sipping Turkish coffee, bristle-faced men offering their worldly wisdom and passing the šljivovica from hand to hand while the children romped around the room, not understanding why they were celebrating their older cousin’s leave-taking, but glad for the sweet rolls. Dan didn’t want to think about the bumpy coffin ride back in the bottom of a cargo plane, the seven-hour flight to repatriate him, the teary return that awaited him in his homeland two years too late.
The sky threatened drizzle as he walked north on Yonge Street, keeping his distance from passersby who seemed to have nothing better to do than throng the intersections looking fashionable. He stopped for lunch at Spring Rolls. The downstairs was filled with a noisy young crowd who seemed to think it a glamorous social event rather than simply a quick, cheap eat. He bypassed the clamorous lunchers and went upstairs, where it was only slightly less crowded. A waiter waved him curtly to a window table. The man’s face betrayed annoyance at having one customer take up a spot for two. Dan could remember when the place barely got half full. Whenever he found a convenient location to eat, it turned trendy in a couple of months. Then the wait time increased, the food went downhill, and the service got snarly. So much for Toronto’s exalted dining experience.
He ordered a drink before he was seated. One beer to take the edge off. It wasn’t that he needed it, he reassured himself. Just holding the tumbler in his hand made him feel better.
Two tables over, a rugged-looking guy in denim caught Dan’s eye. Black T-shirt, chiselled cheekbones, thick moustache. Face like a motorcycle cop from the backend of a seventies porn catalogue. He looked familiar. Dan wondered if he was undercover, possibly someone he’d worked with before. He kept catching Dan’s glance. The third time it happened the man smiled unexpectedly. Dan blushed and turned away.
He sipped his beer and kept his gaze averted, wondering how long the guy would keep at it before he gave up.
The waiter returned for his order. Dan stumbled over the name of one of the Asian fusion dishes. The waiter corrected his pronunciation and regarded him gravely, as though he’d asked for a side order of blowfish.
His meal had just arrived when the denim-clad mannequin laid a bill on the table. Dan kept his head turned as he walked past and dropped a slip of paper beside Dan’s fork. Out of the corner of his eye, Dan watched him disappear down the stairs before turning it over — the name Chuck and a phone number. He finished his lunch and left the number on the table. Maybe his hurried waiter would think it was for him. The two of them could work it out.
Outside, the day had turned bright. The sun made a sudden appearance as Dan crossed through Allan Gardens, noting the unusually large number of addicts looking up uncertainly at the light, like seals left stranded by a retreating tide. He thought over the early morning meeting with his former neighbour at the donut shop, and wondered again why Steve had given Glenda the house, especially since she made more money than him. Is that what straight men did?
There was no reply from Bill when he reached the office. He tossed his coat over a chair then made a few calls about the young runaway, Richard Philips. At four o’clock he signed off on the file of a woman missing for five years who’d recently turned up — schizophrenic and amnesiac — on a Hawaiian island. She’d been living in an abandoned milk truck. Her appearance had altered so radically, it had taken a DNA test to convince her relatives she was the same woman. Sometimes that was as good as it got.
He opened another file and read over his notes without taking anything in. A fourth cup of coffee failed to revive his concentration. He’d been staring at his computer for some time without registering a thing. Just before six, he closed his laptop and left the office.
His counselling was an hour off. It seemed to be a day for wasting time. On a lark, he left his car in the underground garage and walked west on Wellesley Street through the downtown core. He ducked into a video arcade burgeoning with teens and pre-teens — kids who liked to hang out on the strip. He watched them in the half-light, silhouetted like an army of overactive gnomes labouring underground. A crazy quilt of sound came at him, the jabbering voices of boys and machines. The variety of games boggled his mind, newer versions at the front, older ones farther along the warren of blinking lights. Shooting games, driving games, even a fast-paced step-dancing game. Movie themes dominated: Lord of the Rings followed by Star Wars and The Matrix. Near the far end stood Roger Moore, as dashing as ever — James Bond is immortal, after all. Closer up, a perennial favourite: a Playboy Bunny with a waggling set of ears. Elsewhere, Nancy Reagan’s much-quoted plea hung over a flaming bridge: Just say no to drugs. But what if they said yes to you?
Dan kept his eyes peeled for Richard Philips. He’d seen a million boys like the ones here today, all variations on a theme. He was the kid next door with the Popsicle smile or the ten-cent grin, a skateboard beneath his feet, a baseball cap on a crow’s nest of hair, and a comic book tucked beneath his arm. You know him. He’s the boy who got all As, or sometimes Bs or even Fs. The future baccalaureate or the wearer of the dunce’s crown, the one who stupefied his teachers or failed miserably at his studies. He’s the boy who cheered others on in their endeavours and threw matches at cats. Who won or lost at aggies, who skipped classes and lobbed crusts at other boys in the lunchroom. You know every variation of him. And every now and again one little thing went wrong, one screw fell out of place, and he was no longer that charming boy you thought you knew but a conniving criminal, a survival-minded sharp waiting on the other side of the lamppost, on the far side of midnight, leaning against the doorframe and taking your measure. But you know him. Because somewhere deep down inside, he is you or your son or your brother or maybe even your future father. You know him.
Dan watched the kids jockeying for place, aiming guns in the air, at the screens, at each other. Blam! He listened to the sharp yells as the boys won or lost, then started new games that took them to the far reaches of space, the depths of the ocean, or the deepest jungles. Losing themselves as successfully as they could.
Apart from Dan and the arcade manager, there was only one other adult in the room. At first Dan didn’t recognize him. He was a bag of bones, an old haunt Dan hadn’t seen in years. At forty he’d been a chronic predator; at sixty he was a fright. Dan watched him move among the boys like an aged shopper browsing the aisle of some fancy specialty shop, hands trembling with hunger. The boys all seemed to know him too — Wicked Uncle Ernie with his bag of magic tricks, all for kicks. Come home with me, kiddies. We’ll watch some television, snort a little blow. Smoke some crack. Aren’t I a charm? We’ll have fun. Whatever turns up. And P.S. Don’t tell Mom. The voice paced, the tone measured: here was sincerity, surprise, and now and then a little calculated enthusiasm. Great shot, Tim! What a score. Keep it up, Bennie! Whatever was required came tripping off his tongue in calculated increments, plotted to the needs of the moment. Now smile for the camera because: these premises are monitored 24-hours. Let the means determine the ends. Each according to his need. And now and then a gentle laugh, nicely modulated. Every syllable a sure step, one foot placed squarely in front of the other.
Dan caught the predator’s eyes, tossed him a knowing nod to unsettle his dreams, and let him know he’d been noticed — who knows, maybe the former hustler had gone undercover after all these years — then left, heading for his counselling session.
Dan’s work offered the weekly sessions to help employees deal with the supposed stress of their jobs. His employer was considered progressive. Words like “wellness” and “holistic” were floated freely around the office. Currently, however, Dan’s counselling had also become “compulsory” after he dented a filing cabinet with his fist.
Two days before that incident, he’d successfully tracked down the spouse of a client who warned him that her husband, a manic-depressive, had left home without his meds. Twelve hours after being freed from a rehab centre, the man turned up a suicide in a west end back alley. It came as a complete shock to himself and everyone else when Dan spun around and slugged the cabinet.
A
