on Sigmund Blatt, reciting Blatt’s criminal record: some assault, some drugs, some theft, but all fairly minor and dated, going back to his younger years. He had finished with his opinion that Blatt needed further observation. And Sergeant Bosko had been there to see this great performance, which meant an “A” for his comeback report card.
Public speaking had never been a problem for Dion, before the crash. He had enjoyed having the floor, sometimes to the point of having things thrown at him, pens and balled-up sandwich wrappers. After the crash, talking one-on-one was a challenge. The words didn’t flow. Talking to a group never happened, because he avoided groups altogether.
But today he had no choice, and he had tackled it head-on, and he had succeeded. Now his shirt was soaked like he’d been dunked in a tub, but he was okay.
The success thrilled him. Proof that he worked well under pressure, and since this job was all about pressure, he would do well at the job.
After a long walk and a meal downtown, he returned to the Royal Arms. The hotel stood like a cinderblock battalion on Lynn Valley Road, with its three storeys of rooms to let, its pub off the lobby to one side, restaurant on the other. He looked at the face of the building as he pocketed his keys. Something niggled at him, a task forgotten or a call he had failed to make. Whatever it was, he hadn’t written it down, and that was a mistake.
He entered the lobby, still frowning at whatever it was he had forgotten. He nodded hello to the desk clerk and climbed the stairs. In his room on the second floor he hung up his car coat and sat on the bed to remove his shoes. The curtains of the one large window were open, and city lights glared in.
The room wasn’t great. Painted in murky tans and browns, with accents of olive green, the colouring alone could make a man reach for the bottle. But right now, as he sat on the bed with his brand-new personal iPhone in hand, he didn’t care. He had a mission, and he needed to do it now, as he sailed the updraft of success.
Kate’s contact info wasn’t programmed into the phone, but it was imprinted in his memory, right down to the postal code. He entered her phone number, touched the connect icon. Four rings, each one jangling his nerves like a taser zap, before her voice came on the line. “Hello?”
He gasped. She sounded sexier and huskier than he remembered. “Kate,” he said. “It’s me, Cal. I’m back in North Van. Can we meet?”
Abrupt, but positively spoken, with a gloss of anticipation. He almost believed, even after burning his bridges with her, that there was a chance they would pick up where they had left off.
“Cal,” she said. The sexiness was gone. Still husky, but it was more the gritty rasp of someone just woken. “I was wondering if you’d call. How are you?”
Her matter-of-factness disturbed him. He was ready for anger, had his answers lined up, apologies and promises and declarations. He said, “You knew I was back?”
“Of course. Doug told me. And I’m really glad you called. I really am, Cal. Just the timing isn’t great.”
Kate Ballantyne was an artist and instructor. She worked at Emily Carr over on Granville Island, and lived in her own artist-instructor world, so different from his own. It had never occurred to him that she would stay in touch with the crew once he was gone, talking about him behind his back, exchanging news. “So where and when would you like to meet?” she said. “Tomorrow night? Eight o’clock, at the Quay?”
Already, his courage was banking. “I thought now, actually. I really need to see you. I could drive by. You’re still at the same place in Kitsilano? Because I could totally —”
“I am, yeah, but you can’t. Not tonight. For one thing, it’s really late.”
“Sure, but —”
“For another, my boyfriend will be home soon, so it’s probably not the best time to come rushing over. A little awkward.”
His thumb hit the disconnect button. He stared at the phone for a moment and then stood and threw it at the nearest wall. The phone dinged the drywall and thumped to the carpet. The TV mumbling in the next room went quiet.
Shame kicked in fast. Taking his disappointment out on the phone was childish. It was what hotheads did in the movies when their lives unravelled. He inspected the damage to the wall. Maybe the hotel would charge him for it, but probably not, because this was the Royal Arms, one of the last affordable inns in North Vancouver. Doomed, in fact. The waitress downstairs had told him demolition was set for next year. To make way for another five-star franchise hotel, she said. Because that’s what the world needs, another Hilton.
He leaned his forehead against the ding. Kate had a new boyfriend. Why was he surprised? She was a gorgeous, sociable woman, and he had stonewalled her. He felt dinner curdling in his gut. He felt socked by a terrible loneliness, and he understood what the feeling was. Homesickness.
Which made no sense. He was home.
No, he wasn’t. Home was that way. North. He had been in denial, believing he wanted to come back here. He didn’t really want to be back, wasn’t ready, and never would be. He hated it here.
He had hated it up north, but he had adjusted. Trouble was, he hadn’t realized he had adjusted until it was too late, and he had transported himself back to a city where he no longer clicked.
Now he understood. The north was different from anything he had known before. The northern people had let him in, and the northern air worked through his blood, and the northern trees could speak. He had been almost there when he left. Almost ready to learn the language of the northern trees.
Six
A Moody Breeze
There is nothing like the fresh chill of a spring morning to set a man up with new hope. Leith stepped into the big, busy restaurant he had discovered on 2nd Avenue just off Lonsdale that provided a hearty breakfast for a decent price and catered to a mixed crowd of bums and businessmen. He felt oddly happy, but maybe it was just the prospect of sizzling, buttery bacon and eggs.
It was a split-level restaurant, and he favoured the upper section, featuring several back-to-back booths. He stepped up and walked toward an available seat, but froze as he heard a familiar voice, low and leisurely, saying, “But I happen to like Cal, and that’s a problem. It’s too bad. You might say a lose-lose proposition. Anyway, hold fire, till I let you know. For now, just …”
The words cut off cold. From where Leith stood, he could not see the speaker, but he could see the listener, a white male in his forties, slim and slight and neatly dressed, with such close-cropped hair he might have been bald, a goatee, and cold, wide-open eyes. The stranger had possibly noted Leith’s piqued interest and lifted a discreet finger, which was maybe why the voice — it was definitely Bosko’s — had stopped in its tracks. The stranger said something, and Bosko looked around the edge of the booth and saw Leith. Leith grinned. Bosko seemed pleased to see him and said, “Hey, Dave. You’ve found my favourite breakfast joint.”
“I thought I heard your voice,” Leith said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, come and join me,” Bosko said, beaming. “Parker is actually just leaving.”
“Morning,” Leith said, as the man called Parker shifted over and stood.
“Morning,” Parker said.
