I slipped Jasmine’s number into my pants pocket and hopped off the bar stool, jarring my knees and creating a few new stars in my brain.
“Going somewhere?” The bartender plunked the check in front of me.
“Hang on until I speak to Chelsea.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Right.” I reached into my backpack for my cash card and came up empty.
He raised an eyebrow.
I patted my pockets.
He curled his upper lip.
I said, “It’s in here somewhere.”
He crossed his arms.
Pockets, no luck. It didn’t help that my head was spinning.
“I can’t imagine what happened to my card,” I said. That must have been a familiar tune, because the bartender had slipped around the bar and neatly blocked my exit. I patted my pockets again. Thinking back to the last time I’d had the card.
Maisie’s.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember if I’d picked it up after I’d paid for my dessert. No. The card must still be back on the cash at Maisie’s. And Maisie’s was probably closed.
I could still see Chelsea through the window of Legal Beagle. She was engaged in an animated conversation on her cellphone. She gestured toward Legal Beagle. Most likely making her excuses to the boyfriend and placing the blame on me. If I’d had any money left, I’d have bet she didn’t mention her recent windfall.
If I could get to Chelsea fast enough, maybe I could “borrow” a bit of Laura’s cash back, write her an IOU and repay her the next day, considering most of the tab was for her vodka shooters. Dealing with Chelsea would be easier than making an arrangement with this particular bartender. My luck held. Someone called to him, and he turned his head long enough for me to sidle away from the bar.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, Chelsea was gone. I peered up and down the street. No green tips anywhere.
Maisie’s was my only choice. I hightailed it up the road, turning to see if the bartender was in pursuit. I hoped to find someone still at Maisie’s, collect the card, get to an ATM, return and pay my tab, before the bartender called the cops.
The telephone poles were doubling and threatening to triple. The street lights shimmered. They were all kind of pretty in an unnerving way.
I made my way with caution, occasionally putting my hand on a wall to steady myself. I suppose passers-by thought I was just another drunk, but that was the least of my problems.
I clutched the box of photos under my arm. I sat on the curb for a while, watching out of the corner of my eye for unsavoury late-night types who might see me as prey. People left me alone. Looking drunk probably helped. I struggled up the stairs to Maisie’s without falling over. I banged on the locked door. No answer. I pressed my nose to the glass.
I shouted. “Please open up. I forgot my cash card.”
No one came. Something told me those shadows in the back of the restaurant were people who could damn well hear me but wouldn’t come to the door. But that could have been the concussion talking.
I raised my voice. “I know goddam well you are in there.”
Nothing.
“As long as you have my card, I’ll keep hammering.”
Ten minutes later, I added sore knuckles to my list of ailments. This no longer seemed to be the best use of my time.
“I’ll be back,” I yelled. “You can’t steal cards and get away with it.” Fine words from someone who’d skipped out on a bar bill.
I slunk down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. At least in the crisp late night air, I could think better. I was way too dizzy for a forty-five minute walk. But I did have people to rely on.
Mrs. Parnell is reliable, willing and never sleeps. But she didn’t answer her phone or her cell. Ditto Alvin. Probably off kicking up their heels to celebrate their flight. My sisters would send their husbands in a heartbeat, but I didn’t want to wait an hour for them to get into town. Or get dragged back to the cottage.
P. J. must have been prowling the city looking for doomed cats or something. I left him a message with my whereabouts in the hope he’d get the call soon. But I could hear sirens wailing towards Hull, so that was bad news. P.J. would probably be checking out whatever had stimulated the sirens.
I could have called the cops, since the Maisie’s people had my card illegally, but I knew damn well they wouldn’t take it seriously.
Elaine didn’t answer her phone. I left a message saying where I was and what had happened.
I even thought about calling Youssef, but cabs require cash.
So I was stuck.
In the end, I called Leonard Mombourquette. I had nothing to lose.
Maybe Mombourquette was tending to his tiny, perfect garden in the moonlight. He didn’t pick up.
It was getting harder to stand up straight, so I plunked myself on the curb again. I left a detailed message for Mombourquette. I may have exaggerated the seriousness of my predicament. But only slightly.
I was sure he wouldn’t want my death on his conscience, in addition to his other troubles.
There are worse things than sitting on a curb for twenty minutes while everyone parties around you on what is supposed to be the best weekend of the year. But at that moment, I couldn’t actually think of any of them.
I stared at the shimmering people and buildings, fiddled with my cellphone and tried to figure out a better course of action. I found myself mesmerized by the minarets on the sign of the Turkish restaurant across from me. They reminded me of something.
What?
The minarets did a subtle yet elegant belly dance. Interesting culture, I thought.
But what was I trying to remember?
Something.
Oh, yes.
A name.
A place name. Turkish.
Istanbul?
That was the name of the restaurant? Something like it.
What did that remind me of?
Stop the swirling, I’m dizzy.
I know I know I know what it is.
Constantinople!
In the excitement of remembering, I let down my guard. I felt myself propelled forward into the late-night traffic. I lay on the road, stunned. Hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled. Or were they pushing? I did my best to fight them off. The last thing I remembered was yelling out Constantinople again. A lovely light show played in my head, rivalling the Canada Day fireworks, but much, much closer to home.
I heard the faraway blare of horns and the screech of brakes.