Chapter Thirty-One
She lay there for a little while. Despite the uneven terrain of buttons and seams pressing into her skin, she didn’t want to move. Not a muscle. It had been a long time since she felt this good.
Gus sat up against the headboard. “Mind if I smoke?”
“God no.”
He reached into his nightstand and pulled out a glass ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. A moment later, lazy grey tendrils made their way toward the ceiling.
“One of these days, I’ll get around to quitting.”
“Took my dad a few runs at it,” Dame said. “I think he mostly stopped so I wouldn’t nag him anymore.”
“I wish someone had made my dad quit,” Gus said.
“Is that how —?” Dame stopped herself from asking the question.
“Pretty much,” he answered anyway. “He’d had this cough for a while, but no one thought much of it. By the time he went to the doctor, it was stage four lung cancer. Couple months later he was gone.”
“A couple months?”
“Just a few days shy of my sixteenth birthday.”
“That’s awful.”
“I was at school when it happened, so I never really got to — you know.” Gus took another drag. “They called me down to the office, and I knew. I was pretty messed up for a while. Did a lot of stupid stuff. God” — he shook his head — “my poor mom. I was so angry at her. Just for being alive when he wasn’t.”
Dame was quiet for a moment. “My mom was killed in a hit and run when I was eleven.”
“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”
“They never caught the guy who did it. Some people — well, my dad mostly — thought it was intentional. Apparently, the car didn’t even stop.”
Dame pulled the blanket up a little. All of a sudden, she felt very cold.
“You okay?” Gus put his arm around her.
“Yeah.” She smiled. “I mean, no. It’s never okay, is it?”
Gus shook his head. “But, why would anyone want to …?” It was his turn to leave a question unfinished.
“I don’t know. My mom was smart. Really smart. And kind of a badass. She worked for the Toronto Star and wrote lots of controversial op-ed stuff.” Dame sat up. “She did this exposé on Conrad Black, once. Apparently, he called her a ‘left-wing rabble rouser’ on The National. She was always in the middle of one controversy or another. I think maybe she was onto something — something big — before she died.”
“So, you think it was political?”
She sighed. “I don’t know what I think anymore. I just miss her.”
“Is she the one that came up with the name ‘Dame’?”
“No, that was my dad. He likes all those old detective movies. ‘I knew the dame was trouble when she walked in’ — that kind of thing. I think Rosie was still woozy from the epidural when she agreed to that one.”
“I figured it was just a nickname.”
“Nope. A name like mine kind of guarantees you never get a nickname.”
“My dad always called me by my full name — Augustus.”
“Augustus Morrow. Very fancy.”
“No one really calls me that, now.”
“Not even your mom?”
Gus grinned. “My mom always called me ‘Goose.’”
“Goose?” Dame cackled. “Like the guy who dies in Top Gun? I am definitely going to call you that from now on.”
“Please don’t.”
“Oh, Goose, could you tell me what time it is?”
Gus shook his head.
“Goose, could you get me something to drink? I’m a little thirsty.”
“Okay.” Gus stood up. “If I make you another drink, will you stop calling me that?”
“I’ll consider it …” she lowered her voice, “Goose.”
Dame watched his naked form leave the room. She fell asleep before he came back.
Dame’s cucumber costume might’ve made for a particularly embarrassing walk of shame that morning, but luckily, Gus was a good guy. He didn’t hurry her out. Made her some huevos rancheros. Even dropped her off right outside her door.
“Did you want to come in for a bit?” Dame asked, as his truck idled on the street.
“Can’t today,” he said, “but next time for sure, okay?”
When she got inside her apartment, she slid her camera bag off her shoulder and dialled her landlord. Ray’s phone went straight to voicemail.
“I’ve got something,” she said in her message. “Give me a call.”
Dame took the camera out of its case and rewound the film. She popped open the back cover and dug out the yellow cylinder inside. She tossed it in the air and caught it in her fist.
Granted, the pictures of Aki and Howlett were misleading, but Ray would have enough evidence to accuse Aki of adultery, and Dame would be able to keep the apartment. It didn’t feel good, but investigation work — Dame reminded herself — rarely did.
After a quick shower, Dame got dressed, pocketed the film, and headed out into the world. There was a little privately owned place her father used to use to get film developed. Dame hoped that in this age of digital photography and chain stores, it was still in business.
She hung a left on Queen and walked a few blocks when she noticed a familiar woman wandering out of a nail salon.
Fuck. It was Rachel Suarez.
Dame hunched her shoulders, kept her eyes on the sidewalk, and prayed Rachel wouldn’t notice her as she walked past. These prayers, like so many others, were not answered.
“Hey!” Rachel called out in her syrupy sweet voice.
Dame kept walking.
“Hey,” the voice continued, “hey, come on. Hold up for just a second.”
Dame started walking faster.
“Okay, fine. I’ll walk with you.” Rachel caught up and kept pace beside her. “And don’t think for a minute about running away, again. I’ve got spin lessons three days a week, and my instructor? Alphonse? He says I’ve got the best speed and endurance in the group. He thinks I should be in his advanced class.”
“Are you fucking him, too?” Dame asked through gritted teeth.
“Alphonse?” Rachel smiled. “Are you kidding? Besides, I’m still a bit of a mess down there. I still pee when I laugh sometimes. Happens to a lot of new moms, apparently.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, for sure. I had to wear an adult diaper for three weeks after I had Luka.”
Luka. Adam had campaigned for that name, but it just reminded Dame of the depressing Suzanne Vega song. Now she would find the name depressing in a whole new way.
“Shouldn’t you be looking after Luka, now?” Dame kept her legs moving, but she was starting to feel a little winded. Rachel seemed perfectly content at their current speed.
“He’s with my brother. I just needed a little alone time.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you from that.”
Rachel frowned. “Look, Dame. We should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“You can’t just avoid me all the time.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s a pretty big city.”
“We were friends, Dame. Good friends. You looked out for me in high school. You were like a big sister to me.”
“Yeah, and you repaid me by fucking my husband.”
“Oh, so what?” Rachel said.
Dame stopped, flabbergasted. “So what? You ruined my life and that’s all you’ve got to say? ‘So what’?”
Rachel shrugged. “You were going to leave him, anyway.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“He told me, Dame. How you two were barely speaking. How you wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him.”
“But that was just —”
“You blamed him when you couldn’t get pregnant. You thought it was his fault.”
“That’s not true at all.”
They stood there, facing off in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians moving around them.
“Seems like maybe we do have something to talk about,” Rachel said. “How about you give me a call sometime. My number hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah, but unfortunately” — Dame saw an opening in the traffic and jogged out into the street — “neither have you.”