festival is the timing,” Annie said. “For me personally, I mean. It’s already taking hell’s own footwork to cover two festivals going on at once, and the Alternate hasn’t even started showing movies yet.”
“That’s Cam’s way of making a statement,” I said. “Confrontation. Nose to nose. Up against the wall. Festival against festival.”
“Take tomorrow,” Annie said. “Between Charles and Helga Stephenson, I got a choice of four press conferences, not to mention I can’t miss two movies the Festival of Festivals is running.”
“And a party?”
“No more parties. Last night’s was de rigueur, the opening bash and everything, but as far as getting material, forget it. Too many faces, too much crush.”
“Dan make the party?”
“Dan?” Annie scrunched up her face. “I’m trying to think Dan. Dan Rather? Danny DeVito? Daniel Ortega? ‘O Danny Boy’? Am I getting warm? Which Dan at the party?”
“Day-Lewis.”
“Daniel Day-Lewis,” Annie repeated, her face unscrunched. “Brother, you really got a bee in your bonnet about the man. No, he wasn’t at the party. He isn’t on my calendar until Tuesday or even in town till then for all I know. Besides, he isn’t my only interview. I got two more solo and a bunch of others in general scrummy media conferences.”
“Dumb word.”
“Which one?”
“Media.”
“Plural of medium,” Annie said.
“You know what someone clever once said of medium?”
Annie said, “Your definition of clever doesn’t always match up with Webster’s.”
“Television is a medium,” I said. “So called because it is neither rare nor well done.”
Annie laughed.
“For a quip,” she said, “that one’s worth stockpiling.”
Annie did most of the damage to the bananas au rhum. We had coffee, lingered another half-hour, and left. The Volks was parked at a meter on Jarvis Street. Walking to the car, Annie had her arm around my waist, and my arm was draped over her shoulders. I made a U-turn on Jarvis and drove to Annie’s place. It’s a flat on the third floor of a fine old house in Cabbagetown with an equally fine reno job. In the bedroom, Annie had two more black garments under the black blouse and trousers.
“Want me to tear those off with my teeth?” I said.
Annie went into the bathroom, and when she came out five minutes later, she’d removed her makeup and her black bra and panties. I was already in bed.
Just before daylight, Annie and I came awake at the same time. We didn’t make love again. We snuggled. Like spoons. I lay on my left side facing toward the window. Annie lay on her left side facing in the same direction. Her right arm was around my waist, and her body touched mine in nice places.
“I remember who said it,” I said.
“Ummm.”
“About medium.”
“Um.”
“Ernie Kovacs.”
Annie was asleep.
14
BY THE TIME Raymond Fenk walked out of the Silverdore Hotel at two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, James Turkin and I had been lounging inside and outside the Volks for almost three hours.
A little after eleven, I’d gone into the hotel and asked for Fenk’s room on the house phone. Someone male, presumably Fenk, answered. That you, Bill? I said. Wrong room, the male voice said. He sounded bad-tempered. Had to be Fenk.
The Volks was on the north side of Charles east of the Silverdore. The hotel was on the south side. James filled in the wait with tales from the pickpocket world. He said, apart from South Americans, Soviet émigrés ranked near the top of the craft in the United States. Émigrés was James’s word. They had a touring company, James said. Hit the big conventions in the midwestern cities. Cute, I said.
At twelve-thirty, I sent James over to Yonge Street for coffee and doughnuts. I wanted my doughnut plain. James reported back none of them came plain. The one he chose for me oozed something in raspberry paste.
At one-fifteen, James asked did I know whether Fenk carried a hotel key with him or left it at the front desk? The one occasion I knew about, I told James, a key was in Fenk’s pocket when he went into the hotel. James seemed to like my answer.
At two o’clock, Fenk emerged. He had on a deep-blue jacket with lighter blue piping around the lapels. The guy collected jackets like Lord Thomson of Fleet collected newspapers. Fenk walked west toward Yonge. He was carrying a briefcase. It was slim and black and had more locks than most bank vaults.
“I got another way,” James said.
He got out of the car and crossed Charles. What other way? I hired him to pick the lock on Fenk’s hotel room. That was the way.
James strolled Charles in Fenk’s wake. I left the Volks and stuck to the north side of the street, watching the action. Fenk walked. James strolled. Some action. Just short of Yonge, Fenk wheeled into a small self-serve restaurant. The restaurant had six or seven tables on a front patio. Fenk went through the door. James stayed outside reading a menu mounted beside the entrance. Fenk came back carrying a glass of something in the hand that wasn’t clutching the briefcase. He sat down at an empty table. James stuck with the menu. This was exciting stuff.
James disappeared into the restaurant. Fenk gulped at his drink and stared into space. Or maybe his eyes were trained on the building across the street. It was a Gold’s Gym, and young women were entering and leaving in tight and shiny garments that made them look like exotic dancers in mufti.
James reappeared from the restaurant. He too held a drink. He stopped in the middle of the patio. He glanced right, away from Fenk, and left, toward the table where Fenk was sitting and eyeballing the entrance to Gold’s Gym. James looked lost and indecisive. The hick from out of town. He took a step and stumbled. The stumble moved him into Fenk’s space. Whatever was in James’s glass—Seven-Up? soda water? something pale and fizzy—splashed onto the Fenk table. Fenk jumped up. James landed on his shoulder. Fenk sat down. James caught himself against Fenk and the table.
Fenk was concentrating on his briefcase. He gripped it with his left hand and used his right to yank his glass out of the spillage from James’s drink. James fussed. He pulled a handkerchief from his side pants pocket and swiped at Fenk’s table. Fenk stared thunder clouds at James. James kept on playing the hick. Wiping the table, smiling the sheepish smile, babbling words I couldn’t hear from across the street. The performance, all ninety seconds of it, ended when Fenk waved James away, and James beat his retreat in a posture that suggested homage to a Japanese emperor.
I got back to the Volks before James.
“Out of his pocket,” I said to James as he was opening the door on the passenger
