Authors: Anthony Bidulka
Mr. Quant?”
I had no answer.
Without another word, she did an about-face,
marched across the small landing and descended
the stairs. From over the upper floor railing I
watched her progress until I saw her leave
through the front door. After she was gone I
returned to my desk and pulled a Great Western
Light from my desk-fridge along with a mug
and small container of Clamato juice. I mixed the
beer and clam into the frosted mug and reclined in
my chair to think about what had just happened. I
was relieved Cheryl Guest hadn’t requested a
referral for another private investigator after she
learned I couldn’t help her. But that didn’t mean
she wouldn’t find someone else to do the job her-
self. And if she did, well, Daniel was in trouble.
Although Daniel had told me he hadn’t slept
with another man since receiving the blackmail
note, I had no way of knowing whether he was
telling me the truth. But even if it were true, I was
betting Daniel still managed some sort of activity
that a detective worth his or her salt could uncov-
er, like maybe he bought gay porn magazines or
parked his car in known gay cruising spots to
watch the action. And if that was the case, Daniel
Anthony Bidulka — 253
Guest would soon be outed. Maybe the better
choice was for him to come out before some PI dis-
covered all his secrets? At least then he’d have an
opportunity to control who got the information
and how.
I also had to wonder, if Daniel Guest decided
to come out, at least to his wife, what that would
mean to my case. Would I even have one? The
more I thought about it, and sipped my beer, the
answer to that was probably yes. Daniel might be
convinced to tell his wife about his dalliances
with men, but he certainly wouldn’t be keen on
having everything revealed to the public in a
StarPhoenix
exclusive.
Even telling Cheryl Guest the truth had risk,
other than the obvious ones to their relationship
and marriage. Right now she suspected another
woman, not a man (or men). What would she do
knowing her husband was bisexual? Would she
want to cover it up or would she want to rant and
rave and tell the world just to hurt him? Both were
possibilities and no matter which was true, the
experience wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs
for my client.
Today was the seventeenth, two days past the
due date for Loverboy’s payment and he’d appar-
ently not yet gone to Cheryl Guest with his reve-
lations. If he had, I doubted she’d have come to
my office. Or she’d have been asking about an
affair with a man, not another woman. So why
not? Why hadn’t Loverboy made a move? I knew
Daniel hadn’t heard anything from the blackmail-
er. Had Loverboy been bluffing? Had he gone run-
254 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
ning? Or was he still hoping to find the money in
the mail?
I fixed myself another beer and clam. Office
hours were long over so I took my drink with me
downstairs to raid the kitchen for supper…I mean
dinner. I found an apple, a plastic container of
brown rice that looked relatively fresh and a slice
of carrot cake. I knew my PWC mates wouldn’t
mind. Actually they counted on me to keep left-
overs in the fridge from going bad. After giving
the rice a quick blast in the microwave, sprinkling
it with soya sauce from a plastic, take-out pouch
and selecting utensils, I gathered my meal onto a
tray and took it back to my office.
I decided to keep on working while I chowed
down and picked up the phone.
“Kirsch,” the black-bear voice answered.
“Quant,” I replied, mocking his serious tone.
“Geez, Quant, it’s been a few days since I last
heard from you. I was beginning to think maybe
you’d run off with the gay circus or something.”
Ha. Ha. Not so funny. “You wish.” Great witty
comeback by me.
“You bet I do. But you’re lucky today, I’m in a
good mood, so what can I do you for?”
“What’s with the good mood? Was there a dou-
ble episode of
Cops
on TV last night?”
“Hilarious, Quant. Now whaddaya want? I got
tonsa paper work here and it’s time for me to go
home. So make it quick.”
“What happened to that good mood? It disap-
pear already?” I asked, shovelling some rice into
my mouth.
Anthony Bidulka — 255
“You have that effect on me,” he said dryly.
“Listen, I had a bit of an altercation the other
night.”
“That’s what happens when you use outdoor
parks as singles’ clubs.”
I ignored the slur. “It just so happens I was
attacked.”
“Oh?” His voice was immediately alert and
concerned. Despite everything, Darren is a good
cop and, though I hate to admit it, probably not a
bad person either. “What happened?”
“I was at home on Friday night with my moth-
er…no smartass comments please…and she saw a
peeping Tom. I chased him down the street. When
I caught up with him I got sprayed in the face with
something.”
“Mace?”
Damn. I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell him this
part. “No. It smelled more like hairspray.”
“Excuse me? Did you say hairspray?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So your attacker was a gay hairdresser?” His
voice lost its concern.
“Darren, I’m not kidding. This happened. It
really scared my mother.” I added for dramatic
effect, “And me too.”
“Okay, okay. You had a peeping Tom. Any idea
who it might have been?”
“None.”
“Could you describe him?”
“I’m afraid not. It all happened so fast. And it
was dark out.” I freed the carrot cake from its
Saran wrapping and began dessert.
256 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Could it have been a woman?”
“What? A woman?” Sexistly I had not even
considered that. “Why would you think that?”
“The hairspray. Not many men…real
men…carry hairspray around with them, espe-
cially if they’re planning to do some peeping
rather than primping. If it was hairspray, or even
if it was mace or some other such defensive spray,
the chances are good your peeper was a woman.
That MO just doesn’t fit a man.”
Darren was making sense. I should have seen it
myself. And perhaps my female peeper was the
same woman who showed up at the DGR&R
offices asking about Daniel. But who was she?
And why peep in my windows?
“You could be right.” I hated giving him the
compliment. “So, do you know of any female
peepers in town? Any other instances of the same
thing on the dockets?”
“Gee, let me search my memory of everything
there is to know about crime and criminals in
Saskatoon.”
“Hey, you’re doing better with the sarcasm.”
“Good
teacher.
I’ll
check
around…maybe…and don’t call me like in half an
hour…I’ll get to it when I get to it. Don’t expect
anything.”
“Never do.”
Sereena’s carry-on was smaller than mine. I could-
n’t figure it. How can such a high-maintenance
person require so little? We were on the three-and-
Anthony Bidulka — 257
a-half-hour flight from Saskatoon to Toronto. From
there we’d catch a connection to New York City. I
don’t know how it happened, but after Sereena
flashed a card or two and maybe some shapely
thigh, we were bumped up into Air Canada exec-
utive class—wider seats and better treats. As soon
as we settled in with our champagne and orange
juice, I spent my time gazing smugly at passen-
gers embarking after us and heading for the back
of the Airbus while Sereena began to accoutre her-
self with the necessities of
le grand voyage
. She nes-
tled her politically correct silk-lined fake-fur coat
around herself like a luxurious nest and proceed-
ed to pull from pockets and bags and places so
hidden not even Sir Edmund Hillary could find
them, a selection of moisturizers—some for the
face, a different kind for the hands and yet anoth-
er for the fingernails—a magazine on fine art, bot-
tled water (which I wouldn’t be surprised to find
was laced with vodka), a palm pilot that con-
tained a dizzying array of personal and business
information and a hardcover book about how
globalization was the system replacing cold war
geopolitics as the defining force in world affairs.
Landing in LaGuardia Airport after the fifty-
five minute flight from Toronto was like landing
in Sim City. Having seen it all before, Sereena had
kindly allowed me the window seat. Everything I
knew about this place I’d gleaned from movies
and books and magazines. I gazed down at the
countless buildings, like the pieces of several
puzzles squeezed into one, and thought it was a
dream city—not quite believable. As the plane
258 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
descended, quiet apprehension over the appear-
ance that we might land atop one of those build-
ings, gave way to ascending excitement. This was
New York City! At the mouth of the Hudson River
and bordering the Atlantic Ocean, here was the
USA’s most populous city. Downtown! Midtown!
Uptown! Harlem, Chelsea, Gramercy, Tribeca. The
Financial District, Garment District, Theatre
District. East Village, West Village, Greenwich
Village. China Town, Little Italy and Brooklyn.
Laid out before us like a map of the world on a
stamp-sized piece of land, each colour-coded sec-
tion as distinct from its neighbours as tall build-
ings are from short, heavily treed parks are from
concrete jungles, bohemian is from couture, and
haves are from have-nots. The shopping, the
museums, the shopping, the historical sights, the
shopping! How could it all be in one place?
Sereena reached for my hand and held it on our
way down, her fingers near my quickening pulse
spot, as if hoping for an infusion of a first-
timer’s excitement. She answered my many ques-
tions with knowledgeable precision and seemed
quietly pleased with my appreciation for the behe-
moth below, about to swallow us like a beast of
grandeur.
We made it through the airport with surprising
ease and found a cab—promising an incense-free
environment—to take us to our hotel. We were
dropped curbside on bustling Fifth Avenue, across
the street from Central Park and The Plaza Hotel
and next door to The Pierre at our equally exqui-
site, temporary new home, The Sherry-
Anthony Bidulka — 259
Netherland. Sereena had insisted on “The Sherry”
and supplemented my client’s per diem to make it
so. I stepped out of the vehicle in a daze, barely
registering the driver who was attempting to free
our amazing haul of luggage from where he’d
bungee-corded it into his trunk. Sereena was mak-
ing jovial small talk with the doorman with whom
she seemed well-acquainted.
Although the air was cool, there was no snow
on the ground and barely a trace of wind. Tropical
by Saskatchewan December standards. I pulled in
a deep whiff of city-scented air. Nothing like it on
the prairies. Despite the hoo-hah about polluted
city air, I always find it oddly exhilarating; city air
is air that has lived. And this, the air of New York
City, especially so, having swirled around masses
of people doing exciting things, floated through
world-class museums and theatres and restau-
rants, this is air breathed in and out with vigour,
this is air that has tasted the money of Wall Street,
the sorrow of Ground Zero, the passion of a million
honeymoons and the intoxication of a thousand
opening nights. I was, immediately, under its
spell.
The Sherry-Netherland is an elegant building
still reflecting the glory days of old-world class.
The heavily gilded and chandeliered front
entrance is not so much a lobby as a well-appoint-
ed check-in area with a pair of gold-doored, staffed
lifts to the right and down a short hallway from a
discreet front desk. According to Anthony (in
training mode), unless you plan a change of
clothes between the airport and hotel, you should
260 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
always know your hotel and the impression you