not this particular one.”
“Don’t give me that guff.”
A small line had formed behind me. People were waiting to pay for their purchases.
“Just say to yourself,” the cashier said to me, “‘my breath offends, but I can beat the odour trouble.’”
I looked back at the line. Four people stood in it. Three of them were listening to the cashier but pretending they weren’t. The fourth, the guy at the front of the line, was listening and not bothering to conceal his merriment.
“Promise me,” the cashier was saying, “you’re going to take ownership of your halitosis.”
Would this damn woman ever shut up?
“How much do I owe you?” I said.
“Looks like it’s $89.52,” she said. “Money well spent.”
I waved my Visa card at her. She slid the card machine closer to me.
“If you’re not cured inside a week,” the woman said, “I’ll be very surprised.”
I finished the payment drill.
“I tell you what,” the woman said. “If your girlfriend or wife or whatever she is can still detect the halitosis this time next week, send her over to see me.”
I picked up my bulky bag and started for the door at a swift walking pace.
“I know some really powerful prescription medicine for bad breath,” the cashier said in a louder voice. “Me and your girlfriend or wife, whatever, can work that out.”
I took another look behind me. The asshole at the front of the line was flashing a big smile my way and applauding.
I crossed Bloor at the traffic light and headed south to my office, feeling something between annoyed and humiliated. My iPhone chose this delicate moment to ring. The caller was Maury.
“You want to meet me and Biscuit at the Daffodil for lunch?” he said.
“I’m kind of occupied here, Maury,” I said, not much feeling like taking a trip all the way to the east end for my next meal.
“Crang, that wasn’t a question I just put to you,” Maury said. “That wasn’t even a suggestion.”
“You got something urgent?”
“Essential is how I might describe it.”
“Concerning the job we’re doing for Fletcher?”
“You’re making me feel exasperated, for chrissakes.”
“Give me a three quarters of an hour, I’ll take the Bloor subway and then, what, the Coxwell bus south to the Daffodil?”
“If you’re as serious as you ought to be, you’ll grab a cab.”
I clicked off my iPhone and hailed a taxi.
Chapter Eleven
I spotted Biscuit the minute I stepped into the Daffodil Restaurant. That was tricky, picking out a guy in a crowded diner who was so short his head barely cleared the top of the table he and Maury were sitting at. Biscuit, maybe an inch or two under five feet, belonged to the little people. Not that the height seemed to be a drawback as far as he was concerned. Besides this positive attitude, Biscuit had plenty of other physical qualities that would be rated as attractive in a person of any size: a full head of thick grey hair, a tidy moustache, snappy clothes, and a pleasant all-around demeanour. He was also regarded among his contemporaries in the subculture as the slickest cracker of safes in the business, though, like Maury, he had retired from active cracking a couple of years earlier.
“What’s the stink you’re bringing in here, Crang?” Maury said. “The place all of a sudden smells like a dentist’s office.”
I ignored Maury’s hassling and greeted Biscuit. When we shook hands, my hand felt as if it were circling his twice. I sat down on Biscuit’s side of the table, plunking my Shoppers Drug Mart bag on the floor next to my seat.
“Seriously, Crang,” Maury said, “what’ve you got in the bag, a lifetime supply of Listerine?”
“If you really need to know,” I said, “it’s a bunch of dental aids for our current employer.”
“You’re talking about Fletcher’s crappy breath?”
“You know about that?”
“The guy lets out some air in my vicinity, it’s the same as an attack of poison gas like the Germans hit the Allies with in the First World War.”
“How come everybody notices Fletcher’s breath except me?”
“Yeah,” Maury said, “you’re supposed to be the guy that nothing gets past.”
“Nice to be together with you again, Crang,” Biscuit broke in. “Especially on an interesting professional engagement.”
“Maury’s briefed you about the bookstore theft?”
“Papers taken from the safe that has the digital lock, yes,” Biscuit said. “But I would describe what Maury gave me as more a field trip than a briefing.”
“Biscuit and I went to Fletcher’s place last night,” Maury said. “That’s what we need to talk about.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What hour last night? Was the store still open?”
“At 2:30 a.m,” Maury said. “And the place was empty, which was necessary for our little visit.”
“You might have given me advance notice about this expedition,” I said. “You guys broke in, right?”
“Not broke in, like you say,” Maury said. “When Biscuit’s involved in an operation, it’s smooth as silk.”
“A satisfying bit of work,” Biscuit said.
“You went in through the back door?” I said.
“We did,” Biscuit said. “Then I opened the safe.”
“Using the method where you give the safe a thump with the mallet?”
“I prefer a challenge, Crang,” Biscuit said. “So I worked the combination.”
“Under five minutes was all it took for Biscuit to get the right numbers lined up,” Maury said, reaching across the table to bump fists with Biscuit. “My man here’s the champ.”
The waiter arrived to take our orders. I asked for what I always ate at the Daffodil, a plain omelette and a Coors. The Daffodil was a clean, cheerful place, always busy, reliable with simple dishes but hardly daring in its cuisine. Maury regarded the Daffodil as a location close to sacred. It was here that members of the subculture had gathered in their halcyon days. They drank beer and plotted heists and scams
