Authors: Anthony Bidulka
As I dialled his number I schemed, as I always
do before we talk, on how I could get information
out of Darren without revealing my real purpose.
Sometimes I do this out of necessity, other times
just for sport. Today was a bit of both. I wanted to
Anthony Bidulka — 91
confirm that what I was dealing with wasn’t big-
ger than it seemed. I wanted to find out if the
police had any investigations, ongoing or other-
wise, that were similar to mine. Maybe there was
a rash of well-to-do men, closeted or otherwise,
being blackmailed. It wasn’t a pleasant thought,
but if this was the case I needed to know.
“Kirsch,” he answered gruffly on the third
ring.
“Darren, it’s Russell.” I use first names because
I like him to feel like I care.
“Quant.” A flat statement.
“No crimes today or is the cold keeping you
indoors?”
“The weather has no…” He stopped, realizing
I was pulling his chain. He was no dummy but
every so often I caught him in the act.
I chuckled because it felt good. “Glad to hear it.”
“Are you reporting a crime? Because if not I’ve
got better things to do than chit-chat with you.”
“I was just wondering if you guys had gotten
anywhere on those blackmail cases?”
He was silent. He knew when I was playing the
game and was wise enough to listen in case I actu-
ally had something to say he should know about.
“I’m handling your overflow,” I told him,
keeping my voice even.
“You’ve got a blackmail case?”
“I might,” I allowed, but acting as if I might
just as likely have a case of the flu.
“Details?”
“Yeah right,” I answered. “How about you?
Anything like that in your case files?”
92 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Gay guy?” he said. My ears perked up.
“Uh-huh.” My being noncommittal but atten-
tive.
“Rich?”
Shit, Daniel Guest wasn’t the first.
“Blackmailer caught him on video wearing no-
name jeans?”
I hung up.
I didn’t want to give myself time to smart over
being bested by Kirsch so I immediately dialled
into the internet and scratched the itch of a distant
memory by doing some archival-type research.
And indeed, it didn’t take long to find what I was
looking for. I’m not a particularly politically
savvy individual; at the best of times I can per-
haps recite the name of the mayor of Saskatoon
and premier of Saskatchewan, but that’s about it.
My research told me what I thought I’d remem-
bered from some long ago CFQC newscast or
StarPhoenix
article. Herb Dufour currently was
and had been for several years a city councillor in
Ward 10. And further, he was being touted as a
forerunner in the next mayoralty race expected
sometime in the next six to twelve months.
Huh.
I went back to my suspect spreadsheet and
began to write in the “Others” column, thought
better of it and instead labelled column number
seven: Herb Dufour.
Having called to check up on my mother, my dog,
Barbra, and my new dog, Brutus, Mom sounded a
Anthony Bidulka — 93
little lonely or bored, I didn’t know which. The
dogs were fine. So I again told her to be waiting
for me with her coat on. This time I took her to
Badass Jack’s on 2nd Avenue for lunch. Another
first for Mom. She’d never eaten a wrap before.
Unfortunately, both the jerk sauce she’d selected
for her wrap without fully understanding what it
was, and the somewhat unusual name of the
establishment, left her sporting a decidedly
unhappy grimace. I had work to do downtown
and my mother had mentioned she needed to fin-
ish up some Christmas shopping. With both our
after-lunch destinations handy, I pointed Mom in
the direction of the mall and sent her toddling off
down the street, well-anchored in the growing
winter wind by the ridiculously huge Christmas
corsage of pinecones and berries she’d attached to
her coat lapel.
I made my way to the corner of 2nd Avenue
and 21st Street which is, despite a bank on every
corner, a few fast food joints and dollar stores and
a larger than life-sized bust of Mahatma Gandhi
thrown into the mix, the apex of Saskatoon’s fash-
ion and entertainment district. Within a few hours,
throngs of holiday shoppers would be taking
advantage of the extra hours of Christmas shop-
ping but even now, early on a Thursday afternoon,
the foot and vehicle traffic was heavier than nor-
mal. I fought my way through the bundled-up
and package-laden pedestrians until I reached a
large sign hoisted high above street level display-
ing a single, elegantly scripted, black “g” on a rich,
cream-coloured background. I had arrived at gatt.
94 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
Named after it’s bon vivant owner, my friend
and personal Auntie Mame, Anthony Gatt, gatt is
a high-end menswear store from where, for a
price, even the most slovenly can emerge a gentle-
man of breeding and exquisite taste. Anthony is a
man of indeterminate age and means (I’m think-
ing ’round fifty with a rich, pig farmer father; bite
my tongue) with a dashing Robert Redford/
Great
Gatsby
handsomeness to him. He knows every
word created by man and then some and speaks
them with a smooth English-accented flourish. He
and his partner, Jared Lowe, are vanguards of the
Saskatoon society set.
The store is two storeys tall, glass from stem to
stern—all the better to display the fashion candy
within. As I walked through the front door I mar-
velled at the exquisite Christmas tree that had
been erected by Anthony’s warren of elves. Like
everything about my friend, it was just a little
over-the-top and decidedly unique. Not only
was the tree twelve feet tall and only four feet at
its widest, but the needles of the super slim pine
were a mix of lustrous black and rich burgundy
and every branch was laden with crystal orna-
ments that shone like diamonds. At the top was an
angel of such unsurpassable beauty you might
guess she’d landed there straight from heaven. In
the air were the melodic strains of holiday classics
and the distinct scents of Bvlgari Cologne and
never-worn fabrics. I could sense the slightly
intimidating presence of Hugo Boss, Bruno Magli,
Alessandro Dell’Acqua, Neil Barrett and Prada. I
immediately caught sight of one of Anthony’s
Anthony Bidulka — 95
broad-shouldered, slim-waisted sales clones
whose names were always Derek. He made a
pointing up motion with his index finger and I
made my way through racks of
GQ
fodder to the
grand staircase that leads to the second floor.
Anthony, in all his blond glory, was wearing a
tight white, silk T-shirt, faded grey corduroy
slacks and grey moccasins and even from a dis-
tance I could see the glint of a magnificent dia-
mond ring on the third finger of his right, deeply
tanned hand. He was watching Maggie, the only
woman I’ve ever known to work in the store—
pretty, middle-aged, with crazy-curly, long ash-
blond hair—fitting a suit jacket on a customer. The
customer, a fortysomething stockbroker type with
greying sideburns was staring straight ahead at
his image in a floor to ceiling mirror but listening
intently to Anthony’s running commentary.
“Oh, Anthony,” Maggie said as she knelt down
to pin the trousers, giddily playing her well-
rehearsed role. “I love the Armani on him. Look
how nicely it falls from his big chest.”
Anthony’s face gave up an easy grin as the
stockbroker’s eyes fell, on cue, to someone else’s
big chest. “I’m not an expert at this, Linc, but I
think you’re being flirted with.”
Linc’s face lit up and he winked—maybe at
Anthony or maybe at his own reflection in the
mirror; I was too far away to tell. Anthony’s work
was done. He looked up and cocked an eyebrow in
my direction. I withdrew my hand from where it
had been caressing a selection of Miu Miu
sweaters and gave a little wave.
96 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“No, no, no, no,” he began speaking as he
walked towards me, the intonation growing in
volume and intensity with each repetition of the
word. “I can’t have you in here like that…or at
least I can’t have you leaving like that.”
I looked down. It certainly wasn’t the coat. I
had purchased it at gatt only a couple of months
ago. Had it gone out of style already? Couldn’t be
my shoes. If there were two pieces of fashion I
paid attention to it was my outerwear and my
footwear. It made sense—they were what most
everyone saw. It had to be the pants. Nice cotton
khakis. What’s the problem?
“So boring I could pass out,” Anthony said
with a convincing yawn as he held forth a pair of
pants he’d grabbed seemingly out of thin air. How
does he do that? “Diesel Kulter black leather
straight-legs or…” Poof! Another pair! “…Theory
Tristan Surf indigo stretch cotton jeans. I imagine
you’ll prefer the jeans even though a man with
such wonderfully long legs and shapely posterior
should go with leather, because so few can.”
I was in and out of a change room and we were
heading across the street for a “wee cocktail”
before I could spell my last name. We sat at the bar
and Anthony ordered a martini with Bombay
Sapphire Dry Gin while I opted for a glass of the
house white. Having a perky drink in the after-
noon is one of those “European” traditions
Anthony tirelessly encourages in “the Americas.”
“So, you’re working the store this week?” I
commented.
“Oh, puppy, it’s this Christmas thing. Busy
Anthony Bidulka — 97
busy busy and Maggie and the Dereks have a hard
time keeping up. It’s too insipid to even speak of.”
Then, as a whispered aside, “Though, to tell truth,
I rather enjoy it really.” Back to his normal voice.
“And what of you? Begun your yuletide vacation
yet?”
“Actually no, I’ve just taken on another case.”
“Really? I thought you’d had enough of that
drudgery for a while?” he said in his most droll of
Brit accents.
“I thought so too, but this one just fell into my
lap.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be entertaining dear
Kay?”
I was a little surprised to hear my mother
called by her first name. Most of my friends
referred to her as Mrs. Quant or “your mom.” But
Anthony had been partnered with my Uncle
Lawrence, so in a way, he was Mom’s ex-brother-
in-law. They had known each other, as much as
the strained relationship between brother and sis-
ter allowed, for years. “I’m trying.”
Anthony gave me one of those looks where he
suspected there was more to the story than I was
letting on but had decided not to pursue it. “So
what about this new case, what’s it all about? A
smoking gun? Death by untraceable poison? An
homme fatal
client?”
I chuckled. “No, nothing quite that exotic…or
erotic.”
Anthony is my unofficial liaison to the gay
world. He knows what we’re wearing, what
we’re drinking, what celebrities we’re building up
98 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
and which, sadly, we’re tearing down, what sun-
drenched holiday spots are hot, which ones are
not and, most of all, he knows who is, who isn’t
and which of the aforementioned are sleeping
together. I, on the other hand, had to be told to
stop styling my hair in the George
Clooney/
ER
/Caesar fringe. “Anthony, maybe
you can help me.”
“Wonderful. I’m a gumshoe. Shall I change?
Perhaps a cloak and spiffy hat, walking stick and
a pipe?”
“Have you ever heard of a guy by the name of
James Kraft? Youngish. Blond. Actor.”
He contemplated the name with a handsome
furrowing of his brow. As I waited I noticed two
women stare at my companion as they passed by
on their way to the exit. Anthony was sometimes
too good-looking for his own good.
“James Kraft. Hmmm…”
He was probably too young or too broke to