Flight of Aquavit (10 page)

depressing dimness. Outside the windows,

despite the morning hour, it was still the dark of

night. It was too early for any neighbours to have

commenced their business day and we seemed

very isolated in our lone tower on this winter

morning in the north end of Saskatoon.

“So why then? Why is he following me?”

Daniel finally asked, having sufficiently calmed

himself.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe he’s just

keeping an eye on you, or seeking some thrill by

watching you squirm now that the cat is out of the

bag. I don’t know, Daniel, but I think this is good

news.”

He shot me an incredulous look. “What are

you talking about?”

“Until yesterday all we had was a piece of

paper. Now we’ve got a real live person. He’s

shown himself. And if he shows himself

again…well, we just might be there to catch him.”

“How? How are we going to do that?”

“Leave that up to me for now. Tell me, was the

car a green Intrepid?” I bit my lip waiting for the

Anthony Bidulka — 75

answer I was sure would be yes.

“No.” My heart sank. “It was blue I think. I’m

not sure of the make. Why do you ask?”

Bugger. Oh well, Hugh had a buddy with him

the other night; perhaps the buddy was driving a

blue car. I gave Daniel a quick rundown of my

South Corman Park Landfill escapade. He doubt-

ed it had anything to do with his case. I wasn’t so

sure.

With the immediacy of Daniel’s situation dealt

with, we each took off our coats and Daniel

offered me a seat while he went down to put on

some much needed coffee. He’d been coveting my

Starbucks, but I wasn’t in the sharing mood.

Daniel’s office was a corner suite with a metal-

and-glass desk parked in front of two large win-

dows that looked out into the parking lot, a barren

area beyond it and some indistinguishable ware-

house type buildings in the distance. Given the

dark outside there wasn’t much to see, but I

guessed the same could be said in full daylight.

The rest of the room was more glass and stainless

steel furniture that looked nice but not necessarily

comfortable, and pale walls sporting several mas-

sive Darrell Bell originals: stunning watercolours

of lazy rivers carelessly winding their way

beneath turquoise skies and through wooded hills

of ochre, vermilion and pumpkin umber. I could-

n’t help wonder if these impressive canvases were

placed here to make up for the rather drab view.

Although each piece was worthy of closer perusal I

didn’t have time to lollygag. I only had a few min-

utes for skullduggery.

76 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

I headed for Daniel’s desk. I picked up a pho-

tograph in a surprisingly heavy silver frame. It

was of four people, two men and two women.

One of the men was Daniel; the other was a distin-

guished-looking character probably ten or fifteen

years older than my client, with greying hair thin-

ning at the top and a slightly buck-toothed smile.

Next to him was a woman with short blond hair

who, although not as old as the man, was definite-

ly older than the other woman, whom I took to be

Daniel’s wife. She had dark, curly hair and a

roundish, pleasant face dusted with freckles.

“Russell?”

That was quick. I turned around to see Daniel

looking a little more like his usual put-together

self. I indicated the picture in my hand and said,

“Just admiring the photograph.” He eyed the

photo as he closed the office door and took a seat

behind his desk. “This must be your wife,” I said

about the brunette, “with all the freckles.”

“Actually no,” he said. “The woman next to

Mick is Cheryl.”

I took another look, trying to hide my surprise.

Pictures are sometimes deceiving, but Cheryl

Guest looked several years older than her hus-

band. Either that or she’d spent too much time in

the sun. She was attractive, but…well, there was

no other way to say it: she had a mess of wrinkles

on her face. “And Mick, the other gentleman, is a

partner here?” I asked, still trying to gloss over my

obvious snooping.

“Please,” Daniel said, playing the gracious

host, “take a seat. The coffee’s going to take a few

Anthony Bidulka — 77

minutes.”

I replaced the picture on the desktop and

plopped down in the stiff metal chair he indicated.

“The Soloways are our next-door neighbours,”

he told me. “Mick and his wife, Anita, are close

friends of ours.”

I nodded politely.

He sighed. “I’m sorry about…about earlier and

for insisting on meeting you here so early and,

well…”

I waved it off. “Don’t mention it.” I pulled a

sheaf of photocopied photographs out of the

leather folder I’d brought with me and placed

them on the desk in front of him.

“What are these?”

“Copies of photographs of young, blond actors

who’ve appeared in the last three Persephone

Theatre plays.”

He looked up at me and smiled. “You’re good.”

Yup. “Now it’s your turn. Is one of them Jo?”

He glanced at the closed office door as if some-

one with X-ray vision might be behind it, then,

satisfied no one was spying on us, began a careful

study of each picture. He stopped on the fourth

one.

“It’s him,” he said in a hush, gazing at the like-

ness.

I leaned closer and looked at the gap-toothed

actor, a pleasant-looking young man. “Are you

sure that’s him?”

“That’s him,” he said without hesitation.

I reached over and flipped the picture so we

could read the information on the backside.

78 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“Now we know,” Daniel uttered cryptically.

“Now we know who Loverboy is. James Kraft.”

He looked at me and grimly said, “Go get him.”

After we’d spent too much time staring at the pic-

ture of Jo/Loverboy/James Kraft and his related

biographical information, such as it was, I shoved

all the photographs and bios back into my leather

folder and prepared for a difficult conversation.

Something had bothered me since my first meet-

ing with Daniel Guest. But now that I’d shown

him some results and hopefully garnered a bit of

trust, it was time to tackle it. I didn’t know how to

broach the subject delicately—so I hopped in with

both boots and hoped for the best.

“Daniel, I know that because of what hap-

pened between the two of you you’re certain

James Kraft is the blackmailer, but…well…are you

telling me you’ve only ever slept with one man?”

It didn’t sound odd when I first heard the ques-

tion in my head, but as it rolled off my tongue I

realized it might sound as if I was making fun of

him. After all, he was a married man. It was as if I

was chiding him for fooling around on his wife

only once. “And that’s okay if that’s true,” I quickly

added, “but if not, I need to know. Because if

you’re only considering men you slept with

immediately prior to receiving the note, well, I

don’t think that’s reasonable.”

Daniel’s nostrils were flaring and the palette of

colour in his cheeks was intensifying in hue. The

poor man was certainly experiencing a full gamut

Anthony Bidulka — 79

of emotions this morning. For an uncomfortable

moment we sat in silence. I decided to sit it out

and see what happened.

The silence finally broke. “Why are you doing

this? We know who the blackmailer is—James

Kraft—I’ve hired you to stop him. Why aren’t you

just willing to do that?”

Ahhhhh crap! The answer was in his eyes. They

were shifting back and forth as if trying to escape

their own sockets. He’d lied to me—or at least he’d

omitted the whole truth. “I’ve just told you why,” I

said, keeping my tone admirably even.

More silence, then, “There is someone else,” he

revealed in clipped tones as if he’d been forced to

admit a dirty little secret on which he’d be poorly

judged. “Someone other than Jo…James Kraft.”

I swore in my head but kept my mouth shut.

An uncomfortable thought crossed my mind.

James Kraft obviously wasn’t Hugh, but this new

man he had just admitted to could be.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

I was betting he was only partially right. I was-

n’t in the business of judging him or even caring

how many people he slept with. But I was in the

business of thinking he was a big, fat liar. Or, at

the very least, a big fat…omitter of truth.

“Could this other man be Loverboy?” I asked,

remaining sedate.

“I really don’t think so.” His face was closed.

He knew I was a bit mad at him for lying and he

was a bit mad at himself for being caught at it.

“Maybe you should tell me about him. Just in

case.”

80 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

“I shouldn’t have to talk about this. I can’t talk

about this. I have clients to attend to.”

His words were dismissive, but his face and

tone of voice told me the truth. Suddenly I found

myself softening towards this liar…er…client. It

wasn’t me he wanted to get rid of; it was his whole

life for the past twenty years.

Realizing I wasn’t giving up, he let out a loud

sigh and gave in. “James wasn’t the first,” he

admitted. “This past summer, late August, I met a

guy in the chatroom. I’d only been doing the cha-

troom thing for a couple weeks. I didn’t really

know what I was doing. But it seemed harmless

enough. It was just typing words on a computer. I

never dreamed I’d ever go any further with it.”

Another sigh, then, “I met a guy whose nickname

was…SunLover. And before I knew it I’d agreed

to meet him the next afternoon at Bare Ass Beach.”

When most people think of Saskatchewan,

they don’t necessarily think of beaches with

brown sugar sand. But a little known fact is that

there is such a stretch of beach, well hidden along

the banks of the South Saskatchewan River.

Although Bare Ass Beach is not its real name, the

oft tittered-at moniker is liberally used to refer to

a miniscule portion of a beach formally known as

Cranberry Flats. The shores of the Flats, ever-

changing due to the ebbs and flows of the river

regulated by the nearby Gardiner Dam, are locat-

ed several kilometres south of Saskatoon. They’re

surrounded by rolling hills of arid land and scrub-

by vegetation one would sooner expect to find in

Cape Cod rather than on the Saskatchewan

Anthony Bidulka — 81

prairie. Over the years, serious beach-hounds

have forged a web of paths through the slopes

down to the beach. It’s not easy to get to, but if

you’re physically fit enough to make the trek,

your reward can be mighty.

Bare Ass Beach, rumour to some, myth to oth-

ers, is a real place to those who, still not exhaust-

ed after reaching the main beach, are willing to

make the voyage, sometimes requiring portaging,

to the farthest tip (although I found a shortcut

some years ago) where it is said nubile young

nudes, mostly male, worship the sun.

It was quiet. I looked at Daniel. He looked at

me.

“You want more?” A plaintive query.

I wished for something profound to say.

Having Daniel speak about his experiences out

loud was like urging him to admit to his willing

acquiescence in the activity of being a gay man. I

came up empty. Where was Beverly when you

needed her? Instead I said, “Try your best, Daniel.

It might help.”

“I don’t know why I agreed to it. I hadn’t

thought through the risks,” Daniel said, a mysti-

fied look covering his face. “All I know is that I

was growing more and more…frustrated…each

day, searching for something I couldn’t identify.”

All I could do was nod my head. Indeed he

was right. In less than five months Daniel Guest

had gone from playing a straight, loving husband

to meeting strange men for sex to being black-

mailed by one. This was no piddly little craving

we were talking about. Whether he realized it or

82 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

not, this was Daniel’s true self suddenly awak-

ened and trying to claw its way, biting and

scratching, out of a deep, dark closet.

“I planned it like some sort of top secret mis-