“You’re welcome. Now get to table six and see what those loser businessmen want, but no souvenir coasters, okay?”
“Okay.”
I put down the phone and stood in the middle of my living room, taking in my surroundings as if for the first time. My eyes took in the furniture, the entertainment unit, the prints on the wall, the lights on the end tables, the track lighting, the light switches, the smoke alarm—anything that could give me some clue as to what had taken place the previous evening. Someone had entered this space, taken the mysterious video, then shut off the lights and locked the front door behind them.
Who would do such a thing and why? Even more perplexing was how did they get in?
The video’s contents were also very disturbing, as it proved Linda had been at the motel on that terrible night. I just couldn’t quite figure out how this tantalizing fact could be used against me. The police and I both concluded Linda found out about the affair, had decided enough was enough, packed her things and left the house that evening. The end.
For me, the most troubling thing was the third party involved here—the guy with the camera. He had obviously been following us and passed the information on to Linda. I remembered how her head snapped around as she approached The Loser’s Love Den. It was apparent the accomplice had honked his horn to alert her of the plumber’s return.
My mind was slowly coming to terms with the fact that Linda and this other individual had been working together, when a more disturbing notion popped up: what if they knew the plumber and the three of them had plotted against Samantha and me? Was that possible?
I frantically tried to erase the idea from my head. There was no way Linda would knowingly be part of some twisted murder-for-hire plot. I’ve known several women in my disastrous romantic past who had possessed all of the traits needed for such a plan, yet I was certain Linda was not one of them.
“No way,” I shouted at the empty room. She had been set up. There were no two ways about it.
That she hadn’t returned my call was no surprise, but the fact Maria hadn’t heard from her either was worrisome. Linda had confided in her about our problems in the past, so why not now? To be perfectly honest, during the past few weeks we’d had some nasty, dirty fights that were the beginning of the end of our engagement. We both knew it, yet couldn’t bring ourselves to actually do anything about it.
I was now ambivalent about her so-called disappearance. On one hand, it was a fitting conclusion to our turbulent relationship; a dramatic statement, if she’d left voluntarily, as I believed she had. On the other hand, I began to feel queasy when I envisioned the person who’d shot the video taking her against her will for some unknown reason.
My mind tried to close down this avenue of thinking. She’ll call, I kept telling myself. Sooner or later, she’ll have to return to work, I tried to convince myself. She is angry with life, with me and this city.
She’s fine. She has to be.
FIVE
At 3:01 p.m. my phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Steven Cassidy?” a stern male voice asked.
“Yes, this is Steven Cassidy.”
“Please hold.”
After a couple of clicks, an automated female voice came on.
“Attention. This call is being recorded to ensure no criminal laws are broken.” There was another short pause followed by: “This is the Farmington Penitentiary in San Dieppe. A request has been made by inmate Maxwell Feldberg to speak with you. At this time, you have two options: using your touch-tone telephone keypad, to accept this call press 1-1. To decline this call, press 2-2. Please be aware that by declining this call, your name and phone number will be permanently removed from this caller’s contact list. If no response is registered, this call will be classified as declined. You have ten seconds to make your selection.”
Maria hadn’t told me of these options. I guess she assumed I would automatically press 1-1 to speak with Max but during my first few allotted seconds, my initial inclination was to decline the call. My life was screwed up enough and being tracked down by a convict didn’t sound like a party I would want to attend. I was also briefly fascinated that by simply hitting the number “2” twice, Max would never be allowed to contact me again. How I wished this was a regular phone feature I could use for bill collectors or needy ex-girlfriends—Maria and Linda excluded, of course. Nevertheless, maybe Max was calling to tell me where he had stashed all the cash he’d presumably swindled from gullible patients.
As the seconds continued to tick away, from deep within my cranium my two favourite questions tormented me: Why bother? Why not? Why bother? Why not?
I pressed 1-1. What the hell? It’s always good to talk to old friends, I thought.
The automated voice returned.
“You will now be connected to your party.”
I smiled at the word party. Five seconds later, there was another click on the line.
“Hey, Steve—are you there?”
“I’m here, Max,” I replied. “How’s that golf swing of yours coming? Still a 12 handicap?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got that sucker down to a 5 and was named Golfer of the Year by my peers in Cell Block D a few weeks ago.”
“Well, I guess congratulations are in store. What do you guys play—Sega Genesis or Playstation?”
“Playstation all the way,” Max laughed. “Their Pebble Beach game is so realistic you can almost smell the coconut sunscreen of the virtual babes in the spectator gallery.”
“It’s nice to hear they let you out every once in awhile,” I quipped. “Aside from being the resident golf pro, are you still playing shrink? I’m sure there are a couple of people in there who could use a good doctor.”
“You heard about that, huh?”
“Yeah, a few months ago that prick Francis McKillop gleefully updated me on the old gang’s whereabouts.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Get out!”
“For a day or so he was actually my lawyer, until I brought up Elaine Wakelin.”
“Was she the girl in Grade 10 who thought she was pregnant?”
“The very one.”
“What about Wayne Dugan? What’s he up to?”
“Same old, same old. He raises livestock on his dad’s farm and is married with three or four kids.”
“Who did he marry?”
“Trudy Babich.”
“Fruity Trudy—that mean old dog? She made homely girls look like Playmate Pets. What was he thinking?”
“Apparently alcohol and a shotgun heavily influenced his decision to get hitched.”
Max began to laugh hard, to the point where he started to snort. Those sounds triggered long-suppressed memories from my youth. Prior to making this call, I wondered how Max might have changed over the years. One feature I knew would be the same—and could picture in my mind’s eye now—was his dopey smile and the way he’d tilt his head to the left as he laughed and snorted. I had witnessed this particular mannerism hundreds of times at school, the arena, the ballpark, the beach—just about anywhere we’d ever gone together during our formative years.
“Max, I’m sure we could play catch-up for hours but I got the impression your handlers keep a pretty stringent schedule when it comes to outside calls.”
Max’s