Chin slit it open and glanced briefly at the statement.
“Very good, Mr. Jenkins,” Chin murmured. Then, looking up, he smiled at Harry. “Please let me know when you require more funds. The conglomerate has much work to do in the city.”
Harry breathed more easily.
Chin withdrew an envelope from his breast pocket. “I have a small gift for you, Mr. Jenkins.”
Harry frowned, only for a moment. “Really? What is it?”
“Please open it and see.” Chin lowered his eyes as he slid the envelope across the desk.
Harry withdrew two first-class tickets for flights and a voucher for a three-night stay in a luxury suite in Nassau. “The Atlantis Resort,” he whispered. Shimmering blue waters danced before his mind’s eye.
After a moment, he said, “This is more than kind of you, sir, but—”
Mr. Chin held up his hand. “Please. The conglomerate wishes to express its gratitude for your most timely service. We know you have made room for us in your busy schedule.”
“But surely not. The retainer is very substantial, and…” He fingered the brochure, which featured a photograph of sunny beaches and gently lapping water.
“As I have said, the conglomerate has very substantial resources and plenty of work for you. We can only hope that you will be able to provide such timely service on future matters.”
Harry picked up the tickets and gazed at them.
Chin rose to go. “Husbands and wives in such a busy world can drift apart, Mr. Jenkins. I am sure you and your wife, Laura, could use a vacation.”
Then Chin gave instructions to deliver the offers to Jonathan Conroy at Cheney, Arpin and left.
Good grief! Never had Harry received such a gift. He sank into his chair and stared at the offers. But how did they know he had a wife and her name?
It had to be all right. Peter Niels at Cheney, Arpin—a Bencher of the Law Society—had referred Chin to him. Conroy must know something about the conglomerate. Not only was he the Treasurer of the Law Society and Head of the Ethics Committee, he was also Chair of the Real Estate Section of the Bar Association. He tucked the envelope into his desk drawer.
“Mr. Jenkins?” Miss Giveny called from the outer office. “There’s a Mr. Mudhali on line one.”
Bracing himself, Harry snatched up the phone. “Yes?”
“Mr. Jenkins? Head office would like to meet with you in the morning to discuss payment arrangements.”
“You tell head office that I am busy the next few days and will call to arrange a mutually convenient time next week. In the meantime, I expect full access to any and all accounts.” Harry hung up.
He placed a call to Jonathan Conroy to arrange for the delivery of the Chin offers. He was surprised when Conroy answered on the first ring.
“I must thank you for the referral of Mr. Albert Chin.” Harry had opened the desk drawer and was fingering Chin’s envelope. “He’s instructed me to deliver some offers to you.”
“Wonderful, Harry. Send them over, and I’ll get them to the clients right away,” Jonathan said heartily.
Harry agreed. “Albert Chin seems very interesting. Do you know him well?”
“Fine fellow!” Conroy boomed. “He’s been a client of Peter Niels for a number of years. We had to refer him on these transactions. Can’t be too careful these days about conflicts.”
“No, of course not. Well, thanks again. I’ll await your client’s response.”
Jonathan stretched back in his chair. He was surprised that Chin had been referred to Crane, Crawford and Jenkins. He chuckled at the thought of Richard Crawford: an old dog, if ever there was one. He knew little about Harry, except that he belonged to the Alton Club, where only the most reputable lawyers and businessmen were permitted membership. If Crawford’s firm were worth something, perhaps he should invite Harry for drinks at the club.
He gazed at the spectacular view of Lake Ontario. In the late afternoon sun, the ferryboats looked like silver darts on the glistening water. Seagulls swooped about the little boats. From time to time, such a view inspired him to write poetry.
Cheney, Arpin, founded by his maternal grandfather, was the most prestigious law firm in the city. Throughout its corridors, its illustrious history was displayed in photographs, paintings, and print. The Grand Corridor (as it was called) was graced with original portraits of the many senior partners who had been elevated to the bench. Any bright young lawyer graduating from Upper Canada College and Osgoode Hall coveted a position with Jonathan’s firm, where every member was, first and foremost, a gentleman.
CHAPTER 10
In the darkened room, the Florist watched the flickering images on the silent television. When the smiling face of Karla Jones appeared, he turned up the volume. She had been a university student majoring in economics, with aspirations to work with the United Nations. He gnawed reflectively on his drawing pen.
The old debate consumed him. Had she been worthy to live, she might have made a contribution. Perhaps his judgment had been clouded. Too swift? Ungovernable passion? No, of course not.
He tossed down his pen. Her lips had been painted bright carmine and her eyes made up with luminescent, garish blue. She had been begging for it. Permitted to live, she only would have tortured men with her grossly seductive charm.
A true artist must prevail over any adversity. Fire set substance free. His work set souls free. If he were to fail in his artistry, then—and only then—would he destroy with fire.
CHAPTER 11
In the late afternoon, several floors down from Conroy, Archbishop Staunton was shown into McKeown’s outer office. Sitting in a straight-backed chair, he glanced about him. Photographs of African masks lined the far wall. He frowned and picked up a magazine. Five minutes later, he was ushered into the lawyer’s office.
“Yes?” said McKeown coldly.
The archbishop took a seat. “Mr. McKeown, what are our chances with this rezoning application?”
McKeown gave a brief smile and said, “As I have said, sir, if you find the ability within yourself to leave your clerical collar at the courtroom door, the church has a reasonably good chance.”
The archbishop pursed his lips and then replied, “So if we do not win, it will be my fault?”
The lawyer sprang from his chair. “Not entirely, sir. But you must understand that these aldermen fancy themselves to be representatives of the people. They will resent your talking down to them.”
Staunton grasped the arms of his chair. “We must win.”
A smile spread across the lawyer’s face. “And why is it so imperative?”
Twisting around, the archbishop glared at him. “If we are unable to rezone and complete the sale, the church will have no resources to pay it debts.”
“Really? What debts are so pressing?”
Staunton waved him off. “It’s been in all the papers. The lawsuits.”
McKeown perched on the corner of his desk. “Ah, yes, I see. You mean those suits brought on behalf of the abused youngsters against some of your clergy.”
“Yes,” Staunton whispered.
McKeown’s face darkened. He folded his arms across his chest. “I cannot imagine a fouler deed than the abuse of such innocents, particularly in the name of the Lord.”
The archbishop threw his hands out in a gesture of futility. “What can I say? The church has been put in this position by a few—”
“Who remain protected by your church.” The lawyer turned away in disgust.
“Nevertheless, we must win.”
McKeown smiled broadly. “Do not worry, Archbishop Staunton. If that is your concern, I can provide a solution. I am sure I can bring the church a very favorable offer, should the application to rezone fail.”
“Really? From whom?”
“I can’t say at the moment. But be assured, I’ll not let the church founder. The institution is far too important, despite its long-standing record of abuse.”
Sighing audibly, th
e archbishop rose. “Thank you, Mr. McKeown. I hope that won’t be necessary.” Nodding curtly, he opened the door and left.
Although the light was fading, Tony did not turn on the lights. Instead, he stood at the window. A dirty rain spat against the glass. His headache began to clear.
He chuckled softly. It was child’s play preparing the archbishop—so easy to mold him into the witness he wanted. Given the right circumstances and guidance, a person could be persuaded to say almost anything in the right fashion. But the deck was stacked against the church. Local opposition was fierce. If the application were to be dismissed, then he would have the right purchaser for the church, who would make an offer unconditional upon rezoning.
He checked his watch. It was time to prepare for Mrs. Rowe tonight. He checked her file and made several notes.
In a charitable mood, he regarded her as a victim of her breeding and class, just like the Archbishop. If he didn’t prepare her properly, she could blow the whole application with the wrong inflection, by talking down to the representatives of the people. But, unlike the archbishop, it would be a pleasure to work with her.
***
At the Vivaldi Salon, in the underground mall of Tony’s building, Katharine lay back in her chair for the shampoo and a hot oil treatment.
Her mind wandered to Tony. Who else but McKeown could have molded Staunton from a cold fish into a personable and effective witness, within the space of a few hours? What power did he possess?
Closing her eyes, she sighed with pleasure. Tony’s image—his eyes, especially his eyes—floated up before her. She imagined his touch, perhaps rough at first. Her breathing slowed and deepened as the hairdresser began the rinse.
Her husband, Bob, brought stability to her life, but little else. In exchange, she tolerated his timid attempts at lovemaking. It was a bitter bargain, struck years ago. She visualized Tony striding about the boardroom, powerful and masterful. As the hairdresser towel‑dried her hair, she tried to imagine Tony’s hands. How would they feel to the touch? Perhaps he could melt the ice queen. A sense of anticipation began to grow within her. The appointment was for seven o’clock.
***
When she arrived at his office, Tony began, “You realize, Katharine, that this application may stand or fall on your expertise.” His eyes were glowing.
“That’s most flattering, Tony.” She met his gaze. “But isn’t my role really just technical support?”
“Such modesty.” He smiled and then turned to the cabinet for drinks. “It does become you.” With a quizzical expression, he raised a decanter. She nodded, and he poured for both of them.
“Do you want to review my testimony for tomorrow?” Katherine asked.
“Indeed! I’m sure you know your stuff. It’s the manner of delivery that concerns me.”
“Really?” Katharine was genuinely surprised.
They sat together on the couch, placing their drinks on the coffee table. “Aldermen are a sort of subspecies of the human race,” he said. Katharine began to laugh. His glance silenced her. “But it is imperative to give them the sense of being addressed as intelligent human beings. They love their little ponds. They relish exercising their small administrative powers.”
He lounged back as though making distance for a thorough visual inspection of her. “Make them feel important and powerful. That’s the key.”
Katharine simply nodded. His examination of her was distracting. She wondered if he would touch her. He moved forward. Now he was so close to her that she could see the pulsating of his neck. She could feel his breathing close by.
She almost touched his hand, but did not. “Should we…practice?” she asked.
“Practice? And what should we practice, Mrs. Rowe?” He shifted back from her in surprise.
“Well, you did rehearse Archbishop Staunton.” She felt the flush rising from her chest and neck. Her face burned.
His eyes were glowing. He waved dismissively. “Before we get into that, Katharine, I want to learn all about you. Do you have a husband?”
At last he was making his move. She paused to frame her answer. “Yes, but we live quite separate lives.” She hoped her tone was encouraging.
His hand brushed her knee. Strangely, she had never noticed his smallest finger before. She stared in fascination. On his left hand, the smallest finger was deformed. In fact, from the last knuckle, the baby finger divided into two tiny, separate digits, each with its own small pink nail. It formed a tiny, perfect claw.
Dispassionately, Tony studied Katharine’s face. First he saw shock, then fascination, which was followed by revulsion. Mother always wanted him to wear a glove to hide his ugly deformity. He knew Katharine was deeply embarrassed, just like Mother. He removed his hand. Staring at her, he withdrew a soft black glove from a pocket and slowly inserted each finger, one by one, into it. “Now you will not be distracted,” he said quietly.
Katharine could not look directly at him. “No…I’m sorry. I…”
She knew he was talking to her as he drew her toward the window. He smiled broadly, his arm forming a sweeping arc that encompassed the city below. “One day,” he began, so softly she had to strain to hear, “all this will be changed.”
“How do you mean?” She forced herself to look away from his gloved hand and into his eyes.
“This city used to be called Hoggtown. Sometimes it still is.” Tony sighed deeply, then continued. “In truth, it is an emerging form.” With the gloved hand tucked into a pocket, he began to pace the full length of the expanse of glass with leisurely strides. He turned back toward her, and in the murky light, said, “But the city persists in contradicting itself. So many graceful, uncluttered lines, surrounded by scabby little pockets of rot.”
Now Tony stood close to her. She saw the muscles tense along his jaw, around his lips. She saw his eyes. They bore into her as he whispered, “Someone with the necessary power must guide the city through its transformation.”
“But doesn’t the vitality of a city come from the people?” Katharine began. In the last fading light, she saw the flecks of amber fire in the irises of his eyes. She saw the pupils narrow and harden. She regretted contradicting him.
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Rowe. The greatness of the city creates the vitality.” His tone was low and threatening, forbidding further comment. With a smile, he continued, “No one will stand in the way of the transformation.” He beckoned her to join him at the window, and slid his arm about her shoulder. She leaned ever so slightly into his embrace.
“I want to show you something, Katharine.” Quickly, he retrieved a leather case from his desk and returned to her side. “You can see this every night around this time.”
From the case, he withdrew a black pair of binoculars. “Look!” He thrust them into her hands. “See, across from us, in the Old City Hall?”
Katharine saw that he had removed the glove. She raised the glasses. The old Victorian-style building possessed cavernous arched windows at least eight feet tall, each broad enough to permit half a dozen people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder across it. Most of the windows were darkened, but in the fading light, rows of pigeons could be seen on the ledges, puffing their feathers and squatting down for the night.
“You’re wanting me to look at the pigeons?” She laughed.
“No, just raise the glasses and look in the window.” His voice was light and playful.
“Ah! Spying, are we?” Laughing once again, she leaned back into him. Two wobbling tunnels of light popped into view. She lowered the glasses and focused them.
The window directly across and one floor down was lit with pale yellow light. It was a sparsely furnished office, with government-issue filing cabinets and two desks.
There was a wooden swivel chair at each desk. She tried the glasses again, but could only focus on the dark, curved forms of the pigeons on the outer ledge.
“There they are now,” Tony whispered close by her ear. He tipped her glasses upward. She saw two people
standing together at the window. Her hand was unsteady at first as the figures jostled before her eyes.
A man stood directly behind a woman. Amazing, the detail you can see, Katharine thought. A blonde woman, her hair pinned up in an old-fashioned style, was wearing a plain white blouse and a dark skirt. The man was much taller and larger than the woman. The top of her head touched his breastbone. Her face bore no expression. He was broad-faced and almost bald.
“Now watch what they do,” said Tony.
The bald man reached over the woman’s shoulder and roughly pushed his hand into her blouse, while his other hand undid the buttons. Katharine felt McKeown’s breath, short and sharp on her neck. She was transfixed by the boredom on the woman’s face. The man grasped the woman’s nipples, and together they swayed gently back and forth.
Tony broke the silence. “They do this every night, about now. What small, sad lives they live,” he sighed. “They think they are daring, adventurous, and romantic with their shabby little groping in a window. How little they know of the exhilaration of real danger.”
Katharine was alarmed at the sudden rise and fall of Tony’s chest. She turned back to the window and raised the glasses once more.
Dark forms filled the tunnels of light in the binoculars. A black streak sliced sharply through her line of vision. Lurching backward, she let the glasses fall. Swooping down from somewhere above was a huge and menacing bird, black against the sky.
Tony swiftly closed in on the window, grasping her arm so tightly that she cried out. He grabbed the binoculars and peered across to the ledge. “My God! It’s a hawk!” he breathed.
Together they watched as the huge black bird rose swiftly into the open sky, with a pigeon clutched in its talons. Katharine glanced backward and into Tony’s face. So completely absorbed was he in the swift and powerful flight of the hawk that he glowed with unguarded admiration. This time, she scarcely noticed when his naked claw finger traced along her collarbone.
In unison, they turned from the window. Tony approached his desk. “You know, Mrs. Rowe…” He paused and reached into a drawer.
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