Kaleidoscope (2 page)

Zack frowned. “I should have been there.”

“You had to be in court. How’d that go, by the way?”

“The judge kicked my ass six ways till sundown, but I took it manfully, so I think the jury’s on my side.”

“Are you going to win?”

Zack took off his jacket and loosened his tie. “Fifty-fifty. Find out tomorrow.”

“If I’d had a choice I would have been in court with you. Watching you get your ass kicked six ways till sundown would have been more fun than listening to people trying to remember me being incisive or funny.”

“But you are incisive and funny.”

“Apparently I leave it in the locker room. My colleagues were really grasping for memorable moments today.”

“They don’t know you the way I know you. Their loss.”

“Well, they did give me a great present. Follow me. It’s in the bedroom.”

The dogs loped down the hall after us. My gift was original and thoughtful – a glass kaleidoscope that the accompanying card described as “fused, kiln-textured, stained, and formed.” Whatever process had gone into its creation, the kaleidoscope was exquisite. I’d placed it on a low table by the window, where it caught the sun. Zack wheeled his chair close and picked it up. In the warm late-afternoon light the saturated colours of the glass seemed to undulate, flowing into one another with the fluidity of ocean water – now
blue, then green, gold, white, black. In gold cursive script, the artist, Linda Sutherland, had written
Security for any one of us lies in greater abundance for all of us
.

Zack read the sentence aloud.

“That line was in my dream,” I said. “I’ve used it a hundred times to finish political speeches. I guess we can take Dr. Jung off the case.” Zack held the kaleidoscope to his eye, pointed it towards the light, and turned the tube. “This actually works,” he said.

“No surprise there,” I said. “Ed Mariani chose the gift, and he knew I’d get a kick out of a kaleidoscope that I could play with.”

Zack’s eyes widened. “How did Ed get to be the gift-buyer? He’s at the School of Journalism.”

“True, but he’s had a couple of cross-appointments with our department, so he knows us. Ed figured if my colleagues in political science were left to their own devices, I’d end up with a La-Z-Boy, so he volunteered to choose a gift.”

Zack placed the kaleidoscope in its stand on the table. The rays of sun pouring in the window seemed to penetrate, swirl, and become part of the glass. Zack’s eyes were still fixed on the kaleidoscope. “There’s nothing wrong with La-Z-Boys,” he said, “but I’m glad Ed and his impeccable taste stepped in. This really is amazing.”

I put my hands on Zack’s shoulders and rested my chin on the top of his head. “Do you ever think about how lucky we are to have beauty like this in our lives?”

“Probably not often enough, but yes, I do.” Zack covered my hands with his own. “Where did that question come from?”

“Just a conversation Ed and I had after lunch.”

“Let me guess. It was about his wedding.”

“No,” I said. “It was about the anger that builds in people who never have beauty or much of anything else good in
their lives. Last semester Ed’s senior class in investigative journalism interviewed gang members in North Central about what had led them to join gangs.”

“I imagine those students had tales to tell,” Zack said dryly.

“They did,” I said. “But they also heard some provocative rumours.”

I straightened and Zack turned his chair around to face me. “Such as,” he said.

“Apparently, the students turned up credible sources that a young agitator named Riel Delorme had convinced The Warriors and The Brigade they should join forces with him to stop the Village Project.”

“Delorme – the name sounds familiar …” Zack said.

“He was one of my students. It was a while back – at least five years ago. We met a few times, talked about directions he might take for a master’s thesis. I remember he was very interested in Che Guevara. He seemed keen. Then he didn’t show up for a meeting we’d scheduled. I e-mailed him a couple of times suggesting he get in touch, but he never did. I asked around, and one of the other grad students told me Riel had dropped out.”

“Well, unless he’s a miracle worker, there’s no way he could get The Warriors and The Brigade to enter into any sort of alliance. I’ve defended some of their members. Those guys couldn’t agree on how to make a trip to the shit house.”

“Ed thinks there’s some truth in the story,” I said. “He’s not exactly a novice. He took up where his students left off and he’s been working on it for months now.”

“Then he’s lucky he’s still walking around,” Zack said. “North Central is the worst neighbourhood in the country, according to the media. Gangs like The Warriors and The Brigade are high rollers. There’s big money in drugs, prostitution, and old-fashioned robbery.”

“Ed said many of them are clearly victims of fetal alcohol syndrome,” I said. “Problems with impulse control and impaired judgment are almost guaranteed.”

The line of Zack’s mouth was grim. “Could be that. Could be they just get off on sticking knives into people. But whatever their thought processes, they are dangerous. Jo, I know how fond you are of Ed. I like him too, but he’s a gay man who’s effeminate, affluent, and not exactly in fighting trim. Easy pickings. Tell him to stay out of North Central and leave the undercover work to the cops.”

“I did tell him that. He won’t listen. Any more than you listen when I ask you to cut down on your workload.”

Zack raised his hand, palm out, in a halt sign. “Let’s park that one for the moment. What’s Ed hearing on the street?”

“The big story seems to be that the project manager who was killed on the site of the old fur factory that was being demolished was not the victim of workplace negligence.”

“So how did Danny Racette die?” Zack said.

“According to Ed, some members of The Brigade and The Warriors think Riel Delorme’s opposition to the Village Project is ineffective. They’ve defected and joined a gang called Red Rage. Ed’s sources tell him that Red Rage is really hard core. They decided that the on-site death of one of Leland Hunter’s workers was the only way to make their point.”

Zack’s body tensed. He was Leland Hunter’s lawyer. A problem for Leland was a problem for him. “So the explosives were set to go off when Racette was still sweeping the building to make sure nobody was inside? Shit. Now I really do need a shower.”

My husband’s life was high stakes and high stress – not a good combination for anybody, but particularly not for a paraplegic who’d had a health crisis just months earlier. I stroked his shoulder. “Want some company?”

“Always,” he said. “But won’t Taylor be home soon?”

“No. She and Declan are playing Ultimate Frisbee after school and then going out for pizza.”

Zack grinned. “In that case, let’s lather up.”

After we made love, Zack stretched lazily. “That never gets old, does it?”

“Every time’s an adventure,” I said.

Zack groaned. “I wish we were staying home tonight.”

“That’s my line,” I said. “You’re the party boy.”

“Tonight the party boy would like to hang up his tap shoes and stay here beside you and watch the sun go down.”

“We have a whole summer to do that. And we both like Margot.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “And it really is time you met Leland.”

“Leland’s a busy man. Peyben’s an international company. He’s always travelling, and when he’s here, he has Margot, his son, and his redevelopment project.”

Zack sighed. “And you’re still pissed off because Leland’s project put the kibosh on the plans you and Mieka had to open UpSlideDown2 in the Warehouse District.”

“Not much point in opening a community play centre when the community it was supposed to serve is being demolished,” I said.

Zack kissed my hair. “Hey, we just had some great sex. Let’s not ruin the moment. Besides, we’ve been through this a dozen times. As far as Leland’s concerned, The Village isn’t going to demolish a community. It’s going to replace a bunch of rattrap houses, abandoned warehouses, and empty factories with a model neighbourhood. You’ve seen the ads. The Village is going to be a renaissance for the downtown area.”

“A renaissance that will leave the people who live in North Central now without housing,” I said. “Zack, you
know as well as I do that they won’t be able to afford to live in the shining city.”

“Be fair, Jo,” Zack said wearily. “Overall, this will be a good thing. I’ve seen where those people live. You know that one of my current clients is a slum landlord. Cronus probably owns a third of the houses in North Central. They’re a disgrace, but Cronus takes great pride in how lucrative his hellholes are. He was trying to get me to invest in some houses on Winnipeg Street. He says the secret to turning a rental house into a moneymaker is simple – minimal repairs and maximum use of space. He showed me how he creates an extra source of income by stapling cheap insulation over what was once a living room window, then wiring in a microwave and a bar fridge and renting the room out as a suite.”

“I’ve noticed that insulation in front windows in the Core,” I said. “I didn’t realize what it was for. How does a man like Cronus sleep nights?”

“Like a baby,” Zack said. “But Leland isn’t Cronus. He really is trying to make The Village work for everybody. Peyben has made a serious attempt to recruit people from the community to do the work.”

“And six months into the project, the worker who’s shadowing the project manager is killed on the job,” I said.

Zack’s voice was even. “If Ed’s information is right, it had nothing to do with workplace negligence. The police are still investigating, but my guess is they’ll discover that Leland Hunter is not the bad guy in this.”

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“It’s hard not to,” Zack said. “He’s a straight shooter, and he’s a nice guy who loves my law partner the way I love you.”

“Truly, madly, and deeply,” I said. “Okay, I’m still not sold, but if Leland makes Margot happy, I’ll reserve judgment.”

The building where Margot and Leland lived had a history. The year before, a call girl named Cristal Avilia had been murdered in one of the two condos on the top floor. Cristal’s list of clients was gold-edged, and before we met, Zack had been one of them.

Cristal was only one of many women in Zack’s life. There had been other risky behaviours: high-stakes poker games that lasted three days, fast cars, speedboats, and heavy drinking. A friend told me Zack had lived like an eighteen-year-old with a death wish. The truth was more complex. As a paraplegic who knew his days might be numbered, Zack believed in seizing the moment.

When we met, Zack’s perspective changed. He wanted to be part of the future that included our family and me, and he was willing to do what it took to be with us for as long as possible. He cut back on his drinking, put limits on his gambling, drove within hailing distance of the speed limit, and committed himself enthusiastically to monogamy. He was a changed man, but the past always leaves debris, and there were still enough shards of Zack’s former life around to wound us both.

Cristal Avilia’s real estate dealings were complex and their legacy had endured. Not only had she owned the condo in which she lived and conducted her business, she had heeded the wise counsel of realtor clients who saw the shape the Warehouse District was assuming and advised her to purchase the renovated warehouse on Halifax Street in which it was situated. When Cristal died, her sister, Mandy, inherited the property.

Mandy worked at a beauty shop called Cut ‘n’ Curl and was content with her immaculate bungalow on a corner lot in Wadena, the small town where the Avilias had grown up. She had no interest in relocating and she had no idea how to unload a high-end property with an unsavoury history.
Luckily for Mandy, Margot Wright was a Wadena girl too, and she believed in community.

A month after Cristal’s death, Margot paid Mandy a fair price for the condo. In midsummer, the renovations on Margot’s new home were complete, and she threw a party to celebrate. Leland Hunter came with a group of friends. When the party was over, the friends left, but Leland stayed. The next morning Margot took him on a tour of the building. The owner of the only other condo on Margot’s floor had put his property up for sale the morning after Cristal’s murder. Leland had just moved back to Regina and was looking for a place to live. For both Leland and Margot, it seemed like kismet.

As a developer, Leland knew the importance of timing. He saw the potential in the area around the building on Halifax Street. There had been a civic push to reclaim the Warehouse District, and already the areas to the north and west of Leland’s building were a pleasant mix of high-end condos, trendy bars and restaurants, and specialty shops, but the areas south and east of the building were still classified as “unimproved.” Leland’s first step was to buy the building on Halifax Street. As plans for the Village Project took shape in his mind, Leland began buying the properties that stood in the project’s way.

The quickest route between our house and Leland and Margot’s place was along College to Broad down 7
^th
, but that night I took a longer path, through the narrow downtown streets with numbers for names and big-city problems. The weather had changed. The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up, whipping debris into the air. Half-naked kids, dirty and laughing, darted out from between parked cars while the adults who might have cared for them sat smoking on front stoops, laughing as the dogs they had tethered to
metal spikes by short leashes snarled and lunged impotently towards passersby.