wasabi paste. Dipping the tines of my fork into the green stickiness, I mixed it into the soy sauce before spearing one of the dumplings and letting it swim in the sauce.

  Pub fare had changed from when I was growing up. Back then if you got a decent hamburger you were lucky. Not to mention luckier if you didn’t get e.coli.

  Suddenly a young kid, no older than twenty-five, sat down opposite me, beaming as he placed his beer bottle opposite me. “Hi, there!”

  I chewed slowly, letting the flavours mingle for a second of serenity.

  “Bye, there. I’m waiting for someone.” My tone was as flat as his brainwaves.

  “Could be me.” The young punk ran a hand through his jet-black hair, slicking it back. His ripped black t-shirt might have borne the name of some famous band, now lost with his good taste.

  “I think not.” Catching the eye of the waitress wasn’t too difficult. I figured she’d have an eye out for the new girl on the block. “And that’s a no, good night and don’t drive drunk.” Plucking the second dumpling off the plate, I rolled it in the dark liquid. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the waitress moving clear of the other tables, advancing on mine.

  “Hey, Roy—Jannette’s asking for ya.” The blond woman gestured into the crowd at the bar. “Better not piss her off.”

  “Okay.” Picking up his beer bottle he shot me a sly wink before wandering off. The waitress put a fresh bottle of beer on my table.

  “Sorry. He likes to think he’s all that and a bag of chips.” She rolled her eyes. “Kids these days.”

  We exchanged chuckles—that sort of weary “been there done that” look some women share naturally.

  “Thanks for the refill.” I reached into my pocket and pulled off a twenty from the small wad I put aside for expenses. “I’m waiting for Brandon Hanover. Can you let me know when he gets here?”

  She paused. “You sure you want Hanover? He’s not exactly, you know, your type.” She flittered her hand in the air as if she was trying to ward off the evil eye.

  “Business.” I added a second twenty. “And if you can make sure we’re not bothered by any fanboys looking for his autograph, that’d be great.”

  The waitress grinned as she pocketed the extra cash. “Sure. I’ll send him your way.” Picking up the twenty she paused. “I’ll bring your change back.”

  I waved her off. “Thanks for the save.” It wasn’t a g
enerous tip—I didn’t want to get pegged as a rich woman, but it never hurt to help those who were in the know. She smiled and bounced away into the crowd.

  While I finished off the dumplings another man in a long black leather duster strode up, taking his place at my table without pause. He was a tall one, just under six feet to my petite five foot four. His flaming red hair was short, almost too short. The player was wearing a baby blue long-sleeved shirt tucked into his jeans and just a hint of aftershave. My nose twitched at the smell. Not appealing in any sense of the word, at least not scent-wise.

  “Bran Hanover.” He extended a hand, shaking mine with a good firm grip. “Rebecca.” He lifted his other hand in the air, waving at the overworked waitress.

  “Reb. And how did you know my name?”

  “Caller ID.” He spread his hands with a friendly grin. “Don’t leave home without it.” As a Heineken appeared on the table, the reporter nodded his approval. “Thanks, Eddie.”

  When she vanished into the crowd he turned his attention back to me. “Actually, I’m not blind. As soon as I knew it was you I called up some contacts and got a description along with some references.”

  “Ah.” I sloshed the last of the first beer around in the dark bottle. “And you still came?”

  “Never on a first date.” He winked, his large brown eyes, trying to spark some sort of reaction. He was kidding and he knew I was kidding and we both knew that was about as much foreplay as he was going to get away with. Bran took a deep mouthful of beer before continuing. “So you’re working on the catwoman case.”

  “Her name was Janey Winters. She was married and had two kids.” I impaled the last dumpling on my fork. “She was a school teacher and didn’t deserve to die in a Parkdale alley.”

  “There’s not many people in this world who deserve to die.” His eyes were on the doughy bundle swimming in the wasabi-boosted soy sauce. “However, it always makes news.”

  “I want to know who gave you those pictures. Or who called you to take the shots.” I waved the empty fork at him. “That was a crime scene. A woman died there. So you or some paparazzi jerk of yours stood over the body and shot a roll without doing a thing and then left before the cops arrived.”

  “What if she was already dead?” His fingernail dragged across the grooves of the table. “Nothing illegal about taking shots of a corpse.”

  “True, but you got hold of them and made her look like a freak.”

  Sitting back as much as he could without tipping the chair, Bran smiled. “That’s business. You should know that by now. Photos sell the story and without a good picture there’s nothing to sell. And my job is to sell papers.” The single chair leg squeaked in annoyance. “And I’m not giving up my source just to make you happy.” Another ear-splitting twitch of the leg. “And what’s up with the hair anyway?”

  “Janey Winters suffered from a slight problem with irregular tufts of hair on her body. She didn’t deserve to be immortalised in a trashy rag like the Inquisitor as the ‘catwoman.’ Your mother must be so proud.” Finally satisfied that the dumpling had fully drowned, I retrieved it from the pool and popped it into my mouth.

  The redhead nodded in silence, watching me chew. A single bead of sweat rested on his forehead. I had hit a nerve. Dang. And on my first try.

  “Now, you know the cops aren’t going to be happy about someone trashing the crime scene before they got there.” I cleaned my mouth out with another swig of beer, feeling the heat wash around my mouth. “So, tell me who started this and I’ll turn him over to my contacts, they’ll put the fear of God into him and we’ll all go home happy.” I didn’t make mention of the fact there was still a killer out there. Might as well start with getting the photographs off the radar. If it took Hank tossing some kid into a jail cell for a few days I had no problem with that.

  “Problem is, sweetheart...” One eyebrow waggled at me in a seagull’s wave. “I don’t know. All I got was a phone call to pick up an envelope at my doorway just before deadline. When I saw the picture, well...” He spread his hands, nodding his head with a grin. “Can’t blame a man for doing his job.”

  “Sure I can.” Leaning forward, I plucked his bottle away. “You don’t know who that was? Taking a risk, weren’t you? Could have been a set-up.”

  “I know it wasn’t a cop.” Taking advantage of my astonished state for a second, he snatched the beer back with a smug look on his face. “See, I know my pictures. That wasn’t taken by any cop. It was a professional shot for impact, not for documentation. I can tell the difference.” His lips curled around the glass with a tenderness that sent a hot rush through my veins.

  “And he didn’t want any money for it.”

  A smile curled around the bottle edges. “Believe it or not, there’s plenty of people who believe in freedom of speech and all that. Maybe it was some kid hoping to make a good first impression and come back later with more shots.” He shrugged. “It’s not that easy to break into this business. Even at my level, before you say it. It’s not uncommon for some newbie to toss shots around and hope to make the cut.”

  “It was at the crime scene.” I swallowed, feeling the first bit of a beer burp threatening to break free. “It was taken before the cops arrived and secured the scene.”

  “That it was, sweetie.” Bran leant forward. “But I’m not sure why you want the kid.”

  “Because if he was there at the right time he could have seen the killer. Or maybe he is the killer.” I exhaled the beer burp, not caring if he caught a whiff of the vile air. “A bloody souvenir of his hunt.” If I could have gotten away with a roar at that point, I would have. Instead I stabbed the empty plate with my fork.

  “Whoa.” Bran waved a hand in front of his face. “That was nasty.”

  “Sorry.” I grumbled. “It’s sort of personal.”

  “I guess.” Waving Eddie over, he gestured at the plate. “I’ll have what she’s having. And another round of beers.”

  Her eyebrows rose as she looked at me, trying to figure out if I was in trouble or just playing with fire. “Sure. No prob at all. Back in a flash.”

  Reaching over, the man touched me, a light brush across the back of my hand. “Didn’t know you knew the woman. Sorry.” He leant back from the table. “But that’s how I got the pic.”

  My skin tingled, as if I’d been rolling in fresh-cut grass. Maybe this fellow wasn’t as much of an ass after all.

  “Great.” I played with the loose label on a bottle of beer as another Heineken and Molson’s appeared. “I thought it was just a cop looking for a few extra bucks. Put IA on his ass and watch the fireworks go off.” Mentally I added a good thumping from Hank and probably a midnight visit from one of the Board, but that was neither here nor there.

  “So, what’s so special about this?” Bran shifted into reporter mode. I could almost see the pencil poised to scribble across the empty page in his inner eye. “I mean, it’s horrible and all, but what’s the story here?”

  “Her family is upset about a photograph being smeared across the cheapest rag in the city, including toilet paper.” An order of dumplings appeared in front of him, Eddie supplying another set of napkins. “I’d have thought that much was obvious.”

  “To a degree.” He picked up one dumpling with a fork and dabbled the end straight into the wasabi, smearing the hot green paste all over the tasty bundle. “But there’s more to this than just a pissed-off family. You’re after the killer.” He popped the dumpling into his mouth without flinching, chewing it slowly. “That puts a whole different spin on things, now.”

  I watched as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face while he continued to eat the doughy bites without a single sip of beer. Bran continued to talk between spicy hot mouthfuls. “Now, I’m pretty sure the police are going to write this one off. Not fair, not nice but that’s the way it is. They’re overworked and underpaid and all that. So, this is how it goes.” He waved the empty fork at me. “You
allow me to follow the Catwoman Killer story with you and I cut you in for part of the credit.”

  I almost reached across the table to strangle him right there, damn the good feelings I’d had a few seconds before. As it was, I flexed my fingers, wishing I had kept my nails as long as some of the women back on the Farm did. A good scratching was almost acceptable in polite society, if I recall correctly.

  “Look, I don’t think you understand me.” Pulling in a deep breath, I tried to centre myself, find a Zen place and stay there. “I’m hunting a man who killed an innocent woman. I’m not looking for street cred or some version of a Pulitzer Prize for crappy rags. This isn’t some reality show where you get to dash around and play the hero, and drag me along for the ride.”

  “I get that.” His face went sad and solemn, the silence falling over us blocking out the rising noise from the bar. “I’ve been there, done that. I know what you want. All I’m asking is to come along for the ride.” Snatching up the bottle, he drained the foam out of the bottom. “Besides, you need me to get started.” His previous joviality returned. I wanted to smack him.

  “Okay.” An overpowering rush of perfume hit my nose, sending a shock through my system. Some woman was just aching to have me dunk her in the nearest body of water, even if it happened to be a toilet bowl. “This is how it’s going to work. First, you’re going to take me back to your place.”

  Bran’s eyebrows shot up as he grinned. “Really?”

  “Yes, you are. Do you still have that envelope the photo arrived in? Or the actual photo?”

  “Of course not.” He finished off the remaining dumplings in a rush. “I handed it off to the editor and trashed the envelope.”

  “You never considered the idea that you might be aiding and assisting in the murder of a human being?” My fingernails dug under the paper label, pulling it off in small strips.

  “Honey, where do you think the majority of my stories come from?” He exhaled a mouthful of wasabi, causing my nose to curl up. “People drop off this, that and the other thing at my house all the time. You should see the crap hitting my email box with pics changed around to justify Bigfoot or the nine-eleven conspiracy silliness or whatever’s the hot thing online right now.” His fork impaled the last dumpling. “I was surprised as all hell to see an actual paper document showing up under my door. Took me back to the old days, it did.”