Authors: Anthony Bidulka
one to the left for all the rest of our clients. The
area behind the desk is home to the ever-cheerful
Lilly, our group receptionist.
Today Errall’s side of the foyer was full. Half a
dozen serious people in serious suits were waiting
to do some serious business. Our side was as quiet
as a turkey on Thanksgiving. Errall appeared at
her office door, resplendent in coal-black Chanel,
her chestnut hair in a severe bun. I gave her a girly
wave. She averted her eyes.
I exchanged some idle chitchat with Lilly and
then headed up to my office. Over the summer I’d
finally given the space a bit of a facelift—a com-
forting terra cotta and gumleaf green colour
scheme for the walls and flooring, and a new
couch to replace the stuffing-less version that had
been left me by a former tenant. It was out with
the old in with the new, except for my beloved
desk with the bar fridge holding up one end of it.
I had just hit the brew button on my coffee
maker when I heard a soft knock on my door. I
turned to find Beverly standing at the threshold
with her usual friendly smile.
26 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Do you have a moment, hon?” she asked, her
voice as close to being warm syrup without being
sticky.
“You bet,” I said. “Just put some coffee on.”
When she closed the door behind her I knew
this wasn’t a social call.
“Let’s sit,” she said, already heading for the
client chair in front of my desk.
Okay, this wasn’t going to be couch-type talk
either. I took my spot behind the desk and smiled
at our resident psychiatrist. Beverly is a pretty
brunette in her mid-forties with twenty extra
pounds that look just right on her. She was wear-
ing a plain grey skirt that showed off her curvy
hips nicely and a nondescript cream-coloured
blouse under an unbuttoned grey sweater that
looked soft enough to be made of kittens.
“I may have a client for you.”
I nodded my understanding. This was unusual
indeed. Beverly and I had never before referred
clients to one another. Not because we don’t
respect each other’s abilities in our respective pro-
fessions—the situation had simply not come up.
“I’ve been seeing Daniel Guest for about a
year,” she began. “Of course I won’t go into any of
that, but something new has come up…something
very new. I received a phone call from Daniel
three days ago, very early on Sunday morning.
He was in an extremely agitated state and I con-
vinced him to come see me right away.” She hesi-
tated for a brief second then continued, “These
issues we’re dealing with, Russell, relate to…well,
criminal activity.” She added quickly, “By some-
Anthony Bidulka — 27
one else, not him.”
I was about to interrupt but Beverly wordless-
ly indicated her desire to finish her thoughts.
“As you can imagine, Daniel and I have spent
many hours over the past few days discussing
this. He needs more help…different help…than I
can give him. Fortunately he’s now reached the
same conclusion. Given the special nature of his
circumstances, I suggested you. I hope you have
the time to see him?”
Did I? What about my planned time off? What
about spending time with my mother? And
Christmas was just around the corner. But there
was a bong sounding in my head. Was this the
case Hughie and his little friend Dewey thought I
was on and wanted me to drop? Well then of
course I’d have the time. Nothing I like better than
to pee in some pisser’s cornflakes. And besides,
Beverly had certainly piqued my interest. What
kind of crime was this guy involved in? And what
were the special circumstances?
“I guess I’ve got some time,” I said. “And
thank you for thinking of me, Beverly, but if this
has something to do with a crime that’s been com-
mitted, shouldn’t your client first talk to the
police?”
“Believe me, I’ve suggested it, but he wants to
keep this quiet.”
“Those ‘special circumstances’ you men-
tioned?”
She nodded. “Russell, I’m worried about him.
What happened to him has…well, it’s shaken his
world. He was reticent about getting any kind of
28 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
outside help at first—other than me, that is—but
when I told him about you and your practice, he
came around.”
“You mean about how cute I am?”
She raised an eyebrow over one rim of her
granny glasses but continued on without com-
ment. “He’s in my office right now if you’re will-
ing to see him.”
This surprised me. “Right now? Downstairs in
your office?” Nice sum up of the facts, Quant.
“Did you have an accident last night?” This
interloping voice was from Alberta Lougheed, her
head, a-jangle with earrings, was pushing through
a crack she’d made in the doorway, her face
expressing genuine concern.
“Wha…?” Was she talking about my run-in
with Hugh? I have never come to a conclusion
whether or not I believe in Alberta’s psychic
powers. I have no doubt
she
believes she has a spe-
cial gift. She’s no con artist. I’m just not certain she
isn’t just plain ol’ crazy. She looks like a younger
version of Beverly except for tons more make up,
hairspray and peculiar fashion choices. Today she
faintly resembled Elizabeth Taylor in the role of
Cleopatra. “Ah, no,” I finally mumbled in answer.
I decided a white lie would be easier this morning.
“Oh, okay,” she said, not completely con-
vinced, and floated off to her office, likely to feed
her asp.
I looked at Beverly and shook my head like a
dog with fleas.
She was holding out a white envelope. “Take a
look at this. Daniel gave me this to show you. He
Anthony Bidulka — 29
received it during an awards ceremony on Saturday
night—while he was onstage accepting his award. I
think it will give you an idea about his problem and
why you’re just the guy to help him out.”
I reached across the desk and took it from her.
I withdrew a single piece of paper and unfolded it.
It looked a little worse for wear, as if someone had
crumpled it and then tried to straighten it out.
I read the typed words and understood what
she meant by “special circumstances.”
Send $50,000 by December 15 to P.O. Box 8420,
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7T 1B5. If you
don’t—I will tell your wife and the whole city
everything I know.
It was signed,
Loverboy
.
Chapter 2
HE WASN’T WHAT I EXPECTED. I thought he’d look
like a nervous nellie. I’m not really sure what I
mean by that, but it had something to do with him
being both a closet case
and
an accountant.
Instead, Daniel Guest, a trifle shorter than me at
just under six feet, looked sturdy and athletic, in a
lean baseball-player kind of way. He had wavy
blond-brown hair parted on the side, crinkly
green eyes behind a pair of glasses with near-
invisible gold frames and a button nose that
looked a little squashed to one side. Altogether a
nice-looking man. He wore a stylish sports coat
with carefully matched trousers and a smart tie-
shoes-belt combination. He stood as I entered the
office (sans Beverly) and held out a hand as I
approached. He was the kind of guy who got
manicures and used moisturizer. (I’m that kind of
guy too—just not regularly.) We shook and he sat
back down while I awkwardly made my way
behind the unfamiliar desk to Beverly’s chair.
Unlike Errall’s ultra-chic space across the way,
Beverly’s office is the ultimate in homey comfort
in the dried-flower, overstuffed couch, potpourri,
homemade crafts, framed-prints-of-wildflowers-
and-fawns kind of way. As I plopped myself into
her amazingly comfortable chair I wondered for
the millionth time how she made the room smell
so good. I also wondered—impressed by Daniel
Guest’s natty appearance—whether I should
Anthony Bidulka — 31
rethink my usual work wardrobe of wrinkle-free
cotton pants and shirt.
Nah.
I slowly unfolded the blackmail note, the
sound seemed to fill the room. Daniel’s eyes fell
upon the letter as if catching sight of a hated alba-
tross that had been hanging around his neck. I
heard him swallow.
“You received this at the SBA—Saskatoon
Business Association, right?—awards ceremony
this past Saturday night?”
He nodded wordlessly, still eyeing the white
sheet of paper.
“It appears to be a blackmail note. Beverly told
me you’re reticent about involving the police.
Which is why you’re here, with me.” Another nod.
Had the albatross got his tongue? “I know you
may be uncomfortable being here, talking to me,
talking about this, but I can promise you that
whatever we discuss today will remain confiden-
tial—unless you and I decide otherwise.”
He appeared to be listening carefully.
“How can I help you, Mr. Guest?” I simply
asked.
“Call me Daniel,” he answered. His voice was
smooth and deep. He may have been unhappy in
the circumstance he found himself in, but his
voice did not betray any readily obvious emotion.
He was wary though, as he should be. “Beverly
told me a lot about you, probably more than she
normally would for a simple referral, but she
knew I needed a certain comfort level to pursue
this.
32 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Just so you know, Beverly did suggest I go to
the police—numerous times. I can’t do that.
Eventually she gave in and suggested I meet with
you. It was important to me to learn you’re gay. I
know at first that might sound trite or even fool-
hardy, I should want someone who is good at their
job, regardless of their sexuality…but, it’s not
about that so much as I want someone good at
their job who I also feel comfortable discussing
my circumstance with. I’m hoping you might be
that person. I know as an openly gay man you
may have prejudices against me for being closeted
or…being with a man while I am married, and if
you do, I guess we need to discuss that up front.”
He stopped there, a little too suddenly for me
to immediately reply. His candor was refreshing.
This isn’t always the experience I have with the
people who come through my door looking for
help. This man was putting forth a business case
and, although I did not doubt his veracity, I
guessed the ultra-professional attitude he was
portraying was a bit of a mask for what he was
really feeling.
“I don’t foresee that being a problem,” I finally
got out. And that was the truth. I knew nothing
about Daniel Guest other than what Beverly had
told me. Every one of us, gay, straight, Aboriginal,
white, Hispanic, lawyer, doctor, disabled, or not,
has stuff to go through and we each take a slight-
ly different route. At the end of the day I have high
hopes that every one of us eventually makes the
right decisions for ourselves without hurting too
many other people along the way. It isn’t always
Anthony Bidulka — 33
easy to decide what’s right, but it’s pretty clear
when you’re hurting someone. Usually. I know.
I’ve done it.
He nodded. “I am thirty-six years old. My wife,
Cheryl, and I have been married for eighteen
years—since we met in our first year of university.
We get along well. I’m a partner with the firm of
Dufour, Guest, Rowan & Rowan, DGR&R for short.
I make a handsome salary. I travel. I have friends.
No children. I have a pretty good life, Mr. Quant.”
“Russell.”
“Russell.” He licked his lips, a nervous habit I
thought, and ticked his head towards the note still
in my hands. “I have a problem, Russell, and I
need help solving it.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“On Saturday night I received the SBA
Business Builder Businessperson of the Year
Award. As I was standing behind the podium—in
front of three hundred people including my par-
ents, my partners and staff, and my wife—I
received that note.”