Read Vengeance of a Jilted Dressmaker Page 7

  Part four

   

   

  People are not always as they seem

   

  «Chapter Forty Five»

  In my sleep, immersed in an erotic dream, a distant doorbell ring out five times in quick succession, then pounding on a door, a dull rhythmic pounding as my ancient Greek God Adonis, gyrates his slender hips against my groin, kissing me with his warm sensual mouth.

  I writhe beneath him, moaning with unrestrained pleasure, sucking his hot tongue, drinking his nectar.

  Just as he jackhammers his Greek phalanx deep inside me, the blasted doorbell peals again. Then the pounding gets louder and louder dragging me away from pure bliss.

  I open my eyes, confused, groggy, frowning.

  I prop myself up on my elbows, realizing the commotion is coming from my front door… reality.

   “Dammit! Can’t even get fucked in my dream.”

  I squint at the clock on my bedside table: 6:15 a.m.

  Ding dong. Ding dong.

  “Jesus, who the hell is ringing my frigging doorbell this early?”

  Suddenly my eyes bugle wider and wider, my jaw slackening. “Oh my God! Oh God! Someone must have figured out I have the briefcase full of cash. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.” I find myself out of oxygen and my heart thumping at my ribs. “Am dead.”

  I throw off the sheet violently and leap out of bed, hearing Viper’s fierce meow as he lands on the carpet on the other side of the bed.

  “Sorry pussycat.”

  Bang, Bang. Bang. Ding dong. Ding dong.

  “Jesus Murphy!” I pace up and down for thirty seconds or so, gripping my head in my hands not knowing what to do. I cannot jump from the seventh floor balcony and survive, so I shout, “One minute!”

  I slap the side of my skull. You stupid, stupid woman. Why didn’t you just hide under the bed, a voice chides in my ear.

  I pull on my red towelling robe and hurry down the hallway to the living room, almost tripping over Viper as he veers in my path to the kitchen. He thinks it’s feeding time. Dumb ass pus! Dire consequences await me.

  Cautiously, I peek through the peephole and, heave a sigh of relief.

  Oh, thank goodness. It’s my porky friend Raye.

  Her body appears distorted through the tiny dome glass making her appear slender.

  She wishes!

  She rings and pounds again.

  “One minute,” I call out. I tighten my robe around me and unlatch the safety chain. Raking my fingers through my bed-head hair, I whip the door open.

  “What the hell are you doing, Raye?” Crikey. She’s as white as the white silk pyjamas she’s wearing. The vile pustule on her lip is now a wet blister.

  Without answering me, she pushes pass me into my living room, carrying a white wicker laundry hamper. In her agitated state, her foot rucks up an edge of my mosaic stripe dhurrie as she sets the hamper down on the sofa.

  There’s my tweezers! I’ve been looking for the damn thing for weeks. Now I’ll know where to look when I needed a spare.

  “Did you hear the horrible news?”

  “What horrible news?”

  “They found a dead boy in the basement.”

  “Whoopee!” I reply, still seriously irritated for being dragged out of bed. “TV’s full of bad news. Switch it off.”

  “I’m not talking about the morning news.”

  “Raye please, can we do this later,” I muffle during a long yawn.

  “Sacrine, listen to me. The police has just found a boy’s body in the janitor’s room.”

  “Are you saying, in our building?”

  “Yes, in our building, I went downstairs to do my laundry before going to my shop…”

  I cut her off. “Raye, I’ve told you before. You can use mine until you get yours fixed.”

  “Sacrine!” she snaps. “You’re not listening to me. The whole place is crawling with cops.”

  “Why, is he dead?”

  “I said, body, Sacrine, body! Wake up! Apparently his neck was broken.”

  A rash of goose bumps sprouts on my arms  despite wearing my dressing gown. “Jeez Raye. That’s terrible.”

  “There’s a forensic team down there right now gathering evidence. Exactly like you would see on CSI. A couple of plainclothes were taking a statement from JP… he’s in handcuffs…”

  “Who the heck is JP?”

  “Jimmy Pandolfi, the janitor.”

  Man, the chick knows the janitor by name. “The brain-dead one with kicking alligator breath?”

  “Sacrine, this is not a joke.”

  “Am just stating the facts, Raye. Plus the guy does look a bit sinister.”

  “Maybe so. Only I don’t believe he answered it.”

  “Did it? Did what?”

  “Kill the kid! Are you paying attention?”

  “How can you be so sure he didn’t kill the kid?”

  “He’s a petty criminal, not a ruthless, cold blooded murderer.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  Raye sits on the sofa, leans forward with her elbows on her knees and drops her head in her hands, staring with a far away look, contemplating something unfathomable to me.

  “Oh com’mon Raye, guys like him spends most of their lives in and out of prison getting free room and board at tax payer’s expense. They don’t care about committing offenses and getting banged up. Besides, how can you possibly predict what a person of his background is capable of?”

  She cocks her head up at me in disbelief. “People can be rehabilitated, you know.”

  “Of all people Raye, why are you defending a lowlife criminal?” I walk over to the sliding glass doors and pull the ropey chord. Early morning sunshine floods in, making me squint hard. “Scumbags like him start out stealing nickels and dimes from their granny’s purses and work their way up the criminal ranks. It’s inevitable, one day they would resort to murder. Seriously, I don’t know why the super hire scumbags like him, must be getting them on the cheap.”

  She stares at me disapprovingly as if I have just offended a very good friend. “Inevitable? Now you’re stereotyping.”

  “Maybe so, but I do have some idea how the criminal mind works. I was homeless once, remember.”

  Raye’s not even listening. Her gaze sweeps around my living room with great interest. “What I want to know Sacrine, what is it you’re not telling me?”

  I frown, and screw up my lips into a pout. “Um, not telling you about what?”

  “Think about it Sacrine. Why do you think I came to see you so early?”

  “To bug me.”

  “Are you menopausal, cause you’re acting like a real bitch.”

  “Hey, take it easy Raye, you’re a guest in my apartment.”

  “I’m serious Sac, why do you think I’m here.”

  “Hell if I know, but am sure you’re about to enlighten me.”

  “You know damn well why I’m here. The briefcase Sac. The briefcase. The one we found in the park yesterday?”

  The mention of the briefcase takes my breath away; a chill rushes through my body. ‘Found? Remember I told you about my friend, I expected it to be there.”

  She completely ignores me. “My guess is it held ransom money for the boy, you know, to pay the kidnappers…”

  “Kidnappers!” I echo. “In this neighborhood? You have to be stretching to think that. I mean, did the police say the boy was kidnapped?”

   “No. It’s just an assumption.”

  “An assumption. Let me get this straight.” I shift from foot to foot. “Okay. So. The police find a dead kid in the basement. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re assuming this was a kidnap gone horribly wrong.”

  She nods as if to say, dur.

  “Suggesting his parents delivered the ransom money, but that I took it by accident, so the kidnappers got mad, killed the kid then chucked him in th
e janitor’s room.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “No shit, Sherlock! What does Watson think?”

  “Can’t you see that?”

  “See what? Has kidnap even been mentioned on the news, Raye?”

  “Well… uh… um… with the benefit of hindsight.”

  “Hindsight!”

  “What are you, a parrot?” she snaps.

  “For fuck sake’s Raye I…”

  “I understand where you’re coming from. Cops never leak ongoing kidnap cases, unless they need vital information from the public. But we found a briefcase not far from here and now a kid’s dead. I’m just putting two-and-two together.”

  “Two and two together makes four or twenty two. What does it have to do with kidnap?”

  “Sac, I’m serious.”

   “Raye, good detectives normally do legwork, gather concrete evidence, witnesses … before throwing out wild speculations. I don’t see what this has to do with me anyway?”

  “The briefcase…” she begins, then stops. She stands up as if she means business - I can’t imagine what - and walks around my living, eyes scanning like an inquisitive owl. Then she plants her hands on her fleshy hips. “Where’s the briefcase Sacrine? More importantly, what was inside?”

  “Documentation of an affair… I told you.”

  “So you’re sticking to that asinine bullshit story about some documents… some infidelity.”

  “It’s not an asinine bullshit story.”

  Raye rubs her temples lightly between her fingertips. “OK, before you pass this briefcase on, can we please just take a look inside - just to be certain you haven’t mistakenly taken a briefcase that does not belong to you? Just think Sac, your actions yesterday, probably caused a young boy, his life.”

  “What!” Am beginning to panic, my heartbeat accelerating. “Fuck off Raye, you’re fucking crazy!”

  “ Our eyes are locked as we stand in silence. ,“Listen. Sit. I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”

  Oh, Shit! I totally forgot. I do not want her lips anywhere near any of my cups. Am tempted to say, can you go grab a cup from your kitchen, because am sure as hell not letting you put those leper lips of yours on one of mine.

  “Sacrine! I don’t want to sit and I don’t want Goddam coffee…”

  Thank God for small miracles.

  “… I need you to tell me the truth.”

  “Do you actually believe my briefcase is connected to some kidnapping?”

   “Oh come off it Sacrine. Yesterday you got me to do your dirty work…”

  “Whoa… whoa.” I sit on the edge of the sofa before my legs buckle beneath me. “Are you seriously implying I had something to do with some kidnapping?”

  “You tell me.”

  I fake a laugh. “I must admit… am hard up for cash… always a permanent hole in my pocket, but I wouldn’t go as far as kidnap, extortion and murder. I mean, come on Raye. God.”

  “Perhaps not Sac, but you probably foiled the pickup.”

  “Excuse me! Jesus Christ! Screw this!” It seems there is only one way to persuade her and that is to show her the briefcase. “Wait here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Shut up. Am so sick of this crap! Wait there.”

  “No. I’ll come with you.”

  “No! Wait!”

   

  «Chapter Forty Six»

  Raye perches her elephant-rump on the armrest, her eyes still in search mode. As I head down the hallway, I find myself hyperventilating dramatically, something I have never ever done before in my life. I enter my bedroom, close the door and lean against the panel trying to control my breath as I’ve learnt in yoga classes.

  Kidnap?

  Ransom money?

  Could it all be true?

  But… but the FBI would have been called in if this were a kidnapping case. I know how these things work. I watch crime shows too: NCIS LA, Law and Order SVU, CSI NY, CSI Miami, Body of Proof, just to mention a few. They would have set up a sting operation… follow the targeted victim when he dropped off the ransom money, and grab the perpetrators when they attempted to pick it up.

  We, Raye and I, walked out of the park unscathed for God’s sake with no problem whatsoever.

  After digesting these facts, I pull myself together, and remove my ex’s briefcase from an upper closet shelf. It looks exactly like the briefcase I stole from the park.

  Fuck that… Raye stole.

  On my way back down the hallway, I make a detour to the kitchen for a glass of water from the tap. But, instead, I open the fridge, reach for the Absolute bottle and slug a mouthful. The liquid sluice down my esophagus hitting my stomach like a red-hot brick.

   “Ahh,” I exhale vodka fumes. “Jesus. It’s too early for this shit.”

  As I walk back into the living room, Raye clamps her eyes on the briefcase.

  “Have you opened it?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Give it here.” She takes it with both chubby hands, rests the briefcase on the edge of my coffee table, bulldozing back magazines, a stuffed ashtray, used coffee cups, in-the-red-bank statements and unpaid bills. She presses the brass knobs and glances up at me, her eyeballs alive with delirious excitement… as if expecting Captain Hook’s treasure.

  The moment of truth. She presses the gold knobs and lifts it open.

  Her face drops, changing from a rosy pink to a ghostly white. “This is a joke right! Tell me this is a bad joke.”

  It takes all of my willpower not to double over and laugh in hysterics. She removes a cat-online-tail, a lacy purple corset, a tiger-print snap-crouch bustier, a black suspender belt, a silver studded dog collar, a red rubber cat suit, a black blindfold, a pair of velvet handcuffs, two silk gags, and a pair of red stilettos. Item by item, she holds them up, studying them for several seconds, then putting them aside on the sofa. She moves aside other objects. “Where’s the money, Sacrine?”

  “I told you. There is no money… was no money.”

  “What do you mean, there was no money? And what the hell are you into? I know your private life is private, but since when have you been interested in Dominatrix?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “It’s perverse.” She picks up the dog collar in one hand, and the black whip in the other. “Just look at this stuff.”

  “Raye, you are such a prude! Learn to broaden your horizons.”

  “Damn it Sacrine!” She throws the black dominatrix whip down and it clatters to the hardwood. “Seriously, I don’t care what you do in the privacy of your bedroom. Are you sure this is the same briefcase?”

  “Enough already! Would you just get off this kidnap theory thing? Why are you so goddamn adamant that my briefcase had ransom money in it? You’ve been watching one too many crime dramas.”

  “Obviously you lied about the so-called incriminating pictures and documentation of some lewd affair…”

  “Yes, I lied,” I quickly admit, trying to keep abreast of her questions.

  She squints her hazel eyes at me. “Why?”

  I flick my gaze to my bondage gear. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Obvious!” she echoes.

  “This kills your kidnap-ransom-theory, doesn’t it? It’s not wads of cash like you expected… to… to pay off some kidnappers, I mean Jesus.”

  “You expect me to believe some phantom friend dropped a briefcase containing these erotic items in the park’s garbage-can for you to pick up?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever?”

  “Yeah, whatever. I don’t care what you think.”

  She picks up the briefcase and dumps the rest of the contents on the sofa beside her, then studies it from every angle. “Where are the scratches that were on here?”

  “What are you talking about? What scratches?”

  “I do have a photographic memory, Sac. There were scratches on the briefcase, here and here,” she says, pointing to the right corner and close by the ha
ndle.

  “Obviously you’ve mistaken smudges for scratches.”

  “This is utterly ridiculous! If this is the exact same briefcase, it should…”

  She cuts herself off suddenly, screwing up her scabby lower lip.

  I squint at her. “It should what?”

  She hesitates and then says, “Nothing.”

  “You know Raye; am tired of this idiotic interrogation. I only came home from work not long ago. All I want to do is crawl back into bed for a couple of hours, and then go for a jog.”

  “Connecting Earth to Sacrine Thompson. Do you even have a conscience? An innocent child was murdered here.”

  “To be brutally honest Raye, men, women, children... are murdered every day in our callous world.  Sad to say, but that’s the realties of life.”

  Chubby hands on the fleshy hips again. “How many children do you know that are killed in your vicinity much less your building?

  “You mean, know personally?” In a mock fashion I stroke my chin between my fingertips as if am giving it some thought. “Um. That’s easy… none. You seem to have mistaken me for someone who gives a damn about attention-seeking brats.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Dead serious. Kids are whiny, obnoxious and smelly.”

  She stares at me as if am an alien from outer space.

  I do a deliberate yawn, patting my mouth as I did so. “I think it’s time to leave Raye, if you don’t mind,” I say, unknotting the belt of my dressing gown. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “There will be a criminal investigation, no doubt. The police will come knocking on our doors asking a lot of questions.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide.” I raise both my hands in mock surrender. “You want to search me first?”

  “Well, um… you know I’ll have to divulge what happened in the park yesterday. Tell them about the briefcase.”

  Somehow I have a feeling she’s bluffing. “Do you think that’s smart?”

  “I’ll stick to the truth. Let them draw their own conclusions.” She hesitates for a moment or so, her eyes shifting as if she’s thinking up something effective to say. “You know society’s not tolerant of child killers or their accomplices.”

  I know she’s trying to unnerve me. “Spare me the psychobabble,” I say unfazed, “you’re beginning to bore me. All I know is, if you decide to do what you’re thinking, you’d be making an awful mistake.”

  “An awful mistake? How?”

  “Raye, why can’t you just drop it? All these outrageous accusations, speculation, suspicion, innuendo and mistrust… am concerned about the future of our friendship.”

  She snatches up her laundry basket. “Are you retarded… psychologically spastic?”

  “Ouch girlfriend. That fucking hurt.”

  “Sacrine, Sac.” Now her tone is filled with sincerity, empathy but mostly desperation. “The briefcase could be part of a crime scene.”

  Jesus! This woman is like a dog with a bone. “Okay, let’s just say my briefcase held ransom money… where is it?”

  “You tell me. Where is it?”

  “I do not have it! You don’t have a shred of proof that my briefcase is connected to this or anything.”

  “That’s why we need to go to the cops.”

  “What? So they can dust it for fingerprints… eliminate it as evidence.”

  “Now you’re grasping. Now we’re on the same page.”

  “Listen Raye, if you breathe one word about the briefcase …” I pause without knowing what words are going to come out of my mouth. “Not only will they find your fingerprints on the briefcase, but, but when they discover these sex toys… these garments inside, I swear to God, I’ll tell them you and me, we dress up in latex and take turns using the whips on each other. You know, play switch.”

  “You’re sick! You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Don’t test me.”

  She grabs my arm viciously. “What about my reputation, my career, my family… they’ll disinherit me… disown me.”

  I snatch my arm free from her vice grip. “Then I suggest if you don’t want to be orphaned… keep your fat trap shut.”

  Tears spring to her eyes. “I don’t know who you are anymore.” Two fat tears splash down her cheeks. “I thought you were my friend, my bestest friend in the whole wide world.” She mimics our mantra, actually her mantra. “I thought I could trust you.” She brushes by me, opens the door then spins round. “You know, I spend my entire life trying to please people, trying to make them happy. You on the other hand have no qualms about hurling cruel insults, hurting other people’s feelings.”

  “Oh puh-leeze, you poor little baby,” I say, sticking out my bottom lip, mocking her. “Get a grip Raye. Don’t you think blabbing wild accusations could ruin my reputation?” She glares at me as if am speaking in Apache. “Just go Raye. Go.”

  She opens the door and slams it on her exit.

  “Yeah, fuck off cry baby,” I call out after her.

   

  «Chapter Forty Seven»

  Panting with fury, Raye slumped against the wall outside Sacrine’s door until she was sitting on the olive green carpet. “What a bold faced pathological liar! That backstabbing, conniving bitch! Does she think I was born yesterday?”

  Raye put her face in her hot palms, feeling a mixture of shame, humiliation and guilt.

  Actually, this whole scenario was more like a swift kick in the teeth being played at her own morbid game. Raye had expected Sacrine to come clean about the money once she had learned about the murdered boy and willingly show her the true contents of the briefcase. And when she had threatened to go to the cops, she thought the Sacrine would cough up.

  As best friends, Raye never expected such blatant lies from Sacrine. She was even prepared to share the loot. She never expected the performance she had witnessed. And, she knew for damn certain the briefcase in her possession was not the same one they picked up in the park yesterday. Only God knows she could kick herself for trusting her to keep the ransom safe. “How can she do this to…?”

  Suddenly, an alarm bell went off in her head.

  What if Sacrine is telling the truth!

  What if Eric did not pay the ransom demand?

  Did he put the kinky stuff in the briefcase with no intention of paying off the kidnappers?

  As Raye stared at the carpet, ruminating over the conniving possibilities, her cheeks grew beet-red with anger. “But his son’s life was in jeopardy. Certainly Eric would put up a measly 250k for his precious son’s life…”

  The ding of the elevator caused her to snap her head to the right and look down the long corridor. She anticipated armed men in blue to come flooding toward her, wielding their guns. She had a strong urge to bustle herself up and slip through the Emergency exit, leading into the stairwell and to the next floor.

  However, she was terrified: what if they are coming up the stairwell?

  Raye waited with trepidation a moment. When no one appeared, she cupped her plump face in her trembling hands.

  “Oh my God, what have I done?”

  Earlier this morning, she had gone down to the janitor’s room with the sole intention of riling JP up about the unpaid ransom, with the knowledge it was safe with Sacrine. It was a complete and utter shock to her system to catch a glimpse of Eric sitting on a lower step in the stairwell sobbing into his hands. A female cop was consoling him, a hand patting his shoulder. And hearing the low sound of voices, she thought it was coming from the laundry room. Petrified, she had moved down the deserted corridor to investigate. There was no one there, so she moved down a little further to the janitor’s room. The door was open a little and she peeked in.

  What she witnessed almost stopped her heart. Two police officers were interrogating JP while a forensic team in full gear dusted for fingerprints; another dropped something in a polythene evidence bag while another photographed everything in the room. She pushed the door a little wider and saw tiny feet p
rotruding from under a white sheet. A junior cop stopped her in her tracks. “Sorry ma’am, I have to ask you to leave, this is a crime scene.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “A boy was found murdered, his neck broken, ma’am.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Raye had hurried back along the corridor, avoiding Eric in the stairwell. As she rang Sacrine’s doorbell with urgency, she wondered why in hell would JP bring Enzo back here? She never imagined him to be so stupid to execute the boy in his quarters, on the premises, in her building, all hell unravelling on her doorstep.

  Hearing a creak of a door hinge interrupted her thoughts. Raye struggled to her feet, quickly wiping away the tears of anguish and slammed a lid down on her emotions.

  A tall, devastatingly handsome man, dressed in an impeccable grey business suit stepped into the dimly-lit corridor, his ash blond hair brushed his crisp white collar.

  “Oh, hi Andy.” Raye picked up her laundry basket, feeling extremely exposed, but acutely embarrassed.

  “Oh! Hi there Raye, good morning.” Andy locked his door of apartment 702/4 with a click. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing… why?”

  “You’re in the hallway in your pyjamas. Very unlike you, Miss Dawkins.”

  Self-consciously Raye gripped the silky lapels together, modestly concealing her milky white cleavage.

  “Oh…” she faked a giggle, “just had coffee with a disturbed friend.”

  Andy waited for her to catch up. “I’m grabbing breakfast from Jean’s. Can I get you anything? My treat.”

  “Oh no, I’m fine, Andy, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Raye and Andy walked, side by side, down the corridor in silence. Her frayed nerves rendered her speechless. But in the meantime, she felt compelled to inform him of the dead boy found in the basement for conversation sake. Although, she found it pointless ruining his day with the morbid news first thing in the morning. On the other hand, coming from a judicial background, she knew all too well an innocent exchange could be used against her in a court of law in the future.

  The trial of the century.

  Raye imagined Andy in the witness box subjected to intense scrutiny, implicating her.

  The prosecution calls Andrew Redmond to the stand.

  Mr Redmond, how well do you know, Miss Dawkins?

  When you first saw Miss Dawkins in the corridor, what time was that?

  Have you ever bumped into Miss Dawkins at this particular time in the morning, dressed in her pyjamas.

  Oh, you say never.

  What did she say to you about the boy.

   Did she seem nervous… agitated... crying, what?

   You said she had coffee with a disturbed neighbor. Could you smell the aromatic blend of Nescafe on her person?

  Injecting humor was a part of court proceedings.

  Has she ever exhibited any violent behavior

  Could you detect her state of mind when she told you about the dead boy in the basement?

  Therefore, you really could not say whether she was in a good mood, or a bad mood, or shaken up?

  Does she always wear a mask, shall we say, for the neighbors.

  Briefly absorbing the gist of self-incrimination, Raye racked her brain for something else to say; perhaps compliment him on his smart appearance. But it did not matter now; they were outside her apartment door.

  “Well, got to dash off. Got to spin straw into gold.” He gave her a clumsy wink

  “See you, Andy, have a nice day!” Raye watched as he walked away toward the elevator bank. She heard him say, “good morning,” to a ginger mustached resident, a Mr. Mooney, waiting there.

  She averted her attention to Eric’s apartment door, wondering if he was still in the stairwell grieved stricken for his son.

  Was this really what I wanted?

  Enzo dead and now free to be with my man.

  But where is the money?

  Seething she entered her apartment and headed to the kitchen. She poured coffee from the percolator and took it to the living room. She switched on the morning news, anticipating developments of Enzo Mandini’s body found in the janitor’s room.

  Nothing yet about the murdered boy.

  As Raye sipped her coffee, eyes glued to the TV, she heard a door outside in the corridor. SLAM. Quick as a flash, she was out of her apartment and pressing the doorbell of her ex.

   

  «Chapter Forty Eight»

  The door opened slowly. Eric held an amber drink in his fist, his eyes teary and pinkish red. His blue shirttail hung out of his pants, stained with sweat. “Raye, what are you doing here?”

  What am I doing here? To watch you suffer, you bastard, she was tempted to say. Instead, she gazed deep into his bloodshot eyes.

  “I heard what happened, Eric. I am so sorry, I’m so sorry.” She  fell into his arms, burying her right cheek into his chest. “I’m, so, so sorry.”

  “How did you find out?”

  She tilted her head up, her cunning mind working quickly. “A neighbor. She was in the laundry room when she heard commotion in the janitor’s room. The police told her about a dead boy found there, saw you down there, came up and told me.”

  “Why you?”

  “Our neighbors aren’t stupid, Eric. They know we were seeing each other. I went down to see you, but the police stopped me. Said it was a crime scene.”

  “Come in.” He drained his tumbler in one go and closed the door. “I received a ransom note when I returned home Friday night.”

  “A ransom note? Are you saying this was a kidnap?” Raye hoped she sounded shocked, devastated, convincing.

  Eric refilled his tumbler and gulped. “Yes. The note was sticking out of my mailbox.”

  “Sticking out?” This time her shock was genuine, her heart did a somersault. But I had slipped it all the way in, she thought furiously. Did JP tamper with it?

  Just thinking about Greg Junior, what he must have suffered a lump lodged in his throat. “I should have gone straight to the police, but I thought… I just thought I could handle their demands myself. Besides, I didn’t want to involve the police nor wanted the publicity.”

  “Why Eric, are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “Trouble? No.” He swigged his Scotch again. “The ransom said to leave the briefcase in the same park where you and your friend go jogging… what’s her name?”

  “Sacrine,” Raye offered.

  “That’s right, Sacrine. On Sunday morning, I dropped the money off precisely at ten. The ransom note said they would leave him in the playground. I waited in a cafe just outside the boundaries of the park. I gave them an hour, then I went back to get him, but I couldn’t find him. I checked the swings, slides, sandbox, climbing frame, but I could not see him anywhere.”

  “I can’t believe Enzo is gone,” said Raye, visualizing the ghastly image of him dying in her head.

  “Enzo! No… not Enzo.”

  “Really sorry Eric, it’s awful,” she sympathized. “Do you think your ex -”

  “Yes dad.”

  A child’s voice full of sleep came from down the hallway. The child, wearing cotton pyjamas with flying Scotsman splattered on the material, appeared, rubbing an eye with his small fist.

  Raye blinked a couple of times in disbelief, her cheeks drained of color.

  “You okay, Raye?” asked Eric, scrutinizing her bloodless face. “I tried to tell you it wasn’t Enzo.”

  “Yes. I’m okay,” she said, her hazel eyes glued on the boy.

  “Are you sure?” asked Eric. He placed a comforting hand on her stiff, chubby shoulder. “You look as if you’re seeing a ghost.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine,” she insisted. “But, but, who was the kid in the janitor’s room?”

  “Greg Jr… Enzo’s friend. I was in charge of the boy. His father, Greg Senior and his wife Jane are vacationing in Europe. I…”

 
“Oh Enzo!” Raye hurried to the boy with open arms, but he turned away from her and went to his father.

  Eric hugged his son tightly to his side. “Sorry Raye, but you must understand, he’s severely traumatized. I’ll have to get him counselling.”

  Eric ducked his head and kissed his son’s forehead. “Go back to bed, Enzo. Try and get some sleep.”

  The two of them watched Enzo go back down the hallway to his bedroom and heard the door close.

  “Greg’s parents are going to be devastated, just crushed when they hear the news. He was their only child, the apple of their eyes. I tried though; I spent all day Saturday, scraping the money together.”

  Raye’s shocked expression remained unchanged. “So you did get the money?”

  “Of course! All of it! $500, 000!”

  “Half a million dollars!” said Raye, her voice sharp with shock. “And you dropped it off… on time.”

  “Yes. Of course I did! All of it. Every single cent! Do you think I would not put up the money because he was not my son?”

  Raye was taken aback by the sudden burst of anger. She stared off into space, reflecting on the hostile confrontation between herself and that lying bitch, Sacrine, that nasty piece of work.

  Eric picked up a manila envelope and handed it to Raye.

  “What’s this?”

  “Open it.”

  Her heart galloped as she slipped out the ransom note accompanied with a Polaroid picture. She examined it with great interest. The plastic sleeve she had put the note in to protect it from fingerprints was missing. It was also crumpled as if JP had stuffed it back in the letter-box in a hurry. He had adjusted the figures, and on the back, he had hand-written in pen where he would leave the boy in the playground.

  Obviously he didn’t notice the time of the pick-up 10 o’clock.

  Is his fingerprint all over this thing? The stupid idiot.

  She now gave her attention to the Polaroid. The boy was hunched on a single mattress in a bare room. Could be anywhere in the city… on the planet.

  “And this is Greg Jr?” she said intrigued.

  Eric stroked his entire face. “Yes. And it specifically states, got your son.”

  “And you think the idiot snatched the wrong boy instead?” she said through gritted teeth.

  Idiot, or idiots… must have got the boys mixed up. Whenever I take them out people often mistake them for brothers.” Eric massaged a throb in his temples. “It’s my fault. I should have found a sitter.”

  “I could have baby-sat if we were…”

  “Please Raye, it’s all been said and done.”

  “Nothing has been said and done Eric. You put sorry in an email.”

  “Not now, Raye.”

  “What was I to you, Eric?”

  “What!”

  “Did you have feelings for me?”

  “Raye! Please! Stop! This is not the time!”

  An uneasy silence settled in the living room.

  Raye felt his rage, anger, pain. “Did you ask Enzo if he saw what happened?”

  She desperately wanted to know.

  “He said he left Greg Jr to come up here to use the bathroom. When he went back down Greg Jr was gone. He assumed he was playing hide-and-seek and looked everywhere for him. When he could not find him, Enzo rang me on my cell phone. I told Enzo that sometimes hiding in difficult places ruins the game and he would come out of hiding sooner or later. But of course, as we know now, he was kidnapped.” Eric stroked his face slowly. “I don’t know how I’m going to break this awful news to his parents. This is going to devastate them. Like Enzo, Greg Jr was an only child.”

  “Do you have any idea who could be responsible?”

  “I have many enemies. Someone really wanted to hurt me where it counted. My child.” Eric ran his fingers through his dishevelled dark hair. “At some point I’ll have to go the police with this. Probably arrested for withholding information, and charged with causing the death of Greg Jr. But I swear on my life, I’m going to do everything to bring these criminals to justice.”

  Raye’s face matched the white A4 paper in her hand.

  The doorbell rang out, punctuating the silence.

  Eric opened the door. He recognized the two detectives from the janitor’s room: Detectives Jack Bercovski and Flynn Stringer, both in dark suits under their tan overcoats.

  “Mr. Mandini,” said Detective Bercovski. “We would like to ask you further questions, sir.” Bercovski was forty-eight years old and had been with the Homicide Division for eight years. At six foot two, he towered over his partner, Detective Flynn Stringer by six inches.

  “Please, come in.” Eric stepped aside and, as they entered, they eyed the young woman in her nightclothes.

  “Mrs Mandini?” said Detective Bercovski, offering his hand.

  “No, No,” corrected Eric. “She’s my neigh…”

  “Do you mind me asking what you’re holding?” interrupted Detective Flynn Stringer after studying Raye’s nervous demeanor. With sunlight blaring on the paper she was holding, he could see the montage of bold black letters silhouetting through it.

  “I can explain,” jumped in Eric. He took the ransom note from Raye’s hand. “This is Ms Raye Dawkins, she’s my neighbor. She lives across the corridor. I was just discussing bringing this to your attention.” He proffered the ransom note to Stringer. Stringer was a decade older than his partner, balding with a prominent nose and stocky like a pit-bull. He also attacked without warning, just like a pit-bull. After 30 years on the police force, he trusted no one. Not even his own mother. He was a bitter man. Detective Stringer read the ransom note, observed the various fonts, random text, and then passed the note to his partner. “Mr. Mandini, when did you first become aware of this ransom note?”

   “Friday night.”

  “Friday night?” echoed Detective Bercovski, raising a thick black eyebrow. “Why didn’t you contact the police immediately?”

  “He said no cops. No FBI. You read the ransom note. Do not call the police or the kid dies.”

  “Mr. Mandini,” said Stringer, “all kidnappers categorically state this in their demands, sir. This is highly unusual that you did not contact the authorities regardless.”

   “What are the statistics… the authorities rescuing a child alive?”

  “Forget about statistics sir,” cut in Detective Bercovski. “Failing to contact the police has caused a child his life.”

  “That’s unfair, Detective Bercovski, and you know it.”

  “Downstairs, you said the dead boy, Greg Junior, was not your son.”

  “Yes, that’s right. He is a… was a friend of my son. I was looking after him while his parents are on holiday.”

  “If he were your own son kidnapped, Mr Mandini, would you have called the authorities.”

  Mandini’s face turned to stone. “Greg Jr was like my own son. I treated both boys the same.”

  “So the boy was kidnapped Friday evening,” said Stringer. “You found the ransom note in your mailbox later that night. I assume you gathered all the money on Saturday. Delivered it on Sunday. Now the boy’s found dead Monday morning. Is that what happened.”

  “Yes, That’s the basic timeline.”

  “How did you find out that the boy was in the basement?”

  “The janitor. He knocked on my door this morning.”

  Raye felt her chest getting hot, the redness creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “How did the janitor know to inform you… out of all the residents in the building, he came to your door?”

  “Well, before I realized Greg Jr was kidnapped Friday evening, I went looking for him and ran into the janitor in the lobby. I asked him to help me find him. And he was happy to oblige. I guess when he found the boy this morning he must have put two-and-two together.”

  The color drained from Raye’s face. What has JP been up to?

  “How do you know he had nothing to do with it?”

   “I don?
??t.”

  “The man’s an ex con with a criminal record as long as my arm. And on a janitor’s salary, he must need money, saw the opportunity and took it.”

  “Do you think he would be stupid enough to kill the boy and then tell me he found him?

  Raye bit her lower lip to prevent herself from blurting, yes, he’s a stupid idiot.

  “Maybe he’s covering his tracks.”

  “Covering his tracks? Mmm, I don’t know.”

  “You give him a lot of credit Mr Mandini. Considering he’s our number one suspect.”

  “Well, I’d be surprised if he did this; at least not by himself.”

  Raye could not believe her ears; she was outraged and her face expressed it.

  “How did he seem when he came to your door?”

  “Well, I’m not a body language expert, detective. But excited, jittery, rubbing his forehead a lot. I suspect his nervousness must have been since finding Greg Junior, dead in his workroom. A guilty man would have run off, especially being an ex con.”

  “You don’t look like you’re buying his crock of shit, are you Miss Dawkins,” said Detective Stringer.

  “No, not at all, Detective.”

  Yes, leave the speculation to us Mr. Mandini,” said Detective Bercovski. “Besides, he had probable motive and the opportunity.”

  “You asked my opinion, Detective Bercovski. I’ve just elaborated.” Eric squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, attempting to relieve the mounting pressure.

  “Where’s your son, Mr. Mandini?”

  “In his bedroom asleep.”

  “Do you mind if we had a look?”

  “I, I can vouch for Mr Mandini,” said Raye. “Enzo just went back to sleep.”

  “Detective. I have not told you everything. I received a call from the kidnapper using some kind of voice dissimulator, disguising his voice.”

  “What did he say exactly?”

  “He said, ‘asshole, where’s the fucking ransom.’”

  “What!” interjected Raye, breathless with shock.

  “When was this?” asked Detective Stringer, ignoring Raye’s outburst.

  “Sunday… the day of the ransom drop… around four o’clock. I told him I dropped the money off at ten.”

  “Perhaps they were trying to milk you for more.”

  “Perhaps, but he was very aggressive, threatening to kill the kid. I assured him that I dropped the money off at ten o’clock, just like the ransom note said. I would never jeopardize the boy’s life.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Drop the money off on time? Or did you just tell him you did.”

  “Yes, of course I dropped the money!”

  “So what did he say?”

  “He said nothing for ten seconds or so, as if he was thinking, and then he said, ‘ten… ten… ten o’clock?’”

  “I said yes, ten. I begged and pleaded with him to return the boy to me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He said he’d call back and hung up.”

  “Has he called back?”

  “No. No, he didn’t. Something must have gone wrong because they returned Greg Jr dead.”

  “How do you think he got your home number?”

  “Your guess is good as mine, detective.”

  Bercovski turned to his partner. “Flynn, check with the phone company. See what they can come up with.”

  He nodded but said nothing. He seemed fascinated by Raye’s demeanor.

  “Mr Mandini,” said Bercovski. “We would like you come down to the precinct and give a full statement.”

  “Yes, of course. But first I have to make arrangements for my son.”

  “How about Miss Dawkins, sir?”

  “No. Not Miss Dawkins.” Then he added, quickly. “Miss Dawkins has to go to her shop.”

  “Miss Dawkins,” said Detective Stringer. “Do you have Mr Mandini’s number?”

  “Yes I do?” Raye was acutely aware Flynn Stringer had her on his radar. It was essential she stayed unruffled.

  “Have you given it to anyone?”

  “No, of course not,” she said nonchalantly even though her heart was racing. Casually she turned to Eric. “I don’t mind babysitting.”

  “No.” he said abruptly.” I’ll drop him with his mother.” Then he addressed Bercovski. “Then I’ll come down and answer all your queries.”

  “In the meantime, Mr Mandini, Miss Dawkins. I would like both of you to keep the ransom note quiet. This is very important. We don’t want to start media frenzy,” said Detective Bercovski.

  “Sure detective,” agreed Mandini; Raye didn’t know what to say.

  “Miss Dawkins,” added Bercovski,” we would also like you to make yourself available. Purely routine.”

  “Yes of course.” She turned to Eric. “Would you like me to come to the police station with you?”

  “No, I can manage this on my own.”

  “Please Eric; I’d like to be there for you.”

  “Thanks Raye, but if I need you, I know where to find you.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances.

  «Chapter Forty Nine»

  Am a bona fide bullshitter. I never knew I had such an appetite for telling such blatant lies. And the amazing acting. I should have been an actress on the stage, my name, SACRINE THOMPSON, up in glittering neon lights on Broadway.

  After my Tony winning performance, I stuff the exotic apparels back into the briefcase and close it shut. If there is a dead boy in the basement, word would have spread like a horrible plague by now.

  I step out onto my balcony to see a big commotion outside.

  Directly across from my building, people are out on their own balconies looking over at my building; a growing crowd gathering outside at ground level. Some people are in their dressing gowns, jostling to fulfil their morbid curiosity. Even vehicles slow down to take in the scene.

  I hold onto the banister rail and look straight down.

  To my horror, I see five squad cars with their lights flashing silently. A flurry of uniformed clothed people keeps the nosey neighbors at bay. The dreaded morgue wagon makes it all real for me. The press has set up on the lawn. A lone photographer leans against a parked car and aims his long-lens up at my building. I snap my head back in, still holding the rail, arms at full stretch.

  “Holy shit!” escapes my lips.

  Think about it Sac.

  What if the money does belong to the kidnappers and I had interfered with it?

  Oh my God! What if Raye is right?

  But it does not make any sense.

  Why would she assume there is money in my briefcase?

  How could she possibly know?

  The dead boy has not even made the morning news.

  But am I insane to think half a mill in a garbage-can is an everyday occurrence? Still, I resent the fact she could think I could be involved in such a despicable act.

  I hurry inside, switch on the television and flip to the news bulletin. I sit attentively at the edge of my sofa, staring at the screen.

  “This report has just come into the newsroom,” says a perky blonde newsreader. “Early this morning a young boy has been found murdered in a condominium complex in the quiet suburb of Etobicoke. We’ll now go live to the scene.”

  A bubbly looking blonde woman appears on the screen- chin length hair flicked up around the ends. She is wearing a pale blue skirt suit and subtle make-up. With a Californian accent, she speaks directly to the camera.

  ‘Police have launched a major investigation after the body of a young boy was found at a luxury high-rise here in Etobicoke. Officers were called after one of the janitors of the building made the horrible discovery in his utility work room, located in the basement The young boy, thought to be around ten years old, have yet to be identified. Police said they are treating the death as a homicide and are talking to the janitor in connection with the incident. If you can see behin
d me, the property cordoned off and CSI and pathologist are carrying out a full examination. The Toronto Coroner has been informed and a post-mortem examination will be held. Officers have been speaking to potential witnesses and residents, but are appealing for the public to come forward with any information to establish the motive for this senseless murder. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Bercovski, of the crime scene Investigation team, is leading the police investigation. An incident room has been set up at the Toronto Metropolitan Police station. People with information are urged to contact them on 416 - 444 -5678.’

  The reporter goes on and on about the events of the morning, but never once does she mention Kidnap. I flip through other channels: Chum TV, Global, CityPulse, and CBC … all live coverage. Absolutely no mention of kidnap or any botched ransom pickup.

  I knew Raye was reaching.

  So tense, I jump when my phone begins to ring on my side table. I snatch up the receiver, smacking myself in the ear. “Hello.”

  “Sacrine, are you watching the news?” a shrilly voice pipe down the phone. “I just saw your building on the news.”

  “Oh, hi mom,” I say coolly, trying to keep the tension out of my voice. “Yes, mom, it’s my building.”

  “Did you know the boy?”

  “I don’t think so mom.”

  “Who in their right mind would harm an innocent child?” she asks hysterically.

  Christ, you would think it was her own flesh and blood.

  “I know mom, it’s crazy. The whole world’s gone mad.”

  “How’s Raye dear?”

  My heart pumps recklessly fast. Any second now, it’s going to explode.

   “Raye? Why? She, she’s okay. Ha… has Raye called you this morning?”

  “No. Why would she call me, dear?”

  “I, I, she was just here ten minutes ago breaking the awful news to me.”

  “Did she know the boy?”

  “She didn’t say,” I say irritated. “Mom, I have to go. My call waiting is blinking.”

  So, I lie.

  “When are you coming for a visit?”

  “Mom… later.”

  “Okay, sweetheart, be careful,” she warns me.

  “Yes, mom, I’ll be careful.”

  “Bye sweetheart.”

  “Bye mom.”

  I hang up the phone. Am twenty-five years old, and my mother is worried about my well-being.

  Ha!

  Give me a fucking break!

  When I ran away from home at fifteen no squad cars stopped me on the street to say my parents were looking for me. No search parties with tracker dogs sent out. No squadron of helicopters in the night sky with infrared. I had imagined my mom convincing the rest of the family that I was working the streets as a pro. I pictured them huddled together on the living room sofa watching the eleven o’clock news with crocodile tears just waiting for the broadcaster to inform them of some cheap white trash found dead lying in the city ditch with her undies soiled and ripped and down around her thighs and then naming me the victim.

  It was after a year of hopping from hostel to hostel, I decided to call home and she picked up the phone.

  “Hi mom… it’s me… Sacrine,” I said warily.

  “Sacrine! I thought you were dead! We all thought you died!”

  To this day her haunting words still echoed in my ear.

  My phone rings again. “Hello,” I say tentatively.

  “Sacrine! Your building…”

  “Hey George.” I interrupt. “And yes, it is my building.”

  “Holy shit, Sac, so close to home.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Have you heard what happened?” she asks in her girly voice.

  “Raye thinks it was a kidnap gone wrong.”

  “Kidnap?”

  “How ridiculous, eh! Sounds like the work of a filthy, heartless paedophile, silencing his victim.”

  “Oh my God! That is terrible!

  “I know George”

  “Did your friend say why she thought it was kidnap? Your area is not exactly Rosedale or Richmond Hill.”

  My mind flashes to the hot cash in the briefcase. I want to confide in my best friend, but I swore I was not going to tell anyone under any circumstance no matter what.

  “Sac, did you hear me? Did she say why she thought it was kidnap?”

  “No,” I say mendaciously.

  My gaze drifts to a framed picture of my three closest friends: Georgina Baron, Virna-Lisa Commanichi and Shilpa Desai, vacationing on Vancouver Island, one of the best two weeks of my life. In the picture, am standing behind all three sitting on barstools and am trying to hold them in a bear hug. My head is between Shilpa and George’s shoulder. We’re all looking directly at the camera with wide white smiles. My love for my friends is immense and forever. They are definitely sisters from other mothers. Next to is a framed picture of me holding my cat Viper when he was just a kitten, a hybrid Persian/Siamese snob.

  “Listen George, I don’t know anything about anything. Am tired; so am going to hit the sack.”

  “Okay Sac, see you soon. Bye… love you.”

  “Bye George, me too.”

  Crikey. Raye, mom, George, dead boy, furore outside … busy morning. I just hope to God my loot is not involved in this fiasco.

  In my bedroom, Viper is curled up on the pillow asleep. I place the briefcase on the shelf in the closet and crawl into bed, trying not to disturb him. Twenty minutes later, am lying on my back, wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling, fingers laced behind head, trying to take it all in.

  Viper wakes from his catnap and starts purring like a farmyard tractor. He proceeds to knead my right breast rhythmically with his hairy brown-boot-paws.

  Am not complaining, the nearest thing to any form of affectionate contact in months.

  Since sleep is not an option, I get out of bed. “Come on pussycat.”

  Viper jumps down and follows me to the kitchen. From a Purina can in the fridge, I scrape plenty food in his bowl and place it on the tiled floor. With my hands squarely on my hips, I watch him gobble up the chunks of tuna in brown gravy, as if I have never fed him before.

  Like never. This cat is really into his food.

  While chewing a brown square chunk of meat, he looks up at me. Don’t need an audience.

  You eat like an animal! Slow down!

  Deep in thought about the events unfolding, I nourish my body with fruit from a basket. After devouring them one by one, I take a handful of vitamin supplements, wash them down with water and am all set for the morning. I take a quick shower and dress in my jogging gear: blue Lycra leggings and a navy hoodie. I secure my key ring on the loop of my leggings and head out with the briefcase hidden in my gym bag.

   

  «Chapter Fifty»

  Raye arrived at her dress shop seething and sniffling, her eyes bloodshot behind large sunglasses. She had cried all the way to work, thinking about the debacle unfolding in her building. Her head was throbbing and she felt nauseous.

  It was mind-boggling why JP had suddenly fallen apart, practically implicating himself as the number one suspect. He might as well have waved a white flag in the air, and announce to the police and anyone who would listen that he did it. The entire morning was a living nightmare.

  How could it have gone so horribly wrong?

  Are you sure this amateur plan of yours is doable? JP’s words echoed in her ear.

  Of course, it’s doable! she had assured him then.

  “Apparently not,” she whispered now.

  Finding JP in the basement handcuffed and surrounded by cops and a forensic team hell-bent on finding evidence to piece the puzzle together and make her life hell. Then Sacrine, her trusted friend had lied about the ransom money. Eric revealed that he had indeed paid $500, 000 ransom money instead of the $250.000 she had demanded.

  The biggest shocker of all was watching the little brat Enzo Mandini emerging from his bedroom; alive, kicking and breathing while an inn
ocent boy, Greg Junior, had been kidnapped and murdered.

  Enzo should be damn lucky he was only severely traumatized.

   Everything had backfired into one hell of a Monday morning. Raye could still feel her blood boiling. She looked over at Poppy at her desk, busy making an appointment with a client. She twirled a pen between her fingers, the appointment book opened in front of her.

  Raye leaned back in her chair in silent contemplation. What am I going to do now? Think!

  “Miss Dawkins.” The voice came from above her head.

  Raye tilted her head and looked straight up to see Amalia, her head seamstress, leaning over the rails on the landing. “Yes Amalia. What is it?”

  “Can you come quick,” she said, her Portuguese accent strong.

  Quick? When did I ever do quick? Raye climbed the stairs as fast as she could to the landing. Slightly out of breath, she walked in to the whir of sewing machines where her other three seamstresses worked diligently. She found Amalia standing by the wide window, looking concerned, an unfinished garment draped over her arm,

  “What is it Amalia?” Raye hurried over to the curtainless window overlooking the parking lot.

  “I just saw man try to open car door,” she said in broken English.

  “My car?”

  “Si, yes.”

  Raye looked down at her parked car. “Like a prowler?”

  “Like criminal.”

  Her white Audi A4 seemed all right, nothing untoward.

  “What did he look like?” She looked for any movement between the rows of cars. “Black, white, blond, dark haired -”

  “White, dark-hair, dirty, dirty jeans.”

  There’s no one out there. “Where did he go?”

  “He try open back door.”

  “Of our building?”

  “Si”

  “He did!”

  “Si, yes, but he couldn’t get in so he climb over fence, he go.”

  “Jesus.”

  “We call police, ma’am?”

  “Nah, it’s probably nothing. Probably just some junkie looking for somewhere to sleep.” Still, Raye put her face up close to the warm pane, trying to see down to the staff door entrance.

  Could it be JP?

  Was he looking for the briefcase?

  Raye felt sick at the notion of JP snooping around her car, trying to break into her dress shop, probably to turn it upside down, looking for the ransom money, creating a disturbance, scaring her staff and customers.

  Obviously, she did not want to cause a scene. “I think I’ll close the shop for the rest of the day, just to be safe.”

  “But Miss Dawkins -”

  “Don’t worry Amalia; you will still be paid a full wage.”

  “A no worry, Miss D; I close for you.”

  “Thanks Amalia, but no. There are a few matters I wish to do myself before I leave.”

  “Are you sure you alright ma’am? You wear dark glasses.”

  “Oh, yes, I just feel a migraine coming on.”

  Raye jumped as if electrocuted. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled out her cell phone and looked at the caller display window.

  She did not recognize the number. “Hello.”

  “Why don’t you answer your goddamn phone,” snapped JP. “I’ve been calling you non-stop.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Hamilton.”

  “Cut the crap, we need to talk.”

  “Talk.” Raye gave Amalia a tight smile.

  “Face to face.”

  “I would love to, Mrs Hamilton.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Let’s say Sammy’s in a couple of hours.” The line went dead in her hand. “Thanks Amalia, relay to Eunice, Carla, and Sofia to take the afternoon off and I’ll call them in the morning.”

  “Okay, Miss Dawkins.”

  Slowly Raye went back down the stairwell. She felt like she was about to crack up and felt an urgent need of a friend to talk things through. She stared at her PA, wondering if she could trust her.

  Poppy saw her on the staircase. “Someone called, but they hung up. Very, very strange. All I could hear was this weird breathing down the line.”

  “Secret crush,” said Raye, brushing it away as nothing.

  “More like creepy.”

  Raye had a strong feeling it was JP. “Poppy, I’m closing up shop right now. Can you telephone Archie and let him know. Tell him he does not have to come back today. Just to come in on his next shift.”

  ”“How come? If you have to be somewhere, Amalia and I could hold down the fort.”

  “Poppy please. I don’t have to explain myself.”

  “Hey, I’m out of here.”

  Poppy gathered up her things mystified by her boss’s erratic behavior when she had a business to run. But Poppy was done trying to figure her out.

   

  «Chapter Fifty One»

  As I walk pass Raye’s front door, I wonder if she has gone to her shop. The thought of her blabbing her big mouth about the briefcase still disturbs me. Impulsively, I find myself back pacing, reversing to her door. I ring her doorbell five times in quick successions – it’s our signal before we enter each other’s lair. When she does not answer, I push the spare key in the mechanics.

  I know. I know. Am miss using her key, abusing her trust, violating her privacy, but I need to cover my ass.

  All of a sudden, I get butterflies in my stomach as I push the door open slowly. “Raye? Raye, are you here?”

  Still no answer came. I close the door behind me, stand by the door and look around. It’s like stepping into an Eskimo’s igloo. The décor is ice cold and uninviting.

  As I set my gym bag on the floor and remove my runners by the door, I hear her answering machine beep. Someone has just left a message because the red light is pulsating. I go further in and do a slow, visual sweep of her living room. The woman is meticulously clean; it’s ridiculous!

  How can she live like this in an all white surroundings?

  Man, she must suffer some sort of neurosis of psychological compulsion.

  My place is a pigsty, clothes everywhere. Each piece of furniture is coated in layers of dust; cat hairs gather in corners like candy floss… not to forget the fresh and fossilized fur balls Viper coughs up. A funny sight to watch.

  If you were to open some closet doors, you would probably find three-ply spider webs with trapped carcasses of men I’ve dated and discarded over the years.

  I had asked her once, “How can you live in a place so sanitized? Do you suffer from some form of OCD: obsessive-compulsive-disorder?

  She’d ignored me.

  But am pretty sure she does.

  Raye Dawkins … such a complex individual. She should admit herself to a psycho ward and demand free therapy.

  Tentatively, I move further into the living room. On the glass-top coffee table is a Tub o’ Toffees with an assorted variety: plain chocolate, banana split éclair, milk chocolate éclair, lode English royal.

  Am tempted to eat one, but am certain she’ll notice it missing.

  There is a little green book and travel brochures. I pick it up the book to peruse it.

  Hugo Italian in Three Months.

  CONVERSATIONAL ITALIAN

  A COMPLETE COURSE

  1IN EVERYDAY ITALIAN1

  Living Language ™

   

  “Mmmm. She’s keen on DIY Italian,” I say under my breath. “She never told me she was planning a trip to Italy.”

  As I set it back down, I notice a thick white album. I pick it up to inspect it. Inside are snapshots of celebrities. Man, this chick is whacked. I’ve never known anyone at her age, so obsessed with celebrities. She actually cut out pictures from magazines, newspapers, TV guides and paste them in her book creating, Raye’s Book of Famous People. The thing dates back to 1994. Some of the ribbed pages were tinted yellow around the edges.

  My sister Selma had the same hobby up until she was ten years old. At eleven, she gave up on the fixation when she
became self-absorbed with her body: sore pert breast, fine hair growing under her armpits and, only God knows where else. The clots of blood in her panties got her undivided attention.

  I remember mom French braiding my hair when she came running into the bedroom with a look of fright on her face, screaming, “Mom, I’m dying! I’m dying!’

  Mom had tried to calm her down, but Selma grabbed mom by the arm - my braid came undone - and practically dragged her into the bathroom. I was so worried about my sister; I pressed my ear up to the bathroom door to eavesdrop.

  “Mom, I’m so scared.”

  “What is it Selma?”

  “Look!”

  I heard mom say, “Oh honey, you’re not dying.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No, honey, you’ve begun womanhood. You’re having your first period. Remember, I spoke to you about it.”

  “This is it?”

  “Yes, dear. But I didn’t expect you to have it so soon.”

  Me being so young, five years younger, I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but years later when I thought I was dying, I remembered Selma’s little incident. I did not bother to tell mom about “IT.”

  What for? She was no mother to me.

  Next to the album is a small white box, bigger than a matchbox. I pick it up and open it. Inside are stacks of her business cards with the letterhead of her dress shop, embossed in silver lettering.

  DAWKINS DRESS DESIGN

  Fashion Designer, Raye Dawkins,

  1599 Queen Street West, Toronto M5L 9N3

  Telephone: 416-260-8012 Fax: 416-897-5517

  www.dawkinsdressdesign.com.oc

   

  I slip one in my pocket. On the lower tier of the coffee table are stacks of Fashion, Home and Garden magazines. The Toronto Star newspaper has various holes in it, some headlines snipped out. I pick it up to inspect it.

  “JUMPING FUCKING JESUS,” I curse, feeling a sharp pain in my foot. I hop, holding onto the armrest. “OWWW… WHAT THE FUCK…”

  A pair of heavy chrome scissors has fallen out, stabbing me in the foot, breaking the skin.

  I inspect my left foot. Am bleeding from two spots… like a snakebite. To stem the flow, I apply pressure with the end of my sweatpants. It clots for a second or so, and then seeps again.

  Oh shit, the tip of the scissors has left a pea size bloodstain on her pure white carpet where it fell.

  I hurry to the kitchen, praying not to leave a bloody trail. There is a COMET cleaner on the spotless counter and two empty boxes of donuts.

  Healthy breakfast then.

  I put on the large pink rubber gloves hanging over the sink and go back into the living room. I shake Comet powder onto a hot sponge and scrub the spot hoping to God not to smudge it, making it worse, and leaving evidence of my visit.

  I scrub and scrub and scrub.

  Shit.

  I cringe at the dark red on pure white.

  Bleach, I need bleach.

  Back in the kitchen again, I find a bottle of bleach under the sink and, back into the living room, I pour a dollop on the stain and leave it to soak.

  I go down the hallway to her bedroom. I have no clue what am looking for but will know when I see it.

  The decor in her bedroom is exactly the same: white, cold and boring.

  On her large dressing table are umpteen perfume bottles and hair-spray canisters, hairbrushes and cosmetics, decorative hair accessories: Chinese hairsticks, scrunchies, hair bands, an ornate jewelry box amongst framed pictures of her family and a sliver-framed photograph with some shady old guy.

  Definitely not her dad.

  I rummage though her chest of drawers, one set after another. God, I feel as though am taking inventory, poking around intimate apparels: panties, pantyhose, lingerie, stockings, every item folded neatly.

  I pick up a bra and am amazed at the size of it. Could be used as a slingshot to fling snowballs from here to Mexico. Her cotton panties are big enough to carry boulders in Fred Flintstone’s quarry.

  I put everything back in place and move to her makeshift office.

  Over her computer are framed diplomas from the School of Art and Design. I slip into a white swivel chair and my eyes flit to a bottle of Tipp-Ex next to a container of pens and pencils. I slip the bottle into my pocket, then switch on her computer, and wait. I know her password so I log into her Hotmail account and press the SENT icon. I skim through to check if she had sent any e-mail’s to family or friends mentioning the briefcase.

  Nothing at all.

  I log off, switch off the computer, stand up and look around. Just for the heck of it, I go to her walk-in wardrobe and slide open the mirrored door. Crikey, it is crammed with rows and rows of fancy white clothes. Six bolts of material: green, yellow, orange, red, lilac, blue and cream stand out against one wall. I rummage through jacket pockets, shirt pockets, trouser pockets only to find loose change.

  Oh, here we go. In one, I find a torn piece of paper with a telephone number. JP 416 260 8013.

  Is this JP’s number?

  I study the digits, then replace it.

  Satisfied that nothing seems to incriminate, I go back into the living room and blot up the bleach. I use the Tipp-Ex to whiteout my DNA sample.

  How clever am I?

  I do a last scan of the living room when the telephone rings, making my heart leap into my mouth.

  Raye’s answering machine picks up. After a sharp bleep, a male voice, says, “Raye, it’s me. We have to talk… today. I’ll meet you at your shop.”

  He puts down the phone.

  “Who in the hell was that?”

  I decide to listen to her previous messages and hit the rewind button. Bleep. “It wasn’t there Raye. I looked again and the briefcase wasn’t there,” a male voice says. He says nothing for several seconds, just breathing down the line... as if he expected her to pick up. “Pick up the phone Raye,” the voice says. “Raye … Raye. What the hell is going on? You better not fuck with me. Call me back Raye.”

  The person slams down the phone, obviously quite pissed off.

  “Who the fuck was that?” I say, emphasizing slowly.

  I press replay and listen to the same message again.

  How long ago did he leave this message? Was this the message that was being left when I’d just walk in? Is the guy calling from my apartment?

  “OMG! Is he in my apartment?”

  A sudden chill runs through my bones.

  In a panic, I grab my runners, head out of Raye’s apartment, slamming the door. I run back down the corridor, hesitate outside my door, my hand on the door handle, my heart beating fast, wondering what to do if I come face to face with this intruder.

  Scream like a mad woman and run!

  Cautiously, I unlock my door and push it open ever so slowly to the wall. As far as I can see, there is no one in my living room or out on the balcony either. I close the door quietly, creep in further, and look right down the long hallway. Viper is leaving the kitchen, licking his mouth with his gritty pink tongue. He looks up at me suspiciously, as if to say, what the hell are you up to now Sac, and then heads off toward my bedroom.

  A catnap? I ask him telepathically

  Suddenly Viper drops on its back, lifts his hind leg and bites into his fury, soft belly, then looks up at me again.

  “Fleas?”

  “Meer,” he meows, as if answering my query.

  I prowl pass the kitchen, hearing a tap dripping; plop, plop, plop; the fridge, zinging. I inch further down the hallway and push the bathroom door open.

  The shower curtain is drawn across the bath.

  To this day, am still haunted by the movie, Psycho.

  Is the intruder hiding in the bathtub with a knife? A gun? A baseball bat?

  With my heart pumping in my ear, I pull aside the shower curtain on the metal rail with a swoosh.

  Nada.

  Get your matted hair out of the drain, woman.

  I go back into the
hallway and, as am about to open the hall closet, I decide against it. The space is crammed with stuff. No one could fit in there, not even Tom Thumb. There is a storage room that houses my washer and dryer, but no room for much else. I creep into my bedroom at the end of the hall. I drop down on one knee and peek under my bed.

  No one there either. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Dump the Domino’s pizza boxes in the garbage, woman…

  OMG, the money!

  I bolt to my walk-in, stoop down and throw shoes in the air until the carpets is clear. I check under the floorboard and, thank God, my loot is still there.

  “Paranoia, self destroyer,” I sing to myself, as I Band-Aid my foot in the bathroom.

   

  «Chapter Fifty Two»

  It is just past eleven-thirty when I step off the elevator and into the lobby trying to look as natural as possible. But every single muscle in my body tenses up. One of the three elevators has a police barricade in front of it. I suspect for emergency use only. And, the lobby is crawling with cops… Toronto’s men in blue wearing bulletproof vest and guns on their hips. Across the foyer, two cops are speaking to two suits and one skirt. On the sofa, two youthful policewomen are questioning Jean from the bakery. She’s crying noisily, blowing her nose.

  I mentally ask myself, am breathing, because am not.

  BREATHE THEN!

  I take a deep breath and keep walking toward the entrance, my knees wobbly, betraying me. Once am outside, I squint into the sunlight, gulping in thick hot afternoon air. The police have cordoned off a section of the building with yellow crime scene tape, only allowing residents in and out. People are still swarming in the streets, some asking questions, speculating.

  There’s a young officer interrogating an elderly resident in a friendly manner. Give him a couple of years and he’ll be a right prick.

  Am not safe yet though - I can feel the adrenaline pumping through me. As am about to walk pass, he raises a palm to me like a traffic cop. Now my blood pressure sharply increases that I almost go blind.

  “Do you live here, ma’am?” he asks a little sheepishly.

  “Yes, officer, I do.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am.”

  “Ingrid Burn, 201.”

  He whips out a small notepad from his back pocket and scribbles my alias on it with my fake door number. “Do you have any information about what happened here?”

  “Information? Why? What happened? What happened where?”

  “A boy was found in the janitor’s room murdered.”

  “Murder? No. I don’t know anything. Nothing”

  “Can you come down to the precinct and give an official statement?”

  “For what? I just said I don’t know anything?”

  “We need to speak to everyone formally. You know, to jog the memory.”

  “Jog my memory! Of what?”

  “Until we speak to you in depth… we...”

  “Oh, oh okay, sure… whatever.” I duck under the yellow plastic tape, getting away unscathed.

  What an idiot.

  They shut off two streets and put out orange traffic cones. There are reporters ambling about. The neighborhood residents have left flowers on the sidewalk by the phone booth along with sentimental messages and loads of teddy bears. That’s as close as they can get to the building.

  I feel like breaking into a hundred yard dash, fleeing from this awful scene.

  I manage to stay calm and walk at a brisk pace along Scarlett Road toward Eglinton Avenue, thinking of Raye and her wild speculations about my briefcase being involved in some kidnap plot.

  Pffft.

  She has no idea what I found inside except for sexy garments I showed her. Even if by chance her speculations turn out to be true…

  Fact I: I did not kidnap the boy.

  Fact 2: I did not kill the boy.

  Fact 3: I do have $500, 000 in my possession.

  Fact 4: But no evidence or correlation to the facts above.

  Fact 5: Am living a miracle!

  Man, I just hope the dough-girl keeps her fat mouth shut.

  The minute I cross over Eglinton Avenue, I begin to jog west for the first mile, then at a fast until my lungs hurt gasping for air. I turn into my place of refuge, Griffith Park and slow down breathing heavily. The world is perfect here; tranquil, free of all the problems I left behind me.

  But then again. This is where it could have all started.

  I jog deeper into the park, a few joggers and cyclists pass me from both directions. Monday morning, most normal people are at work.

  When I reach the commemorative bench, I look over to see Mr. Chesney sitting in harmony with nature, just chilling out.

  As he stares into space through expressionless eyes, I cross the green lawn. “Good morning Mr. Chesney.”

  “Oh, good morning Sacrine.”

  “How are you?” I ask politely, expecting a simple fine.

  “My back is as stiff as an iron board, besides that, I’m okay.”

  “Oh gee, am sorry to hear that Mr. Chesney.”

  “Nothing new, dear, I live in pure agony. My arthritic knees are acting up so I know it’s going to rain ”

  I sit down next to the old man, but this time, not to keep his company. My agenda today is to scope the place for police activity.

  But there is not one cop in sight.

  I stare at the garbage-can, wondering if I should just put the briefcase back.

  End this nightmare.

  But so far, only Raye has mentioned kidnap.

  “Did you see the news this morning, Mr. Chesney, about the dead boy found here in Etobicoke? He was found in my building. In the janitor’s room.”

  “People these days have no regards for human life. We’re back to the barbaric ages.”

  “These days,” I mumble. Respect for human life is way better now. Sheesk Old people seem to condemn the present, always reminiscing about the past... a past that was morbidly barbaric and cruel with no regards for human life whatsoever.

  Cruel throughout history.

  By the time I return to my building around two, there is very little activity on the periphery. The young officer is nowhere to be seen.

  Thank God for that.

   Now I must take a shower, get dressed and put my work head on; but first, I must stop by Raye’s dress shop.

  A mystery man is meeting her there and I want to see who it is. Just maybe I can get there in time.

  «Chapter Fifty Three»

  Am sitting on a packed streetcar travelling along Queen Street West in the quirky fashion district of downtown Toronto. It’s boiling out and, of course, Canada’s loudmouth American cousins, flock to the outdoor patios, monopolizing all the iron-grid tables and chairs under bright, colorful sunshades, probably drinking iced-tea with a squirt of lemon. They have no fashion sense whatsoever in their ridiculous summer hats, not to mention tacky sunglasses, some fiddling with the city map.

  The last time I visited the area was at the grand opening of Raye’s dress shop, almost two years ago. I showed up half-drunk and almost barfed up my cocktails when I walked in. The space was once a pet shop, handling hamsters, kittens, puppies, chinchillas, and fish. That night, the walls belched out a distinct zoo-smelling odor. I used to refer to her dress shop as the Ark.

  The guy in front of me rustles his Toronto Times newspaper, prompting me to read over his shoulder. The sensational caption reads, Murdered Boy Found in Prestigious Neighborhood.

  “Shit,” I say a little too loudly into his ear.

  He half turns his head, frowning. “Do you mind?”

  “Sorry…”

  I turn my attention out the window. “Shit, I’ve missed my stop.”

  I press the button and jump off at the next stop almost bumping into a bunch of gothic freaks with jet-black hair lacquered to the heavens.  I actually thought the freaks came out at night.

  I backtrack to Raye’s shop and stop dead in my tracks. A sign h
anging inside the glass door reads, Back Soon.

  What do I do now?

  I do a wide scan of the area.

  There are Nail bars, wine bars, fashion shops and bistros. Young people sit under bright awnings lazing in the summer sunshine. Am now trying to determine which restaurant Raye might be pigging out in. In the window of the Westside motel, restaurant, a young couple share a Caesar salad from a huge glass bowl. At another table, pampered ladies eat mussels from a tureen with French bread. I mosey over to the window where the menu is posted on the inside glass and skim the bill of fare.

  Mm, nothing suggests that Raye would be remotely interested in eating in such an establishment.

  I walk round the corner of Duncan Street. The patio of Sammy’s Mixed Bar & Grill, a greasy spoon, is packed with customers. Just what Raye loves to eat - greasy, deep fried foods dripping in lard. I peer in the window to see Raye sliding into a booth at the back of the restaurant.

  What a coincidence!

  And she is not alone.

  Someone is there waiting for her.

  A man.

  I cannot make out who it is.

  I enter the double wooden doors and glance around. The place is full of business people and pretty secretaries; tourists laden with shopping bags; the air scented with spices, grease, cigarette smoke and stale beer. I sneak by the host station and move toward the back of the restaurant. I slide into the high backed-booth on the other side of the two of them. I sit sideways with one leg folded on the vinyl bench, and press my ear against the mahogany panel hoping to eavesdrop on Raye’s conversation.

  Not much is being said.

  A waiter is taking their drink order.

  At a nearby table, an overweight black couple, chowing down on a rack of sticky ribs stop chewing and glares at me suspiciously.

  I yawn and close my eyes, feigning fatigue. The waiter leaves and I wait to hear them say something juicy, but with the music blaring, the rumble of voices and cutlery striking plates, am straining to hear but cannot make out a single word. I want to yell, SHUT… UP! Only that would blow my cover.

  As the reel-to-reel blends to another song, I hear a male voice say, “Don’t take long! We need to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Can I take your drink order?”

  I open my eyes to see an effeminate, punk-rock waiter chewing bubble gum standing by my table. Raye walks right by.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, erm,” I say sliding out of the booth. “Save my seat, am just going to the washroom.”

  Inside the ladies room, two secretaries snort lines of coke from the mirror of compact-powder. They throw me a look as I enter and carry on as if it is nothing out of the ordinary. Of the five cubicles, only one door is closed. I bend down to see those familiar thick ankles in four-inch heel white pumps.

  When I hear the toilet flushing and the cubicle door unlocking, I pretend to be washing my hands over the white porcelain basin.

  “Sacrine! What are you doing here?”

  I turn, pretending to be surprised. “Raye! There you are. I dropped by your shop, but the sign said, CLOSED.”

  “What do you want, Sacrine?” She is washing her hands over the sink.

  “I came to apologize. You know how cranky I get first thing in the morning.”

   “You came all the way here to apologize?” says Raye with her hands under the dryer. The cokehead secretaries leave the bathroom, giggling like immature schoolgirls.

  “I wanted to do it face to face.”

  “Why should I accept your apology?” she snaps, fingering white tendrils by her temples. “You were incredibly obnoxious to me.”

  “And am really sorry, Raye. Let me make it up to you. Let me buy you lunch?”

  “I’m having lunch with JP.” She adjusts a decorative Chinese chopstick in her peroxide bun; looks as sharp as an ice pick.

  “You’re kidding me. JP, the janitor, the prime suspect in the kid’s murder?”

  “Yes. He asked for my help.”

  “Help, how?”

  “To hook him up with a good defense lawyer… just in case.”

  “You mean he wasn’t charged?”

  “No. They released him without charge. They have no physical evidence to hold him.”

  “How does he know your dad’s a lawyer?”

  “Judge. My dad’s a judge now.”

  “Yeah, but what made him believe he could come to you for help?”

  “Obviously I offered.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What’s there to get. Listen, why don’t you join us, I’ll introduce you to him.”

  “Are you kidding me? I don’t want to be introduced to a repulsive, ignoramus janitor, especially one suspected of murder.”

  “Have you heard of innocent until proven guilty?”

  “Innocent or not, why would you want to be seen in public with him. The guy is a total lowlife.”

  “He’s a human being Sac, just like you and me.”

  “There are higher and lower forms, Raye,” I say, tweaking my spiked glossy hair in the mirror beside her.

  “You’re acting like a snob. I mean really, you lived on the streets, remember? God knows what you got up to… to get by.”

  “Touché.” I feel a rush of heat in my cheeks. Obviously, she had hit the nerve she was aiming for.

  Whatever, bitch.

  “Look, are you coming?”

  “Coming where?”

  “So I can officially introduce you to Jimmy.”

  “Oh, all right, if you insist.”

   

  «Chapter Fifty Four»

  This janitor, JP, Jimmy, ex con, suspected child murderer fixes his deadly stare at me as Raye and I approach the table. By the looks of it, he’s on his fourth beer and a whole lot of cigarettes. The ashtray was stuffed with butt ends.

  “Jimmy, this is Sacrine. You must have seen her before, she lives in my building. She’s joining us for a drink, if you don’t mind, that is.”

  He barely nods, releasing smoke through his nostrils.

  “Sacrine, Jimmy.”

  The brute mashes his cigarette in the stuffed ashtray and offers me his crusty, yellow-stained banana fingers for me to shake. “Hello Sacrine.”

  What a cheek!

  I leave the bunch hanging, give him a plastic smile, and pull up a chair from an adjacent table. He does not seem bothered by my blatant rudeness. I presume he is accustomed to such behavior in his sordid world.

  As Raye slides in the booth opposite Jimmy, he chugs his beer in one go, slams the bottle down hard and belches loud and long, polluting the air with a stench of beer.

  I tut, wince. “Wasn’t good manners on the rehabilitation curriculum during confinement?”

  He fires up another Bensons. “Where I come from manners are for pussies.”

  Raye pours me some wine from a sweating half liter carafe and tops up her own glass. For a moment, no one speaks. All eyes focused on the red-checkered plastic table cover. It’s as I’ve interrupted a clandestine meeting or a lover’s rendezvous.

  I do a quick glance at Raye, then at Jimmy, and back at Raye again. It does not take a body-language expert to tell there is something going on between them.

  But what?

  Am certain it was his telephone number I found in her pocket earlier when I snooped in her bedroom closet. I take a sip of my piss warm wine while observing their body language.

  Have I just disturbed a lover’s spat?

  Awkward!

  I decide to break the impromptu group meditation. “It’s rotten luck the kid was found on your shift, eh, Jimmy.”

  He gives me a long menacing stare.

  “Just curious, JP. Do you suppose he was killed somewhere else, then…?”

  “Don’t know sweet fuck all about it, all right. I just found the body.”

  Raye kicks me in the shin under the table.

  “Ow! Whatcha do that for?”

  “JP’s been given the third degree downtown. Gi
ve the guy a break already.”

  “I do believe in your innocence, JP.” Yeah right. “Am just trying to help you figure this out.”

  Jimmy lets out an exasperated sigh, tilts his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not going down for this,” he says suddenly, “I would never hurt the kid.”

  “What!” I say, surprised by his outburst.

  “What, what?” he snaps back.

  “You just said, ‘I would never hurt the kid.’”

  “He said that?” Raye jumps in.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure he just said he wouldn’t hurt any kid. Any.”

  Yeah, and am hard of hearing. “Fine… whatever.”

  “Listen,” he says, sounding annoyed. “I thought we came here to talk privately. After your friend here goes call me.” He slides out of the booth and goes through the restaurant and out the door.

  “Jesus Raye, he gives me the creeps.”

  “What is the matter with you?”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “What!” she says shocked.

  “Are you fucking him?”

  She reaches for her drink and takes a sip. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “I don’t know. I just sensed something…”

  Raye raises her eyebrows, pulls her neck in creating a triple chin. “Sense what?”

  “Like you guys know each other more intimately than you’re letting on.”

  Raye purses her lips while her face flushes a bright red.

  If that’s not a dead giveaway, I’ll be damned.

  “And I don’t understand why he would ask you to help him when a defense lawyer would automatically be appointed to him by the courts if and when he‘s charged. He can’t afford your father’s fees. And why would your father defend him pro Bono, anyway?”

  “I told you, my dad is not a defense attorney anymore. He’s a judge.”

  “Okay. Fine. But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did he come to you for a recommendation?”

  “You know what, Sac; I don’t want to speak about it.”

  “You don’t want to speak about it! Really? This is the biggest investigation case in our peaceful city and you want to stay schtum?”

  “You should have been an investigator. You are one nosey bitch.”

  I laugh out loud, but it’s short and fake. “So how come they let him go?”

  “He’s not the only janitor that works there you know. Besides, they have nothing to hold him on.”

  “So who called who?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After they let him go… did you call him or did he call you?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  I shrug my shoulder. Am almost certain JP’s the one that left her the manic message on her answering machine at her apartment. It wasn’t there, the voice had said. What wasn’t there?

  “I’m interested.”

  “Just drop it, okay.” Secretly she checks her mobile in her lap then gazes across the restaurant.

  I sense uneasiness. “What’s wrong Raye?”

  She puffs out her cheeks, sneaking a looking at her wristwatch as she does so.

  I decide to let go of this JP crap, I’m getting nowhere. “Listen, are you hungry? Lunch is on me.”

  “You! Ebenezer Scrooge’s twin sister?”

  Ooh, she’s perking up. I have half a mill stashed away, my alter ego brags.

  “Seriously… it’s my treat.”

  “Sac, you’re a cheapskate, always complaining how broke you are, hard-up for cash.”

  Wow, she’s a lot livelier. “I made really good tips this week,” I say, signalling for service.

  “Why don’t you concentrate on lowering your credit card debts instead of wasting it on lunch?”

  An effeminate waiter approaches and stands with his weight on one bony hip, a pen poised in his limp wrist. “Ready to order?”

  “Yes, we’ll have a bottle of Pinot Noir… and can you bring an ice bucket? Oh, and can you also chill two wine glasses?”

  I watch diva bitch roll his eyes to the ceiling.

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “I am really busy,” he says with a lisp.

  I consult his name tag. “Can you just do it, Pierre? It is your job.”

  “Fine.” He reaches over the table. “Are these empty.” He snakes his fingers around the necks of bottles JP had guzzled.

  “Yes, and can you empty the ashtray as well?”

  “Of course, Her Royal Highness.”

  Hey! That’s my line. I wonder if all feisty waiters used the same line.

  He looks me straight in the eyes. “But I’m not an octopus!” He turns on his heels, wiggling his skinny ass to the service bar.

  Raye consults her watch.

  Again.

   

  «Chapter Fifty Five»

  JP stumbled through the dress shop door, wolfing down a wiener. “So, this is your office,” he said with his mouthful.

  “This is it.” Raye sat at the edge of her desk, her meaty arms folded across her chest, calmly. She watched as JP produced a beer from under his armpit and drank long and deep, washing down the wiener.

  “What took you so long?”

  “We had a liquid lunch. I had to play it safe.”

  “That Sacrine is a real snobby bitch. She never once said hello when I’ve seen her round the building.”

  “Some people are suspicious of people like you.”

  “And you ain’t?”

  ”Growing up in my father’s house opened me eyes to all sorts.”

  “Why did you invite her back to the table?”

  “It just seemed the normal thing to do.”

  “So what kinda business she got?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “She looks like she got lots of money.” JP bent a slat of the Venetian blind and peered through the busy street. “Does she know anything?”

  The thought of Sacrine possibly stealing the ransom money made her swell with inner rage. “No,” she said convincingly.

  “You sure your PA won’t be back?”

  “JP, I told you on the phone. I gave Poppy and the rest of the staff the afternoon off so we can talk in private.”

  Raye walked over to the door and locked the door with a click.

  “Just like that. Is business that bad?”

  “No. Business is not bad JP, just slow.”

  “So when are you gonna make me a nice suit? Make me respectable.”

  Raye perched at the edge of her desk again, eyeing him with disgust. “I’m a dressmaker, not a tailor.”

  “What kind of fucking operation you run here? Maybe you should expand your business, make me a nice suit.”

  “I just told you, I do not design made-to-measure suits for men.”

  “Why not?”

  “For Christ’s sake, JP, quit with the twenty questions! We’re not here to discuss my business, nor your wardrobe.”

  He swayed on his feet, arching his neck to the landing. “What’s up there?”

  “The cutting and sewing room.”

  “Nobody up there.”

  “Are you stoned, I already told you, no.”

  “Good.” JP flopped down splay-legged on the white sofa, protected by the showroom transparent plastic. “Just got the chesterfield delivered?”

  “No. I keep the plastic on for protection.”

  “Protection.” JP caressed the bulge between his legs. “Yeah, I brought some protection?” he said, pumping his bushy eyebrows up and down.

  “JP, were you creeping around outside earlier?”

  JP’s attention sharpened. He didn’t realize he had been seen. “Yeah, so, I was outside earlier. Where is the goddamn briefcase?”

  “Why the hell do you think I have it? You’re the one that screwed everything up!”

  “Me? Just admit it, sweet cakes; your amateur plan did not work, did it? The money wasn’t there.”

&nb
sp; “Idiot! You grabbed the wrong kid, then you…”

  “Hold up.” The expression on his face was the look of shock. “What do you mean … grabbed the wrong kid?”

  “Einstein. You grabbed Enzo’s friend.”

  “What!” JP clutched his forehead. “Wrong kid!”

  “That’s why this whole thing has spiralled out of control. You grabbed the wrong boy. Then you killed him. Didn’t you?”

  “Kill the kid? Me? Fuck that! I had nothing to do with that.” In his drug-hazed muddled mind, JP stared at the floor, open-mouthed, trying to put-two-and two-together. “So that’s why they killed him,” he muttered to himself. “And when the ransom wasn’t paid, they killed him and dumped him on me to take the blame.”

  Raye’s face grew a beet-red, hearing those words coming from his mouth. “What! Who are they, JP?”

  “People holding the boy until the ransom was paid.”

  “Jesus JP!” she shrieked, her lips trembling. “You said your aunt had him.”

  “Aunt Zena? Man, I don’t even know if she’s dead or alive, living on welfare or shacked up with some fucking drunk.”

  “Did you mention my name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure JP, don’t lie to me. Who knows I’m involved?”

  “They know it’s some spiteful bitch I’ve been screwing,” he chuckled creepily. “They were going to plug my ass. I had to give them something as collateral… and your desperation for revenge was doable. I had to save my ass. I owed Mad Mickey a shit load of money. He would kill me for nothing. After this major fuck-up, I have to leave town for good. He must think I’ve double-crossed him.”

  Alarm bells began ringing in Raye’s head. “God damn you Jimmy,” she cried, her eyes frantic with shock. “You’ve put my life… my family… at risk of being blackmailed.”

  “How? They don’t know your name.”

  Raye stood up and began pacing the floor, thinking. “And you altered the ransom note, didn’t you. I went to see Eric to offer my condolence…”

  “Offer your condolences! You are a real heartless bitch… a real piece of work. Yea, I jacked it up. Lots a people to pay.”

  “What else nincompoop?”

  “Don’t get mouthy with me, fatso. Just admit sweet cakes, you are no criminal mastermind. I was doing you a favor.”

  Her face flushed with anger. “Some favor. An innocent boy is dead, and Enzo’s still kicking and breathing…”

  “You expected me to snuff the kid, didn’t you?”

  “Duh! The money was just a bonus.”

  “Well, sweet cakes, your plan backfired big time. Get your fat ass over here and give me head.” His tone epitomized the saying, familiarity breed contempt, but familiarity had also given him power over her and now he was abusing it. He knew her everything about her - her strengths, her secrets, her weaknesses.

  Fat ass! Hearing those words, she could break down and cry. “How dare you! Don’t you ever speak to me like that ever again!”

  “Oh get off your high horse and get that sweet fat ass over here. You know I’m joking with you.”

  Raye wasn’t finding any of it funny. For all her life, she felt like a joke, a misfit, the fat freak without a man. Something deep inside her snapped, a veil of red blurred her vision. The arsenal of taunts, ridicule, name-calling: lesbo, dike, fatso came to a boiling point of volcanic proportion.

  “JP, what’s come over you?” The words came out calm as if she were unruffled. The habit of suppressing her anger was deeply instilled in her. Well, not anymore.

  “I don’t give a fuck about this bullshit anymore. Get your fat ass over here.” He patted the sofa beside him. “The coke’s making me horny as hell.”

  A dead man tells no tales, a crystal clear thought in her mind. She walked over and stood in front of him right up close.

  He held her meaty hips as she straddled his lap.

  JP eyed her large chest inches from his face and moistened his mouth.

  Tenderly, he traced his rough thumb, rough like sandpaper, over her plump lips, scrumptiously pink and wet. He slipped it into her mouth. “Suck it baby.”

  Raye obeyed, half-heartedly.

  JP closed his eyes, feeling the effects of his high and warmth of her soft, moist mouth around his thumb. She, in turn, felt nothing but utter disgust, his filthy thumb fiddling her tongue.

  Raye had enough of this jail-bird-scum loser. She did not take her eyes off his rugged, slimy face even for a second. Platinum tresses tumbled down her shoulders as she reached up and yanked the Chinese chopstick hairpin from her chignon. She raised the lethal weapon high above her head, driving it into his thick neck, puncturing the carotid artery with fatal accuracy.

  JP let out an indescribable noise, like that of an unsuspecting wild animal caught in a Gin trap. Just from sheer horror, Raye shot out of his lap, stumbling backwards. JP clutched his neck; fell sideways onto the sofa, then collapsed to hardwood, groaning. Somehow, he managed to pull out the weapon, causing dark red blood to squirt and spray from the punctured hole. Blood splattered all over Raye’s clothes, the sofa, the accessory rack stand and the walls. He swung the object at her left leg, grazing her calf. Then all of a sudden, his arm went limp as life seeped out of him. The hairpin slipped from his grip. Thick, red, blood pooled by his shoulder, as he lay lifeless.

  Raye stood paralyzed, her hazel eyes wild but her senses sharp. She could hear the wailing of sirens in her head - police and ambulance - gathering outside her dress shop. She could smell the bloodhound news crews jostling outside on her doorsteps, flashbulbs exploding, but more ominously the metallic scent of blood pooling around JP’s head. Vivid in her mind, she could see the bold headlines written in newspapers.

  FASHION DESIGNER KILLS LOVER.

  JILTED DRESSMAKER STABS LOVER.

  VENGEANCE OF A JILTED DRESSMAKER - the scandal too much to bear. She pictured her dad - the honorable Judge Dawkins - his once handsome face, etched in disbelief and disappointment and pleading an insanity case in his chambers. Hour by hour, day by day, the sequence of events was barrelling out of control, one dreadful incident after another.

  Dump him out with the commercial waste, an inner voice suggested in her ear. No! Call the police… tell them he tried to rape you. It was the only explanation.

  With that clear-cut thought, Raye went into action. She ripped her blouse open with both hands, exposing her lacy white bra, a 42 double D. She stretched the bra strap away from her body, allowing it to snap back against her pale skin, repeatedly, hoping to leave red marks. She crouched down and picked up JP’s lifeless right hand. She held his grimy fingernails against her fleshy shoulders and raked down hard, leaving nasty marks on her chest and, her incriminating DNA: blood and tissue under his nails. To convince anyone that it was nothing but attempted rape, she then raked his nails across her fleshy inner thighs, and then did the same to her arms and neck.

   

  «Chapter Fifty Six»

  At the sound of a key in the front door, Raye stumbled to her feet and watched. Poppy came through the doorway.

  “Poppy! Oh my God, Poppy! Thank God.”

  Poppy froze, taking in the nightmarish scene - a man lying lifeless on the office floor, his head in a pool of thick reddish brown blood.

  She gasped, dropped her bag on the sofa, noticing Raye’s clothes, torn and in disarray. “Ohmigod, Miss Dawkins! What happened?”

  Raye burst into tears. “This man, this man tried to rape me. I stabbed him.”

  Poppy pressed the heel of her right hand on her forehead.

  “What!”

  “I was so scared. I thought he was going to kill me.”

  Poppy hurried over and hugged her boss. Raye cried on her shoulder, which was uncharacteristic for both of them. “Is he dead?”

  “I, I, think so.”

  “Have you seen him before?”

  “No. No. He’s a total stranger.”

  “I’ll call 911.” Poppy grabbed the rec
eiver on Raye’s desk.

  “No, wait, my business, my family will be ruined if the press got a hold of this.”

  “But Raye, it was self-defense. Just tell them what happened. Everything will work out okay.” Poppy began to punch in the first two digits and Raye grabbed her arm. “I said no police!”Her eyes suddenly fierce.

  “Raye, for Christ sake, he attacked you … he tried to rape you. You’ve got to report it.”

  “I said no!” she said, staring straight into her eyes.

  Poppy hung up the phone and perched at the edge of the desk. She folded her arms across her chest. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I - I don’t know. I’m thinking.”

  “I’ll check his pockets. Maybe he has ID on him or something.”

  Poppy knelt by the corpse and did a quick search. She found a flask in the breast pocket of his jean jacket. In his left pant pocket, she found a set of keys, loose change: loonies, dimes and nickels, blue Rizla, a book of matches. In the other, she found a worn brown wallet, containing a thin wad of twenty-dollar bills and two condoms: one pink one blue.

  Hmm, a rapist with condoms. Also, there was a piece of paper with a phone number but no name. Poppy studied the digits, registering the familiarity.

  Isn’t this her number?

  Poppy gave her boss a doubtful look.

  “Help me get him on the sofa?”

  “What, why?” Poppy stuffed the contents back into the pockets and rose to her feet. “Com’mon Raye. Let’s just call the police. It’s an open and shut case.”

  “Tell that to the grand jury.”

  “Don’t you think they’ll believe you? Your dad is a judge for God’s sake. He must have some sort of influence.”

  “My dad won’t be on trial. I will! Just help me, please, Poppy.”

  Poppy took in a deep breath. “Ok, you’re the boss.”

  With superhuman strength, the two women hauled JP’s dead weight onto the sofa, then pulled the transparent plastic around his corpse.

  “Poppy, go grab towels from the linen closet.”

  Poppy obeyed reluctantly. Halfway up the stairs, she looked back down at her boss, sensing not all was as it appeared to be.

  Was that her home number in his pocket?

  Raye removed her shoes, hiked her skirt to her thick waist and rolled the fleshed-colored pantyhose down her legs. She examined the two-inch laceration on her pale white leg. Blood bleeding from the point of entry. She dabbed the wound with a small section of her pantyhose, then applied pressure.

  Soon the bleeding stopped.

  Minutes later, Poppy descended the stairs, carrying a heap of towels over her arm, a roll of green garbage bags on top.

  The women crouched down and sopped up the blood, turning the towels pink, and then shoving them in bags, both on the verge of throwing up everything they had eaten today. When they were done, they wiped their hands on a clean towel. “My God, there’s still a lot of blood,” said Raye.

  Poppy leaned against the edge of the desk, staring at the corpse wrapped up in sheer plastic. “What did you use to stick him with?”

  “My hairpin. I didn't think about it. Just happened instinctively. Protecting myself.”

  “Miss Dawkins, I know someone who could get rid of the body. Clean this place up like brand new.”

  “Really!” Raye felt a rush of relief, however temporary. “Can we trust this person?”

  “Of course. But he’ll do it for a price.”

  “I’ll pay. I’ll pay. Please call this person.”

  As instructed, Poppy fetched her cell phone, pressed a few buttons and put the phone to her ear. On the third ring, someone picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  “Hi darling,” said a deep voice down the line.

  “Daddy, I need your help.”

  “What’s the matter darling?”

  “I need you to dispose of a body.”

  “Dispose .... whose body? Where are you?”

  “At work.”

  “My God Poppy, have you killed your boss! I thought that was all talk.” Poppy glanced at Raye, wondering if she could hear her dad’s raised voice. “All you had to do was quit if you didn’t like her…”

  “Dad, dad, stop. I did not kill anyone. She did it! It was done in self-defense. Some crazy guy came off the street and tried to rape her.”

  “Occupational hazard,” her father joked. “Where were you?”

  “Miss Dawkins gave me the afternoon off. I only came back because I forgot my tickets to a gig tonight.”

  “How much is she offering to clean up her mess?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”

  “Give her the phone.”

  Poppy held out her cell phone to Raye. Nervously, she took it and put it to her ear. “Hello.”

  “How much?”

  “Five grand.”

  “Ten... there will be two of us.”

  “But, I…”

  “Then lady, forget it.”

  Raye scratched her lower lip with her teeth. “Alright, ten grand.”

  “Take this information down.”

  Raye picked up a pen from the desk and poised over the notepad. “What is it?.”

  This stranger, the cleaner, Poppy’s father, gave his name, Jack Zaza, the name of his bank Nova Scotia and account details. “Once I see the money, your place will be spick-and-span.”

  She handed the phone back to Poppy. “Thanks daddy, I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Poppy pressed the END button, her brain ticking. Seemed like the perfect opportunity to escape this mortuary of an office for good. “I want the same.”

  Raye felt a sharp stab pierce her stomach. She felt ill. She could hardly believe her ears. “Sorry, what?”

  “I want ten grand as well. Deposit it into my dad’s account. For what I had to put up with… pay me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “You little bitch! That’s blackmail!”

  “That’s right, you greedy cunt.” Poppy picked up her purse, unlocked the latch and paused by the door. “By the way, I quit.”

  Raye watched her PA leave the office lost for word. Two years of being her trusted PA had come to an abrupt end. In a daze, Raye secured the dead lock again, then climbed the stairs to the landing, slightly out of breath. She entered the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and showered with no thoughts in her head. In the storage room, she rummaged through a shopping bag of old clothes and put them on.

  As she came back downstairs, she stared at the lifeless body. A pool of black blood congealed around her accomplice’s head. She pictured herself strapped in an electric chair and was determined to prevent that from happening.

  Her hand trembled as she picked up the phone on her desk and dialled her dad’s office. Although she was reluctant to call him for help, she had no one else to call.

  “Good afternoon, Judges Chambers.” A woman’s voice answered, his secretary.

  “Good afternoon. Henry Dawkins, please. It’s his daughter Raye.”

  “One moment please Miss Dawkins.”

  “Raye?” said her dad, surprised. “One moment darling.” For several long seconds she could hear voices in the background, then a door closing. Moments later Henry said, “Raye darling, how are you?”

  Raye opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She could not believe the awful predicament she was in. “Hi Dad, I’m fine,” she said finally.

  “You don’t sound fine.” Henry breathed out an exasperated sigh into the telephone. “Fine, how much this time?”

  Raye could feel her throat tighten. “Twenty grand.”

  “This is ludicrous, Raye. This has to stop. What do you need it for this time: a shipment of materials from India, equipment from Singapore? It seems to me your financial exploits are increasing.”

  “Dad please, I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t a life or death situation.”

  “Life or death! What have you been up
to Raye?”

  “Um-“

  “Look Raye, are you getting into one of your funks. Why don’t you go and see Dr. Rohl.”

  “I’m all right dad.”

  “Famous last words.” A silence ensued for a couple of seconds. “I hope you haven’t done anything to damage my credibility, or smear my good name… have it splashed across the press. Why don’t you reconsider your business adventures and get a proper job.”

  “Dad please.” Raye sniffled. “It’s just that… I…”

  She stalled: she could not find the right words to explain her actions to her dad.

  “It’s all right Raye, you don’t have to explain. When do you need it?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “OK, see my receptionist. She’ll have a cashier’s check waiting for you.”

  “Thanks dad. I promise I’ll repay you.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Listen; don’t mention a word to your mother.”

  “I won’t, I promise. Thanks dad. I love you.”

  Raye replaced the receiver, then snatched it up again. There was one more thing she needed to take care of once and for all.

  Sacrine Thompson.

  After Sacrine had left the restaurant, she went off to do her late afternoon shift at the hotel. Raye was fully aware that Sacrine couldn’t accept personal phone calls at work unless it was an emergency. Still, she dialled the number and listened to it ring. This was definitely an emergency situation.

  In any case, if only Raye would hang up this instant and peer outside her shop window, she would see Sacrine on the sidewalk in a horrible state.

   

  «Chapter Fifty Seven»

  To keep myself from falling down drunk onto the busy sidewalk, am hugging a lamppost just outside Raye’s dress shop, thinking how much public transit sucks. After my liquid lunch with Raye, I staggered into Starbucks to sober up before I hurried into work. Three large café latté’s later, am still feeling worse for wear.

  It is humid, the heat suffocating, and I need to pee badly. Am tempted to knock on her shop door to use her bathroom, but I know JP is in there with her only God knows doing what. The whole time, the man kept texting and calling her cell phone harassing her to meet him.

  Jesus, the smell of onions wafting up from the hot dog stand is making me queasy. I make an abrupt decision to hail a cab.

  I stagger a little by the curb and stick my hand out to wave one down. A red checker cab does a U-turn. I open the door and practically fall face first into the back seat.

  “What the fu...!” I hear from the front the seat.

  I straighten up to see the taxi guy straining his neck to see me in action in his rear-view mirror.

  “Are you all right back there?”

  “Yeah, I tripped.”

  “What! Over your foot?” He laughs out loud like a jackass.

  “No, a brick!” Man, Torontonian cab drivers, once you are in their space, they think they know you intimately and stick their noses in your business.

  I ignore his sniggers and tell him my home address instead of work.

  Yeah, right then and there, I make a rash decision to play hooky. My boss already thinks am a hypochondriac, but if she fires me on the spot, I have FYM: Fuck you money.

  I make the call.

  Entering my apartment, I rush into my bathroom, stepping over damp towels on the floor. I wriggle myself out of my clothes and sit down on the toilet to pee, noisier than a thundering waterfall. I drop my bag on the floor and relax into peeing when Viper walks in, meowing like mad at me.

  Translation.

  Drunk again, Sac… oh sorry… tipsy?

  What's it to you, punk?

  Aren’t you supposed to be at work, you lush?

  Screw work! It’s just you and me, babes.

  He rubs himself against my gym bag, reminding that I had stashed money in there. When am done, I grab my bag and Viper follows me into the kitchen. I open a 500g bag of dried Purina cat biscuits, scoop handfuls out and fill up his silver bowl.

  While Viper crunches the nuggets over the bowl, I dig into the Purina bag and stash cash deep beneath the dried food. I fold the edges and place it back in the cupboard afterward.

  I pour myself a glass of vodka.

  I need another drink like a hole in the head, seriously.

  I head into the living room and open the sliding doors to the balcony to rid the vile smell wafting in the air, then sink into my sofa. I switch on the TV with the remote and through blurred vision, try to follow a rerun of, 24.

  Suddenly, my living room grows dim.

  I hear a violent clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightening. At this very minute, I know Viper is hiding under the bottom where he feels secure.

  I look toward the balcony to see a purple sky and the first drop of rain, and then it comes down in sheets.

  Just then my telephone rings. I reach for the receiver and lift it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Sacrine, we need to talk.”

  It is Raye sounding depressed.

  “You sound depressed? What’s wrong?”

  She does not answer me.

  “Raye, Raye, are you there?”

  “Why aren’t you at work? I called you there.”

  “I assigned myself off, told them I was sick.”

  “But you’re not sick. Besides, I thought you were broke.”

  “Gees mom… sorry mom. So I lied, sue me.” Silence. “Listen, why don’t you come over and we can continue where we left off?”

  “I’m on my way to my dad’s office.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to ask him to help JP?”

  “I’m seeing him about another matter. I’ll come by your place afterward.”

  “Okay. Is everything all right? Is JP there with you?”

  “No… no JP’s not with me, and yes, everything will be all right,” she says, irritation in her tone.

  “What’s up with…“ All of a sudden the line goes dead in my hand.

  What does she mean by that? Everything will be all right. Obviously, something is wrong.

  An hour later, I watch Raye enter my apartment after ringing the doorbell five times in quick succession. She looks as though she had just lost her best friend in a plane crash or something. She is wearing a pea green flannel shirt and faded blue jeans.

  What... color... shocking!

  Her platinum hair is loose and soaking wet, clinging to her fat head. As a habit, she removes her shoes by the door. “Jesus Raye, did you walk from your dad’s office?” I ask mockingly, slurring my words. “You’re soaking wet. And how come you’re not wearing white? Did some articulated lorry splash muddy water all over you?”

  “No. It’s raining. Because. And no. Did I answer all your questions?”

  “Jeez, I can tell you’re in one of your stinking moods.”

  “Yes, well, it’s been a real cut-throat day.”

  “Jimmy drained you with his complaints, huh.”

  “You could say he’s draining.” She pushes the clinging hair back from her brow. “Why didn’t you go into work?”

  “I’d lose my job if I showed up drunk.”

  Raye pulls out a bottle of Absolute from her bag.

  “For me? How sweet. Thank you.”

  “Ready for round two?”

  “I’ve already started.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, your eyes look like slits.”

  She begins to open the bottle of vodka and I hold out a hand for her to stop. “I’ve got a cold one already opened in the fridge. I’ll get it.”

  I try to get up, but lose my balance and fall back onto the sofa.

  “I’ll get it,” she offers and heads toward the kitchen.

  She returns with the bottle and a tumbler, sits in her usual seat and pours herself a generous measure.

  I take a sip of my own drink and continue to watch the cop show 24 on TV. Jack Bauer is holding a gun two-handed by his ear, the muzzle pointing upwards. He pops
his head round the corner of some government building looking to apprehend some bad guy.

  “Do you watch, 24?”

  “Sacrine, remember I told you I found a man.”

  “God, I can’t wait to fuck a man. I mean, find a man. Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying. Am totally shit-faced.”

  I had expected her to burst out laughing at my Freudian slip, but I think she has lost her sense of humor. I look over to see her, glaring at the TV, the tumbler in one hand, the vodka bottle in the other, tears streaming down her cheeks. Only God knows am not in the mood for melancholy. “Jesus Raye, get a grip. It’s only a TV program.”

  “I was completely in love with him,” she says, without hearing a word I had said. She gulps her drink and pours more vodka into her glass.

  “It was me, Sacrine. It was me.”

  I focus on her face, and say, “What are you babbling about. What do you mean, it was me.”

  “It’s totally my fault.”

  “Hey, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s totally your fault?” I reach out and take the bottle from her hand and top up my own glass. The way our conversation is going, I can just tell it is going to be like having a perfectly good wisdom tooth extracted with rusty pliers sitting in a dentist chair. I need booze to numb the pain.

  “I planned the kidnap with JP.”

  “Kidnap?” I say incredulously to the woman before me, clearly unhinged. “Who did you have kidnapped?”

  “The dead boy in the basement,” she says as if in a trance.

  I reach for the remote and turn down the volume on the TV. “Raye, if you’re trying to freak me out, it’s working.”

  “Except, JP got the wrong boy. I just wanted the kid out of the way so I could be with Eric.”

  I hold up one palm. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Rewind.”

  “I’m the one that masterminded the insidious plot to kidnap… Eric’s son. Only JP kidnapped the wrong kid.”

  “Eric… that guy you were seeing back in the spring.”

  “Yes, my lover.”

  “Was your lover, Raye… was.” I watched her face drop. “Oh, sorry! Did you guys get back together?”

  “No, we never got back together.”

  “So you had his son kidnapped? For what? For revenge?”

  I gaze at her stunned, trying to digest this titillating information. But I cannot seem to take it in. “Wait a sec. Wait just one second here. You planned the kidnapping of your ex’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Jimmy kidnapped the wrong boy.”

  “Yes.”

  With no control of my emotions, I burst out laughing, slapping the sofa beside me, almost braying like a donkey. “Jesus Raye… are you trying to amuse me. I’m mean pull the other one.”

  “It’s the truth, Sacrine.”

  I search her face for even a hint of a smirk. Only she seems dead serious.

  “Raye, hang on, let me get this straight, you wrote a ransom note… actually delivered it. I mean de-live-red it while JP kidnap your ex’s kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why Raye?”

  “The boy hated my guts. That’s why Eric dumped me.”

  “Raye, are you fucking stupid! All children despise their parent’s new friend. I’m sure it was not personal.”

  “Not personal!”

  “Yeah Raye, that’s how all kids are.”

  “You don’t get it. I took it upon myself to be extra nice to him, baked him lovely chocolate chip cookies from scratch. He looked at them piping hot on the plate, then said, ‘Is this how you got so fat?’ I could have smacked his little mouth. All he did was give me lip, the little cheek. ‘My mom never gives me junk food. My mom says, good food first, junk food much later. My mom’s gorgeous, she’s a model.’ Don’t you see, Sac, he hated me. Eric’s the first man I’ve ever loved and he dumped me because of the boy?”

  “So you retaliate by kidnapping his son? You are one fucked up chick; I can tell you that, girlfriend. One fucked up individual. Seriously.”

  “Don’t you get it… I was desperate.”

  “Desperate? Hell-low, there are other men out there, Raye.”

  “I’m twenty-five years old, Sacrine. Before Eric came into my life, I was a virgin…”

  I knew it!

  “… no one has ever asked me out. No one.”

  “So just because the very first man in your life breaks up with you, you mastermind kidnap out of spite. How does that sound to you, Raye?” I pause, am slurring something awful, but I continue. “Some innocent little boy was murdered because of you. Do you realize what kind of shit you’re in?”

  Her lower lip starts to tremble.

  “Fuck off with the crocodile tears! You really need to see a shrink. Better still, book yourself on a hospital waiting list, and get a frontal lobotomy.”

  “I never imagined things would go this far.”

  “Just what did you expect?” I feel my head spinning. “Who killed the kid, Raye?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s JP now?”

  “I don’t know where that bastard is.”

  “In the restaurant, you never answered my question. Did you sleep with him?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Did you sleep with Jimmy?”

  She nods ever so slightly, as if she could barely admit it to herself.

  “Jesus Raye, how could you stoop so low?” I find this whole confession deeply disturbing, but the thought of them swapping and mixing sexual juices I find deeply nauseating.

  “It was the only way he would do it.”

  My eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. “Did he kill the kid, Raye?”

  “I don’t think so. But I think other people are involved. They could come looking for me.”

  I take a sip of my drink. “Why you?”

  “For the briefcase we picked up in the park. It held the ransom money.”

  “For the briefcase… the ransom money…?” I cut myself off when a light bulb switches on in my head. “Oh my God! It all makes perfect sense now. You set me up. You dragged me out of bed to go jogging with you. You lured me to the park. I told you I always sit with the old man on the bench across from the Curling Club.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Sac.”

  I struggle to get to my feet so I can wrap my fingers around her fat neck, but I knock over my glass, spilling vodka all over my bare feet.

  “I know you have the money, Sac. Eric told me he paid the ransom.”

  “Well, he lied to you. I showed you what was in there. There was no money. He didn’t pay.”

  I cannot cope with the information anymore.

  Too much to take in.

  I'm feeling a bit woozy.

  I cannot control my drooping eyelids.

  I let myself go.

  Am about to pass….

  “Sacrine! Sacrine! Sacrine? Sacrine?”

   

  Raye stared at Sacrine, slouched on the sofa; her head slumped to one side, her limp wrist spilling vodka from the tumbler. The whole point of the vodka was to loosen her lips and spill her guts; not spill her drink and pass out.

  Raye surveyed the living room, her eyes shifting back and forth. “Where did she hide the money?” Depositing twenty grand in Jack Zaza’s bank account, not to mention Poppy’s share, was not part of her once foolproof plan. Her blood boiled whenever she thought about it.

  Spurred into action, she looked behind the couch for the briefcase.

  Nothing.

  She dropped to her knees and looked under the sofa. All she could see was a discarded panty hose, a few wine corks, and dust balls mixed with cat hairs. She resisted the urge to sneeze. She stood up and stepped out onto the balcony, squinting as a slight wind blew rain into her face. There was nothing but junk: ceramic pots with dead plants, a broken bookshelf, an old kitty litter tray, a padded kitty basket bed, an old futon, a busted laptop and an iron board decorated with Viper’s hairballs.

 
; She stepped back inside and headed into the kitchen. She opened the cupboards above the messy worktop, two at a time, and then closed them again. She opened the base cupboards - getting close to some of the loot in the cat’s dried biscuit bag - but it does not dawn on her to look inside.

  In the hallway, she rummaged through the bulking utility closet, pushing her hands between haphazardly folded colored sheets, coarse towels, and thick discolored duvets.

  Nothing.

  In the bedroom, she crouched down by the unmade bed, threw up the drooping colorful woven blanket and peered into the dark space.

  She jumped back. A pair of topaz eyes, like the eyes of a demon shone back at her, giving a stupid fright.

  After a few more minutes of searching, checking and double-checking every nook and cranny, she found nothing. She reentered the living room, threw the nastiest look at her intoxicated friend, then opened the front door and went down the corridor to her own apartment. Fuming.

   

  «Chapter Fifty Eight»

  It was half past six the following morning. Raye, the master manipulator sat on a stool at her dressing table, applying cover stick to her blue black eye bags. After creating an evil web of secrets and lies, living a clandestine double-life, luring and trapping her friend Sacrine and staff, her lovely PA Poppy onto her sticky silk strands, subjecting them both to test their own values and ethics, challenge their boundaries, but most despicable of all, committing cold-blooded murder by her own hands, it was understandable under the circumstances why she did not sleep a wink and cried all night for herself. The whole thing started to unspool.

  And she was terrified of going into her dress shop. For a split second, she considered fleeing the city. Put this whole nightmare behind her. But as far as she was concerned, no one was after her… yet.

  At the same time, the same questions kept popping up in her mind.

  Did Poppy’s dad remove JP’s corpse from her office?

  Did he scour the place and left it immaculate without a stitch of evidence?

  Did Poppy really quit her job?

  Will she keep her mouth shut?

  Raye removed the towel from her head, allowing her hair to fall around her bare thick shoulders. She brushed her damp hair, staring at her face intently in the mirror.

  “I’ve got to stop crying. I’ve got to get a grip.”

  Raye felt a pang in her chest as she mustered up the courage to call her shop. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number.

  Amalia Vas de, her head seamstress, answered. “Hallo, Dawkins Dress Design, Amalia speaking,” said her seamstress in a warm Portuguese accent.

  “Hi Amalia,” said Raye, and waited to hear the panic in her voice.

  Nothing. All she received was a polite reception and a brief account of the shop’s activity.

  Raye exhaled. “Okay, I’ll be there later today.”

  “Okay, Miss Dawkins.”

  “Amalia… is Poppy in?”

  “No, I been up and down stairs answer phone, talk to clients. She no call, she no show up. Poppy late again.”

  “Okay, Amalia, I’ll see you later.”

  Raye was in her dress shop a little after ten o’clock. Even after her conversation with calm Amalia, the moment she was outside her dress shop she began to sweat, her heart palpitated, her stomach twisted into knots. She pictured the decomposing body of JP lying on her office floor. She had built up the courage and pushed the door open. Sunlight streamed through the blinds. Poppy was not at her desk. She closed the door and looked around nervously, accessing her CSI brain. She looked for dried blood stains, any fibers caught in the splinter of the floor, loose buttons, a broken fingernail, and broken hairs. She checked the accessory rack for blood spatter, turned it 360, but everything seemed normal.

  It did not look as if anything untoward had happened here. The only difference was the sofa was missing its storeroom plastic cover.

  She had heaved a sigh of relief. Mr Zaza had done a thorough job removing all traces of JP’s DNA and obliterated a crime scene.

  Settling at her desk, she considered giving Poppy a ring, but then decided against it. If Poppy had kept her word and decided to quit, so be it.

  The shop bell tinkled and the door opened. It was a rotund Mrs Hayder and her little butterball daughter, Lynette.

  “Good morning, Raye! Gosh! You look a bit tired. So unlike you.”

  “A bit under the weather, Mrs Hayder. I should take some time off, but I do have a business to run.”

  “Sorry to hear that. We’re a bit early. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No Mrs Hayder, of course not. Just take a seat upstairs and I’ll be with you in a dash.”

  But a minute later, the shop bell tinkled again.

  It was Archie.

  Raye searched his expression for any telling signs that he knew of what had transpired over the past several days. Simply, he acknowledged his boss with a tight smile, then went up to the storage room for the distribution flyers.

  It appeared to be business as usual.

  .

   

  «Chapter Fifty Nine»

  My brain is threatening to swell and split my skull wide open and seep booze and damaged brain matter. Lying on my stomach, I lift up my dead arm dangling on the floor and glimpse at my wristwatch: one thirty-five p.m. Omigod!

  I prop myself up on my elbows and look round. There are two empty Absolute bottles amongst the mess on my coffee table; the ashtray filled to the brim.

  Only the good Lord knows I must quit this insanity this instant, seek AA to help me. The stench in the air of stale booze and cigarettes always makes my hangover a lot worse. I feel like I could spew any minute, but I never ever seem to vomit after drinking. Like some kind of punishment to keep everything down.

  I slept like the dead in graveyards. If Armageddon had occurred, I would not have known a thing. I stumble to the kitchen, bent over from the hip in a ninety-degree angle. I open the fridge and am shocked to see an empty bottle of gin lying on its side with the cap off, the liquid dripping slowly.

  I must have swigged it when I was blind drunk, thinking it was water.

  God, how I hate gin. Should have poured the devil’s water down the drain when I had the chance, weeks ago.

  I chuck the bottle in the garbage-can and grab a bottle of San Pellegrino. I force myself to straighten up and put the bottle to my lips and suck and suck and suck.

  Oh fuck… oh fuck, my head, feels like a migraine of great intensity.

  I can handle this. I’ve grown accustom to hangovers. As I clean up the living room, I get a vague recollection of Raye being here last night… wait. I stop plumping my pillow for a second to concentrate on the events of yesterday. Yes, she did call, wanting to talk.

  We shared vodka.

  Yes, she brought vodka.

  Did she relate this whole enchilada of lies how she kidnapped her ex’s boy?

  Or was that a distorted dream, a false memory?

  God, am I so racked with guilt about the shit load of money in my possession that am mixing facts and fiction?

  Seriously, my drinking episode with Raye had left black holes in my memory. Am experiencing temporary amnesia, again.

  Ok, let’s revise carefully.

  Fact 1: A kid died in our building.

  Fact 2: I do have 500K in my possession.

  Fact 3: I did not kill the kid, even though Raye presumed a botched ransom pickup job and that am to blame indirectly.

  I drop the pillow and pick up another.

  I have asked myself a trillion times. Did a little boy die because I had asked Raye to interfere with the pickup? Did a child die because of me?

  “Sac,” I say out loud to myself, “let’s say you did take the briefcase, the perpetrators would have killed the boy whether they received the ransom, or not. Stop tripping!”

  With bullcrap aside, it is amazing how life changes when you least expect it. Here am battling with my purpose in life, t
rying to think of something worthwhile to validate my own existence, and then money falls into my lap. I suppose no one knows what’s waiting around the corner. Fate had put me on a path to a small fortune. When this murder mystery is sorted out, I can say goodbye to waiting tables, open up my own business, invest in the stock market and become obscenely rich.

  After I cleaned up a bit, I decide to go to the gym and sweat the booze from my pores. As I get my gym bag ready, Viper is curled up next to a pillow on my bed. You would think he is the human in this household, always in my bed, me on the sofa, pissed. I lie down next to him for a moment and stroke his head repeatedly in some kind of daze, thinking of what I’ve gotten myself into.

  Jesus, this whole thing is haunting me.

  Suddenly I wake up with a start and gaze at my bedside alarm clock. “Yikes! I must have fallen in and out of the half-stupors.”

  It's nearly four o'clock.

  Forget about going to the gym.

  Work.

  As I sit up in bed, the first thing I notice are my shoes paired neatly in the closet.

  When have I ever done that?

  Someone has been in my closet.

  I leap out of bed, crouch down and toss the shoes and boots up in the air until the space is clear. I peel back the carpet, lift the slat and, to my relief the money is still there.

  “Did Raye search my apartment?” I say, verbalizing my question. Okay, that’s it! Am going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.”

  Still rancid and smelling of booze, I get dressed quickly in my black Tracksuit. I leave my apartment, go down the carpeted corridor and ring the doorbell at 706.

  He takes forever to answer his door.

  I ring the doorbell again.

  When I hear his footsteps approaching, I tremble with nervous tension.

  There’s a click then the door opens.

  “Hi, my name is Sacrine Thompson, I live at 701.”

  “Oh, yes, you’re Raye’s friend.”

  “Well… we’re more like good neighbors.”

  “Eric Mandini,” he says, extending a hand.

  I take it, shake it.

  “Mr. Mandini, I don’t mean to impose, but I think I might have vital information about the dead boy in the basement.”

  “You do? Have you related this vital info to the police?”

  “No… not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Be… because I’m not hundred percent sure… I thought if we compared notes, things would be much clearer.”

  “Come in, come in,” he says, opening the door wider, making room for me to enter.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time.” Typical male space decor. Beige, brown and tan. All the expensive mod equipment.

  He gestures to the long brown leather sofa. “Please, Sacrine, take a seat.”

  I obey him, sitting nervously on the edge as he closes the door.

  The more I study the man; I cannot see what Raye sees in him. He frightens the life out of me. He has this Mafia edge about him, like some real tough guy. He is dressed very smart though, in an expensive black suit and an open white shirt.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asks as he pours an amber liquid into a glass from a crystal decanter.

  “No. Am all right, thanks.”

  “So what is this vital info?” He takes a sip, and glares at me hard, as if am about to explain the meaning of life.

  I clear my throat and swallow. “I have this feeling…”

  What in the hell am I doing here? a voice quakes in my mind.

  “… I have this feeling Raye had something to do with the dead boy in the basement.”

  Tough guy throws his head back and laughs out loud as if I said the most ridiculous thing. “Raye? Raye Dawkins?”

  “Yes.” I swallow hard.

  “That’s impossible.” A thought wipes the smile off his face. “Wait a minute.” Tough guy looks at me suspiciously for a moment. “Who do you work for? As a matter a fact, I don’t recall Raye mentioning your line of work.”

  “Don’t worry Mr. Mandini. Am just a mere cocktail waitress. I have no other extracurricular activities.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you to stand and lift your Tracksuit top?”

  “What! Of course I mind.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask you to leave, Ms Thompson.”

  “Mr. Mandini, if you think I’m a journalist, trying to scoop firsthand information, I’m not. I’m not wearing a wire, nor do I have any microscopic microphone hidden anywhere on my person.”

  “That may be the case, but I suggest you take your vital information to the police.”

  “If this is a trust issue, Mr. Mandini, I swear Am on the up-and-up. I…”

  “That’s enough!” He cuts me off, comes over and grabs me by the elbow. “Up and out Sacrine.”

  He opens the door and shoves me out into the corridor.

  “Mr. Mandini, please, just listen. You’d think, given the horrible circumstances, you’d listen to what I have to…”

  He slams the door with a bang… in my face.

  My jaw drops wide open. “What an arrogant, aggressive thug! I’ve never felt so humiliated.” I grab my wrist and make a gun with two fingersn’fist and aim it at his door. POW.

  Everybody is a tough guy, even me.

  «Chapter Sixty»

  Out in the magnificent foyer of the Royal York Hotel, Jane, the hotel pianist, is playing a lovely Classical piece. The melody fills the vast glass roof of my cocktail lounge, soothing the buzz of animated conversation. Jane begins playing at six o’clock, almost every evening, and started fifteen minutes ago.

  Am standing at the waitress station punching in drink orders.

  Am terribly hung over like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer.

  Am still fuming about Eric Mandini kicking me out of his apartment when the bartender says to me, “Sacrine, you’ve got customers.”

  I glance over my shoulder.

  Two businessmen are waiting by the entryway. Oh, go away, please. I acknowledged them with a quick wave, collect my orders and deliver them around the lounge. Once am done, I approach the men with two cocktail menus. They are both in dark suits wearing open-necked white shirts, no tie. “Good evening, gentlemen, table for two?” I say, showing my most professional plastic smile.

  “Sacrine Thompson?” asks the taller one.

  My plastic smile fades, my gaze flicking from one stern face to the other.

  How the hell does he know my surname, am curious to know.

  Obviously the badge pinned to my two-piece uniform has my first name on it. But what is my last surname doing on his lips?

  “Yes.”

  “We’re homicide detectives. I’m McCann.” He holds up his shiny ID shield. “This is Dunhill.”

  The shock to my system is indescribable. Oh my God, Raye! She told them about the briefcase?

  “Can you spare a minute to talk?”

  “Talk? Talk about what?”

  “As you know, a young boy was found dead in your building complex not long ago.”

  My heart skips a few beats.

  Am about to keel over and die. Somehow, I remain standing. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

  “We’re following up several leads. We’re hoping you could shed some light on the case?”

  “Waitress!” a customer calls out behind me. Thank goodness!

  I turn to see a businessman waving his credit card in the air.

  I look back at the detectives. “I- I would really love to help, but as you can see, I’m really busy at the moment.”

  “This will only take a few minutes of your time, Ms Thompson,” says Dunhill.

  “Okay gentlemen, take a seat and I’ll be with you in five.”

  I process the credit card and refresh drinks at other tables. I glance over at the cops sitting at a table by the large window, designated for four people.

  God, I despise it with a passion when a party of two does that, wasting space swa
llowing up my tips.

  Anyway, I cannot stall anymore.

  My mouth is so dry, as if I had stuffed in my cheeks with peanut shells. I ask the bartender for a glass of water to quench my thirst.

  “You haven’t punched it in?” he says, his heavy-lidded frog eyes leering back at me.

  “It’s for me,” I inform him. “You asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  He hesitates.

  I can actually read his thoughts: do I give her bottled water or tap?

  “Just give me tap,” I say, assisting him with his decision.

  Jesus, I hate jobs-worth people.

  As he fills a glass under the flowing tap, I glare at the humped-back in his pristine white shirt, no ass in his baggy black pants, his feet turned out like flippers.

  This crater-face bartender gives me the creeps.

  Where is our gorgeous bartender Tom?

  Has Ford Modelling Agency finally signed him. He has been anxious about it for months.

  At one time, the prerequisite to bagging a job in this five star hotel, you had to be model-type, friendly and charismatic. This guy has a face of a slimy toad and the personality of a slug. When it comes to hiring now, seems this particular policy is largely ignored.

  Joel glares at me with bulging toad eyes as I gulp down the chlorine water. I know what he’s thinking. Bitch.

  We never got along from the get-go, from the minute he walked into the lounge and introduced himself as the new bartender. Cringe.

  I slam the glass down on the marble, knowing he despises it when I do that. Our lounge manager is already on our backs to keep breakage down.

  Oops! A crack materializes.

  As I walk away, I imagine him frog leaping over the bar to wallop me in the head.

  Just let him try.

  I put on a brave face and approach the freeloading pigs. They are eating from a glass bowl of assorted nuts, a complimentary snack for paying guest.

  As a former homeless person, I have developed a strong allergic reaction to cops. My firm belief is they’re all arrogant slimy jerks. They see a young girl wandering the streets and automatically think, pro... prostitute. Once, this beat cop had asked me to suck his cock or he would haul my ass into a holding cell.

  Yeah, right, never happened! Too many chocolate donuts restricted him from chasing me down into Cabbage Town.

  To Serve and Protect, my butt.

  I suspect these two are no different. “Gentlemen. How do you think I can help?”

  “Were you in Griffith Park between the hours of nine thirty and eleven on Sunday, July fifteen,” begins Dunhill on my left. He is munching on a mouthful of Macedonians.

  “Mmm, let me see, I was there from about nine-thirty and returned home just before eleven.”

  “How can you be certain of the time?”

  “I remember reading the time on my friend’s dashboard when we arrived at the park to jog.”

  “While you were jogging, did you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary?”

  “No, not really. Just people doing what people normally do in parks.” I give him a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  My gaze drifts out the panoramic window. A bunch of Oriental tourists clutching Noikas and maps has landed on Torontonian soil. They mill around three greyhound buses. My worse fear is that they will come into my lounge and occupy all the empty tables and put in orders for dessert and chamomile tea with lemon, sitting for hours making the tables unprofitable.

  Personally, I prefer to serve alcohol beverages to jack up my tips, not serve frigging … I quote … ‘cammomy tea with wemmon.’

  Now that I’m filthy rich, I guess, who cares?

  “Ms Thompson.” McCann pipes up, disturbing my thoughts.

  “Yes, officer.”

  “Did you see this man in the park that day?” He extracts a photograph from an inside breast pocket and hands it to me.

  As I study the picture, my heart pounds. WTF! I recognize the man in the picture: Eric Mandini. The man in the park was too far away, no distinctive features. But am not about to tell him that.

  “No.” I give it back. “Sorry.”

  “You must have heard about the boy found in your apartment building.

  “Yes, I have. Just awful.”

  “Did you know the boy?”

  “No. I always see a bunch of kids playing in the lobby area on the sofas. Never associate with them. Kids are like little aliens to me.”

  “Well a ransom note was handed in to the authorities after the incident. The person in the picture said he placed a briefcase in a garbage-can to pay ransom demand.”

  “Really.”

  “He now believes someone got to the ransom before the kidnappers. He believes they killed the child for this reason.”

  OMG! Fuck me! Has Raye guessed right? I actually foiled a ransom pickup!

  Am too stumped to answer. I decide to wait for him to get to the point.

  “Well.”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, Mr Mandini is the man in the picture I just showed you.”

  Didn’t know it then, but I know it now. “Is It? So?”

  “So he said you dropped by his apartment earlier today.”

  “So?”

  “So he says you have some vital information about the kidnap.”

  “Excuse me? No, that’s not quite true. I went there to offer my condolences. He is my neighbor. His kid died. I thought I could help him figure things out.”

  “He paints an entirely different picture, Ms Thompson. He says you specifically offered vital information about the kidnap.”

  “He painted the wrong picture. He must have misunderstood me.”

  “What’s the name of this friend you were jogging with?”

  “Raye - Raye Dawkins. She designs women’s clothing over on Queen Street.”

  “Judge Dawkins’ daughter?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “Small world. My wife’s a client of hers.”

  “Really. She only designs clothes for greedy fat women.”

  “Great description of my wife,” says McCann, and laughs out loud.

  Gees, that was suppose to be an insult.

  McCann extracts a business card from his pocket and slips it onto my corked-tray. I take no interest in it. “Well, Ms Thompson, if anything should jog your memory, we’d like to hear from you.”

  McCann reaches for a bowl of assorted nuts from the table behind him. He throws his head back and tosses a handful into his mouth.

  Jesus wept! Masticated nuts and something black coats his tongue… I assume coffee. What woman would kiss a mouth like that? A fat hungry one, I guess!

  As I walk off, I look over my shoulder to see McCann writing something on a note pad. Obviously, they don’t have a clue I have the ransom money or else they would recite me the Miranda rights, handcuff me in front of my customers and haul my butt off to jail.

   

  Usually when I work late due to a late rush from theatre land or the Convention Centre, I have two options: a complimentary taxi ride home or an overnight stay in the hotel. I take the elevator to my assigned hotel room and count my tips. Tonight I made $160.00, a mere pittance considering my newly found loot.

  I open the mini bar, crack the seal on the Absolute vodka and sip straight from the bottle.

  Trust me to get shit faced again while watching shit TV. Am excited about tomorrow, though. The car I had ordered will be delivered from the dealership, then am going shopping to spend some serious sick money while I still have the chance. But what am most looking forward to is my date with this guy Jamie I met at the gym. After all this time flirting with each other, he finally decided to text me. We’re going dancing at Steel-life and I want to impress him.

   

  «Chapter Sixty One»

  In the underground parking the following evening, Raye froze behind her steering wheel in sheer disbelief. She watched Sacrine park a spanking silver Le
xus SUV into her parking spot that had been empty for months. Sacrine walked to the rear, opened the trunk and removed designer shopping bags. When Sacrine slammed the hood and turned round she almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Where did you get the car?”

  “Jesus, Raye! You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me! You traded in your Beetle?”

  Sacrine chose to ignore Raye’s sarcasm. She adjusted the straps of her shopping comfortably in her hands. Raye inspected Sacrine closely. She looked as if she spent hours in a spa; her spiked brunette hair was glossy and chic; her makeup subtle but effective, her nails done expertly, and she was dressed like a kool Hollywood celebrity. She watched Sacrine sashay in the red sole heels to the passenger side and  removed additional shopping bags from the front seat. Out came Prada. Gucci. Armani. Dolce & Gabbana. Louis Vuitton. Hermes Birkins. Versace. Holt Renfrew. Bulgari. Dior.

  She slammed the door with her hip and walked toward Raye, who was blocking her path.

  “Excuse me please.

  Raye stepped to one side. “On a wild spending spree, I see.”

  “I work hard. I deserve it.”

  “Sacrine, stop with this little charade.”

  “Charade?”

  “Remember what I told you the other night.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “A little boy was murdered because of the briefcase we took from the park.”

  “Raye, you’ve been singing that song from day one. What’s new?”

  “Just give the money back Sacrine.”

  “I told you, I don’t have the fucking money!” said Sacrine raising her voice.

  “Of course not! You’re spending it like water!” Raye shouted back louder, her voice shaking with tears.

  Sacrine softened her voice. The last thing she wanted was to exacerbate their tiff after an enjoyable day of shopping, relaxation and pampering “If you must know I maxed out nine credit cards.”

  “Don’t you dare insult my intelligence,” she says, wagging her finger. Raye followed suit, but the anger was still in her tone. “I know for a fact there was money in the briefcase.”

  “Really and how could you possibly know that, Raye?”

  “That’s it, Sac; I’m going to the police.”

  “Oh!” said Sacrine with a perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. “Haven’t you gone yet?”

  “Who are you?” asked Raye, wrinkling her brow.

   “Who am I? Who in the hell are you? And what if I said, you never knew me at all.”

  “That’s right; I never knew you had a deceitful, devious streak in you.”

  “Just fuck off Raye. You’re beginning to bore me.”

  The women squared up to each other, then, Sacrine stormed off, leaving Raye standing there in a cloud of perfume mixed with tension.

  A moment later, Raye followed behind, watching her friend grapple with her umpteen shopping bags to the elevator bank. Sacrine stepped on, struggling to press the number seven button. “Going up?” she said teasingly.

  Raye blinked and stared at her coldly. She could not bear sharing the same elevator with someone so engrossed mind, body and soul in selfishness, greed and vanity. She decided to wait for the next one. The two women held each other’s gaze until the metallic door glided shut, separating them.

   

  «Chapter Sixty Two»

  Five minutes later Raye stomped off the elevator on the seventh floor with a heavy heart and fuming. She wanted to scream and curse, but most of all she wanted to wring Sacrine’s long neck. Everything had snowballed in one gigantic unmitigated disaster. She could not even go to the authorities and report the said briefcase without implicating herself?

  Having to stand by and watch Sacrine squander the ransom money as if she had won the lottery, made her blood boil to Fahrenheit proportions. And, what about an innocent boy, murdered by thugs and, JP dead, by her own two bare hands. But although she could not get the image of him out of her head, she felt no remorse, just a failure of magnitude proportions.

  As she went further down the corridor, she could hear loud music coming from Andrew Redmond’s apartment, two doors down. Andrew Redmond was Mr nice guy to anyone and everyone. His mantra: everyone is a potential client, no exception. In the past, however, Raye and Andy only shared a corridor friendship, but, in a stinking mood, she was aching for a little sympathy and a friendly ear to release her stress and found herself walking right pass her door and pressing his doorbell at 702. She heard the music go quiet in the middle of the chorus: What if I say you’re not like the others, by Foo Fighters.

  Several seconds later, the peephole darkened. She heard the safety chain unlatching, then a click. Andrew Redmond opened the door with a surprise look on his face. He was dressed in a plain black T-shirt with the phrase written in red; I love New York, dark jeans and nothing on his feet.

  “Raye!” he said, astonished. “Is the music too loud?”

  “No, no,” she said nervously, swiping strands of hair behind her earlobe.

  “I must warn you. I have no sugar. And my cupboards are bare. I usually dine out or order in.” The tension was mounting.

  Andy sniffed, and wiped some kind of white dust from his nose.

  “I hate to bother you Andy - but do you mind if I come in for a moment? I, I know this must seem weird… but…”

  “No… yay… sure, Raye.”

  Andy presumed she wanted to gossip about the dead boy found in the basement. “Sad about the boy they found dead in our building?” he said conversationally, while stepping aside to allow her in his inner sanctum.

  Raye was taken aback by his comment. She remained calm and surveyed the impressive living room. “Oh yes, it’s terrible isn’t it?”

  “Whenever they catch the dude they should string him up by his balls.”

  Raye did not reply. She wanted him to drop the subject.

  “You look like you could murder a drink?”

  Murder! Why did he say that?

  “I would really love one, thank you.”

  The large space, decorated to an exquisite style. The color scheme of brown, beige, burgundy and garlic-white, a splash of yellow ochre. Huge canvases of famous cities lined the beige walls: skylines of Paris, Tokyo, Sidney, New York, Singapore and Dubai. Burgundy Venetian blinds furled neatly to reveal the view of the apartments across the way.

  “Wow! What a stunning room,” she said, forcing a smile while looking around her. “Did you hire an interior decorator?”

  “My partner’s passion is interior design.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you had a partner. I hope I am not intruding.”

  “A business partner. Dustin Vale. Come, make yourself comfortable.”

  Raye sat down on a chocolate-brown kid-leather sofa facing a 50-inch wall-mounted plasma screen, the centerpiece of the room. Andy had been watching MTV when she rang the doorbell.

  “I hope you like rum. It’s all I have, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Andy busied himself at a long marble bar, pouring rum into two tumblers.

  “Your living room is so much bigger than mine,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “It’s a hi-tech pad of glass, dark granite and stainless steel, four en-suite beds with under floor heating; nautilus equipped gym and movie theatre.” Andy looked over his shoulder briefly to wallow in her astonished face. “I bought two units from Cresford, building developers, before the foundation was even set. Then I hired one of the best architects in the city to create this fantastic living space. It is inevitable. Mergers and Acquisitions is my business.”

  “Mergers and Acquisitions?”

  “Hey, I don’t want to bore you with M&A’s and anecdotes.”

  “I don’t mind. It’ll stop me wallowing in my dismal life.”

  “Dismal? I don’t believe that,” he reiterated, stabbing a chunk of ice with an ice pick.

  Raye cringed. A vivid flashback of her Chinese decor
ative hairpin jutting out of JP’s jugular sprouted goose bumps up and down her fleshy arms.

  Andy dropped chipped ice into the tumbler, set the bottle of rum on the table and handed her a drink. It seemed more than a double. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Take advantage of a damsel in distress! Not my style.”

  Her cheeks flushed. Why not? an inner voice cried. Too fat.

  Andy relaxed in an armchair, observing his uninvited guest. She took two big swallows of rum with a faraway look of a daydreamer.

  “So. Raye. What’s dismal about your life?”

  Her eyes remained fixed on nothing. “My friend and I had a massive blow out.”

  “What about?”

  “Over my constant desire to totally screw up my life.”

  Raye was beginning to test his patience, the muscles in jaws tightened. Still, he played along. “You? Come on!”

  “Day after day,” she said, as if Andy hadn’t spoken. “I create one disastrous scenario after another.” She gulped her drink again. Kidnap, extortion, double-cross and murder lay heavily on her conscience.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Is this friendship irreparable?”

  “What?”

  “This friendship, can you fix it?”

  “I don’t know. I tend to act on impulse without engaging my brain.”

  “Ah spontaneity. We certainly have something in common.”

  She looked at Andy, her hazel eyes scanning his strong features. “My friend Sacrine, she lives at the corner apartment, almost across from you. Do you know her?”

  “Yes! I know Sacrine. She works in the Piano Lounge at the Royal York Hotel. Was there on a business lunch and she happened to be my waitress. We got talking and surprise, surprise, we discovered we’re neighbors.”

  Raye fixed him with an unblinking stare and said bluntly. “I bet you fucked her, didn’t you?”

  Andy choked on a mouthful of rum, feeling the liquid seep into his lungs. “Raye, where is this coming from?” He glanced at her empty glass. “Why would you assume that?”

  “You’re a good looking guy. She’s a beautiful woman.”

  “I concur. But are you suggesting beautiful people sleep with each other just because they are beautiful. Doesn’t it extend deeper than the physical?”

  Raye replenished her rum and took a sip. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Andy frowned, taken aback by her hostility, her sudden brashness. “Ancient history. I’m not a Eunuch.”

  “Do you sleep with many beautiful women?”

  “I get my fair share.”

  “I bet the women you sleep with are all…”

  He waited a tick. “Are all what?”

  “Are all…” She could not bring herself to say it.

  “Waitresses and hookers?” he joked.

  “Are all…”

  “Cyclopes with three breasts?”

  She chuckled softly.

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “Slim,” she blurted out, and covered her face with her palm.

  Andy frowned harder, confused by this disturbed woman in his living room. He got up, sat down beside her and put an arm round her shoulders. “Raye, what’s wrong?”

  “Sometimes, sometimes I feel totally alone… completely alone.” She swiped snot from her nostrils with her index finger and gulped down a mouthful of rum. “I can’t seem to do anything right. Sometimes I just want to curl up and die. I’m so completely, completely, completely unhappy.”

  Andy took the tumbler from her hand and set it down on the coffee table. “This isn’t helping Raye. You’re just anesthetizing your pain.”

  Raye picked up the tumbler and took another gulp. “Andy, I’m not drunk, take a good look at me, alcohol or alcoholism is not my problem.”

  “Raye listen to me, happiness is subjective, whether you’re overweight …”

  “Fat. Don’t you mean… fat and ugly?”

  Andy studied her for a long second thinking of something relevant to say.

  “Sweetheart, in my business I associate with women that are not beautiful in the traditional sense, but they’re savvy, oozing with confidence, which makes them beautiful in their own way. I also meet many beautiful, thin women that are absolute bitches, some emotionally and mentally challenged. Happiness is a state of the mind, whether you’re fat or thin. Rich or poor. Educated or not, it all boils down to the perception of self. Whatever brought you here to this point in your life… to the realities of the here and now, all that bullshit you have experienced… you have to leave it all behind you. Does that make sense?”

  Snorted too much coke to make any sense, he was thinking.

  “I get it. Just let go of it, right?”

  “Yes. No one is perfect… or has an ideal life. From what you’ve just expressed, you’ve been hard on yourself.

  “You think?”

  “C’mon Raye, whenever I see you out in the corridor, you’ve always had an amazing bright smile on your face. That could only come from somewhere special. Forget worrying about your weight for good. You’re a good person. That’s all that matters.”

  Andy’s naïve assessment made Raye laugh inside. What sort of good person masterminds extortion, kidnap and murder? A cold, calculating, cruel bitch, that’s me. I’ve lost total control of the entire situation and now being shafted royally by my best friend, Sacrine.

  Raye shoved the thought back into the ominous section of her brain. “Thanks Andy. But at this very moment, my life… it’s all falling apart. I feel as if I’m unravelling.”

  “Unravelling, how?”

  Raye leaned back and stared into space. “There’s this inner turmoil. It’s been simmering inside me for a long time now… I feel like… I feel like a dropped ball of cotton wool, unravelling.”

  Andy looked flabbergasted.

  An awkward, heavy silence fell in the living room. Andy glanced over at furled $20 bill and the five lines of coke prepared on the side table. He could use a snort this instant.

  Raye glanced sideways at Andy. “I’m sorry. I know that must sound weird. Here I am burdening you with my problems.”

  “No, no. I don’t mind.” Andy lied with conviction. Truthfully, he was deeply annoyed. All he wanted to do was top-up his buzz, meet his friends at the sports bar on the Esplanade, and then go clubbing when it got dark.

  “Thanks Andy… you’re always so neighborly. You seem like someone I could talk to. Somebody with his head screwed on straight. That’s why I came.” She let out a nervous giggle. “You probably think I’m neurotic cow right… but honestly… I’m not… I…”

  “No, I don’t think that. Come here you.” Andy wrapped his arm around her shoulders. She buried her face in his neck and broke down whimpering like a sad puppy.

  Andy stroked her hair, lifted her chin, and looked at her with penetrating blue eyes. “Silly girl, you’ll be all right?”

  She sniffed hard. “Think so.”

  “Hell yeah. You’re a beautiful woman Raye. Forget about everything, just enjoy yourself, your life.”

  Raye felt he might kiss her. Please kiss me, she implored with wet hazel eyes. A little affection would not go amiss.

  As if reading her mind, Andy pecked her on the forehead gently.

  “I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t mean to break down like that.”

  “We’re all human, Raye… we all have our crosses to bear. Only some people’s crosses are bigger than others.”

  “Thanks Andy,” she said, and pecked him on the cheek.

  “Do you feel a little better?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “I tell you what, what are you doing tonight?”

  She swept loose strands of platinum hair behind her ear suggestively. “I have no plans.”

  “Do you feel like going out, change the scenery?”

  “You mean go for a walk?”

  “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “Do you have a better suggest
ion?”

  “I’m meeting some buddies later, you can come along if you’re up to it.”

  Sacrine raced across her mind. She knew where she would be on a Thursday night.

  “Oh! Can we go to Steel Life?”

  “On Duncan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain you want to be out in a loud, crowded place.”

  “It’s probably what I need. Besides, I haven’t been out in a long time.”

  “Oh, okay, no problem. Steel Life, it is!”

  Raye pictured the look on Sacrine’s face when she strolled into the nightclub with the gorgeous Andrew Redmond on her arm. But she was feeling a twinge of guilt. “I hope you’re not altering your plans too much for me.”

  “No, not at all. I’ll text my buddies to meet us there. Don’t worry about anything.”

   

  «Chapter Sixty Three»

  The body discovered in the basement in Etobicoke have been identified as 10 year old, Greg Junior Gardinghi. Police were able to contact his parents travelling in Europe. They had cut their vacation to organize for his funeral. The homicide squad headed up by Detectives Bercovski and Stringer are pleading for information…

  Raye’s lips twitched. “Can you turn that off, please Andy.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Andy switched off the radio as he drove in slow-running traffic on Queen Street West, illuminated with throbbing neon signs, topaz street lamps, ruby and white headlights from vehicles. It was around eleven o’clock p.m., and the sidewalk was busy with pedestrians, some inebriated and animated in knots of twos, threes, fours, on their way to one of the many theatres, nightclubs and bars.

  “Do you want to do a line?”

  “A Line?”

  “I’ve got some Charlie.”

  “Andy, you’re speaking in riddles.”

  He gave her a puzzled, slightly amused look. “Coke. Cocaine.”

  “No!” said Raye sharply. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “It’ll pick up your spirits! Get you in the mood.”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  The mention of vacation by the  broadcaster on the radio, prompted Andy to talk about his own adventures. Raye listened to his long narrative of his jet-set lifestyle over the past six months. His umpteen business trips: Japan, China, and the Cayman Island. Informed her of his ski trips: Whistler, Aspen, Switzerland, and Croatia spending the day on the Piste by day and drinking in front of a raging fireplace by night.

  Two-week summer vacation at his log cabin up in Muskoka, Ontario.

  Bragged about a three-night weekend in Las Vegas that based around booze, gorgeous women, gambling and dabbling in all sorts of drugs.

  Raye wished she had rang this bad boy’s doorbell much sooner. “How come you never asked me out?”

  “Huh?”

  “Back in your apartment, you said I was a beautiful woman. How come you never asked me out?”

  “I assumed you liked older guys.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Aren’t you bunking that old guy across the hall from you,” he said boldly, feeling the effects of three lines of coke he snorted earlier. “On several occasions young lady, I’ve seen him creeping out of your apartment and likewise. Oh, yeah, wasn’t it his kid they found dead in the basement? Poor man.”

  Raye was stunned back into silence.

  Luckily, his banter was a cocaine-filled rhetoric. Andy could not care less one way of another. He stopped his metallic grey Lexus in the middle of Duncan Street, outside the arched doorway of Steel Life nightclub. The name was up in indigo-blue neon. Deep bass pummelled out of the sound system into the balmy summer night air. A long queue had formed behind a velvet rope. A member of staff examined the age of majority picture ID of each partygoer and banished ones that did not fit the dress code.

  Two burly bouncers on a strict diet of steroids flanked the arched doorway. Their bulk bursting under black-blazers over black satin shirts, both sporting cropped blond hair.

  “Sly, Rocco, how you guy’s doing?”

  “Hey, Mr. Redmond,” replied Rocco.

  “Rocco let my friend in. I’m going to go park the wagon.”

  Rocco bent down to see the fat chick in the passenger seat and  cocked an eyebrow. Usually Andy’s trophies were hot skinny blondes, long legged with big bazookas.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Redmond,” said Rocco, opening the passenger door.

  “Andy,’ said Raye, a chubby jewelled hand on the door handle. “I’d prefer if we go in together”

  Andy read the worried expression on her plump made-up face. “Are you turning down door to door service?” He winked. “Don’t worry, you look beautiful. It might take a few minutes to find a parking spot. I’m certain you don’t want to walk back in those pretty heels.”

  I get it. You do not want to walk in with me, you self-centered stuck-up prick.

  “All right. I will see you inside, Andy. Please, don’t be long.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be quick!”

  Rocco assisted her out of the car and allowed her in the entrance, then resumed his stance at the doorway.

  Self-conscious, nervous, Raye descended the steps of the nightclub alone. At the base of the stairs, she stopped in her tracks and surveyed the scene. Beautiful blonde mannequins perched on brushed-grey-steel-bar stools; flaunting themselves in next-to-nothing while sipping cocktails. Behind the long steel bar, four bartenders worked expertly and effortlessly: shaking, garnishing, and flirting indulgently. Under the shiny steel-linked-chains hanging from the ceiling, people danced wild on the dance floor, arms thrusting in the hazy air

  At the long bar, Raye squeezed between two Barbie dolls almost bumping one off her perch. She apologized, then waited for a bartender’s attention.

  She waited and waited and waited and waited.

  At last, she caught the bartender’s eye, a young Saturday Night John Travolta look alike. “Glass of dry white wine, please, ” she said at the top of her lungs.

  Less than five seconds a glass of wine materialized in front of her. Andy put an arm over her shoulders. “Good. You got yourself a drink.”  “Sorry, I didn’t know what you’re having.”

  “No worries” Andy snapped his fingers and the bartender put a Rusty Nail in front of him in an instant.

  “So Raye, do you dance?” he asked, raising his voice above the drum & base mix vibrating the building.

  “What?”

  “Dance. Do you dance?” he said, leaning in closer, speaking directly into her ear.

  “I’m known to dance in my time,” she said playfully. “What about you?”

  As Andy opened his mouth to answer, he glanced over the dance floor simultaneously, and was immediately distracted by a familiar, friendly face amongst the bodies writhing sensually to, Bring sexy back, by Justin Timberlake.

  He smiled, waved, and then swigged his drink.

  Raye followed his eye line, but she was six inches shorter than Andy was.

  Seconds later, she saw Sacrine pushing through the gyrating bodies, a hot stud followed closely behind her. Sacrine was wearing an astonishing crimson Versace dress that accentuated her taut boyish figure.

  “Andy! This is quite a surprise. Good to see you.” Andy kissed Sacrine on both cheeks. “Jamie, Andy. Andy, Jamie.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “No. I’m here with Raye.”

  “Raye, Raye Daw-kins?”

  “Yes.” Purposefully Andy stepped to one side as if to say, see, take a look for yourself.

  The two women eyed each without exchanging a word for several seconds.

  “Raye! What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you, Sac, clubbing.”

  “Jamie, this is my neighbor, Raye,” said Sacrine without removing her eyes from Raye’s smug face.

  “Hey,” said Jamie.

  “Babes, can you get a round of drink? Just put it on my tab.”

  While Jamie buried off to the crowded bar, two ro
ws thick, Sacrine ogled her neighbor with great interest. Platinum hair piled on her head with tendrils by her chin and way, way too much rouge on her cheeks. She was dressed in a white jersey top with a drooping cowl neckline showing a lot of cleavage. Mid-calf white skirt that hugged her meaty hips. She looked out of place like a desperate librarian than a kool disco chick.

  Sacrine wanted to laugh.

  “You’re looking deliciously hot tonight Sacrine,” said Andy, breaking the cold stares. Andy shielded his eyes in jest. “I’m going to go blind. Is that real bling?”

  Gently Sacrine touched the exquisite yellow gold and platinum necklace, adorned with amethysts, emeralds and turquoises. “Do you like it? It’s a Bvlgari piece.”

  Raye lifted her brows, boring a hole in Sacrine’s conniving face. Feeling the piercing glare, Sacrine adjusted herself, giving Raye her back.

  “I’ve been on an epic shopping spree today. What a rush!”

  “Today only?”

  “Why?”

  “Conspicuous consumption.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “FedEx, last week, Holt Renfrew this week. People rapping on your door with parcels every two minutes.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It’s like you’ve won the lottery or something.”

  “I wish!”

  “Are you suggesting you’re earning more money than me now?”

  “Don’t worry Andy; nobody makes more money than you. I just maxed out a few credit cards.”

  Conspicuous consumption. Sacrine went quiet for a moment. She wondered what Andy knew about the murdered boy and the unpaid ransom. “Hey, did the police question you about the kid that died in our building?”

  “Yes, but I was out of town that weekend. I know nothing, he joked in a Russian accent. “Did they question you?”

  “I know nothing,” mimicked Sacrine, touching his forearm flirtatiously.

  Raye stood out of earshot, sipping her wine, feeling herself getting upset. She was conscious of the critical eyes that glanced at her then looked away quickly. Amazon people squeezed by her, jostled her, bumping her arm, her hips, on both sides, music bursting her eardrums. She could not even catch the eye of an admirer. Not one guy came near her, not a soul. And Sacrine had captured her date’s undivided attention when she was already here with a man.

  Raye tapped Andy on the shoulder. “Andy, I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  Andy barely acknowledged and turned back to Sacrine. Annoyed, Raye pushed her way through the half-naked club rats.

  “So. The Food and Beverage industry is doing well for you.”

  “You could say so.” Sacrine flapped her hand excitedly. “Forget about work. I didn’t realize you knew Raye socially.”

  “Not before this evening. She just appeared at my door.”

  “Without an invitation?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Apparently she has major issues and needed someone to talk to. You know, a little tête-à-tête.”

  “Man, the chick is impulsive. But why you of all people?”

  “I have no idea. She seemed genuinely upset. I couldn’t exactly turn her away.”

  Sacrine expected him to go into details, but Andy just took a sip of his drink and ogled the animated ladies on the dance floor.

  “Well, did she confide in you?”

  “About her deep rooted problems? No.”

  Sacrine burst into laughter. “You must be used to it by now: damsels in distress showing up at all hours, falling into your strong arms.”

  “She said the both of you had a fight.”

  “She told you we had a fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well…”

  “She didn’t divulge details.”

  “Not really.”

  Pensively she sipped her drink, wondering if Raye was spilling her guts about the stolen briefcase full of cash.

  “Man, she is such a cry baby.”

  “You don’t appear to be sympathetic.”

  “Listen Andy, I’m not a cold person, but I…”

  “She wanted to know if we slept together.”

  Sacrine choked on cigarette smoke and immediately sipped her drink again to clear her throat. “And?”

  Andy looked at Sacrine seductively, moistening his lower lip. “I admitted we went horizontal.”

  This time wine squirted from Sacrine’s mouth. “Sorry And, sorry,” she apologized, wiping his designer shirt with her fingers.

  “I’ll send you the dry cleaner’s bill,” he said amused.

  “How did she respond to that?”

  “She broke down. She expressed she wanted to die.”

  “Because I slept with you?”

  Casually, Sacrine checked over her shoulder for any signs of Raye but she was nowhere in sight. “Mellow! Drama!”

  “Her heads just in a bad place right now.”

  “Self-esteem, I know. She needs to raise the opinion of herself.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Sacrine changed the subject quickly. “What do you think of Jamie?”

  “Don’t tell me... you met him at the gym.”

  “You make it sound like I make it a habit.”

  “Friends with benefits, right?”

  Sacrine laughed. “No, I’ve known him for a while now. He finally asked me out, I  really do like him. He’s a sweetheart.”

  Just then, Raye and Jamie arrived with a fistful of drinks to Sacrine’s surprise.

  “There you are, babes!”

  They doled out the drinks when someone tapped Andy on the shoulder. He turned to see his business partner Dustin with a striking Japanese girl, early twenties, on his arm.

  “Hey Dusty! Hey Sun Lee!” Andy pumped the air with his fist, jigging on the spot. “The party has just begun”

  Raye glared at Sacrine.

  Sacrine glared back at Raye. “What!”

   

  «Chapter Sixty Four»

  Andy’s blue eyes popped open instigated by sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. Not only did he feel like Black Death, he felt a heavy pressure across his chest, as if trapping him to the bed. Cautiously he lifted his head off the pillow to see a pale arm extending from under the cotton sheet beside him. The mystery face, buried under a shock of messy platinum hair.

  It was the third time this month he had woken up in a strange bed with a strange woman lying next to him. And he had no recollection of how he ended up in this particular bed.

  He lay staring up at the ceiling, recalling being in the noisy nightclub, surrounded by a bevy of women.

  A list of names ran through his muddled mind: Cindy, Donna, Lisa, Bernadette, Audrey, Sun Lee, Sacrine, Kim… Raye?

  To confirm this, slowly, he lifted the white sheet from her head. “Raye Dawkins! Shit!”

  She was fast asleep, her mouth open a slight.

  Careful not to wake her, Andy picked up her arm and laid it down beside her.

  She breathed in deeply.

  Andy waited until she was settled, then eased himself off the bed carefully. He looked down at his half-naked-self, wearing nothing but his black Calvin’s and black ribbed socks.

  He pulled on his trousers and whipped his shirt from the end frame of the bed, wondering if he bunked her.

  Smiling smugly to himself, he was thinking, you tiger, bunking two chicks on the same floor. He looked around for his shoes, but could not see them anywhere.

  Dropping to all fours, he looked under the bed. Not there either. His bladder was full.

  He went into the en suite to relieve himself.

  Not wanting to disturb the sleeping beauty, Andy aimed the hot stream in the porcelain face basin and watched the egg-yolk piss sluice down the drain. He opened the medicine cabinet to see a plethora of prescription and non-prescription drugs on the glass shelves. Uppers, downers, fat busters, weight loss, pain killers.

  Didn’t she
claim: I don’t do drugs?

  As he threw two aspirins in his mouth, he noticed a distorted red shape on his neck. He tried to rub it off and realized it was a juicy hickey.

  He cursed, splashed water over his face and dried it with a neatly folded fluffy-white towel. He wondered whether to leave a note, but quickly decided against it. He was afraid if he did, it would open up a two-way communication. She had already showed up at his apartment uninvited.

  In the living room, he saw a bottle of rum and two used glasses next to an ashtray on the coffee table. His shoes were peeking out from under a pair of voluminous white panties. He picked up his shoes, shaking off the undergarment and, without putting them on; he left the apartment with immense care.

  Raye stirred. She heard the front door open and close with a click. She looked beside her and saw Andy was gone AWW: absent without warning.

  Disappointed, she dropped her head back to the pillow, reflecting on last night. By the time the nightclub closed at three, Andy had exceeded the alcohol limit and in no condition to take the wheel. She offered to drive home and, it took her a while to get the general area where he had parked his car. She fumbled for his keys in his pockets, then she suggested he put his arm around her and steered him toward the vehicle.

  As soon as Andy got in the passenger seat he promptly passed out until they arrived back at the condominium. Raye had helped him into her apartment and he flopped onto the sofa. He welcomed a nightcap, slurring on and on the about both of them being entrepreneurs.

  Then, unexpectedly, Andy said, “I want you,” his breath airy with rum.

  Five months of celibacy, pure like a nun, Raye wanted him too.

  In her mind, her vile shenanigans with JP did not count.

  They kissed long and deep.

  Then he ripped open her blouse and groped and sucked her hard nipples.

  Finding himself on his knees, he hiked up her skirt to her waist, slipped off her panties and ate her slowly, teasing her with his tongue. Deep moans escaped her throat. After she exploded in ecstasy, she suggested moving to the bedroom.

  While Raye slipped into the en suite to pee, Andy stripped off his clothes down to his underwear, fell into her bed and passed out.

  When Raye re-emerged, she had climbed on top of him, straddling him.

  “Andy. Andy.” She leaned over and kissed his mouth. When he did not respond, she ran her wet, warm tongue along his neck, sucking, attempting to arouse him. No reaction from Andy. He was breathing heavily, almost snoring.

  She moved down his body, kissing his hard pecs from side to side, over his ribs, twirling her tongue over his fine-blond-haired stomach to the waist of his black shorts just below his navel. She pulled down the elastic band of his shorts and put his limp cock into her mouth, sucking the foreskin.

  Still no reaction whatsoever. She licked his shrivelled, bristly-blond balls and plopped a single testicle in her mouth, but Andy felt nothing, he had fallen into the abyss.

  “Dammit.”

  The ringing doorbell brought her back to the present. She suspected Andy had left something of his behind. She reached for her dressing gown draping the bed frame. As she slipped into it, covering her naked body, her gaze swept around the bedroom.

  Nothing of his here.

  In the living room, she looked around.

  Nothing.

  «Chapter Sixty Five»

  Raye opened the front door, saying. “Andy… Oh! Eric! Hi! Hi there!” She sounded genuinely shocked. “Please, please… come in.”

  “I just saw Andy Redmond leaving, carrying his shoes.”

  Raye’s heart leapt into her throat as she closed the door. “It’s not what you think. Andy means nothing to me.”

  Eric raised both palms, looking unconvinced. “Hey, it’s none of my business, Bella.” He noticed a pair of lacy white panties, lying crumpled on the carpet by the sofa.

  “Can I get you something? A cup of coffee? God knows I need one.”

  “Raye, please. This is not a social visit.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. I’m flying to New York this evening.”

  “New York? What’s taking you to New York?”

  “Business.”

  “You know Eric, after all this time you’ve never stated exactly what your business is.

  Eric said nothing, looking around the living room.

  Raye realized the subject was closed, had been closed and nothing will open him up. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Depends,” he said tersely.”

  “Do you need someone to baby-sit Enzo?”

  He turned round and faced her. “Baby-sit! Who? You!”

  “What do you mean? I understand you’re upset about...”

  “Upset? Do you have any idea whatsoever what it was like telling Greg junior’s parents the horrible news… that their only child they have spent years trying to conceive was dead? Just seeing the grief on their faces at the funeral yesterday, well, the guilt was unbearable.”

  Just think how grief-stricken you would have been if JP had snatched the right boy. “Yes, of course I do Eric. How is Enzo any way?” she asked sourly.

  “He’s not the same kid anymore.”

  “I can imagine. Where is he now?”

  “Lost in a computer game. He is going to stay with his mother for a while. Just to get him away from here.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment.

  “Have the police made any headway… found the person responsible.”

  “The police have got squat. The only primary suspect they have is Jimmy Pandolfi. Now they think he has skipped the country, a fugitive on the run. Greg Senior has hired a private detective, a real maverick. He’s chasing a few leads of his own. Let me tell you, this guy will move heaven and earth to hunt him down, even to hell if he has to. But I’m not here to discuss the investigation or the welfare of my son.”

  “I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

  “I had a visit from your friend Sacrine.”

  “Sacrine?” Raye looked at him incredulously. “What did she want?”

  “Her words: vital information about the dead boy in the basement. She mentioned your name.”

  Raye perched on the armrest to prevent herself from collapsing. “My name? What exactly did she say?”

  “I suggested she took her vital information to the police. I don’t discuss personal matters with strangers.”

  “Well, how did she implicate me?”

  “Listen Raye. If I find out you had something to do with this, may God help… what’s this?” He picked up a shredded newspaper from the coffee table. “Why are words cut out of this newspaper?”

  “Eric, I - I can explain.” Raye picked up the album from the lower tier of the coffee table to remind him of her hobby. “Remember I told you, I make collages. Collages of celebrities.” Eric knocked it from her hand and it landed on the carpet with a dull thud. “Eric, what’s got into you?”

  “Shut up!” His dark eyes were ablaze with nothing but unadulterated hatred. “I swear, if you come in fifty feet of my son, I’ll kill you. Capisce?”

  “Eric please! I love you so much. I would never do anything to hurt Enzo. You have to believe me.”

  “Love me?”  His mouth, twisted in a sneer. “Love Enzo? You are pathetic. You’re incapable of love. Enzo’s a nervous wreck because of you. My boy has never wet the bed until you came into our lives. All this talk about sending him away to live with his mot …”  Eric caught himself. He took a deep breath to collect himself. “… just stay away from us Raye,” he warned and turned to go.

  Raye grabbed a hold of his arm. “Don’t you dare walk away from me again,” said Raye shakily. “I need you.”

  Eric snatched his arm free so hard, he sent her sprawling onto her backside. His finger had caught her mouth and she could taste blood. She put her fingers to her throbbing lips gently, and then inspected her bloody fingers. “Eric, you hurt me. I’m bleeding.”
r />   “Bleed! You… make… me… sick,” he said with disdain.

  “But Eric, I love you. I love Enzo. I had nothing to do with Greg Junior’s death.”

  “You better had not Raye.” He started for the door again.

  Raye lunged for his trail leg to prevent him leaving her. “Eric, please, just give us another chance. I… I”

  Eric jerked her off, eyeing her with utter contempt. “Another chance at what? You were just a convenient fuck. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reached into his suit pocket, extracted a wad of envelopes and flung them at her head. “Puttana! How many men have you screwed on this floor… in the building?” He slammed the door and, seconds later, she heard his door slam shut across the corridor.

  Raye glared at the colorful envelopes scattered on the carpet, perhaps thirty or so. She recognized her cursive handwriting. Love letters and poetry she had written to him, dripping with passion.

  Humiliation shrouded her like a thick blanket. All of them sealed except one. She extracted the note from the envelope with trembling red bloody fingers. She unfolded the pale pink paper and read the poetry written in a fine-tip black ink pen with flair. She imbibed the words repeatedly.

   

  Your eyes are shining light that sees my heart

  Even a quick glance soothes my soul

  My love is deep and seek new paths to your heart

  Only you can make me complete and whole

  Long summer days when we are post apart

  I feel a pull of an imaginary string

  Darling, Eric, my solace knows loneliness a solitary art

  Let me show you what I can bring

   

  What a stupid poem.

  She crumpled the note and tossed it aimlessly in the room. She buried her face in her palms and burst into tear, her portly body jerked violently.

  Sunlight had faded from her living room, leaving it in almost darkness.

  How long had she been down on the carpet crying?

  An hour, two?

  She got to her feet, switched on the lamp and walked over to her music system. She slipped in a country CD. Tammy Lynette sang, Stand by your man.

  She headed down the hallway as if in a trance. In the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror. The plump face that stared back at her was lacquered with black tears and mucus. Blood caked in the split, swollen lips.

  Eric had not only hurt her emotionally, but drew blood.

  She pulled open the medicine cabinet stocked like a pharmaceutical’s shelf. Phials of Nytol, Xanax, niacin, acyclovir, ibuprofen, oxycodone, aspirin, antacid, cold remedies, Prozac, and, that was only in front. She reached for the aspirins, removed the lid, then  tilted the entire content in her palm, crammed them in her mouth, crunching and swallowing ignoring the chalky, bitter taste. She did the same with the Xanax, then after those it was just the pills from random bottles and discarded on the bathroom floor.

  In a zombie like state, she headed to the kitchen. She removed a bottle of wine from the refrigerator, put it to her mouth and drank long, liquid running down her chin. Without closing the fridge, she walked to her living room, taking the wine bottle with her and dropped down on the sofa. She tipped it to her head, drank copiously, filling her jaws, swelling it like a balloon. After she drained the bottle, it fell from her fingers to the white shag by her feet.

  She flopped back, feeling dizzy, her world was spinning.

  She waited for the pain to subside.

  «Chapter Sixty Six»

  Am at my computer writing an email to Raye. This is my second one since noon. My Inbox has registered no e-mails from her after last night. Last night she looked livid as I dirty-danced with Jamie and Andy. I was sandwiched between two hot gyrating bodies having the best time of my life. I sometimes fantasized about threesomes and wished then and there we were in private, stark naked and taking it to another level. But it was just good fun.

  My first date with Jamie wasn’t as I expected. I discovered he was just a romantic flirt. Not once did he try to kiss me on the dance floor, not even when we were alone or when he dropped me off home. I practically begged him to come up to my apartment, but he said he had stuff to do in the morning. Hmm, something must be wrong with him; he had no interest in getting into my panties. Oh well, whatever. Maybe he wants just a platonic friendship.

  Whenever I think of Raye ingratiating herself on Andy, practically forcing herself into his apartment, then claiming he was her date... her date… man, the chick makes me laugh. She is not even his type!

  Even so, I want to apologize out of decency. Our friendship is deteriorating fast and besides, I have no interest in Andy whatsoever. Jamie is my ideal man: open-minded, funny, fit, spiritual… a nice list of attributes.

  Anyways, it appears she has gone incommunicado. I’ve sent her several text messages, rang her landline, but all I get is her voicemail. When I called her office earlier, her head seamstress, Amalia, said she had not turned up at her shop.

  My computer beeps. A message reads you have mail. That has to be Raye. I click on the envelope icon.

  Oh, it’s from Jamie. I double click on it.

  Hi gorgeous, I have tickets that are going to blow your mind away. Be ready by seven. Cannot wait to see you.

  See ya, love ya babes.

  Oooo, maybe he wants to take things slow, sexually. I hit the reply button and my fingers fly over the keyboard as I type.

  Hi babes, as long as it is not to the opera, ballet, curling, hockey, or to see some cheesy Canadian stand up comedian, I cannot wait.

  Love ya balls sac! Ooops, sorry. I meant, I love you, Sac lol

  I hit SEND, grinning. I know he loves it when I speak dirty.

  Mmm. Now. Where is Miss Dough girl Dawkins?

  I grab my keys, open the front door and let it close behind me. I head down the corridor to Raye’s apartment, press the doorbell five times in succession and waited.

  She does not answer.

  I put the key in and unlock the door.

  “Raye.” I push the door open to darkness. I flip the light switch on and stand transfixed. She is lying on her stomach like a beached whale. A few of her white cushions are lying on top of her. “Raye? Raye?” I hurry over to her, seeing empty wine bottles and empty prescription vials just lying randomly around her. I stare at her, processing the scene in my head.

  Is she plastered?

  I stoop beside her, throw off the cushions and shake her. “Raye. Raye. Raye. Can you hear me? Wake up!”

  I check for a pulse. It's very, very faint. “Oh fucking Jesus. Raye?”

  I reach for the phone and dialled 911.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “Operator, please send an ambulance quickly. Something’s wrong with my friend. I can barely get a pulse.”

  “Is she bleeding? Are there any wounds?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Did she consume something… nonprescription or prescription drugs… alcohol?”

  “I donno. There are empty bottles of wine and an empty pill vial. Omigod! There’s goop coming out of her mouth.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  “Sacrine. Sacrine Thompson.”

  “What’s the address there, ma’am?

  “Five La Rose Avenue.”

  “Is there an apartment number, ma’am?”

  “Seven o five.”

  Wait there to let them in?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

   

  I grab Raye’s car keys from the coffee table and tailgate the blaring ambulance to Toronto General Hospital. A paramedic crew, two doctors and orderlies rush out to meet the ambulance as it drives on the bay. Raye is wheeled off and through the emergency sliding doors on a gurney. I park behind the ambulance and rush inside. They put an oxygen mask over her face in the hospital corridor. A young nurse, no older than thirty, checks her pupils with a penlike torch, while anot
her nurse is busy attaching a mobile drip to the back of her hand.

  “Please, is she going to be alright?” I ask.

  “Please Ms, let us do our job,” says the young nurse. “You can wait in the visitors waiting area.”

  Wait! I hate hospitals! Just the smell of antiseptics makes me wince.

  I decide to go outside and climb back in Raye’s car and call her parents.

  The phone rings off the hook.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, Hi.” I relay an urgent message to the housekeeper without leaving specific details. Just for Raye’s parents get to Toronto General pronto. I park in the visitor’s parking lot and chain smoke to kill time.

  It’s been almost an hour since I called the Dawkins house and no one has shown up. The waiting and the visitor’s area are not pleasant and not how I’d like to spend my time.

  Everywhere you look, morbid, depressing faces.

  As am about to swift-kick the soda vending machine for stealing my quarters, like a bogus slot machine in Vegas, someone taps me on my shoulder.

  I jump and turn to see a nurse in a neat white uniform and soft-soled shoes. She is the same nurse that was attending Raye earlier. Her name is Sheila Williams, RN, says so on her name badge.

  “This machine eats coins and gives nothing back,’ she says as a matter of fact. “Kicking it will not help, believe me.”

  “Do you have any news about Raye Dawkins?”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, but she’s a very good friend of mine, we’re practically roommates.”

  “It’s not our practice…”

  “Please, you can speak to me in confidence.”

  Nurse Williams beckons with a hand and leads me out of earshot of the friends and family of unfortunate love ones in the open-plan visitor’s waiting area.

  “Well, apparently, she took an overdose of barbiturates washed down with alcohol.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s out of danger. We’ve induced vomiting and pumped her stomach. We have her stabilized. Tell me, do you know why she would want to harm herself, take her own life?”

  “You mean commit suicide?” I say, and gently cover my lips.

  “Yes… commit suicide,” says Nurse Williams without showing any emotion.

  “I know some guy dumped her. I don’t think she fully got over it.”

  Nurse Williams tuts. “Unrequited love, eh!. If she really wanted to die, though, there are methods that are more effective. No doubt, she wanted to be rescued. Did you contact her family?”

  “I left an urgent message with the housekeeper.”

  “At some point she’ll be admitted to the psychiatric ward to undergo psychiatric treatment.”

  I knew it all along! I knew Raye had serious mental issues. It does not take a medical expert to figure that one out.

  “We’ve just wheeled her into ICU, ward three-five-two. You can sit with her for a little while. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see a friendly face, but please, don’t stay long.”

  “I won’t.”

  I arrive at the intensive-care unit. Raye is lying on her back, her head turned away, as if staring out the window at the bright blue sky. She is wearing the hospital gown and is hooked up to an IV drip by her bedside. “Hey, Raye, you okay?”

  She turns her head when she hears my voice and finds me standing at the foot of her bed with my hand on the guardrail. I smile without exposing my teeth.

  She gives me a long, cold stare, causing my smile to lose any warmth. “How are you Raye?” I have no idea what else to say, except, “feeling better?”

  Her irises swim with tears. “Go away.” Her voice sounds weak and croaky.

  “Hey, Raye, you’re not alone. I’m here for you.”

  A single tear rolls into her left ear. “Skip the bullshit Sacrine! You are a thief and a traitor. You went to Eric and suggested I had something to do with the kidnap. I confided in you, hoping you would come clean.”

  “To tell you the truth Raye, I didn’t tell him anything. I can barely recall what you said that night. I was shit faced remember. Plus, you did mention kidnap before anyone had any inclination from day one. I wanted to see if I could offer Eric any help. Anyway, he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say.”

  “Eric told me he paid the ransom demand… half a million dollars. He left it in that briefcase. You emphatically lied about the contents. You stole the ransom money, Sacrine. So why don’t you admit it.”

  “If you’re so cocksure I have this ransom money, why haven’t you gone to the cops?”

  She says nada.

  “Well…”

  “For the last time, tell the truth. Was there money in the briefcase?”

  “My briefcase has nothing to do with you.”

  “Fuck off, Sacrine,” she yells, clearly unconvinced about my Dominatrix apparels. “You’re a calculating, manipulative, deceitful bitch.”

  “I…”

  “Get out, get out!”

  Fine hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  Disturbed cow!

  Nurse Williams nurse hurries in.

  “What’s with all the shouting?”

  “Tell her to go away. I don’t want her here.”

  “It doesn’t mean you have to shout the place down, disturbing other patients on the ward.”

  “I want her to leave me alone,” she sobs.

  “Calm down or we’ll have to administer a sedative.” The nurse touches my arm. “You better go.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”

  I look back to see her staring back at me with an evil glare.

  “See you Raye.”

  She rolls her head away toward the window.

  I back away slowly, almost colliding into a paled-face Pascal Dawkins, in the doorway. Close behind her is her sister, Madison, red-eyed and wiping her nose. Obviously, they’ve heard about Raye’s pathetic attempt to abandon this space.

  “Hello Sacrine. How is she?”

  “She’s fine… she’ll be all right.”

  “Thank God you got to her in time.”

  “I was just leaving. Oh!” I dig into my Jean’s pocket. “Here are her car keys and parking stub. Am sure she’ll need them later.”

  She squeezes my hand, taking the keys. “Thank you, Sacrine. I trust you to keep this strictly confidential. I don’t want anyone knowing about this.”

  “Sure Mrs Dawkins. Whatever.”

   “Promise me.”

  “All right already.”

  Rich people... always a cover-up.

   

  «Chapter Sixty Seven»

  While Nurse Williams added notes to the medical chart at the base of the bed, Pascal Dawkins perched on the side of the bed and gazed at her daughter with sympathy.

  “What’s going on with you, Raye?” she asked, stroking her arm. Her skin was dry and scaly from lack of nutrients.

  “My attempted suicide, you mean.”

  “Well, yes. Why are you so unhappy? You have everything.”

  “Everything! No one gives a damn about me,” cried Raye, turning her away from her mother.

  Pascal raised her eyebrows, baffled. But there was so much she did not know about her daughter.

  Her daughter’s love life, or lack of it.

  A man that she loved having used her for his pleasure, then jilted her by an email.

  How much she felt dejected, empty and alone.

  Pascal shook her head emphatically, flustered, furious, frustrated. “Oh, Raye that’s the furthest thing from the truth.”

  “Your family cares a lot about you,” said Madison, blinking back tears. “I care about you, Raye.”

  “Raye, look at me,” said her mother.

  Raye obeyed. Pascal looked deep into her daughter’s eyes and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “We are all concerned about you. We care about you. When you leave here, you can recuperate in your old bedroom. It’s exactly as you left it.”
<
br />   Raye snatched her arm away. “I wouldn’t dare dream of imposing on your perfect, busy lives.”

  “Raye, why are you so angry?”

  “Since my opening night, not once have you come by the shop. Neither of you. Not one of you have supported me. Always undermining my business.”

  Pascal stood up abruptly, deeply wounded by her daughter’s accusations. As much as she wanted to fix her daughter, make her brand new. She didn’t know where to begin. “Oh for God sake, Raye, when I listen to the words coming out of your mouth, I don’t know whom I’m speaking to anymore. You are like an empty shell. Where has my loving, beautiful daughter gone?”

  “She grew up mom.”

  “Listen Raye, you’re still distraught. You still need time to calm down… to come to your senses. Feel free to call me if you need my help.” Pascal walked into the corridor to compose herself.

  She opened her handbag, retrieved a crumpled white tissue and wiped her nose. She decided she had enough and started to leave.

  Just then, nurse Williams pushed through the swing doors and walked down the corridor toward her. “Excuse me a minute, hello, Mrs Dawkins.”

  Pascal turned round, wondering what was so urgent. “Yes. What is it?”

  “May I have a minute of your time? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop… but you offered your daughter, your home while she recuperates.”

  “Yes.”

  “Before she is discharged, she’ll be evaluated by our house psychiatrist, a man named Jonathan Morgan. He will also look at the medication she’s taking and will determine whether or not she needs a more effective treatment. Then I suggest she sees a psychotherapist who practices cognitive behavior psychotherapy for the... therapy aspect. It’s obvious she has mental issues and needs treatment before she does actual harm to herself.”

  “Mental issues? Did you ask whether she took the pills intentionally or accidentally?”

  “Miss Dawkins, the quantity of pills in her system was no accident. As her mother, it may be difficult to hear. But there’s no point being in denial.”

  “Denial? Did you ask her?”

  “These are the types of questions the psychiatrist will ask and get to the bottom of. It would be wise if you educated yourself... understand what Manic Depression is, so you can help your daughter cope better. And please, don’t worry about the baby, we did an ultrasound and every -”

  “The baby!” interrupted Pascal, shocked. “The baby?”

  Nurse Williams placed her hand gently on her arm. “Oh, Mrs Dawkins, didn’t you know, your daughter is pregnant.”

  “Of course I knew!” said Pascal, keeping her voice low, her eyes glazing over with tears. “I meant to ask, was the baby harmed in any way?”

  “The baby is fine. Luckily, your daughter’s friend got to her in time.”

  “Thank you. Good day.”

  Nurse Williams carried on down the corridor.

  Pascal leaned against the wall, her blue eyes dancing around as she took it all in. She popped her head back into the room. “Madi.”

  Madison walked out into the corridor. “Mummy, what is it?”

  “Did you know?”

  “Know what mom?”

  “That Raye’s pregnant.”

  “What!”

  “Didn’t she confide in you?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “No, mom, I didn’t know.”

  Pascal stormed down the long hallway again, leaving Madison stunned by the news.

  “Madi, Madi,” called Raye from her bed. Madison entered the room and moved to her sister’s bedside staring at the humped shape under the white sheet, trying to discern belly-fat or gestation. “What was that about?”

   “Raye, why didn’t you tell us, your family, that you’re pregnant?”

  “What!”

  “Pregnant… why didn’t you tell me at least, your twin?”

  ”I’m pregnant!”

  “You didn’t know you were pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “What in the world…” Raye cupped her mouth in her hands. “… I’ve been seeing my period!”

  “Raye, who’s the father?”

  “Oh my God! I’m pregnant!” Now she placed both hands protectively over the mound of her abdomen with a far away look in her eyes. “I’ve been nauseous for months, throwing up every two minutes. I thought it was nerves, not morning sickness.” Suddenly, Raye’s face had a look of terror. “Oh God, did I harm the baby?” she cried. “Did I harm my baby.”

  “Raye, if you had harmed your baby, I’m sure they would have told you.”

  “Oh my God! I’m having Er…,” Raye cupped her mouth again. “Oh my God, no! Could it be…?”

  “Could it be what? Raye… what … what are you thinking?”

  “Did the nurse say how many months?”

  “Not to me. She might have told mom.”

  ‘Madi, do you mind, I want to be left alone for a while. Please go.”

  Madison did not object. As she said goodbye, tears stung her for her twin.

   

  «Chapter Sixty Eight»

  At 7:00 am precisely, Larry Parrata walked into Fast Mini’s Tavern, followed by his sidekick Angelo Primo. The air reeked of bacon, coffee and cigarette smoke. A lone, bleary-eyed waiter was serving at least a dozen regulars reading the newspapers in the dimly lit open-plan space with dark wood walls and burgundy vinyl décor. In the pay-phone booth by the restrooms, a despondent, disbelieved man begged someone named Dorothy to let him come back home.

  Parrata and Primo sat down opposite each other at a window table, with the view of the never sleeping Yonge Street, famished, exhausted and defeated.

  Parrata picked up the sticky laminated menu, studying it. Primo had his right hand deep in his mouth, picking at his left back molar with long pinkie talon.

  The hunt for Jimmy Pandolfi had started a week ago and had ended five minutes ago. The two of them had searched noisy arcades, the Woodbine racetrack on Rexdale Boulevard, his favorite watering holes, and bowling alleys. And, as night fell, they searched the underbelly of the city: speakeasies, illicit gambling and sex dens, massage parlors, smoky pool halls. But not one single soul had seen him; even when they checked out cold leads.

  “Hey Mini,” shouted Parrata, waving an arm.

  Mini, the tavern owner, was pushing through the swing doors leading from the kitchen carrying a metal serving tray. On his approach to their table, he stopped to say hello to a few regulars and clearing up used coffee cup and saucers, some soiled plates from tables. His real name is Antonio Zuppa, but comically, on the account that he was six-foot-three inches tall and topping the scales at two hundred-and fifty-pounds, everyone called him Mini. Tied around his gigantic belly was a white apron, splattered with tomato sauce stains.

  “Hey Larry, whassa matter for you. In a fucking hurry?”

  “ Hey Angie.“

  “Hey Mini.”

  “Mini, you seen JP?” asked Larry Parrata. “We just come from his place and he didn’t come to the door.”

  “Pandolfi, I haven’t seen him either,’ he said in an Italian accent. “The guy comes in practically every day since he moved in next-door. One of my best customers. I’ve been feeding him like he’s one of my own children. Only a few times he didn’t show up.” Mini chuckled from deep within his gut. “Shacked up with some broad overnight getting his dick sucked. But I ain’t seen him, can’t say how long now. I took it upon myself to knock on his door.”

  “When was that?”

  “Yesterday. I knocked and knocked and nothing. I got down on one knee and looked through his window. He ain’t down there. I figure he’s got some nice lady cooking him breakfast… or checking out that new breakfast menu McDonald’s got running. Fucking traitor.”

  “Seems Jimmy has vanished off the fucking planet,” said Larry.

  “You sure he ain’t gone back inside?” re
plied Mini.

  “I suppose that’s a possibility.”

  “Maybe he jumped parole, everybody does it,” said Primo.

  “Who knows, maybe he finally got himself whacked over the head,” said Larry, eyeing the laminated menu. “Mini, I want a T-bone medium rare with sautéed mushrooms. Four eggs sunny side up. Chuck in six crispy rashers on the side and a half a loaf of bread. And bring me a double espresso. Angie, what are you having?”

  “Me, I’m starving big. Bring me six hot pancakes soaked in butter, pour on the maple syrup with a free hand. And bacon too. Offer me the whole pig sizzling on a spit, I ain’t gonna say no.”

  Larry and Mini burst out laughing.

  “And keep the hot coffee flowing,” added Primo.” He stuck his huge hand in his mouth picking at his molar again. “Oh, and a large bottle of diet coke.”

  “And hurry up, Mini,” said Parrata chortling, “before he eats his own arm.”

  Later that afternoon, around three p.m., Parrata steered his red Mazda into JP’s rank alleyway, again. There were a few cars parked behind his broken down, metallic-green Toyota. Larry Parrata switched off the engine, blocking the way.

  “Seems Jimmy’s got company,” said Angelo Primo.

  “Could be punter’s eating at Mini’s. You wait here. Make sure no one gets by you.”

  Parrata took tentative steps forward, peering into each car as he went by: back seat and front seat. Nothing out of the ordinary. He pulled the heavy glossy black door and descended the steps slowly. At the bottom, he pulled a gun from his waist, planted an ear to the door and listened.

  Nothing but silence.

  He took a half step back and kicked the flimsy door hard. It ricocheted off the inside wall and rebounded against a protective arm. He ducked under the low door, breathing in the putrid aroma of stale smoke, sweat, sex and socks. He kicked away clothes at his feet en route hoping his shoe met briefcase. He saw a dismantled cell phone on the bed and understood why he couldn’t reach him. He crouched by the single bed and blindly stuck a hand underneath, moving it back and forth over discarded condoms, dust, gum, and only God knows what else.

  When he brought his hand out, a canary-yellow G-string clung to his middle finger.

  He flung it off in disgust.

  He got up and leaned in close to read the etchings on the wall. Jimmy Pandolfi was the only one without an end date.

  Must have left in a hurry.  He darted his gaze around the room slowly, and landed on the brass knuckle dusters on the coffee table. He picked it up, inspected it, and then pushed it into his pocket. He then inspected the bits of paper with telephone numbers scribbled on them - numbers of loose women JP met in seedy watering holes. He concentrated on the area code hoping to find one in the Etobicoke area. One by one, he read them aloud. “Sally. Barb. Brenda. Liz. Patty. Lorraine. Lucky guy.” He eased the only business card from under an ashtray and read the inscription. “This is the one I want!”

   Parrata got into the driver’s seat. “We’re in business.”

  “You found something?” asked Primo.

  “Yep.”

  “So now what?”

  “We drive to Etobicoke.”

  Parrata reversed out of the alley and headed for the Don Valley Parkway. He made a handful of calls on the way while Primo sat in the passenger seat, holding his left cheek in pure agony. An hour later Parrata pulled over by the side of the road and clamped his hand over his ear to block out the siren of a speeding ambulance. “Hey! Mad Mickey,” he said into his cell phone, “it’s me, Lar. Larry.”

  “You found my fucking briefcase?”

  “Not yet, Mad Mickey. JP must have gone underground. We looked and doubled checked everywhere.”

  “How do we know the cops ain’t picked him up?”

  “I called our informant at 51 Division… and no, Jimmy ain’t checked into his cell. I went to his place not long ago. I found scraps of paper with broad’s telephone numbers. I tell you Mad Mickey, the guy’s a regular Don Juan.”

  “Larry! Can you do me a favor? Can you stick to the fucking point?”

  “Sorry Mad Mickey. I found a business card with an Etobicoke area code. Our snitch was able to give me a home address. Get this; JP’s moll is a top-notch Judge’s daughter… Raye Dawkins. She makes clothes or something over on Queen Street. Can you believe it? A judge’s daughter.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “Parked across from her building. We’re just thinking how we gonna go about approaching her. Who knows? Maybe she’s with Jimmy”

  “Good work. I’ve put out a lucrative contract on that double-crossing prick.”

  “Yeah, how much?”

  “One percent of the 250k to the lucky guy that finds the prick and the briefcase with the money.”

  The line goes dead in his hand.

  Parrata gazed up at the church steeple hill of La Rose Avenue, attempting to do mental calculations. However, he couldn’t wrap his brain around the mental equation. He looked over at Primo next to him, picking a back molar with a grubby pinkie nail.

  “Hey Ang, what’s one percent of 250K?”

  “Fuck if I know… why?”

  “Jimmy is good as dead. There’s a red bulls-eye at the back of his fucking knob head.”

  “Stupid fuck,” said Primo.

  Parrata rolled down the window as he hawked up a gob of phlegm in his throat. Just as he was about to spew it out into the hot afternoon air, he saw a white Audi A4 turn into the semicircle drive of the building. He held the spitball between his lips as he watched with keen interest.

  A fat woman climbed out of the passenger side door, gathering up her things from the seat. Parrata recognized her as the moll from the park with the briefcase. He flung the phlegm out the window and said excitedly, “That’s her! That’s her! That’s the broad talking to the driver. That’s her!”

  “Where?” Angelo Primo craned his head. “Where?”

  “That car parked outside.”

  “By that shit-box.”

  “Yeah, that’s the broad I saw walking away with our fucking money.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Course I’m fucking sure.”

  Angelo Primo unscrewed the cap off a Bell’s whiskey bottle, concealed in a crinkly brown paper bag. He took a swig, swished it around in his mouth like mouthwash, and then swallowed hard.

  “How we gonna go about this?” he asked, feeling the liquid scorch his throat. “She’s with somebody.”

  “Ever seen the movie Stakeout?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So fuckhead, we’re going to stakeout out the building,” he said, his eyes focussed across the street.

  Primo picked up a small tube from the dashboard, unscrewed the cap, squeezed a dollop of pink gel onto his index finger and rubbed it into his gum.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Novocaine, man. I got one fucking hell of a toothache.”

  “Dumb schmuck, go see a fucking dentist,” he said, wrinkling his huge nose and reached for the car door handle. “You know what, Wait here. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Where do you think I’m going, you stupid Wop?”

  “Donno. That’s why I asked.”

  “Since I got her name, dickhead, I’m going to match it with a number on her letter box.”

  Parrata got out and slammed the door shut. He looked left, right and ran across the sloping wide street to the building. He opened the glass door and entered the foyer.

  A taxi pulled up behind the parked Audi A4, but no passenger got out.

  As Parrata read the letterboxes, a young woman stepped off the elevator. He recognized her as the young woman that had driven Raye home. Out of the corner oh his eye, he watched her go pass him and got into the waiting cab.

  From his peripheral view, he could see the cab to pull away. He stepped outside and signalled to Primo.

  Primo got out of the car, looked both ways, and then jogg
ed across the street.

  «Chapter Sixty Nine»

  Larry Parrata and Angelo Primo crowded the doorway of apartment 705. Playfully Primo nudged Parrata in the ribs, giving permission to proceed with the task at hand not spelt out in so many words.

  Like Laurel and Hardy, Parrata nudged him back equally hard. “Ca’man, grow some balls,” said Parrata.

  “Man, Lar, I haven’t fucked up a woman in a long time.”

  “Slapping up a pro in China Town giving her a black eye and fat lip ain’t fucking up a woman. This broad stole our money. Don’t underestimate her. She could be very dangerous. Musta had something to do with JP gone missing.”

  “You think?”

  “Of course I fucking think. Watch what I do with the bitch. She’s going to beg for mercy.” Parrata depressed the doorbell and waited.

  “Madi! I told you I want to be left alone,” came a voice from behind the door.

  The two men watched the peephole darken, then lighten again. “Yes?”

  “Raye Dawkins, I need to speak to you,” said Parrata.

  “Who is it?”

  “Door-to door-fucking-salesman. Open the fucking door.”

  Raye could barely make out what he said. She opened the door a crack, the safety chain splitting her plump face. “Who? What do you want?”

  Parrata gestured to Primo to bust the chain with his shoulder. By the time Angelo Primo built up the courage, Raye had already started to remove the safety chain when he used his large frame as a battering ram. The edge of the door frame caught Raye smack in the forehead. She cried out loud, staggering backwards, falling into the coffee table and onto the white carpet in a heap.

  “What do you people want?” cried Raye, her eyes ablaze with fear.

  The two men barged into the living room and Parrata closed the door behind them.

  “Angie, go check out the place.”

  Parrata eyed the frightened woman on the carpet in front of him. Although she had an arm up in block defense, obscuring her face, he was dead certain she was the same woman he saw in the park on the day of the ransom pick-up. The peroxide hair was a dead give-away.

  “Get up!”

  Raye got to her feet and stood before him, her heart beating abnormally fast.

  “You are Raye Dawkins, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. Please, please,” she cried, scared out of her wits. “What’s going on?”

  “Stop with the games, lady.”

  Raye frowned uncomprehendingly at the big brute.

  It was a good act indeed. She knew exactly what they were after, hearing the other brute down the hallway ransacking the place, breaking her things. “What do you people want?”

  Parrata swept his gaze about the all white room. “So you insist on playing dumb.”

  “Please, please, I’m pregnant, please don’t hurt me.” She flicked her gaze to the telephone.

  “Don’t even bother with that, lady.”

  Parrata noticed the small hold-all by the sofa and reached for it. “What do we have here?” He opened it and pulled out her intimate items with one big grip to find no money buried beneath.

  “What do you want?”

  “We have a mutual friend. JP. You heard of him, Jimmy Pandolfi.”

  She hesitated, realizing that these could the same people JP had mentioned to her about owing money. “Yeah, I know JP. What about him?”

  “Apparently he just vanished, puff, into thin air.”

  Angelo Primo re-entered, eating a stale puff pastry. “Damn, that was delicious,” he said, licking his fingers. “Ma’am, where do you buy them? I want to take some home for my girl.”

  “Did you find it?” asked Larry.

  “Nothing here.”

  Parrata sat down on the sofa and patted his lap. “Vieni qui, sit.”

  “I had enough of this! Get out!”

  “Ca’man already,” said Parrata. “Sit right here on daddy’s lap.”

  Still Raye did not move.

  Angelo Primo grabbed her by the ponytail and dragged her over to his buddy.

  “The man said, sit.”

  Parrata felt the strain of her heavy limbs on his knees. “Crikey! You’re a heavy one. I like it.”

  Raye stiffened under his touch as he wrapped one arm around her waist and with the other played with her ponytail down her back.

  “Please, please don’t do this.”

  “Tell me young lady, did you double-cross Jimmy?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t play stupid.” He rested a hand on her thigh. “I saw you take the briefcase outta the garbage-can.”

  Raye did not answer.

  Parrata gripped her chin so hard it caused her lips to pucker like fish. “What did you do with my briefcase, lady?” His breath stunk of brew. “Where is JP at?”

  «Chapter Seventy»

  Viper brings me to consciousness by his annoying, pleading meows. Lying on my left side, I feel him making tracks over my thigh, my hip, my back and when he reaches my shoulder, he kneads me with his two front paws rhythmically, purring like a fucking tractor in my ear. His sharp talons penetrate the material of my nightclothes, scratching my silky skin.

  I cannot tell you how much I despise it when this greedy creature of mine disturbs my well-needed sleep, wanting me to feed him. With my eyes still closed, I picture myself standing on the bank of Lake Ontario with Viper locked in his cage. I do a quick glance around, and then slowly submerge the cage into the icy cold water.

  Jesus, now and again, my evil self emerges. I’m thinking either schizoid or melodramatic.

  Speaking of water, Jaime has consumed my thoughts since our date the other night. He took me to see a relatively new group called Urban Rock Redemption, in an outdoor concert on the Habour Front. They are the new rave in the city. Jaime was very affectionate, sweet and chatty, but afterward, when he drove me home, I had invited up for a drink, but he declined, again.

  Again.

  Maybe he's secretly gay.

  Probably using me as a cover to fool friends and family that he’s straight.

  Dear God I hope not.

  But how in the hell can he resist me!

  The telephone rings.

  I pick up and it’s Raye’s mom.

  “How’s Raye doing, Mrs Dawkins?”

  “Dear, haven’t you seen her?”

  “No. Is she ho …?”

  “Sacrine,” she interrupts, sounding alarmed, “Madison drove her home from the hospital yesterday. She refuses to stay with us. She’s in such a horrible, emotional state. Can you be a dear and check up on her. After her shocking suicide attempt she should not be left alone.”

  “But… but she’s not even speaking to me.”

  “Please Sacrine; you’ve been good friends for a while now. I’m sure whatever your differences are; you both can talk matters through.”

  “Okay Mrs. Dawkins, I’ll check up on her.”

  As soon as I hang up, I get dressed and head downstairs to the gift shop in our building. I buy a few celebrity magazines and a box of donuts from the bakery - as a peace offering - which I know she’ll demolish in no time.

  Am standing outside her door ringing her doorbell, waiting. When she does not answer - after our agreed five consecutive rings - I open the door with my spare key. I switch on the light, and the magazines and a box of donuts crashes to the carpet. “Jesus Murphy!” Between the toppled coffee table and the sofa is… oh my God, Raye! “Oh no, not again, Raye!”

  Her living room looks as if hurricane Frederick has swept through it. Her treasured porcelain vase was in pieces, the glass coffee table in shards; overturned bookcases, armchairs on their sides, lamps and lampshades toppled to the floor. Down the hallway, the contents of the utility closet strewn all over the floor: white comforters, white pillows, white blankets, thick white towels, white sheets, bars of white soap. Her bedroom door is ajar and in the same disarray. I stoop beside her and shake her. “Raye? Raye!”

  H
er lips are purplish-blue and there’s dried blood along her chin. I put my fingers on her carotid artery.

  Nothing.

  I reach for the receiver lying on the carpet. I punch 911 and wait for the operator to come on the line.

  “What is the emergency?”

  “I I just found my pregnant friend. I believe she’s dead.”

  “Ma’am, did you check for a pulse?”

  “Ye - yes I did.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “I don’t know… I…”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sacrine Thompson.”

  “Sacrine, what’s the address?”

  “Five La Rose Avenue, 705.”

  “Okay, Sacrine, stay calm, I’ll send the emergency services over to you.”

  I step over her CD’s, her paperback books, her cracked framed picture, and wait out on the balcony. Ten minutes later, wailing sirens converges on my street, which alert pedestrians to stop and watch the action developing. The ambulance switches off the siren, and I hurry back inside and wait out in the corridor.

  I wrap my arms around my body to stop the shakes. “Here!” I call out when they step off the elevator. “Down here!”

  Behind two plainclothes cops are a paramedic crew pushing a gurney and equipment. Lately, our building has become a house of horrors.

  While one of the detectives goes into the apartment, one keeps me company in the corridor. He has dark wavy hair, pockmarked hollow cheeks that ruin his rugged face. He’s wearing a cheap navy blue suit, white shirt and red tie under a tan overcoat.

  “Detective Jack Bercovski, homicide,” he says, flashing his shield. “That there is Detective Flynn Stringer.”

  I give Flynn Stringer a quick once over. He’s wearing pretty much the same outfit as his colleague except his shirt is a small blue print check hiding a myriad of bulges. The three-day stubble makes his face look dirty and his hairline has receded.

  He's not particularly handsome.

  “Are you the one that called the emergency service?”

  “Yes, Sacrine Thompson?”

  “A neighbor?”

  “Yes, I just live down the corridor.”

  “When was the last time you saw the victim alive.”

  “I donno, couple a days ago.”

  “What’s the name of the victim?”

  “Raye Dawkins.”

  “Raye Dawkins, Raye Dawkins. Now that sounds vaguely familiar.”

  Detective Bercovski pulls a spiral notepad from his inside jacket pocket, flips through the pages, then stops and reads his notes. “Oh yes,” he stares at Eric Mandini’s door: 706. Then looks at me, concerned. “I trust you didn’t contaminate the crime scene?”

  “I used the phone to call nine-one-one, that’s all.”

  Detective Bercovski peers inside the apartment. “What else?”

  “What do you mean… what else?”

  “Did you touch the body?

  “Well, I just check for a pulse, that’s all.”

  “Did you draw the curtains open?”

  “Ah, no. They were already open.”

  “And the balcony door?”

  “What about it?”

  “Was it open or closed?”

  “I slid it open.”

  “Did you unlock it?”

  “Yes, I unlocked it.”

  “Okay. Don’t go anywhere ma’am, we need to take a full statement.”

  “No problem.”

  He begins to go inside, then turns to me. “Just one more thing. Could you tell if anything is missing?”

  “I didn’t look.”

  “Was there anyone else here when you got here?”

  “No.”

  “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary, any unusual activities, anyone sneaking around in the last few hours, days, weeks?”

  “No. Detective Bercovski, I have not.”

  He begins to go inside, and then turns to me again. “One more question…” This detective dude really thinks he’s Peter Falk’s, Columbo. “…. What time did you make the call?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  Columbo looks at his watch, pushes the door wider until it hits the wall. He inspects the lock and casing of the door frame. “No signs of forced entry,” he says quietly to himself.

  Inside, the medical examiner checks Raye’s left arm for a pulse.

  “Doctor Lambert, so what’s the verdict?” asks Detective Stringer.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Do you suppose it was sexually motivated?”

  “Without an examination, it’s hard to say. She did put up a fight though. Defense wounds all over her arms. He checks for a pulse on her neck. “Yep, she’s a goner,” he announces, then checks his wristwatch and enters pertinent details in a notebook. “Hokay, I’m finished here, gonna go write up my report.”

  “Are you missing a heart,” I say, as he passes me in the doorway. “She was my friend.”

  He gives me a look of sympathy with a tight mouth. “It’s just a lousy job, lady. Don’t take it personal.”

  Flashbulbs bring my attention back to the room. Some technicians are dusting for fingerprints. Someone is doing an inspection of the plush white carpet and putting indescribable bits in transparent plastic bags.

  It's all so creepy.

  Columbo walks in, observing the forensic technicians at work. Looks like he’s reading the crime scene himself, looking for physical evidence.

  Detective Flynn Stringer puts on a pair of gloves and, goes down the hallway inadvertently stepping on Raye’s things en route.

  Am standing here shaking my head ever so slightly.

  Who the hell would do this to Raye?

  Could it have been over food?

  Still in denial Sac. What about the briefcase?

  Was someone looking for the money in the briefcase?

  “Jack!” calls out Stringer.

  “What do we have Stringer?”

  “They took it back here. Some sort of altercation. Some blood drops on the bed and carpet. The whole place is ransacked, turned upside down. Cupboards and drawers pulled open. They literally ripped the refrigerator door apart and the freezer… even the goddamn oven. My bet is she had something valuable somebody wanted.”

  Columbo puts his hands on his hips and casts his gaze around the trashed living room. “The question is what? It doesn’t look like a break in. She let them in.”

  “Yeah, it sure looks like it,” replies Stringer. “But what the hell were they looking for is the big question. Her wallet is full of credit cards. Her watch is still on her wrist. Technical equipment untouched. No, this is not a robbery-homicide. They were looking for something specific.”

  “Even if we go room to room with a fine-tooth-comb we’ll probably still come up with nothing,” say Columbo. “She doesn’t fit the victim stereotype. Going to have to dig real deep on this one.”

  “Do you know how she died?” I ask from the doorway.

  “It could be a number of things,” replies Columbo. “Obviously we won’t know until we have the autopsy report and do a thorough investigation.”

  “Have you noticed,” says Stringer, coming back into the living room. “The whole place is fucking white!” He snaps off his gloves and shoves them in his pocket. “What was she? The epitome of virtue? Snow fucking White or something?”

  Behind me, a door unlatches then opens.

  Eric Mandini appears with his cell phone halfway from his ear. “What’s going on here?” he asks, straining his neck to see into Raye’s apartment.

  “It’s Raye, Mr. Mandini…” I sniffle… “she’s dead.”

  “Dead? How? When?”

  Columbo appears behind me.

  “Mr. Mandini, so we meet again.”

  “Detective Bercovski. Becoming a bad habit, I know,” says Mandini.

  “And you and I both know you know the woman lying on the floor in there.”

  “Of course, detective. R
aye Dawkins. I introduced you to her not long ago.”

  “The day the boy was found dead in the basement, she was in your apartment.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, detective.”

  “You don’t seem alarmed by the news that your neighbor is dead.”

  “What are you saying! I’m in total shock detective…”

  “You were lovers,” I cut in, stirring up trouble. “Were you not, Mr. Mandini?”

  Mandini throws me a quick glance as if I’ve betrayed his confidence.

  “No, we were not.”

  “Then how would you characterize your relationship with Miss Dawkins?” asks Columbo.

  “I wouldn’t exactly classify it as a relationship or my lover, Detective Bercovski. Just someone I had dinner with from time to time. For God’s sakes, we were neighbors.”

  “Why deny it? I continue to interrupt. “You were lovers!”

  “What was the reason for the break up?” asks Columbo. He fishes his notepad and pen from his pocket again.

  “It was the day after St. Valentine’s Day,” I interject with spite. “You called it off, isn’t that right Mr. Mandini?”

  Eric shoots me a warning look as if to say, shut up or I’ll strangle you with my bare hands. “Called off what?” he snaps. “There was no break up! It was just sex!”

  “Are you saying like a fuck buddy, Mr Mandini? Nah, that’s not Raye’s style.”

  He stares me down. “Why are you giving me the third degree?” Then he addresses Columbo. “Am I on trial here Detective Bercovski?”

  “No Mr. Mandini. Just a few more questions. Do you know why anyone would want to hurt, Miss Dawkins?”

  “No, no one.”

  What about a jealous ex girlfriend, or an ex wife?”

  “My wife. My ex wife Sylvia returns home sometime today, detective. She was on assignment in Japan. I doubt it very much she’s involved in any of this.”

  “And what assignment was that?”

  “She’s an International Fashion Model. She’s not interested in relationships of any sort; she’s barely around for her son.”

  “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary, any unusual activities in the last few hours, days, weeks?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Mmm,” says Columbo skeptically, scribbling notes as he conducts his inquiry. “What is it that you do for a living Mr Mandini?”

  “I’m a business man, but I don’t see how this is relevant.”

  “Bad business deals, perhaps. Some disgruntled client wanting to hurt the people you care about and love the most.”

  “No. My business practices and home life are completely separate.”

  “Is that so? Two murders, Mr Mandini and you are blissfully unaware what’s going on with the people in your life. First a boy in your charge was killed. Now we have the dead body of a young woman who just so happens to live directly across from you.”

  “What are you insinuating?”

  “Insinuating? I am not insinuating anything here. I deal with facts. This is not the first body you have been associated with, sir. I’m just trying to make a link. First the boy, then the woman, presumably murdered, common denominator, you. At both crime scenes, there you are.”

  “You’re making some serious allegations detective. Why do you think there’s some sort of link? Couldn’t it simply be a coincidence?”

  “Is that what you’d like us to believe? That this is all a coincidence?”

  “I don’t care how you look at  ... look … if you’re suggesting I know more about this, I am willing to see you downtown with my avvocato. Other than that I have nothing more to add.”

  I almost bust out laughing. Avocado. Cannot imagine being represented by a fruit. Then I figure it must mean lawyer in his language.

  ”Mr Mandini, no need to pull out the big guns just yet, but please don’t stray too far.”

  I look inside the apartment to see four men lifting Raye onto a stretcher. One pulls a white sheet over her face. “This is so surreal,” I say faintly.

  “Somebody call her next of kin,” a voice says from the apartment. “Have them go down to the coroner’s office and make a formal identification.”

  My blood runs cold in my veins. Just hearing those words makes me conscious of my own mortality.

  As the EMT’s wheel the stretcher by me, I stare at the enormous lump under the white sheet. I want so much for it not to be real when, all of a sudden, I see the material around Raye’s face move… again.

  “Holy fuck!” I shout. “Wait!”

  Everyone’s head swivels toward me.

  “What is it?” asks Detective Bercovski.

  “Look! The sheet. I think I just saw it move.”

  “Ms. Thompson, please, she’s has just been declared de …”

  “There!”

  All heads swivel to see the white sheet rise and fall around Raye’s stomach.

  We all crowd round the gurney to see the miracle unfolding.

  “Jesus H Christ, ” says Detective Bercovski. “What the hell! She’s not dead. She’s alive! Where the fuck is Charlie, that boozehead ME.”

  We stand back and the paramedics secure an oxygen mask over Raye’s face. They wheel her off down the corridor onto the elevator in a hurry.

  “Mr Mandini,” says Detective Bercovski. Mandini does not answer. He stares off down the corridor with a look of shock on his face. “Are you alright sir? You look a bit distressed.”

  “Yes, yes of course. I’m just confused by this whole mess.”

  “I owe you an apology. But we still need you to stay close to answer questions about the boy.”

  “That’s fine detective. And I’m sure when Miss Dawkins recovers she’ll be more than happy to tell you what happened to her.”

  Columbo turns to me as he folds his notepad and puts it back into his pocket. “We would like statements from both of you. Something sinister has been happening in this urban luxury building.”

  “No problem,” I say, and head toward my crib.

  “Ms Thompson, aren’t you going to the hospital?”

  I turn to him. “Why?”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the welfare of your friend?”

  “Am concerned detective, but we’re barely on speaking terms. And believe me, she does not want to see my face ”

  “Then what were you doing in her apartment?”

  “I was doing her mother a favor. She had asked me to check on her.”

  “For what reason?”

  I throw an accusing look at Eric Mandini. I want so much to blame him for Raye’s suicide attempt and everything bad that is happening to her. “She was having personal issues.” I continue to my apartment. “The woman is full amateur dramatics,” I mumble to myself.

  “And what about you, Mr Mandini,” I hear Bercovski say, “will you drop by and see her?”

  “Of course I will, detective, I’m not some cold-hearted monster!”

  “We’ll post an officer outside her door until we get to the bottom of this.”

  “That’s good to hear, detective. She’s a good woman.”

  «Chapter Seventy One»

  I down a stiff drink to calm my nerves. Everything seems like an insane dream. Just as I hang up the phone with my shift-manager, giving her some bullshit, cockamamie story why I cannot go into work, my doorbell rings, twice.

  Something tells me it has to do with Raye’s investigation.

  I peek through the peephole, surprised.

  I open the door. “Madison! Hi!”

  The whites of her eyes are pink, I can only guess from crying. She manages a weak smile.

  “Please, come in.”

  Madison, wearing a plain yellow top and skinny-legged, khaki jeans, walks in slowly. No one would ever guess Raye and Madison are twins. Madison is tall, thin, elegant, and drop-dead gorgeous. Raye is stumpy, grumpy and fat. “Is Raye all right?”

  Madison looks at me suspiciously, as if doubting my sincerity. “No, Raye
is not all right,” she snaps. “She’s under deep emotional strain.”

  The bitch is having a conniption.

  “Did she say what happened? I mean, I can’t believe one minute she was officially pronounced dead, and then suddenly she’s alive and breathing.”

  She is not even listening. Her blue eyes swoop around my living room with great interest. “The medical examiner is a quack, a renowned drunk and unfit for duty. He probably stumbled out of some pisshole instead of a lab when he got the call. My dad is pulling strings for his suspension. I suggested an early retirement.”

  “What about Raye… what happened to her?”

  “Two thugs busted into her apartment trying to extract information. They sexually assaulted her, beat her up badly. She’s black and blue all over her body. They could have killed her and her baby.”

  “What baby? There was no baby in her apartment.”

  “Raye’s pregnant.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “No. I didn’t. How far gone?”

  “About five months.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Yes. Five months.”

  “Am I hearing right?”

  “She’ll be staying with us for the rest of her pregnancy… until she gives birth.”

  “I don’t understand why didn’t she tell me? I’m her best friend!”

  “Raye didn’t tell us either. She never mentioned to us, her family, about seeing someone. Do you know who the father is?”

  “I donno, but she cried constantly about the man living across the corridor from her. What’s the phrase: unrequited love?”

  “Unrequited love. That’s unfortunate, running into him from time to time, I would imagine, tormenting. Have you seen him lately?”

  “Yes, I saw him earlier today.”

  Madison seems distracted, looking around my living room. “So do you have it?”

  “Have what?”

  “Raye said the two men were after a briefcase. A briefcase containing half a million dollars.”

  “What!” My heart pounds like crazy. “Where would Raye get her hands on half a million dollars?”

  “That’s where she clammed up when I asked her. She’s not talking.”

  “Has she been questioned by the police, made a statement?”

  “No. She stated to the police she does not know why she was assaulted. They believe it was a random attack. Probably the only one home in the middle of the afternoon and opened the door to strangers. Tell me this, why would she say that you had this briefcase?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her blue eyes search my hazel eyes for the truth. “Are you sure?”

  “Madison, I swear, I have no clue about this briefcase.” My throat is parched, I can barely swallow. “Did you stop by to get some of Raye’s things,” I ask, deliberately changing the subject.

  “Yes.” She surveys my living room again. “Seems to me you’ve been redecorating.”

  “Yeah, it takes time. Do you like it?”

  “How can you afford to live in an expensive condo and have such nice things… on a waitress’s salary?”

  “I’m a cocktail waitress not just any waitress. I work in a five star hotel. My regular customers leave me fantastic tips.”

  “Oh! There’s a difference between waitress, and cocktail waitress?”

  “You could say so.”

  Madison creases her forehead into her hairline. “You mean like a street hooker and a high class call girl?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Basically the same thing, isn’t it? Prostitution is prostitution.”

  What a snooty little bitch. I resist the urge to smack the stick insect in the mouth. “But am not a prostitute, I’m a cocktail waitress.”

  “I know. You said.”

  Ooooo. This stuck-up snooty bitch had better leave my apartment. “Can I… can I offer you a drink, or something, I’m sure you could use one.”

  “No thank you. Raye requires her spare key back. She doesn’t want anything else to do with you.”

  “Did, did she say why?”

  She says nothing, except reaches into her large handbag and pulls out a single key. She holds it up.

  Mine.

  “Raye’s key please.”

  I remove Raye’s spare key from my key ring and we swap.

  Madison turns on her heels and walks out the door without another word.

  My mouth falls open, hearing the door click shut.

  No goodbye.

  No, thank you, for looking out for her sister.

  No, thank you, for saving her life, her fat ass twice.

  No, thank you, for saving her unborn niece.

  Stuck-up snooty bigoted rich bitch.

  «Chapter Seventy Two»

  Frankly, I could not care less what Madison Dawkins thinks about my humble profession as a cocktail waitress. Fantastic perks come with my job. Am privy to the grand openings to all the hot bars and top restaurants in the city. The concierge of the hotel relates this information to my manager, and my manager selects specific staff that she likes and puts our names on the guest list to spy on the competition.

  Tonight I’ve invited my posse for cocktails at Byron’s in trendy Yorkville. Byron is one of those models that the Fashion industry erases from their books once they have reached a certain age. But he still looks hot to gobble.

  The hunk is thirty-seven years old, black - blue black, in fact, buff and not a wrinkle on his chiselled face.

  Anyway, I’ve just returned from Loblaws, a multi-chain supermarket. Women at the long checkout-till were gossiping about the dead kid found in my building. In fact, the story dominates every single newspaper and hourly news, depicting an old mug shot of Jimmy Pandolfi from the time he was sent down for smuggling cocaine from Bogotá. The police had put out an APB for his arrest, accompanied with his description.

  I wanted to add my two-cents worth to the bored-stiff, idle housewives, but I decided to stay schtum.

  I rest my groceries on the kitchen counter, grab my spatula and begin to swat fruit flies. These little tsetse bastards really bug the shit out of me.

  Just as I finish putting away my groceries, just the essentials: mineral water, coffee, fruit, milk, two bottles of vodka, my doorbell rings. Cautiously, I leave the kitchen and peek through the peephole.

  My heart does a triple somersault.

  Eric Mandini!

  I open the door just a crack and Jesus, he reeks of booze from his six-foot plus stature.

  “Mr. Mandini, what are you doing here?”

  “I just came back from seeing Raye at the hospital.”

  “How is she?”

  “How is she? Do you really care? She implied you stole my money.”

  “What! What money?”

  “Are you denying it?”

  “Yes.”

  He stares at me menacingly.

  “I left ransom money in the park and the two of you interfered with it. Raye confessed.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Listen young lady, you have no idea who you’re dealing with. Open the door. NOW!” he barks.

  “Fuck off Mandini; I don’t know what you’re talking about, good bye!”

  I go to close the door, but he wedges it open with his big foot. I stare him in the eyes. “Move your foot!”

  He grins satanically at me. “I’m not going anywhere until I get my money back.”

  “Do you need an interpreter? I just told you I don’t…”

  Suddenly he rams the door with his shoulder, putting me off-balance and barges into my apartment. He prowls around my living room, darting his manic eyes at my new furnishings.

  “Get the hell out now or I’ll call the police,” I yell, holding the door wide open.

  He pushes his ruffled dark hair from his forehead. “You know, this little floor of ours has been quite busy lately. People bringing in brand new furniture, huge packages, art
work.”

  “So?”

  “So? So? Tell me Bella, did you win the lottery?”

  “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the police.”

  “And tell them what?” He marches over to me and closes the door with a bang.

  My heart thumps against my ribcage.

  “I want you out of my apartment. Now!”

  The arrogant bastard grabs a hold of my wrist and flings me into the living room like a rag doll. “Hey! You’ve got some nerve!” I say once I stop myself from staggering.

  He circles me as if I’m some sort of prey, pounding one palm with his fist. I want to collapse to my knees and beg for mercy. But I show him no fear.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  He grabs me by my collar and hauls me up to his body, my feet dangling off the floor. “Hey… I just bought this blouse,” I say like a frightened little mouse.

  With our noses doing a New Zealand kiss, he gives me a menacing look, then pushes me down on my brand new leather sofa.

  Shit. This guy knows nothing about social decorum.

  “Now where is my half a mill?”

  Defiantly, I raise my chin to him. “Are you blissfully stupid or are just conveniently deaf? I told you I don’t have your money.”

  With one swift action, he pulls a gun from his waist, pressing the muzzle to my temple with his finger on the trigger. I want to regurgitate my lunch. And I had a really nice lunch too: grilled salmon with dill sauce, sautéed new potatoes and lightly steamed broccoli, washed down with two crisp glasses of white wine.

  “My money. Now!”

  I stare up into his cold eyes, fear pouring from my own. Never in my life have I been up close and personal to a real gun, capable of splattering my brain matter all over the walls and ceiling.

  Suddenly, he looks toward the hallway, and sticks the gun back into his waist.”

  “Sit down, ” he commands me, and disappears down the hall.

  Shit, I can hear him rummaging through the cutlery drawers in the kitchen. My God-given instincts tell me: get your ass up and escape.

  But I’m frozen, terrified.

  He returns standing over me with a six inch, razor-sharp knife. He holds the tip close to his face, cocking his head studying it.

  “Where is my money?”

  He runs his index finger over the serrated edge trying to scare the shit out of me.

  It’s definitely working.

  Even if I wanted to confess, I’m suffering from lockjaw.

  “Is this a brand new sofa?”

  I nod my head dumbly.

  “Did you use my hard earned cash to buy this sofa?”

  Suddenly, he stabs the leather to the hilt of the knife, causing the white foam to peak through the split.

  I’ve lost total control of my respiratory system as he slashes repeatedly. Only my eyes move in their sockets, horrified how close the blade is coming to my upper thigh. “Mmm,” is all I can manage.

  He stops abruptly.

  “What’s the matter, cat’s cut your tongue?”

  As if on cue, Viper saunters into the room, staring at me curiously, as if asking, what’s going on here, Sac?

  Viper! Sic em! Attack! Scratch his eyes out! I sent him telepathically. Kill, Viper, kill!

  Just great. Viper wriggles his furry body over to my terrorist and weaves himself around his legs. Mandini bends and lets Viper sniff at his fingers and, as Viper arches his back, Mandini scoops him up.

  Unbelievable.

  Viper settles in his arms, purring like the engine of a farm tractor.

  He’s the enemy within! I warn my traitorous cat, telepathically. Stop consorting with him the enemy.

  Viper lifts his chin way back so Mandini can scratch the underside of his neck.

  Viper, you useless fur ball, scratch out his eyeballs, I command you!

  I swear, if I live through this, I’ll roast you in the oven and serve you with fry wice as they do in China. Then you serve on a plate and garnish with you with parsley.

  “Nice cat,” says Mandini in a friendly voice. “Is he pedigree?”

  Is my cat pedigree? Fuck off out of my apartment, I want to yell, except I nod instead.

  “Tell me Bella, how much do you love your…, “he begins when my doorbell rings.

  We glare at each other.

  Mandini drops Viper and he lands on all fours. He hoists me up by the front of my blouse.

  “Get rid of whoever it is.”

  But I cannot move, too scared, too frightened. It’s like rigor mortis has set in my limbs.

  The doorbell rings again.

  I do nothing.

  Eric responds with a backhand across my face.

  “Get the door.”

  I clutch my cheek on my way to the door, tasting a warm metallic liquid in my mouth.

  I look back to see the degenerate slip the knife under the sofa. He sits down on the slashed section, looking like a comfortable, invited guest.

  Soon the doorbell rings again.

  He gestures violently with a flick of his wrist.

  «Chapter Seventy Three»

  When I open the door a crack my feisty Italian girlfriend, Virna-Lisa Commanichi is standing there with annoyance written all over her face. Even so, she looks foxy dressed to the nines in a rose colored skirt suit, perfect makeup. Her jet-black bangs framing her oval face, making her coal-black eyes pop.

  Vil - all her friends calls her Vil for short - is in training at the Maggie Basset Theatre aspiring to become an actress, preferably on stage.

  A Thespian.

  On the side, she goes on constant cattle calls for commercials and editorial work, which she never talks about. She wants to be taken seriously in her craft. But she can be seen on billboards around the city in the lacy cerise undergarment. Her own mother would not recognize her with all the airbrush they did to her photographs.

  I have spotted her in two TV commercials, one for Molson’s Export A, a beer ad; the other, Nair, a sensitive hair removal product with Camellia Oil and Ylang-Ylang, a delicate fragrance, dermatological tested. In the TV commercial, she plasters cream on one long leg, then wipes it away with a washcloth.

  Looking seductively at the camera lens, she says her two lines as if there’s a chance of being nominated for an Oscar.

  ‘Look! I’ve got no hair. For radiant, silky-smooth skin, use Nair.’

  I rushed out to buy it…. Not. My Gillette’s number nines does the job for me.

  I gape back at her intently.

  “Well. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  When I hesitate, she pushes the door wider and walks right in. “Oh! And who’s this?” she asks, sounding pleasantly surprised. She extends her jewelled hand to my nemesis. “Hi, I’m Virna-Lisa.”

  Mandini kisses the back of her hand as if he was about to devour it. “I’m Eric.” He does not let go, neither does he take his eyes from her face. “Virna-Lisa, that’s original.”

  “Virna-Lisa,” I cut in. “What are you doing here?”

  She turns back to me. “I drove all the way out here to the boondocks to chauffeur your skinny butt downtown and you’ve got the nerve to ask what I’m doing here?”

  “It’s not a good time. As you can see I’ve got company.” I wrap my arms around my midriff.

  “Sac, have you suddenly developed amnesia? Byron’s cocktail party… hell-low?”

  “Can we cancel? I… I”

  “No! We cannot cancel!” she snaps. “Why don’t you invite your friend along?” She winks at Mandini. “The more the merrier.”

  Mandini clicks his fingers several times. “Wait a minute. Is your surname… a… Commanichi?”

  Vil narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Yeah. How the hell do you know that?”

  “Aha!”

  “Who is this guy, one of your psychics?” she asks, both shoulders hunched to her ear, palms skyward. She looks back at him. “Have we met before?”

  “Your parents, they l
ived in Little Italy around College Street, right?”

  “Yes. I grew up there.”

  “Well, well, well, isn’t it a small world.”

  “So you knew my parents, so?”

  He laughs a cynical laugh. “Knew them?”

  “In what capacity did you know my parents?”

  “Your father worked for me,” he says cockily. He glances at me as if am in his personal space eavesdropping. “Virna-Lisa. Oh, yes, I remember now! After you were born, it took them weeks to register you. They fought over what to name you. They finally decided, to be fair, name you after both your grandmothers. Her mother, Lisa and your father’s mother, Virna. Lisa-Virna sounded kinda odd, so they flipped it round… decided to name you, Virna-Lisa.”

  I can see Mandini is making her uncomfortable. She smoothes imaginary hairs behind her ear.

  “I remember it like it happened yesterday,” he continues, “how old are you now… twenty two… three?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five years! How the years just slipped by.”

  “My father was a civil engineer! He worked for the Allied Construction Company as a civil engineer.”

  “Civil engineer?” he laughs a healthy laugh.

  “You find that hilarious.”

  “Your father is a pathological liar.”

  “What exactly did my dad do for you?”

  “You really don’t know, do you? Probably this civil engineer bullshit was just a cover for his friends and family.”

  “A cover?”

  “How the hell do you think your paps could afford to give you everything? If your father hadn’t known my acquaintance, you’d have grown up … say … Moss Park, dodging stray bullets, living on handouts off the fucking welfare system.”

  Mandini hits a nerve. Vil seems to be on the verge of tears. She never ever revealed her dysfunctional past to me. And I’ve never uttered a word of my sordid past either. She had no idea that I lived on the streets for almost a year going from youth hostel to youth hostel. My first: Stop 86.

  “Why are you flipping out?” she asks. “Personally, I’ve never met you.”

  “Cara, I’ve visited your house… many times. You used to call me, Uncle Erry. You couldn’t say Eric.”

  “Sacrine,” she says, turning to me. “How do you know this guy?”

  “He lives down the corridor.” Then, she looks at my face closely. “Sacrine, you have got red welts on your cheek. What’s going on here?”

  Quickly Mandini stands up to exert his power, his control over the situation. “Your father had no loyalty. He was a big time loser with a capital L. I handed him the fucking city and all he did was bring grief down on me.”

  “When you see him again, I suggest you take it up with him. I haven’t seen or spoken to my father in months.”

  “Well, your daddy was a traitor.”

  Vil ignores him. “Did he do this to you?”

  I nod numbly.

  “You know what they say about the sins of the father,” Mandini continues.

  “I have nothing to do with my father's sins. Whatever he has done, I cannot be held responsible.”

  “Now you see young lady, I hold a different view.”

  “What do you want from me?

  “Everything.”

  “Like what, for instance?”

  “An address. Places where he hangs out. I want him found…”

  Suddenly, the doorbell rings.

  We all look around at each other.

  Mandini motions for me to get it.

  I open the door a tad.

  “Shilpa, Jesus!”

  I met Shilpa Desai two years ago when she came strutting in my lounge for lunch. She was carrying stacks of law books like a diligent student. She stayed for a good few hours, pouring over the pages, while picking at her food. Though Canadian by birth, she is of East Indian and Irish decent: long glossy brunette hair, flawless caramel complexion and fine chiselled features. No amount of makeup could ever enhance such natural beauty.

  “What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting downtown.”

  “Pre party cocktails. Hell-low,” says George, coming into view.

  Georgina Baron, a fickle, privileged and pampered cokehead diva. She is petite and dainty with long bottle-blonde wavy hair, emerald green contacts, silicone breasts, and salon-sun bed tanned complexion. Her jewelled hands have never lifted a finger to any type of work in her life. She hates getting up in the mornings because she stayed up late to party, living off daddy’s money. Her too, I had the privilege of meeting when she came sashaying into my workplace with Virna-Lisa, both looking equally stunning.

  My first thought was, rich, stuck-up-bitches.

  Secretly, I wished I had their carefree lifestyle and money.

  As I served the two beauties afternoon cocktails, they were warm, friendly and really funny. We were definitely on the same page. In the coming weeks, I had arranged for all of us: Vil, George, Shilpa and myself, to meet up in a chic bar on Bloor Street. We got along amazingly well. Over most weekends together, I noticed we all had one thing in common: the love of alcohol. Champagne, fine wines and shooters, you name it. While drinking copiously, discussing gorgeous men, partying and shopping, our strong bond was sealed. Whenever we were out to illuminate and paint the city red, our jubilant spirit turned heads... men and women alike.

  “Jesus guys,” I say in a hushed whisper, “all hell is breaking loose.” I flick my eyes from one pretty face to the other. “Go,” I mouth with the most serious expression I could muster.

  Shilpa and George exchange a confused look, and then stare me as if am weird. “Go,” I mouth again.

  “Are you hiding someone in there?” asks George, craning her neck to peer over my shoulder.

  “Isn’t Vil here yet?” asks Shilpa. “She text saying she was on her way.”

  George pops a bottle of Veuve Clicquot out of her handbag brandishing it in my face. “Let the bubbles flow.”

  Uncharacteristically, am lost for words.

  “Well, come on,” pleads George. “Aren’t you going to let us in?”

  “Don’t tell me, you’re selling us out for a man?” says Shilpa.

  “Hold on. Something is weird here,” says George to Shilpa. “If there’s a man in her condo, look at the way she’s dressed.”

  My two friends eye me from my head to my bare feet.

  “Sac babes,” says Shilpa, “how come your shirt’s ripped.” She takes my chin between her slender fingers, moving my head this way and that. “And what happened to your face?”

  “Sacrine,” a male voice says behind me, “let them in.”

  “Who’s that?” says Georgina quietly, straining her neck to see into my apartment again. I spare her the struggle and open the door wider.

  “Virna-Lisa!” they say in unison.

  Vil does not respond.

  “Hey! What’s going on here?” asks Shilpa.

  Mandini pulls the sides of his jacket back to reveal the butt of his gun tucked in his waist.

  Shilpa grips George’s wrist. “We can see that you guys are busy, we’ll go on ahead without you.” They turn and leave in a hurry.

  “Come back here ladies,” yells Mandini in a sinister voice.

  George and Shilpa make a quick dash down the corridor, squawking like hens startled by a hungry fox let loose in a chicken coop - their heavy footfalls thundered on the thick olive green carpet.

  Mandini rushes out the door after them. “Stop right there,” he yells.

  I turn to Vil. “Quick! There’s a knife under the sofa, get it.”

  “What!”

  “A knife under the sofa!”

  “What do you expect me to do with it?”

  “Just get it!”

  She hesitates.

  “Now!”

  She drops to her knees, sticks a hand under the sofa and moves it from side to side, fishing for the weapon. “Gees Sacs when was the last did you cleaned under here?
”

  “Hurry up!”

  “Got it.” She gets to her feet and expels two contained sneezes, I suspect from dust mites. “What do I do with it?” she asks in a frantic whisper.

  “Hide it!”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know… your handbag.”

   “You hide it,” she orders, holding out the knife to me.

  “Now ladies, where do you think you’re running off to?” Mandini’s voice comes from outside in the corridor.

  Quickly, Vil hides the knife behind her back, both of us wide-eyed with fright, but innocent.

  Shilpa and George appear in the doorway with fear written all over their pretty faces. Mandini shoves them inside, kicking the door shut with his heel. “Sit down ladies.”

  We scramble for a space on the sofa as if playing musical chairs by choice. Vil ends up sitting next to me and lets out a tiny scream. She stares up at Mandini with terror in her eyes.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  She swallows hard, and then says, “Nothing.”

  “Then shut the hell up!”

  As all four of us cower on the sofa, Mandini paces with his hands on his hips, revealing the gun in his waist. “Now, it has come to my attention that your friend here, Sacrine…” he looks at me, and I look away, “… has stolen my money. I just want it back. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Sacrine,” says Shilpa through clenched teeth, sitting right of me. “If you have this guy’s money, give it back.”

  “But, but, I do not have it.”

  “Did you ever have it?”

  “Ladies, ladies, look around you,” he says. “How do think your friend can afford such nice things on a waitress’s salary. Everything looks brand new and expensive.”

  “Cocktail waitress.” I correct him.

  “Semantics,” says Mandini.

  “Sac’s up to her eyeballs in debt on credit cards,” says George defending me. “She’s a shop-aholic. So what?”

  “So what?” Mandini echoes. “So what?”

  “How would Sacrine get her hands on your money?” asks Shilpa.

  “Oh! Don’t you know? Extortion. Your friend here and Raye Dawkins extorted money from me.”

  There’s a collective intake of breath around me. My party posse shoots me fierce, skeptical looks.

  “Don’t worry, it gets better,” says Mandini, the teller of tall tales. “With some confusion, I imagine, the person, or people, kidnapped the boy you’ve read or seen on the news, believing he was my son. Must have killed him because of the mix up. I just found this all out from Raye.”

  “What!” exclaims Shilpa, clearly dumbfounded.

  “Raye’s lying! I didn’t have anything to do with kidnapping that boy!”

  All three, mouths agape, stares at me, boring a hole in my ashen face.

  Shilpa puts a hand on my knee. “Sacrine, is this true?”

  “I had nothing to do with any kidnap, I swear,” I cry softly.

  “Then what was your involvement?”

  “None of it.”

  “Then what’s with the tears?”

  How can I tell my BFF I’ve been calculating, dishonest and selfish? That I was there when Raye lifted the briefcase from the garbage can. How was I supposed to know it was ransom money?

  “Well?”

  Sitting hunched, I study my fidgeting fingers. I have nothing to say.

  Am wracked with guilt.

  However, I cannot incriminate myself. I cannot give in now.

  Angst twists my stomach.

  Viper jumps in my lap and settles.

  Don’t you dare give it back! I like Purina Cat Chow better than that cheap shit you’ve fed me. And I want to see a good vet!

  All of a sudden, Shilpa stands up defiantly and walks toward the front door. “I can’t get mixed up in this diabolical mess. I’m in the middle of studying for my law degree.”

  “Sit back down!” barks Mandini.

  Shilpa twists around - long brunette hair swishes around her shoulders - and glares at Mandini. “You’ll have to shoot me. I’m out of here.”

  “Shilpa!” cries George, “come back.”

  Am equally horror-stricken by her stupidity. “Shilpa,” I say, wide-eyed with fear, “do you have a death wish?”

  “Stop being so melodramatic, Shilpa,” pipes in Vil. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

  “Don’t leave us,” begs George.

  Mandini yanks the gun from his waistband and aims it at her head with his finger on the trigger. “All of you shut the fuck up. Come back and sit down,” he commands her, clicking off the safety.

  Shilpa gives him a dare you look, and then continues toward the door.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” He cocks the pistol, tightening his finger on the trigger.

  Calmly Shilpa pulls the door open and walks out, shutting the door behind her.

  Mandini drops his trigger hand down by his side and mumbles something to himself. Sounds like “ma va fangulo.” Vil says that a lot too when she’s angry.

  Slowly he turns round scowling and glares at the three of us on the sofa, red rage is spreading all over his face. “Which one of you little bitches is going to try that next?” he says, aiming the gun at each one of us in turn.

  None of us dares to speak. I do not even think any of us are breathing. Then, something catches his eyes.

  Mandini comes over to the sofa and looks to the hardwood floor by Vil’s legs, frowning. He shoves the gun into the back of his waistband and crouches by her legs.

  He touches something on the floor.

  I cannot see what though.

  When he brings his hand up, he’s rubbing a deep ruby liquid between the tips of his fingers, and then he smells it. “Where is blood coming from?” he asks no one in particular. He moves crablike about Vil’s legs trying to find the trail.

  Vil crunches up her eyes and bites on her lower lip in sheer terror.

  OMG! The knife! Jesus, she must have sat on the knife.

  All of a sudden, her hand comes from around her back with the sharp knife in a tight gripped. I try to catch her eye to mouth the word, “No,” but she was dead focus on her intention. The second Mandini looks up to say something to her, she plunges the six-inch blade into his face, puncturing his left eye socket, burying it deep into his brain.

  George and I leap off the sofa in shock, and of course, Viper bolts from the living room in a furry blur.

  We stand motionless, paralyzed as if our bodies did not know what to do next. This is all so surreal I cannot take it in.

  Mandini has an excruciating look on his face as a red blood bubble, and ooze out of his cornea. He collapses to the floor, shifting the coffee table from its position. With his right hand, he makes a feeble attempt to yank the knife out of his face, lacerating his palm.

  But he cannot budge it.

  He groans in pain.

  His left legs spasms.

  Blood seeps into his sleeve, then, his hand slowly drops into the hairball-vomit on the floor Viper had hacked and retched up earlier.

  Gross.

  With the knife sticking out of one eye, the other stays open staring up at nothing.

  Just blank.

  George lets out a blood curdling scream that could unleash undiscovered species from the dense canopies of the Brazilian rainforest.

  “Shut up!” yells Vil. “Stop screaming!”

  George shuts up immediately, staring at the corpse as if hypnotized.

  “Oh my God, Virna-Lisa!” I blurt out, wrapping my arms around body to stop myself from shaking. “What have you done?”

  All of a sudden, she swift kicks the lifeless body in the ribs with her pointed four-inch black stilettos. “You mother fucking piece of shit!” She pummels his body repeatedly, her shiny auburn hair swinging violently around her face, her armful of silver bangles jingles.

  Sweet Jesus Christ Almighty, she has turned into a savage vixen. I bet she is reviving something
awful he did to her family. “Virna-Lisa!” I hold my cheeks in my trembling hands. “What’s got into you?”

  “OMG Vil,” shouts George. “You’re bleeding from your ass cheek!”

  She ignores us both, pulverizing the corpse harder and harder in his side, his spine.

  “You asshole,” she says, breathless with fury.

  Then, as suddenly as she began, she stops abruptly. She tucks hair behind an ear, crouches beside him and checks his neck for a pulse.

  “Is he dead?” asks George in her girly scared voice.

  “Whaddoyouthink?” snaps Vil.

  Vil straightens up, roots through her handbag, hunting for her packet of menthols. “Ohmigod, I’m buzzing.” She lights one up with trembling hands, her nostrils flaring with smoke. “I think we should call the police.”

  “Wait! Before we do anything rash, let’s get our story straight.”

  “What story do you want us to hatch up, Sac?” asks Virna-Lisa. “This guy threatened us. Held a gun to our heads.”

  “Yeah, this nightmare is all your fault,” says George, accusing me.

  “My fault!” I shift my eyes from Vil to George. “How is it my fault? I did not invite him here. He just showed up on my doorstep.”

  “You kidnapped some kid,” George throws back. “You almost had us killed.”

  “I did not kidnap any one.”

  “Stop it! The two of you!” shouts Vil, glaring at me. “We’re not exactly gullible, Sacrine.”

  “I promise you guys. I had nothing to do with any kidnapping. I don’t know why he would think that. Okay, so I don’t like kids, but I’m not some crazy bitch to kidnap one. Now my whole life will be turned upside down for something I didn’t do.”

  “Mine too,” cries George. “I’ve never ever seen someone killed before.”

  None of us has. We’re all freaked out… just horrified, shocked. But surely the most shocking thing George had ever experienced was the sudden death of her mother.

  And now this.

  A stabbing.

  A butcher knife in the face.

  Murder.

  Poor sweet thing

  “Whatever! This asshole had it coming to him. My dad went into hiding because of this bastard. He had a contract out on his life.”

  “A contract!” yells George. “Like a hired assassin was after him!”

  “You could say so.”

  “What kind of business was your dad mixed up in, Virna-Lisa?”

  “Never mind. Listen Sac, if we’re not going to call the police, what are we going to do?”

  A dead silence fills the room for the longest minute, as we all stare at the corpse. Black, burgundy blood pooling and congealing by his head on my living hardwood floor.

  Not good.

  “I say we drag his ass back to his place before his evil spirit haunts my apartment.”

  «Chapter Seventy Four»

  “Just wait one goddamn minute,” cries the narcissistic, self-absorbed crybaby. She rests both hands on her anorexic hips, clearly not accustomed to any form of physical labor or challenges in her life. Besides the death of her mother, the only unpleasant thing that has ever happened was a torn fingernail below the nail-bed of her right thumb and she cried like a little spoilt bitch. “I don’t want any part of this.”

  Am so seething inside right now, I could scream. But I need her help to get the corpse out of my apartment.

  “Georgina, get a grip,” pleads Vil. “All of us are involved in this mess. If you don’t like it, tough shit.”

  “Tough shit! echoes George. “His blood’s on your hands!”

  “Not only my hands, George. I protected you! All of us!”

  “Guys, guys,” I interrupt. “I know how this looks. One minute we’re raving party animals, the next we’re murderers. But…”

  “Speak for yourself, Sac. Vil’s the one that murdered someone!”

  “It was self-defense,’ counters Vil, “not murder. It was either him or us?”

  “I don’t think he would have harmed us, Vil,” says George. “He allowed Shilpa to just walk away, remember. If he really wanted to hurt us he would have made an example of Shilpa.”

  “Funny that.” I jump in. “Two minutes ago you accused me of almost having us killed.” I address both of them. “But the facts still remain, if we want all this to go away, we must stick together and get this guy out of my apartment.”

  Nothing.

  “So we get rid of the body, right guys? Do we agree?”

  Pure silence came next.

  “Don’t all jump in at once.” I look at Vil. “Virna-Lisa?”

  “Okay, yes. Let’s get rid of him.”

  I lift my brows at Georgina. “George?”

  “I’m scared. What if someone sees us?” cries the crybaby.

  “Hardly. I know all the residents on this side of the elevator. 705-Raye’s in the hospital. Andy, the guy in 702/704 is at work.” 703 has been vacant for months and 706…” I look at the dead guy. “And unfortunately he’s there.”

  “What about 707 and 708?”

  “Bunch of Internet conmen. They mind their business and expect you to mind yours. Probably hacking into NASDAQ or some other stock exchange around the world.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s get a move on then.” Vil twists herself, trying to see her injured ass. “But first, my ass hurts like hell. Do you have a plaster, Sac… before I drip more blood on your floor?”

  “Check the medicine cabinet and leave your bloody clothes and shoes in the bathroom. I’ll go find something to roll him up on. George, search his pockets for keys.”

  “You!” she screeches.

  I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

  “Come help me George,” says Vil.

  Vil slips off her heels and heads down the hallway. George follows in her wake, digging into her purse for something. “I need a line. I need to do a line first.”

  I crouch down beside the corpse and remove the gun from his waist. Carefully, I place it on the coffee table. I go through each pocket of his suit jacket and find a Blackberry in the left pocket. I do a pat down of his trousers and find a set of keys with a wallet and loose change: loonies, dimes and quarters. His wallet is stuffed with credit cards: a Diners club, two American Express cards, one black, the other platinum, and a Master card. There are also five ATM cards from most of the banks around the city.

  Man, if only I had his pin numbers. I could go to town, says the devil on my shoulder.

  Oh! The man has rubbers, condoms. Three of them.

  I lay the items on the center table and go into the kitchen. I find a thick roll of thick black garbage bags, rip six off at the serrated holes and tape corners to make one big tarp longitudinally.

  Longitudinally… is that even a word?

  I enter the living room again, horrified by the awful mess I’ve created. A dead man in my living room, his brains leaking all over the floor, a knife sticking out of his cornea.

  Yup. Am first-rate champion for screwing up my life.

  Just because I took that briefcase from the park and kept it to myself, my bettest friends are suffering the consequences of my actions.

  Oh well, what can I do now.

  What’s done is done. It’s time to bank the money after my long research and preparation.

  Vil returns wearing my favorite red velour Tracksuit and red sneakers, George is sniffing repeatedly behind her.

  “How’s your ass?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “George, does it look like she’ll need stitches?”

  “Do I look like a nurse?” she snaps, wiping white coke dust from her nose.

  “Jesus, calm down George, I was only asking.”

  “No you calm down. This is not how I intended to spend my evening.”

  “Let’s all calm down,” says Vil, trying to sound calm and collected herself, but you could tell she was shitting bricks in my Tracksuit pants.

  I toss the keys
over to George. “Go see if the coast is clear.”

  She catches it instinctively in her dainty hand with a jingle. She looks at it, and then looks at me. “Why me?” she cries.

  “Erm, cause you’re doing nothing.”

  “But I don’t want to.”

  I ignore her and just hope she does it. There’s no point arguing when time is of the essence. “Vil can you help me here.”

  As Vil and I attempt to roll the corpse onto the tarp, George yells, flapping her hands. “What about the knife, aren’t you guys going to remove the knife first?”

  “Oh shit! Vil, you plunged it in, you pull it out.”

  Vil doesn’t complain, she doesn’t pull a face. She holds his head down, yanks the knife out, and drops it on the floor.

  Ice Queen or what?

  With superhuman strength, we manage to roll the corpse onto the makeshift tarp.

  “God, I hate the smell of blood,” says Vil.

  “I know, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  George opens the door and looks left and right. “It’s clear!”

  “He lives at 706, George, go open the door.”

  “God, Sac, he’s really heavy, do you think we can do this?”

  “Yes. C’mon, I want this guy out of here.”

  “Okay.”

  “Go grab his legs and I’ll take his shoulders. On my count. One… two… three… pull.”

  For two skinny chicks, he’s like dead weight. We barely budge him.

  “Why don’t we both take a leg each and drag him,” suggests Vil.

  We stand together, side by side. I grab a hold of the left leg and Vil grabs a hold of the right leg. We make sure we’re holding the tarp. With maximum effort, we drag his dead weight out my front door, along the corridor in one continuous pull until we reach outside his apartment.

  George holds the door open for us then steps aside to give us room to pass. We haul him inside drop his legs, then stand up like arthritic fishwives with bad backs.

  Vil and I wipe beads of sweat from our foreheads in unison.

  George slams the door behind us.

  “What now?” asks Vil.

  “Let’s undress him,” I suggest.

  “Undress him?” echoes George. “You must be mad. Let’s just go.”

  “DNA, George,” says Vil. “We’ve got to leave as little of us on him as possible.”

  “Are you both mad? Let’s get outta here.”

  “George!” hisses Vil. “You have no idea who we’re dealing with. If we don’t do this right, you can bet his people on his payroll will figure this out and come after us.”

  I remove his shoes and socks revealing his big clammy feet and hairy toes. I drop the items in a black garbage bag. I unfasten his belt buckle, unzip his pants, put my hand around his waist, ease my hand under his Italian backside and pull down his pants and underwear, all in one motion.

  “Jesus, this guy’s hung like a horse.”

  George pulls a face. “Eeuuu! You’re sick. The guy’s dead.”

  “And his floppy dick.”

  “Sacrine, focus,” says Vil, unbuttoning his white shirt.

  “George, go run the hot tap in the bathtub. Fill it up halfway.” I order.

  “Why?” she asks frowning.

  “Just do it!”

  “Why can’t we just leave him right here. He's dead already! Why do you want to drown him as well?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, George, ” says Vil angrily. “You’re beginning to get on my nerves. Go fill the tub with hot water.”

  While George went off to set the bathtub, Vil and I drag the naked corpse down to the end of the hallway, the plastic screeching across the hardwood floor.

  Water gushes with force from the hot water tap in the brown Jacuzzi bathtub. A steamy mist swirls and rises. It does not take long for the bathtub to fill halfway.

  We lift Mandini and practically roll his naked corpse in the bathtub, causing a tsunami, sloshing water over the edge, soaking us both and the beige tiles.

  “Holy Shit!” I say. Vil looks down herself and says, “Ma va fangulo!”

  We watch him settle and the water begins to change pink.

  “Grab a mop, Sac,” commands Vil.

  “Like I live here. Do I even know he has one?”

  “Well we can’t just leave the water on the floor,” says Vil.

  “Why not? Maybe it’ll look like an accident. Like he slipped in or something.”

  “Yeah first he accidentally stabbed himself in the eye. Then decided to take a bath.”

  “Funny. Fine, do what you have to do.”

  “George, chuck me his shirt.”

  “Let’s just get out of here,” says George. “I had enough this for one evening.”

  “George, can you just shut the fuck up and do what you’re told for once… without whining.

  Angrily, she chucks me Mandini’s shirt and pants in a messy heap.

  “Jesus, George, I just wanted his shirt!”

  As Vil and George head to the door, I wipe everything I think we touched with his cotton shirt. Then backing away from the bathroom, I get down on the floor and polish away their shoe prints and my foot print as best as I can.

  I take one last look around. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  I open the door and let them out ahead of me. I wipe the inside door handle of fingerprints and do the same on the outside one, closing the door and George locks it. She gives me his keys, his suit jacket and black shoes stuffed with his socks.

  “George, listen babe, I’m sorry I swore at you.”

  “Me too,” says Vil all choked up. “I'm sorry too.”

  “It’s ok guys, I love you.”

  Vil, George and I form a heartwarming three-way hug and cry a little; little whimpers escape our throats. These are my besttest friends in the whole wide world and look what I have done to them.

  In our little huddle, we kiss each other’s face and say good-bye. I watch them go down the corridor to the elevators.

  So sorry guys.

  As soon as I enter my apartment, my brain switches to CSI mode. Inside my kitchen, I chuck Mandini’s stuff on the counter and snap on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. I grab the cleaning agent and a thick sponge and set about cleaning. It will be the first time I’ve cleaned my apartment thoroughly since I moved in two years ago. And when it gets dark outside, I will put on full camouflage gear to conceal my identity and dispose of all evidence. In the corner of my eye, Viper observes me with intense curiosity.

  «Chapter Seventy Five»

  At 14:36., the following day, two rent-a-cop security guards scrutinize me from head to foot as I walk into the Water House Building, a prestigious investment bank at Bay and Bloor Street intersection, downtown Toronto. I cannot blame them. I took particular pains to appear as if am a woman of substance, someone of importance. I look fantastic in a black tailored Donna Karan skirt suit, a crisp white shirt, red Christian Louboutin shoes, and at my waist a red leather belt to match. Everything am wearing drips money. My chic style and manner oozes, JAP: Jewish American Princess.

  Already the bank is full of immaculately dressed business people speaking to mostly Oriental tellers. I take a deep breath and make my way through the vast space stinking of wealth, to the next available teller.

  “Trop trop mignon,” says the teller smiling at me as I approach.

  Very friendly people. “Good afternoon,” I say, and tried to match her irresistible smile. I hike my black satin duffel bag on the smooth, marble ledge. “I would like to open up a new account.”

  “Are you a resident in this country?”

  “Yes, of course, I’m Canadian.”

   “The minimum amount is $20, 000.”

  “Yes, I’ve done my homework.”

  “Do you have ID, ma’am? A valid passport and a current bill to show proof of address will be sufficient.”

  “I have a driving license and a passport, is that okay?”

  “That wil
l be sufficient.”

  I dig into my red Hermes handbag for my ID. “Here you go.”

  “How much are you investing today?” she asks, taking my ID from my hand.

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars!” the cute, Ms Kim Tau, repeats with a look of shock. Never seen Oriental eyes open so wide. How very unprofessional.

  “Yes. Fifty thousand dollars, why?”

  “Do you mind if I ask where you acquired such a large sum of money?”

  I totally forget my professional demeanor and give her one of my mean street stares as if to say, none of your Goddam business you short-assed-chinky-eyed-bitch. It’s the street in me.

  O oh, she must have read my mean expression.

  “It’s not an extraordinary question,” she says in her cute Japanese accent.

  Working next to Ms Kim Tau, her colleague, Ms Ching Ting, looks at me suspiciously. I give her a tight, empty smile.

  Kim Tau continues on. “We request all new clients depositing large sums of cash of their acquisitions the same question.”

  I wiggle my wedding finger. The silver band of diamond glints and sparkles. “The money is dowry.”

  “Dowry!”

  “Yes Dowry?” Hope am using the word correctly.

  “Isn’t dowry specific to the Islamic faith?”

  What does she want from my life! I only heard the word in a Bollywood movie just a week ago. “Err. Jewish religion as well.”

  “Really? Judaism.”

  “It’s a bridal gift, all right!” I snap lightly. “My husband had to go away on an urgent business, and left me to take care of our financial matters.”

  “Why didn’t your new husband give you his personal account number? It would have saved you a lot of trouble.”

  “Like I said, it’s been an urgent business matter.”

  Kim Tau glares at me, seems like an eternity. She inspects my fake ID’s, opens the stolen passport, stares at the picture, looks up at me and back at the picture.

  She is looking at somebody who is dead stamp of me: long brunette hair, perfect make-up and beautiful skin.

  I pat my duffel. “So will you open an account for me?”

  She taps the keyboard in front of her.  “I’ll book you in to see Mr Hemingway, an account manager. His office is in one of the private offices behind you. Take a seat and he’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you, have a nice day.”

  I sit down on a soft leather sofa by a row of office doors feeling extremely tense. Even though there are financial magazines on a side table to fill my time, occupy my mind, I can’t read, I can’t think, just my eyes darting here and there with a sweet plastic smile on my lips.

  Two ten minutes later – each time I had checked my watch ten minutes had elapsed - a tall, sandy red haired man dressed in an immaculate dark suit, white shirt, ochre tie steps toward me, extending his hand.

  I stand up, smiling with faux confidence.

  “Mrs Rosenthal? Hayden Hemingway,” he says, pumping my jewelled hand, smiling his corporate smile.

  “How are you today?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “Come this way, please,” he says all businesslike.

  “Any relations to Ernest Hemingway?”

  Hemingway does not answer. He behaves as if I had not spoken at all. I bet he gets it every time he introduces himself. He directs me into his small, air-conditioned room and motions with hand to a large black leather chair opposite his mahogany desk.

  Take a seat Mrs Rosenthal. Would you like something cold to drink?”

  “Oh yes, thank you.”

  As I settle into the armchair, smiling with insane pleasure, Hemingway rings his gofer, his PA… who knows... and utters orders pour moi. Pardon my French, but holy shit! Life for Sacrine Thompson has become much sweeter.

  My gaze flits around his immaculate, bright office. One side of his desk houses a computer next to tidy stack of documents. There is a photograph of his wife and three kids. He hangs up and fumbles about in a top drawer.

  Hemingway is not very talkative and does not make much eye contact with me. He hands me a one-page application for opening a bank account. “This won’t take long Mrs Rosenthal,” he says, “I just need you to fill it in and sign it.”

  Am sitting by the panoramic window of the Aquarius lounge on Bloor Street West, a bird’s eye view from the fourteenth floor. Below, pedestrians look as tiny as ants on the sidewalk. Even at this hour, five o’clock, the bar is virtually empty. Pretty soon, though, the place will be jam-packed with professional people.

  Man, what a nerve-racking day. With great success, I have managed to open up accounts under the name Barbara Rosenthal in the TD Canada Trust, CIBC, Royal Bank of Canada, Bank of Montreal, Royal Bank Tower, and Scotia Bank.

  This time, I stashed smaller amounts without alarming nosey tellers or even the mention of the word dowry. What a big mistake!

  As I filled out the forms, I had to remember to sign Rosenthal, not Thompson. Except when opening one account, I had to explain myself.

  ‘There’s something wrong with the signature on these documents,’ the woman had said at CIBC.

  “Something wrong? What?”

  “There’s a slight discrepancy with the signatures.”

  “Oh that, I’m just getting accustomed to change of signatures. I just got married not long ago.” The close inspection was like a jolt to the heart.

  After I left the last bank, I stopped by Gold’s gym on upper Yonge Street and hid all the account books in my locker.

  Am coming to realize that am a born thief and an accomplished liar.

  Barbra Rosenthal was one of my ultra-rich jet-setters customers that came into my lounge for cocktails. The opportunity presented itself when she staggered off to speak to Jane Du Maurier, the lovely pianist in the foyer. I pilfered her ID from her handbag she had left unattended on her table. I slid it under a crumpled cloth napkin on my tray.

  I cannot wait to get home to take off this damn wig. My scalp is hot and itching like mad and the ton of make-up is melting on my face like hot wax.

  I smile and take a sip of my drink.

  Hmm. Living on the mean streets of Toronto had hardened my heart to stone. Why did I not hand back the money after all the horrible things that had transpired. Even so, handing back the money would not bring the boy back from the dead.

  Last night I took the nine fifteen sightseeing ferry over to Centre Island taking with me Eric’s clothing, his briefcase… all the incriminating evidence and dumped them into various garbage-cans around the Island. The knife I dropped in the middle of Lake Ontario when none of the other passengers was looking. I watched it go straight down and plop in the cold water then disappeared forever. On previous pleasure trips, I cannot mention how many times I’ve lost cherished sunglasses just by looking over the rail to observe the wake.

  Poor Raye. The object of her obsession is dead, killed in a ferocious attack by my friend Virna-Lisa. She’ll probably have a total meltdown. For now, she is recuperating back at her childhood home. Am sure her family will give her and her baby the support she will need, mental and physical.

  A faint ding across the lounge breaks my thoughts. Three businessmen walk off the elevator in the center of the lounge. The waiter that had served me greets them, then, all three look over my way.

  My thrilled heart does a perfect somersault.

  As they walk toward me, I recognize Hayden Hemingway, the bank account manager.

  “Mr. Hemingway, did I forget something?” I ask innocently.

  “Mrs Rosenthal? I’m Detective Dean Amsden, can you come with us voluntarily. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  “What kind of questions?” I have a strong urge to bolt by them, but I cannot see the Goddam staircase, which I would be sliding down rails, jumping off each at each flight at neck break speed - thirteen times. “What’s this about? Am I under arrest?”

  Dean takes
my handbag and duffel. “Just come with us quietly or I could put you in handcuffs.”

  Shit. I get a sudden flash of myself dressed in an orange jumpsuit, working on a chain gang.

  «Chapter Seventy Six»

  At the Central Police Headquarters on College Street, the two detectives escort me through the glass doors. As we pass by the reception desk, we come across the waiting area crammed with a bunch of unsavory degenerates: burglars, hookers, junkies, rapists, fraudsters, shoplifters, gangbangers, arsonists, wife beaters, drug dealers, serial child molesters, peeping toms, kiddie-porn-peepers, small-time crooks. Only the Almighty God knows if am right and who committed what.

  And here they parade me, a law-abiding citizen 99.999% of the time, in front of these fuck-ups, weirdos and losers to gloat at me.

  They probably think am a prostitute in my red vertiginous Christian Louboutins. I do not make eye contact with any of them. I barely hold my head down until am clear of their stares.

  We pass the squad room located behind a wide Plexiglas wall, teeming with uniformed and plainclothes officers; some sit at computer terminals. One wall is lined with maps. An animated huddle stares at a bulletin board with 8x10s of  missing or dead victims, I imagine.

  A zillion telephones ring off the hook.

  We enter a door marked, Interrogation Room Five. It's as hot as hell in here.

  Detective Dean Amsden points to a chair. “Take a seat Mrs Rosenthal.”

  I pull out a chair and sit down at an ancient wooden table scarred with cigarette burns and reckless etching. Detective Amsden sits down opposite me and the other detective takes his position at the closed door, his hands clasped at his crotch.

  “Now, Mr. Hemingway, from the Water House Building alerted us about the substantial amount of money you deposited after a teller aroused his suspicions.”

  “Suspicions, okay.”

  “You are Sacrine Thompson,” he says bluntly, eyeing my fashionable attire, my expensive jewelry.

  “Aaam.”

  “No need to lie, Ms Thompson. We did a routine check. Yet you opened up the account in the name of Barbara Rosenthal.”

  I give him a petulant shrug. “Yeah, so?”

  “Why not in your own name?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights… charge me with something… offer me representation? I mean, come-on. Any idiot knows the procedure.”

  “As I stated before, you’re not under arrest. We would just like to clear things up.”

  “Ok, what?”

  “Mr. Rosenthal’s shady business deals is all over the front pages of the newspapers. Any idiot can read about him galvanizing with society women in the society pages… other than his wife, Barbara.”

  “I have no idea what are you talking about.”

  “Did he give you his wife’s ID to deposit the large sum of money Ms Thompson… for services rendered?”

  “No! What you’re implying?”

  Dean leans across the table up close and in my personal space. “Let’s not play games, Ms Thompson. You opened an account with fifty thousand dollars. Where did you get it… the ID?”

  Trust me to steal ID from a woman whose husband was in deep shit with the authorities.

  I lean in and eyeball him with equal intensity. Shit, I can smell cigarettes and stale coffee on his breath.

  “Opening an account for someone else is a crime now?”

  “No, it’s not. But why were you pretending to be Mrs Rosenthal?”

  “I refuse to sit here and incriminate myself.”

  “I’ll ask again, Ms Thompson, where did you obtain such a substantial amount of cash?”

  I glance up at the cop standing by the door … squinch up my face and shrug.

  “How are you subsidizing your income? You live in a fancy condominium, wear the finest clothes. Tell me,” he says, slamming his fist on the table. “Did you meet Mr Rosenthal in the hotel where you work?”

  “No!”

  “Strike up a close friendship.”

  “No!”

  “You know, working in such an establishment, it’s a great place to meet people in high places.”

  “Wow, you people are amazing!”

  “Did you form a friendship with Mr Rosenthal? Did he give you his wife’s ID to deposit the money?”

  “What? No. no. no. I work long and hard for my money.”

  “Overtime, double-shifts, what?”

  “I do what it takes. But I don’t do favors for money or launder money for this Mr Rosenthal.”

  He glares at me with frustration, I suspect, losing this cat and mouse game.

  “One other thing. A Detective McCann spoke to you about the murdered boy in your building.”

  “Yes, he came to my work.”

  “Allegedly, someone took the ransom money from the park before the kidnappers could.”

  “Listen, I told him everything I knew on that subject.”

  “Everything?” He waits for me to respond, but I stare right back at him.

  “What about your neighbor found dead in your building?”

  I feign stupidity. “Raye Dawkins! The ME made a mistake… she’s alive… she’s doing fine.”

  “I am not talking about Miss Dawkins, Ms Thompson. Eric Mandini, the wealthy businessman…”

  “Eric Mandini is dead?”

  “Yes, you didn’t know?”

  “No!”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But?”

  “But what?”

  “But you did go to his apartment.”

  “Yes. Only once.”

  “When?”

  “When his kid was found dead in the building.”

  “Ms Thompson, can you please elaborate on your answers. Why did you go see him?”

  “Listen, I don’t want to be here. I’ll only answer direct questions.”

  “Why did you go see Mr Mandini, Ms Thompson?”

  “To offer my condolences.”

  “But you said you were not a friend.”

  “He was seeing my friend, Raye Dawkins.”

  “But not a friend of yours.”

  “No.”

  “Do you normally give condolences to people you don’t know?”

  “I was just being neighborly.”

  “Did you enter his apartment or did you stay in the corridor.”

  “He invited me inside.”

  “Why do you think Mr Mandini would invite you inside if you weren’t a friend?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Well, what excuse did you give him to gain entrance to his apartment.”

  “I told him I was a friend of Raye Dawkins.”

  “And how long did you stay?”

  “Not long.”

  “Did he invite you to sit down offer you a drink.”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask to use his bathroom while you were there?”

  My heart thumps so hard, am about to have a heart attack. “No, yes. I think so. Why?”

  “Just answer the questions, Ms Thompson.”

  Is this where I plead the fifth - ask to see a defense lawyer. “Seriously, I can’t remember.”

  “Has Mr Mandini ever visited your apartment?”

  “No.” I lie convincingly. “Why would he?”

  “You, Miss Dawkins and Eric Mandini all live on the same floor. Maybe you all had each other over for drinks at some point. You know, being neighborly, as you put it.”

  “No. Just Raye.”

  “Have you ever witnessed any suspicious activity, any strangers hanging about the complex.

  “No.”

  “There were no disturbances on your floor at any time. Nothing out of the ordinary?”

  Just in my apartment. The bastard got what he deserved. “No!”

  “Do you realize he was a suspect on the FBI list as a prominent figure funding and supplying weapons… they think – to terrorist cells.”

/>   “Shut the front door!” I hold his gaze, shifting my eyeballs from one of his eyeballs to another. “Funding and supplying weapons to terrorists! Get the fuck outta here? Who’s the head of this terrorist cell, Abdul Rahman Yasin?” Where the hell did that name come from? Must be saturated watching the news.

  “No need to be flip, Ms Thompson. This is a serious matter.”

  “So sorry, but I’m sick of this bull.”

  “Well, Ms Thompson, someone stuck a sharp object deep into Mandini’s cornea. We found him naked in his bathtub. It seemed someone was trying to wash away the evidence. Well?”

  Is this what they call entrapment? I just admitted being in his apartment. “Don’t look at me.” Calm down. Calm down. “Certainly you don’t expect me to do your job for you. It is your job to investigate. I mean… do I look like a fucking psychic?”

  “Is that all you have to add?”

  I purse my lips and shrug.

  He stands up, breathes up his frustration through his nose, approaches his partner and says with his back to me. “Ms Thompson, I see you’re not willing to fully cooperate at this time. Perhaps you need some time to think. Or perhaps you would like to seek representation.”

  “I have done nothing wrong. I have absolutely nothing else to say. Except, I hate the smell of bacon. Can you guys smell bacon?” Why do I do this? Why do I provoke people?

  Dean ignores me.

  OMG! As he leaves the room with his sidekick, locking me inside. I hear some miscreant shouting obscenities. ‘Fuck off pigs!’ The exact expletives on the tip of my tongue, but the words came out as bacon.

  I look around me. There are no windows - just a mirrored wall ahead of me. Am almost certain it’s a two-way mirror and they are watching me closely. I tell myself to stay calm, relax, don’t give them a reason to think am freaking out. After all, am not under arrest - am just being asked a bunch of stupid questions. Besides, they have nothing to charge me on.

  Fact 1: I did not kidnap the kid.

  Fact 2: I did not murder the kid.

  Fact 3: I did not kill Mandini.

  Fact 4: There is no way they can prove any of it.

  Fact 5: I have shit loads of money in my possession… but that is no reason to hold me.

  I close my eyes, lift my chin, take a couple of deep breaths and go into a meditative state. I’ve mastered the Zen in yoga classes. Am good at centering, no matter how long it takes. A minute, a month, does not matter.

  “Ms Thompson. Ms Thompson.”

  I leave Zen state, open my eyes to see Dean cop staring into my serene face. I have no idea how long he has been standing there or how long I’ve been sitting like this, but I feel a bit refreshed.

  But not for long, he is carrying what looks like an official file in his gigantic paw. Is that my name printed on it WTF!

  He drops the file on the table between us as if to show his hand of cards.

  “Ms Thompson, you were picked up five years ago for prostitution, were you not?”

  “What? You’ve got a police file on me!”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Yes! No! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time… Jarvis of all places, the red light district. I was waiting to cross the road when a Jag slowed down and called out to me. As I bent over to see what the guy wanted, the next thing I know, sirens are wailing, undercover cops rushed me and accused me of solicitation. They threw me in the back of a van with all these bad-ass hookers and hauled us off to the police station. I explained that I was staying in a hostel in the area and on my way there. I was not prostituting, trying to rent my body for half an hour. They checked out my story and released me immediately. I’ve never been arrested since.”

  “Besides waitressing, what else do you do for a living, Ms Thompson?”

  “Are you suggesting am moonlighting, selling my ass on the streets of Toronto part-time?”

  “You can cooperate with us the easy way or the hard way. What is it going to be?”

  I can hear rapid footfalls outside in the corridor getting closer then the door opens. A detective pops his head in. “Dean!”

  Isn’t that Detective Dunhill, McCann’s partner? WTF is going on!

   “Yeah, what?”

  “We need you in Interrogation Two.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Dean, this is important.”

  Dean goes over and Detective Dunhill whispers two minutes worth of information into his ear.

  Dean turns and stares at me for a moment. “Thanks Ms Thompson, you’re free to go.”

  “Really! Am not under arrest?”

  He says nothing more, but holds the door open wider for me.

  Strangely, am a bit hesitant to leave.

  Something smells fishy.

  I push myself away from the table and fake, a tight smile as I approach him. “Can I have my stuff back, please?”

  “Pick them up at the front desk in reception.”

  «Chapter Seventy Seven»

  Outside the police headquarters, am standing on the top concrete step, mentally drained, and in total disbelief. What on Earth caused them to stop the interrogation so abruptly and let me go without charging me with something, especially after using false identification to deposit a large sum of money?

  I should withdraw all the money before they figure this whole thing out and freeze my fraudulent accounts.

  OMG!

  The news about Eric Mandini, the international businessman, Raye’s ex boyfriend, being a terrorist sympathizer, still buzzed in my ears.

  No wonder he stayed schtum about life. Vil did him a favor and spared him a life sentence of being tortured in Guantanamo Bay.

  “Jesus! What a nerve wracking day!”

  Feeling the warm breeze of freedom in my face, I suck a mouthful into my lungs just pleased to be out of there. On my exhale, my gaze freezes on a white Audi A4 parked across the street. I charge down the steps in my high heels, wait for a break in the traffic, dodge a Harley approaching at high speed, then dash across the road to inspect it

  Same dents on the front fender and scratches on the driver’s side.

  I peer inside to see Country & Western CD cases on the front seat.

  “Jesus, this is Raye’s car!”

  I look back to the metropolitan police station. My gaze dart over the many windows of the building. Is she inside one of the interrogation rooms, spilling her guts?

  Just then, I see a cab coming down the street and flag it down.

  It stops.

  I snatch open the back door, jump into the seat and slam the door shut.

  Jesus wept!

  The simmering stew of B.O, dope and greasy burger makes me wince.

  “Where to Ms?”

  “Just drive.”

  The driver pulls away from the curb, and, not even twenty feet, I see the vehicle that has chauffeured me to nightclubs, on many occasions, parked behind a squad car.

  “Oh my God, that’s Vil’s VolksWagon Golf.” I look around for George and Shilpa’s cars but I cannot see them parked anywhere.

  On the other hand, maybe they hitched a ride with Vil.

  “OMG!” I whisper.

  “Wah gwan. Is everything irie little lady?”

  I roll my eyes to the cab roof.

  Torontonian cabbies, no matter what creed, color, age, they’re prolific for butting into your business… talking your ear off when all you want to do is stare out the window and think.

  This one is a real life Rasta man.

  “No, everything is not Irie, Mon,’ I mock. “Just get me out of here.”

  I tilt my head against the seat and close my eyes. The ramification of my friend’s cars parked outside the police precinct tells me all hell is breaking loose.

  We crawl in slow moving traffic south on University Avenue all the way to the Harbour front.

  This takes a while, maybe half an hour.

  I keep looking back to see if we are being followed.

&nb
sp; We crawl along the Queen’s Quay and, as we pass the Queens Quay Terminal, the cinnamon-skinned Rastaman passes me a spliff over the front seat wordlessly. I take toke after toke, losing myself in my thoughts as he drives north up Yonge Street, turns on Front street, then back down to the Harbour Front.

  Ten minutes or so later, he cranes his neck, eyeing me in his rear-view.

  I realize I’ve smoked his spliff down to a roach, forgetting to pass it back to him.

  “Sorry mon,” I say mockingly again, stubbing it out in the ashtray, making stupid noises, attempting to keep Ganja from escaping my throat.

  Buzzing now, feeling mellow, I find myself opening up to him like a spring flower, confessing my woes to the back of his thick dreadlocks snaking from under a scarlet red cap, the logo reads, ‘Irie’.

  I tell him about running away from home as a teen and making myself homeless, my time spent in youth hostels, my various waitress jobs, my cat Viper, my friendship with Raye, and her father being some hotshot judge. I tell him about Mr. Chesney, the money, the dead boy in my building, the janitor being a suspect. I tell him about Virna-Lisa stabbing Mr. Mandini in my apartment. I tell him why he picked me up outside the police station. Every now and then, our eyes meet in the rear-view mirror. I cry how everything points to me making me looking guilty as sin… crimes of which I did not commit.

  “I’m afraid to go home,” I say after recounting my sorry tale, chapter and verse.

  I wait for him to respond.

  Nothing.

  Maybe he’s too stoned to comprehend.

  Maybe he’s wondering why my mouth was moving for so long. What the bomboclat the crazy lady chatting bout.

  Hey! I know what your thinking, but I can read people! I don’t have street cred for nothing.

  No sooner he brakes at a stop light, he occupies himself with something in the seat beside him.

  Probably looking at a map?

  Probably reading Chapter 3 of The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I donno.

  I peek over the seat to see what the hell he is doing.

  Of course!

  Assembling another joint.

  Typical!

  In the duration of the traffic lights: amber, red, and green, the Rasta deftly crumble pure Ganja weed in a Rizla, rolls it up into a carrot top shape, licks the edge with a huge pink tongue of a hungry lion, produces flame from a red lighter to the tip while puffing on it with his big dry lips.

  I can hear the seeds crack from the heat, and then it glows red.

  He inhales deeply, turns and passes the joint to me while introducing himself.

  “My name is Winston Earl. You want my help?”

  As he moves through the intersection, I take a couple of deep drags and hold the smoke in my lungs. “How?”

  “My cousin owns a moving truck company.” Mildly surprise, our eyes meet in his rearview mirror. “I can borrow one and move your stuff out tonight,” he says, with a deep, musical Jamaican accent. “I’ll even take care of that little pussycat of yours myself. You don’t worry yourself about dat. Here.” When we come to a brief halt in traffic, he reaches into the glove compartment and hands me his company’s business card, embossed CHECKERS, over his shoulder. “Write down your address on the back.”

  “Do you have a pen?” A cloud of smoke escapes my lips as I speak.

  While I scribble my details, he scribbles his name, telephone number on the back on a similar card, and then we exchange information.

  “Ok… you have enough money to lay low for a good while, right?”

  I nod.

  “Do not use your mobile, call me from a phone booth. You don’t have to tell me where you are. But I will come see you if you want me to.”

  “You’d do that for a complete stranger.”

  “I man don’t like the law. Jehovah alone is the ultimate judge of all man.”

  “Irie mon.” I think that’s what you say.

  Winston drives east in the direction of the CNE - Canadian National Exhibition. We remain silent for a good ten minutes.

  “I’ve decided. Can you take me to Union station?”

  Winston does a daredevil U-turn, risking both our lives.

  After two hours of cruising around my beautiful city, a city that had a huge impact on my young life, I feel it is time to fly the coop.

  But, how can I trust this stranger, Winston, my new Rastafarian friend?

  Before the sun rises again, he vows to clear out my condominium and take care of my cat, Viper Thompson.

  Forty-five minutes later, Winston pulls up outside Union Station. I ignore the $65 clocked up on the meter and hand him a white manila envelope and the keys to my apartment. He inspects the contents of the envelope in the seat beside him, and then looks back at me in absolute shock. “How much you give me?”

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand dollars,” he echoes with a broad gold-tooth grin. “No man, can’t take dat. You high man. The weed gone to yu head.”

  “Please take it, Winston. I want you to have it. It’s the only way I can show my appreciation, my gratitude”

  “I man could use five thousand dollars. Okay, fine. Ma lucky day.”

  “Winston, please, promise me… Viper… my cat,” I say, my voice choking with tears. “Please take good care of him.”

  “I told you, a know what to do. I love cats too. Lion eyes, Rasta for I. I’ll take good care mon...”

  Staring into his red-slit eyes, something overcomes me, this torrent of immense gratitude rising up inside me.

  I lean over and plant a juicy kiss on his rubbery pink lips.

  I jump out of the cab before he can respond and hurry to Union station. God am leaving, am leaving.  Am leaving my home after my friends have betrayed me.

  Just before I step into the station, I peer over my shoulder to see Winston watching me. I give him a last wave, and then am gone, gone to create a new identity, a woman with no past.

  Inside the vast space, hundreds of people mill around, some walk in quick strides with a destination in mind. I barge through the crowd, trying to read the huge overhead electronic panels with destinations and timetables.

  But, am so stoned, I cannot make out a single word.

  Everything is a blur.

  And knowing what am like after drinking and smoking pot, I should write all this down in a notepad like Columbo ...I mean, Detective Bercovsk ... while I remember every detail of this nightmare.

  Who knows?

  Maybe I should just write a book, and title it, Sacrine On the Run.

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