Authors: Anthony Bidulka
ings. Nothing constant. Hard life, I’d say.”
I wasn’t prepared or knowledgeable enough
to be an advocate for actors, after all I’d only
become one two minutes ago, but this guy
seemed to be a bit of a downer, especially when
he should be supporting his son’s career rather
than denigrating it. “I’d say it’s a much different
lifestyle than some others. And like everything, it
has its pros and cons.”
Anthony Bidulka — 115
“Hmphf,” was his answer.
I looked at Meredith Kraft who was sitting qui-
etly with a vacant look on her face. “Did James
happen to come home since I called earlier? I’d
really like to speak with him.”
“James doesn’t live here anymore,” the father
said, looking at his wife as if he’d caught her in yet
another in a series of lies.
And, come to think of it, why hadn’t she told
me
this news over the phone? “Oh?” I said. “I did-
n’t know that. I guess I haven’t seen him in a
while.”
“Lovers’ quarrel?”
Yikes! Mr. Kraft was indeed crafty. He’d caught
me off guard. The look on my face must have told
him so. I set down my water.
“You and my son, are you boyfriends? You’re
kind of old for him, aren’t you?”
Enough with the age cracks, buddy. “No, actu-
ally we are not boyfriends.”
“You don’t have to pretend with us,” he said,
pretty much ignoring his wife who looked as if she
wanted to crawl into an oyster shell. Finding a
pearl would be a delightful bonus. “We know
about the lifestyle James has chosen. As frivolous
as his choice of careers.”
I contemplated getting into a conversation
about the whole choice thing, but I could tell Mr.
Kraft had had that talk before and wasn’t buying
it. “Anyway, would you be able to tell me how to
get in touch with James?”
“If you’re looking for a date, you’re going to
have to go a long way.” Everything that was com-
116 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
ing out of Kelvin Kraft’s mouth sounded belliger-
ent, angry, like a man itching to pick a fight.
Obviously the son was gone and he needed some-
one to yell at. It looked like his wife wasn’t much
of a combatant.
“He comes home every two, three weeks,” this
in a quiet voice from Meredith. “He’s gone to stay
with a friend in New York City. He has some audi-
tions lined up.”
“Going for the big time,” Kelvin Kraft said
with a sarcasm-laden grunt. “Broadway! My son’s
going to be a chorus boy!” He laughed, but there
was little joy in it.
“He comes home when he can. Every two,
three weeks,” the blond woman repeated. “For a
visit.”
“For money and clean clothes,” the father cor-
rected.
And to pick up his mail? Pick up his blackmail
money to help pay for his life in the big city? Is that
how he planned to afford it? I doubted his father
was willing to put out a lot of cash to support a
lifestyle he so obviously abhorred. Or was I out of
luck? Did the fact that James Kraft didn’t even live
in Saskatoon anymore remove him as a likely sus-
pect? Or could he have perpetrated this blackmail
scheme from out of town? The collection address
was a local P.O. Box. Why not use his New York
City address? Or was he too smart for that? Would
he have realized it would have been an obvious
clue to his identity? If his mother was telling the
truth, James Kraft might be in town often enough
to be Loverboy—but then who was the person fol-
Anthony Bidulka — 117
lowing Daniel in the blue car? Regardless, I could-
n’t rule him out yet.
“Listen,” Mr. Kraft said, rising from his seat. “I
think it’s time you left.”
I got up too, as did Mrs. Kraft. “Could you give
me a phone number for James in New York?” One
last-ditch effort to get some help from these peo-
ple.
“Hey!” It was almost a yell. This was a man on
the edge. “You want to date my son, you want to
get into his pants, you find him yourself! I sure as
hell am not going to help you!”
That was pretty clear. By the time I made it to
the front door, Kelvin Kraft had it open and was
making an irritating motion with his wrist indicat-
ing he wanted me on the other side of it as quick-
ly as possible. What a jerk. Blackmailer or not, I
was feeling some sympathy for James Kraft.
The wind had picked up and, after the door hit
me on the ass on the way out, I stood in the pro-
tection of the house’s stoop fighting with my jack-
et zipper when I heard the door open again. I
twirled around fast, worried I was about to get my
butt kicked. But instead of the creepy father, it was
the mousy mother. She was holding out a piece of
paper. I took it and saw she had hurriedly
scratched on it a phone number with a two-one-
two area code. Manhattan. I nodded my thanks.
“You said you had something that belonged to
my son?” she said over the whistling of the wind,
pulling at a strand of hair that was being whisked
across her face. Was this why she originally neg-
lected telling me the truth about her son’s where-
118 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
abouts? Or had she just wanted to meet one of his
boyfriends?
“What?”
“When you called. You said you wanted to
return something that belonged to my son.”
Shit. I looked over her shoulder hoping she’d
get the hint that her husband might find her talk-
ing to me and she should forget about this stupid
“something that belonged to her son.” No such
luck.
“Yes, that’s right,” I said slowly, trying to come
up with something to give her. My hands were in
my coat pockets searching the contents. A loonie?
Nope, not believable. Gum? Nope. Lint seemed a
little inconsequential. With a sad curl in my lip I
slowly eased off the silver ring from the middle
finger of my left hand. It had only cost me forty
bucks, but it had a neat Grecian design and I liked
it. Sometimes this career calls for personal sacri-
fice. “Here it is.” I handed her the ring. Crap.
She studied it closely, as if it might carry a reflec-
tion of her son’s face on its shiny surface. Finally
she looked up, her hair now a fright wig around
her face. “I’ll be certain to get it back to him.”
Yeah, fine. “Thank you.”
She nodded and closed the door.
I looked at the paper in my hand. I hoped this
phone number was worth the forty bucks. I’d
have to remember to add the cost of the ring to the
disbursement portion of Daniel Guest’s bill.
I rushed to my car and hopped in before the
bracing wind had a chance to freeze me like a cod
fillet and for good measure slice me up into handy
Anthony Bidulka — 119
grilling portions. I started it up, cranked the tem-
perature to high and sat back to let an idle thought
percolate.
Daniel Guest lived on Poplar Crescent. I was
currently on Saskatchewan Crescent.
The Krafts and the Guests were almost neigh-
bours.
I shifted into first and in less than three minutes
I was back in front of my client’s house. Daniel had
told me it had taken James under twenty minutes
to get to his house that night by bike. James had
obviously taken his time. Anyone from the Kraft
household could have covered the distance to the
Guest house in less than five minutes.
Anyone.
It was getting late as I headed home and the
streets were as empty as a gay bar before mid-
night. So it didn’t take long for me to spot the tail.
At least I thought it was a tail. It was dark out and
the driver was clever, at first staying far enough
away so I couldn’t quite make out any details. I
first saw it when I pulled away from Daniel
Guest’s house. It had been parked on Poplar
Crescent, about a block down from where I had
stopped. I didn’t think much of it until I noticed
the headlights, behind me on Lorne Avenue: one
definitely a little dimmer than the other. Then they
were gone. I stopped at a convenience store for
milk. I couldn’t remember what I had in my fridge
but I was certain anything my mother would have
stocked up on would be whole, not the one-per-
120 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
cent I prefer. Driving away from the store I almost
immediately caught sight of the lopsided head-
lights about a block back, heading in my direction.
I decided to test my theory. I made a left on
Isabella for three blocks and then another quick left
on Victoria, heading towards the bridge. Nothing,
nothing, nothing, then bingo! There it was. I
decided to cross the bridge. It was a narrow, two-
lane bridge so if I drove slowly, the driver behind
me would have to slow down too and stay right
behind me where, hopefully, I could get a look at
his face, the make of the car and a license plate
number. A stupid driver that is. My stalker obvi-
ously guessed my ploy and loitered, as much as a
car can loiter, until I had pretty much crossed the
bridge before driving over it himself. Didn’t mat-
ter, I thought to myself. Once we were both down-
town, if I drove carefully, we’d eventually both get
stopped at a traffic light where I’d finally get a
good look at him.
As usual, it wasn’t as easy as I thought and we
played cat and mouse for several minutes.
While I drove I scoured my memory for any
similarities between tonight’s car and the ones
from the night at the landfill. Did one of the cars
from the night of the chase have a dim headlight?
I had to admit I didn’t know. Everything had hap-
pened so fast. There was however one glaring dif-
ference between the two events. Last time I was
chased. This time I was followed.
When had I actually picked up the tail, I won-
dered. At the Krafts? The Guests? Earlier? I couldn’t
be sure.
Anthony Bidulka — 121
And there was one more thing I couldn’t be
sure of: who was interested enough in what I was
doing to have
me
followed? And just then, I got
my answer. Sort of. The driver finally made a tim-
ing error. We were both coming up to a traffic light
that had just turned red. He’d have to pull up
behind me. Knowing he’d made a mistake, he
pulled a wicked U-turn and disappeared down a
back alley. But not before I clearly saw the colour
of his car. It was blue.
Chapter 7
AFTER LOSING MY TAIL I decided to make two more
stops before going home. At both I parked half a
block away and did my best to sneak up on them.
I peaked in the appropriate windows and then
snuck away under the cover of darkness. Daniel
Guest’s garage held two vehicles. Both black. One
was the Beemer I was already familiar with and
the other a Land Rover. More interestingly, Kelvin
Kraft’s garage was empty.
By the time I pulled into my own garage it was
after 11 p.m. and the temperature was dipping
below minus twenty degrees Celsius. I followed a
path of solar garden lights that squatted in nests of
snow along my backyard walkway like little fat
hibernating fireflies. The house looked dark
except for a light thoughtfully left on by my
mother, illuminating the back deck. I let myself in
as quietly as I could and was greeted by two snuff-
ing dogs. Barbra is used to my arriving home at all
hours of the day or night. She knows what a detec-
tive’s life is like. Brutus, on the other hand, was a
little more unsure of me, not only because of my
seemingly furtive entry, but because he was a
guest in unfamiliar territory. Barbra quickly
moved into staring mode, awaiting indication of
what was coming next and wondering if a treat
was likely to be involved. Her brother however
spent a few more minutes smelling the seams of
my new pants and urging a few head pats before
Anthony Bidulka — 123
settling down. Once that was over, I tiptoed
through the kitchen into the hallway that led to
the guest bedroom and listened for sounds of my
mother. I couldn’t hear a thing and there didn’t
appear to be any light under the door to her room.
I realized I had no idea what time my mother
went to sleep. Nine o’clock? Midnight?
Somewhere in between? I looked down at the
dogs who had already spent more time with my