LARCH SCANNED FOR ANYONE who looked out of place in the Uncommon Grounds café. Two baristas, one a young man with a nose ring and a shaved head, the other a redhead in her early twenties with a tattoo on her right arm, scurried between the cash register and the espresso machine. Two jittery customers waited in line, anticipating their shot of caffeine. A young couple occupied a table in the far corner, trying to catch the faint heat of the sun while they studied. He couldn’t quite make out the subjects of the textbooks on the table; probably chemistry, or maybe economics. The other dozen or so tables were empty.
He placed his carry-on bag on a chair in front of a table next to the exit, just in case. He joined the line at the cash then placed his order. He returned to his seat, nursed his drink, and never stopped watching the room. He checked his watch and waited.
One latte and a cookie later his phone vibrated.
“Yes?”
He nodded to no one in particular as he listened to a short monologue from Ash. He said, “Well done,” before clicking the phone off and slipping it back into his shirt pocket. Ash, a member of his client’s group, the Alberta Independence Movement, had flown in a biker gang member to disrupt the demonstration a few blocks down the street. Judging from the whine of a police car, its siren blaring as it streaked past the café, Ash’s agent provocateur had been successful.
A moment later, an older gentleman opened the door. He looked as if he had money to spare. He was tall, stately looking, slightly overweight, with a balding head trimmed with grey around the edges. He wore the requisite red scarf tied loosely around his neck. As he approached the cash, his eyes darted nervously around. Larch kept his eyes down, nevertheless tracking the man.
The gentleman grabbed a coffee and a copy of the Coast tabloid, stood still, and scanned the room. He noticed Larch’s carry-on bag and approached his table.
“Larch?”
Larch nodded. “Birch?”
Larch motioned for Birch to take the seat facing him. Birch sat down and placed his coffee on the table.
Larch checked his watch. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Let’s get something straight. I don’t work for you. You work for him.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“And he’s a good friend.”
“You were his supervisor, he said.”
“That’s right. He did an MBA. When I was at the University of Calgary. I’m only doing this because he asked me for a personal favour.”
“Now that we have the excuses out of the way, what can you tell me about Mr. Ritter?”
Birch handed him a small piece of paper with writing on it. “Here’s his address.”
“I know that already.”
“Have you talked with him? Did you convince him?”
“Not exactly. I didn’t have the opportunity. But I will certainly try again.”
“And you’ll contact me to confirm that he agrees to our terms?”
Larch nodded slowly. “As soon as he agrees.”
“He’s smart and stubborn, so you’ll have to spell out the benefits for him.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ve convinced many others before.”
“So Patrick said. But he’s smart. He’ll ask a lot of questions.”
There was a short silence before Larch said, “How smart?”
“He did some work in the industry before he joined the university.”
“What kind of work?”
“Consulting.”
“What does consulting work mean?”
“Writing reports.”
Larch had just met Birch and already he didn’t like him. Birch was condescending, dumbing down his answers, and leaving out useful and important details. “So that’s good preparation for being a professor?”
Birch seemed to sneer as he answered. “He’s not a professor. He’s an assistant professor. More junior.”
Larch let it slide. A professional gets the needed information. “What else does he do?”
“How should I know? Oil painting? Bird watching? Macramé? I have no idea.”
Birch wasn’t telling him anything useful. He would have to scope out the target himself before trying again. “So we’re done?”
“I don’t want to be involved. That was my deal.”
Larch stood up and walked out of the café, leaving the door to slowly squeak shut.