by building relationships with them, and helping them fix up their homes and roads after the bombings. Our section house is near a little village that used to be Serb but now it’s Croat, although there are two Muslim refugee families, like Mahir who escaped from Sarajevo with his mother. Sarge has kind of taken her and Mahir under our wing. The kid’s only fifteen, but he wants to practice his English so he does our translating. He hates the Serbs. He says when the Serbs ran away from the village, they burned their houses so the Croats couldn’t use them. But I’m not sure, I think maybe the Croats torched the village to chase the Serbs away.
Lots of our guys think the whole place is just nuts, but I’m trying to learn how all this started. It’s hundreds of years old and each side accuses the other of atrocities. The Serbs hate the Croats for collaborating with the Nazis to massacre thousands of them. The Croats say the Serbs took over their land and were the enforcers under the communists. And both of them have hated the Muslims since the Turks massacred and looted their way through the area during the Ottoman Empire. Five hundred fucking years ago, for crissakes. Nobody forgets.
I have to say it makes Canada look like heaven on earth. Most of our guys can’t believe the bitterness, even between neighbours who’ve known each other for generations. So like I said, we’re trying to get them to trust us at least. The Hammer thinks we have enough to do without wasting our time playing Pollyanna, but then he’s the guy who has to argue with both sides each time they try to show their muscle. But Sarge got our section to build a soccer field and a jungle gym for the school in the village, and it’s really great to watch the kids run around laughing. Like there’s not mines all around the town perimeter and mortar fire in the distance all night. The Sarge thinks kids are where we can make a difference.
Twiggy hung up the phone in frustration and turned to scan the street. There was no one nearby, no one watching her. No one remotely interested in a fat old bag lady standing near the corner of Bank and Wellington Streets, almost in the shadow of the Confederation Building on Parliament Hill, an area probably crisscrossed with so many security cameras that no one would dare do her harm. The phone booth was well chosen from that point of view, although the voice at the other end of the phone had been almost drowned out by the roar of traffic, not to mention the damn bells of the Peace Tower.
She’d used up half a day’s worth of quarters making the long distance call to Petawawa, only to have the stupid twit on the phone say she’d have to check with her boss. Who wasn’t in, of course. Where were these politicos when you really needed them? Out on the campaign trail, kissing babies at Easter parades and shoving party pamphlets into distrustful farmers’ hands.
Preaching about peace, honour and returning Canada to its respected place on the world stage. If she had a loonie for every ounce of sanctimonious crap those guys dished up . . .
It almost made Twiggy want to go with the Ottawa Sun guy. To stand for something right in this me-first-and-only world. But she was part of that world, which had never done her any favours when she’d tried to live by a higher code. So why the hell shouldn’t she put herself first too? In the end, money was all that counted, and whoever was willing to come through was going to get her story.
But both sides were playing coy. Both had listened to her pitch and said they were interested, but they’d have to get back to her. Which cost her time and money every time she had to trek to the phone booth. Both had tried to get something for free too. Tried to find out who she was, where she was calling from, exactly what she thought she’d seen. Well, she could play coy too, and they weren’t getting a thing until she had something to show for it in return.
She did wonder how much they could tell on their own. Could they identify the telephone booth? Were they recording the calls and analyzing every sound to figure out who she was and where she was calling from? Did they have that fancy equipment the CSI used on that cop show on TV? Naw, she decided. One was just a cheap tabloid hack, and the other a political wannabe from a two-bit country riding up the Ottawa Valley.
She hobbled slowly across the street, dragging her garbage bag as she headed towards Tim Hortons. Thinking about cops gave her a momentary twinge of guilt. Mr. G had always been good to her; she knew he’d been genuinely freaked out when her boys were killed, and he’d shown a lot more heart than the rest of the cops and doctors and lawyers she’d met in the last six years. He was one of the good guys. There wasn’t really a single person alive on this planet that she gave a damn about any more, but Mr. G came close. By rights, he deserved this information, so that he could do something good with it. Get a surveillance team, search warrant, wire tap, whatever cops did to lay their trap and catch the bad guy. Before the creep had a chance to cover his tracks.
She worried over this unaccustomed moral dilemma for the five minutes it took her to reach the Tim Hortons. Was there a way she could let him know, and still get her money? Something anonymous, maybe, that couldn’t be traced back to her?
Worth thinking about, anyway.
Holding two plates aloft, Anne Norrich pirouetted through the kitchen door and bumped it shut behind her with her hip. Her eyes shone, and her face was flushed a hot pink to match her floral blouse.
“Ready?” she challenged.
Green steeled himself and nodded. A plate descended before him, and it took him a moment to recognize the apparition sprawled across it. He had prepared himself for scaly skin, even a fish head with shrivelled eyes, but this was far worse. A speckled red missile with beady eyes, long bony appendages, lethal claws and worst of all, feelers which draped either side of the plate and came to rest in the mashed potatoes. Green was transfixed with horror.
Norrich roared with laughter. “You should see the look on his face, Annie!”
Alarm flitted across Anne’s face. “Have you ever eaten one?”
He managed to shake his head, his voice still somewhere in the pit of his stomach.
“Well,” said Norrich, “you haven’t lived until you’ve had an honest to God Nova Scotian lobster. Steamed in ocean brine, no spices or fancy sauces. Just a bowl of lemon and melted butter to dip it in.” He lifted the bottle of wine which sat at his side and held it across the table towards Green. “Here, I think you need a good dose of extra courage. Then you won’t notice how hard it is to get any food out of the horny bastards.”
They’d started the evening with scotch and were now well into their second bottle of wine. Since Green’s idea of tying one on was a second beer with his smoked meat platter at Nate’s Deli, he was already seeing double. Perhaps there weren’t quite as many legs as there seemed to be, he thought in a brief lucid moment, but nonetheless he held out his glass gratefully. It was the only way he was going to get through this course.
Green was not much of an observant Jew, particularly where the Kosher laws were concerned, and he loved his Chinese shrimp and barbequed pork as much as the next Jew, but he thought the rabbis were on the right track in forbidding this menace. A vision of Woody Allen chasing the lobster around the kitchen in the movie Annie Hall popped into his mind, and he almost choked on his healthy slug of wine.
Anne was a solicitous hostess and fluttered around tying his bib and showing him how to crack open the shell to extract the meat. When the head and some green insides spilled out onto the white lace tablecloth, she spirited them miraculously from view. With no feelers and beady eyes to contend with, he was able to concentrate on getting some nourishment.
As he struggled, Norrich regaled him
