close to Victoria’s and sat down, putting her arm over Victoria’s shoulders. “That probably won’t be the last time that happens,” she said.
Victoria leaned into Kit’s embrace. “That’s reassuring,” she said grimly. The microwave beeped for attention. Kit started to get up. Victoria held her for a moment, kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, then let her go.
Victoria ate more than she thought she could, but between the two of them they didn’t make much of a dent in Consuela’s casserole. They did polish off the bottle of wine, however, although Victoria drank more of it than Kit did. Kit rarely drank more than a glass or two, and seldom finished the second.
“You’d get along with Joe Shoe,” Victoria told her. “He drinks even less than you.”
“Joe who?”
“Joe Shoe. The big guy who was here earlier.”
“What kind of name is Joe Shoe? He an Indian or something?”
“As a matter of fact,” Victoria said, “he is one-eighth Native Canadian or First Nations or whatever they’re calling themselves these days. On his mother’s side. His great-grandmother was a Blackfoot who married a Scottish railway surveyor and moved east. He’s also one-eighth Jewish, he told me, on his father’s side, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of either. His real name is Schumacher.”
“And who is he when he’s at home?”
“A friend of the family,” Victoria said. “More Patrick’s friend than mine, although I’ve known him a little longer.”
“The old guy—Hammond?—he was Patrick’s boss,” Kit said as Victoria raised her glass and drank. She responded with a nod. Kit said, “This Joe Shoe, he works for Hammond too, right? Worked, anyway.”
“Yes,” Victoria said. “I feel bad that I was the cause of him getting fired.”
“He didn’t seem too worried about it,” Kit said. “What did Hammond mean when he said he took you off the street? By the way,” she added, “feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
Victoria smiled briefly. “He was exaggerating a little, but I guess I was something of a street person when I first met him. He saw me hanging around outside the Vancouver Art Gallery. Evidently I reminded him of someone he used to know. That’s when I met Shoe, too. He was still Bill’s chauffeur then.” She thought about it for a second, then decided that Kit had a right to know, and said, “Bill and I were lovers for a short time. A very short time, a long time ago. Before I met Patrick.”
“Yeah,” Kit said gruffly. “I got that.” She took cigarettes and a disposable lighter out of her purse. “Do you mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
Kit stood by the stove, smoking her cigarette, with the range vent fan on high and the patio door open a crack. “And the guy with the ears?” she asked. “Who was he?”
“His name is Del Tilley.”
“He’s wired a bit tight.”
“He is a little intense, isn’t he? I think women make him nervous. A year or so ago, when I went to the office to meet Patrick for lunch, I collided with him in the hall. I’d have fallen if he hadn’t caught me, but his hand touched my breast. Actually, he copped a pretty good feel. I thought he was going to faint when I smiled at him and told him not to worry about it. He’s Bill’s head of security.”
“You’re kidding?” Kit said, eyes wide with surprise. “I’d’ve said security was more Joe Shoe’s line of work.”
Victoria said, “Well, you wouldn’t be too far wrong. Twenty years ago, when he was Bill’s chauffeur, he saved Bill’s life when a man attacked him with a crowbar outside the office.”
Kit arched her eyebrows, which were the same shade of dark iron grey as her short-cropped hair.
“The man broke Shoe’s arm and fractured his cheekbone, but he was still able to throw the guy over the hood of Bill’s car. He was crushed to death under the wheels of a truck.”
“Ouch.” Kit shuddered. “Remind me never to get him pissed at me.”
Victoria shook her head. “In the years I’ve known him,” she said, “I’ve pissed him off plenty of times. He hasn’t thrown me under the wheels of a truck yet.”
The skies opened up soon after Shoe left Victoria’s house, the rain all but overwhelming the Mercedes’ single centre-mounted wiper. Traffic on the approach to the Lions Gate Bridge was light, but at times it was like driving underwater. Headlights were almost useless. Only the very brave or the very stupid drove at more than twenty or thirty kilometres per hour. Then, about halfway across the bridge, the traffic slowed to a complete halt. Shoe put the car in gear and, as the rain drummed on the roof and the reek of ozone filled the car’s interior, he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that his best friend was dead. He couldn’t. It just didn’t fit.
He thought back to his last conversation with Patrick. On Friday evening, after Patrick had broken the news about his resignation, he’d asked, “What are your plans for the future?”
“Vague,” Shoe had replied.
Patrick sipped his drink. “You’ll be what, fifty on your next birthday? When you were twenty-five, what did you think you’d be doing when you were fifty?”
“Selling used cars.”
“Really?”
“No, of course not.”
“When I was twenty-five,” Patrick said, “I thought that by the time I was forty I’d be rich.”
“You’ve done pretty well for yourself,” Shoe said.
“Maybe,” Patrick said. “For a kid from the Point.” The Point, Shoe knew, was Pointe St. Charles, the Irish working-class district of Montreal, where Patrick had grown up and where his family still lived. “But I’m not rich,” Patrick said. “Bill is rich. When I was twenty-five, that’s how rich I thought I’d be by the time I was forty. You remember my cousin Sean, don’t you? Sean Rémillard?”
Shoe nodded. He did, vaguely. He’d met him at Patrick’s wedding, eight years ago.
“When Sean was twenty-five—he’s a month younger me—he was going to be a member of parliament with a portfolio of some kind by the time he was forty, and prime minister by the time he was fifty.”
“How’s he doing?” Shoe asked.
“He’s after the nomination as the Liberal candidate in a federal by-election in Richmond. Or is it Burnaby-Douglas? Whatever, it’s pretty much a one-horse race, according to Sean. Maybe it is, too. He’s got the backing of Allan Privett.”
Patrick spoke the name as though he thought Shoe should recognize it. He didn’t and he said as much.
“No?” Patrick seemed surprised. “He’s one of the most powerful men in the party. Certainly the most powerful man in the B.C. wing. He’s an old
