Authors: Anthony Bidulka
ily of gnomes that prostituted themselves as a
means of religious expression (you figure it out). I
wasn’t the best of company because I was still on
the lookout for Jane Cross and more than a little
distracted thinking about my midnight meeting
Anthony Bidulka — 309
with James. But Sereena was, as always, under-
standing and a trooper and kept up more than her
fair share of the conversation.
With about ninety minutes to kill before cab-
bing it to James’, Sereena and I returned to The
Sherry and said our goodnights on the lift. As was
becoming a habit, when I entered my room the
telephone message light was flashing.
“Russell, it’s James.” This time, the third, his
voice sounded much different. It wasn’t sleepy, it
wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t oozing with sensuality, all of
which I’d experienced in the past twenty-four
hours. Instead, this voice was melancholy
and…desolate.
“Russell, I’ve decided to tell you the truth. I am
Loverboy…”
I was stunned. My heart sank and my knees
buckled. Luckily the bed caught me. I placed a
steadying hand on the bedstead and stared at the
phone as if it were a snake about to bite me.
“I am so sorry for what I’ve done…”
My chest began to heave as I heard the unbe-
lievable. And beyond my mind, the mind that was
listening to the stilted words, was the rest of me,
beginning to feel the pain, the betrayal.
“What I did was wrong. And it will stop…”
Oh shit. Shit. Shit!
“Tell Daniel he has nothing more to fear from
Loverboy.”
And then somehow I knew. The dread built up
in me like an explosion, and I began to shake
before I even heard it…
The shot.
310 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
It was over.
Loverboy was dead.
I did all the right things. I called the police. I
jumped in a cab and got over to James’ apartment
as fast as I could. The cops were already there.
They let me through when I told them who I was.
I had to see the body. I was the only one there who
could identify him. I didn’t know who his friends
were or who else he knew in New York City. I real-
ly knew very little about James Kraft. I was able to
tell the police how to reach his parents. At least
they wouldn’t have to see him…that way.
As a former police constable, I’ve seen death.
I’ve seen it in many horrific forms. But it’s differ-
ent when it’s someone you know. Even for just a
little while. And now, I carry that picture of James
wherever I go. Along with the sound of the shot-
gun blast that ended his life. It’s always there,
lurking, somewhere in the back of my mind.
The cops were interested in me for more than
one reason. Not only had I called in the emer-
gency, I was familiar with the victim, could give
background as to the events that had led up to his
death and there was a gift-wrapped box found in
James Kraft’s apartment with my name on it. That
“something you’ve been looking for”? My ring.
The ring I’d given to his mother. Thinking it was
something he really wanted back, she must have
couriered it to him.
After spending the night with members of the
NYPD into the wee hours of Sunday morning,
they reluctantly allowed me to return to my hotel
room in time to pack and catch my flight back to
Anthony Bidulka — 311
Toronto with the proviso I make myself available
to them any time during their investigation. They
couldn’t rationalize holding me for a suicide.
After all, I provided them with the proof—I’d
heard it happen.
By 10 p.m. Sunday, a rather sombre Sereena and I
were back in Saskatoon where pan-Asian was
something you bought in a kitchen supply store
and midtown, uptown and downtown were all
the same place. I dragged my bags from the cab
and through the frost-covered jungle that was my
front yard. The house was dark except for an out-
door light left on above the front door. I let myself
in as quietly as I could so as not to wake my moth-
er and was affectionately nuzzled by two half-
asleep schnauzers. I sank to my knees and sucked
up their warmth and affection like a brittle sponge
desperate for water. When I looked up, there was
my mother, in her bright blue housecoat, those
crazy slippers and her head wrapped in a babush-
ka. As soon as she saw my face she could tell some-
thing was wrong. Something I couldn’t tell her
about. But as I rose to my feet and she embraced
me, I realized I didn’t have to. She knew all she
had to. Her sonsyou was in a bad place and need-
ed some comforting.
We didn’t say much after that. I eventually sent
her off to bed and I transported my luggage from
foyer to bedroom. Once I’d slipped into my thick,
cozy housecoat, I trundled my way into the den. I
couldn’t sleep. The memory of my short time with
312 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
James Kraft, from start to gruesome finish was like
a horror flick on endless playback in my mind. If
it didn’t end soon, I feared I might go crazy. I
needed a distraction.
I sat behind my desk and pulled the top copy
of a pile of three
StarPhoenix
towards me. My
mother had taken to putting the newspapers
there (rather than using them as drip pans for
bacon) if I didn’t get a chance to read them in the
morning. I glanced at the Saturday headline. Yet
another slam-dunk project for the south down-
town development site had fallen through. Most
of the front page and many within were filled with
reactions from talking heads. I couldn’t concen-
trate on the meaningless words and eventually
tossed the paper aside.
Making sure I had a pen and pad handy, I acti-
vated my voice mail. Several messages were
blanks. A couple were early Christmas greetings
from out of towners. The final call on the machine
was from Daniel Guest. He said he was calling
from his office on Friday afternoon—two days
ago—asking that I call him back—but not at
home—on an urgent matter. That was odd, I
thought. Daniel knew I was going to be in New
York looking for Loverboy. It was now after 11
p.m., beyond the polite hour for a telephone call.
Besides, he’d said he did not want to be called at
home. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
I glanced at my desk calendar and saw, with
shock, that Thursday was Christmas. Was I ready?
Where had the time gone? What happened to all
the fun Christmassy stuff I’d planned to be doing?
Anthony Bidulka — 313
Ahhhh crap, I was in a lousy mood, about to start
seeing ghosts of Christmas past, present and
future.
I rose from my desk and headed for the cabinet
that housed my entertainment centre. I knelt in
front of it, pressed on the power buttons and
began rifling through the satellite music channels
until I came to one titled “Traditional Seasonal.” I
selected it and heard the strains of “We Wish You
a Merry Christmas”—the part about “figgy pud-
ding.” I hit the off button. The silence fell on me
like a heavy cloak. I hung my head and had a lit-
tle cry.
The next morning I was up and out of the house
before my mother cracked the first egg. I couldn’t
sleep. In my car I tried Daniel’s office number; I
wanted to tell him the news about James in per-
son. But it was still too early and I reached the
night bell answering service. With no where else
to go, I headed for PWC and was in the kitchen
before 8:30 a.m. refilling the coffee mug I’d emp-
tied on the drive in. I have an adequate coffee
maker in my own office, but every so often I have
a hankering for the flavoured stuff Lilly makes for
the clients. Plus, at this time of year, there is
always a big selection of home-baked goodies to
fill my face with. A habit of mine when feeling
depressed. Choosing between a peanut butter
cookie with a Reeses Pieces face and a slice of
banana loaf crammed full of cranberries and wal-
nuts, I had my back turned when I heard someone
314 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
walk in. I swivelled around. Errall. She looked
tired and pale and if I didn’t know better, thinner
than when I’d last seen her. She was holding an
unlit cigarette in her left hand.
“Errall, hey,” I said with little enthusiasm.
She just looked at me with little of her own in
return. She poured coffee and gave her cup a sus-
picious sniff, wrinkling her nose at the Mocha
Grand Marnier blend. “What the hell is this shit?”
And she walked out.
I guessed we’d talk later.
I heard Beverly and Alberta chattering as they
headed into the kitchen. I hoped for a friendlier
reception. I needed something positive, uplifting
this morning to pull me out of the dark place I was
in.
“Hi, Russell,” they greeted in unison.
“Have you tried Beverly’s cookies?” Alberta
exclaimed as if I’d die if I hadn’t. “They are the best
I’ve ever taste…Russell, what happened?”
Must have been the look on my face? Was my
cheek still raw? Or was my psychic aura pure
black?
Beverly sensed something too or else she just
instinctively trusted Alberta’s lead. She approached
me and reached out to give my forearm a squeeze.
“Russell, did something happen in New York?” her
voice and face pure motherly concern.
I gave them a sketchy outline. They were, of
course, horrified, particularly Beverly who I’m sure
guessed the suicide had some relation to my
working for Daniel Guest. After a minute or more
of comforting, Alberta picked up half a dozen
Anthony Bidulka — 315
peanut butter cookies, stuck them in a crocheted
pouch that hung at her hip and left. Beverly
remained behind and fixed herself a cup of coffee.
“I’m glad we’re alone, Russell,” she said quiet-
ly after she was done. She was leaning against the
counter with her arms crossed so that her coffee
cup was suspended just under and to the left of
her chin. Her brown hair was in a controlled wave
as usual and she wore a nondescript mauve
sweater and skirt set. “Is there anything I should
know?” Her words came out slowly. I was sur-
prised to hear them. This was murky territory as
far as client confidentiality was concerned—even
though we were both working with the same
client—and Beverly was a stickler for following
rules in this regard. I looked closer at her face. It
looked…different. There was an unspoken mes-
sage there. What was she asking me…or…what
was she telling me?
I swallowed hard. We stared at one another. I
slowly shook my head and asked, “Is there any-
thing I should know?”
“You really should try one of those cookies,
hon,” she said and walked out of the room. And as
she did, I heard a sound escape from under her
breath, a whispered, “Yes.”
I went back to my office without a peanut butter
cookie. Somehow I didn’t think I could get it
down. My first matter of business was to contact
Daniel. I couldn’t be certain how soon the local
news would pick up the story of a local man com-
316 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
mitting suicide in New York City—if at all—but I
wanted him to hear about it from me. And, of
course, I had to tell him that, as I’d been hired to
do, I’d found his Loverboy.
“Russell, thanks for calling,” Daniel sounded
amiable, no hint of the urgency apparent in his
phone message.
“Sorry I didn’t return your message sooner…”
“I know, I know, you were in New York finding
James Kraft and I want to hear all about that…”
He didn’t know yet. “It’s just that I was upset at
the time and forgot you were away.”
Upset? “Did something happen? You could
have called me at the hotel.”
“Yes I know, but when I settled down and
thought things through rationally, I realized there
was nothing you could do until you got home
anyway. And even so, there’s nothing you can
really do.”
“What is it? What happened?”
“While you were gone,” he said, “I was con-
tacted by Loverboy.”
Chapter 17