Authors: Anthony Bidulka
since I’d scored what I felt was a winning blow in
that particular discourse, I decided a little bit of
truth might not hurt as a segue into a more useful
conversation. “I’m a private investigator and I’m
in New York working on a case.”
That seemed to shut her up for a few seconds.
“You’re on a case?”
Interesting. She didn’t seem surprised to learn
I was a detective, but she was surprised I was here
on a case. She’d obviously done her work on who
I was. What she didn’t know was what I was
doing. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m a private investigator too.” She admitted
slowly as if she was paying more attention to some-
thing in her head than to what she was saying. But
after a second she shook it off and asked, “What
Anthony Bidulka — 301
case are you working on? Who’s your client?”
“If you’re really a private detective, you know
I won’t tell you who my client is, but I will tell you
the case I’m working on involves blackmail. I’m
here investigating a suspect.”
“Blackmail?” Her face looked as if she was
working on a particularly hard arithmetic problem.
I imagined sprockets and coils whizzing and
whirring in her head as she tried to figure out what
was going on—and whether I was telling the truth.
“What about you? Who is your client? What
case are you working on?”
She frowned at me, looking a little bit like a
garden gargoyle. “That’s none of your beeswax.”
Ah. Nothing like some good old give and take
and fair play and all that. “Look,” I said, “I think
we need to share a little more information or we’re
never gonna get anywhere.”
She thought about this for a moment and obvi-
ously agreed—sort of. She began, “I’m not going
to tell you who my client is either, but…well, for
your own sake so you don’t go chasing your tail
for too long, why I’m here has nothing to do with
no blackmail.” She raised an unplucked eyebrow
high on her forehead and finished off with, “You
sure you’re not here for some other reason?”
Huh? “Huh? Like what?”
“Okay, never mind,” she said, sounding a bit
prickly.
I tried disarming her with a smile. Didn’t work.
“Jane, I think there’s been a big mistake here.”
She didn’t look any friendlier, but her head
was slowly bobbing up and down. “I’m beginning
302 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
to think that myself.”
For a moment we were mute. The air was elec-
tric with uncertainty and mistrust. I was sure that
if I touched her I’d get a shock. Although our
instincts were telling us that if only we’d talk we’d
figure out some important stuff, they also told us
to keep our backs up like barnyard cats.
“Who’s the dame?”
Gawd! Was she channelling Mickey Spillane or
something?
“If I answer a question will you answer one?”
“No promises, bub.”
“The dame is Sereena Smith, a good friend of
mine.” And for the first time another thought hit
me. Was this not about me or my case at all? Could
this be about Sereena? Suddenly I was sorry I gave
away her name. “Why do you want to know?”
“Next question.”
I took a stab. “Do you drive a blue car?”
She stepped back and stared at me in a way
that told me I had guessed correctly.
“What kind of hairspray do you use?” I asked,
not too friendly like.
She took another step away and gave me a
“whaddaya talking about?” look.
“It was you who hairsprayed me in the face,
wasn’t it? You’re the peeping Tom!”
She pursed her lips and looked at something,
anything, over my shoulder. It
was
her! I tried not
to get too mad. The one good thing she had going
for her was that I was in the same line of work as
her and could understand the possible need to hair-
spray someone’s face better than the next guy.
Anthony Bidulka — 303
“What about the landfill? Was that you too?”
She held up her hands in mock surrender.
“Hey, I know nothin’ about no landfill. You can’t
lay that on me.”
I wasn’t in the mood to trust anything she was
telling me. “You’ve been tailing me for…how long
now? A week? More? What are you looking for?
Who hired you?”
She glared at me but didn’t utter a word.
“You haven’t found whatever it is you’re look-
ing for…so that’s why you followed me here!”
The words came spilling out of my mouth as
quickly as I could think of them. “You probably
thought this was your first big break in the case.
You thought I’d become careless once I was away
from Saskatoon. I’d never suspect you were
behind me. In time you’d catch me at whatever it
is you and your client expect I’m doing! Wow, this
is very Jane Bond double-oh-seven of you.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
I said nothing.
“Are you making fun of me, bub?”
Oh, oh, I was a bub again. And each time she
repeated the phrase she got angrier and a small
vein began to pulse at her temple.
“Don’t blow a gasket, Jane, I’m just pointing
out the obvious. Whatever your client is looking
for, they’re wrong. There’s been a mistake. You
have nothing.”
“I can’t fucking believe this!” Jane began pac-
ing the room, shaking her head like a wet dog
fresh from a bath.
“You know I’m right.” I was just blowing
304 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
smoke, I didn’t really know what I was talking
about but Jane’s reactions seemed to be telling me
I was on the right track. There had been some mis-
take. She had made the trip for nothing.
“And that makes you some kind of hero?” she
spit out.
I knew she was mad at the situation, not me—
well not much at me. I wanted to cool her down.
Despite everything, I kind of liked this little spit-
fire. “C’mon, why don’t I see what sort of drinks I
can find in the mini bar and we talk this over?
Besides, how unlikely is it that two private eyes
from Saskatchewan find themselves pitted against
each other in a New York City hotel room?”
“About as unlikely as me having a drink with
you! I’ll catch you later, Russell Quant.” She
turned on her heel and headed out the door.
“Later, Jane Cross.”
She grumbled an inventively abusive turn of
phrase and was gone.
After helping myself to that mini-bar drink, a shot
of whiskey, I plopped down into a club chair and
tried to put together the pieces of my night. James
Kraft. Jane Cross. Sereena Smith. Related?
Unrelated? Was I in some spinning vortex of con-
fusion from which I’d wake tomorrow morning?
Hoped so. After several fruitless minutes I noticed
a red light on my phone blinking. Message. With
barely the strength of a Raggedy Andy doll left in
me, I pulled my body up from the chair and
allowed it to topple onto the bed (without spilling
Anthony Bidulka — 305
a drop of my drink) from where I could reach the
telephone. I pulled the handset to my ear and
pushed the button.
“Russell? It’s James,” the recorded message
began.
My heart did an involuntary leap. Why did it
do that? Stop it, Russell.
“I just wanted to…I wanted to apologize for
walking out of the bar like that, I know you’re just
doing your job and…oh, hell, Russell…”
It was quiet for a bit, but I could hear rustling.
He hadn’t hung up. Then, “Russell, I…can you
just call me, man? As soon as you get home? I
don’t care what time it is. If…if you’re not pissed
with me or whatever, call me. Okay?”
He hung up.
It was 1 a.m.
I went to the bathroom, finishing my drink on
the way. I peeled off my shirt and threw cold
water on my face and chest. My cheek looked a lit-
tle raw from being grated against the carpet, but
no blood.
I went back to the bed and sat on the edge,
pouring myself another shot from the tiny mini-
bar whiskey bottle. I pulled off my shoes and
socks. Ran my hand over my face and fell back
onto the bed. I reached for the phone and dialled.
“Hullo?” It was a sexy voice, thick and slurry
with sleep.
“James?” I whispered.
“Russell. I’m so glad you called.”
There was a moment then between us. We said
nothing but it was the beginning of a new set of
306 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
rules.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
We both laughed.
“I hope you don’t mind that I called your room
like that?” he said.
“No. Not at all.” I propped the tumbler of liquor
on my chest and watched it gently rise up and
down. The cool drink ring on my skin felt good. “I
was a real jerk at the bar,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You were doing your job, man. I understand.
You got no reason yet to believe me. I know that.”
Yet. He said yet. It was a little word but it
brought colour to my cheeks. Was our history
together being written starting today? Was it
going to be something more than it was until
now? Jeez, I was being schmaltzy about this.
“It’s just that I like you, man,” he said. “There’s
something about you that I really dig. I know it
seems crazy because we just met, but I like the
whole package man. It’s for me. You’re it for me.”
Ohhhhhhhhmaaaaaaaaaannnnnn…
I was melting at the sound of his voice. This
guy did not beat around the bush.
Quant, you’ve got a job to do!
Ah, shut up.
Voices in my head. I may need pills for this.
“James.” That was all I had. My mouth was
dry, my ears were pounding and I could feel each
of the little hairs on my body quiver. I put the
glass of whiskey on the nightstand—it was no
longer stable on my chest.
“Come over,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Part of me was already hailing a cab.
Anthony Bidulka — 307
“I can’t, James,” I said.
“Why? Don’t you want to?”
“I do,” I admitted. “Yeah, I do.”
“Come over.” He told me his address.
“I can’t.” I didn’t sound very convincing even
to myself. I memorized the address.
“I’ll be back in Saskatoon before Christmas.”
Why did he tell me that? As a warning to
Daniel Guest? Or to tell me this didn’t have to be
just a one-night thing if we didn’t want it to be.
My mind was all over the place. This was all
wrong and all right for a million reasons.
“Come over.” Again.
“James, I just can’t tonight.”
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said then, his voice
never losing its sexual fullness.
“About what?”
“What are you wearing?”
This time neither of us laughed.
Saturday I toured a minuscule portion of the Frick
Collection, lunched in Chelsea, had a passerby
take my photo at the corner of Christopher and
Gay Streets and shopped in SoHo all without the
company of Jane Cross. At least not a Jane Cross I
could spot. Had she given up and gone home?
Was this something for my Herrings file or a hairy
tail of a big fat mouse? Sereena was—well, I don’t
know where Sereena was, but we’d promised to
get together that evening. When I returned to my
room early afternoon the message light on my
phone was blinking once again.
308 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Russell.” And once again it was James.
My cheeks reddened.
“Actually I’m kinda glad I reached your
machine, this way you won’t be able to say no this
time,” he said with his easy laugh. “But I don’t
think you will anyway.”
I stared at the phone, wondering what was
coming next.
“After…last night, I thought I owed it to you.
I’ve got something you’ve been looking for.”
My mind crashed. James. What are you say-
ing?
“I’ve got plans earlier, but why don’t you drop
by my apartment later—my roommate is out of
town until after the holidays—say about mid-
night? I’ll see you then.”
And that was it. What the hell was that? He
had something I’ve been looking for. I was looking
for one thing. Loverboy. But no. I had all but con-
cluded James couldn’t be Loverboy.
Or was it just that I didn’t want him to be?
That evening after a pan-Asian/fusion dim sum
dinner at Ruby Foo’s, I was led by Sereena (with
no little bit of trepidation on my part) to some dim
den of a theatre so far off Broadway the locals spoke
a foreign language. We saw a musical about a fam-