Malabarista Page 3

  Lane gave her his cell number and Lori’s at work. “She knows how to get a hold of me, even when no one else can.”

  “Your appointment is a week from tomorrow at three o’clock.” She gave Lane detailed directions and advice on where to park.

  It’s right next door to Fibre’s office, he thought.

  “Any other questions?” Anne asked.

  “What do I tell Arthur?” Lane asked.

  “That Dr. Dugay is well-respected. That your family doctor insisted that Arthur be taken in right away. That we’ll see the two of you a week from tomorrow at three.”

  “Thank you,” Lane said.

  Anne hung up.

  Lane looked at the three pairs of eyes waiting to hear the news, so he repeated Anne’s message word for word.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 17

  chapter 3

  Lane looked at his watch. Seven o’clock on the dot. I need a coffee.

  He leaned against the wall about three metres from Dr. Keeler’s office door. He said to be here no later than seven. It’s locked; maybe I’ve got time to go to Fourth Street and pick up a mochaccino.

  A key rattled on the other side of the lock. The door opened, and the doctor’s massive head, with its black eyebrows, heavily lined forehead, broad nose, and white hair, appeared. “There you are!”

  Keeler held the door open as Lane walked in, then locked it behind them. He grabbed a file from the counter and waved for Lane to follow him to an examination room. “We’ll get you weighed first.”

  After Lane weighed in, Keeler took his blood pressure. “How’s Arthur?” the doctor asked.

  “In a state of shock like the rest of us.”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  “That’s about all I do. Sleep and work.” Lane felt the squeeze of the expanding blood pressure band on his arm.

  “How about your appetite?” Keeler put his stethoscope on the inside of Lane’s elbow.

  What appetite?

  Keeler peeled off the armband. “Well?”

  Lane shrugged. “Food tastes like paste.”

  “Look.” Keeler checked Lane’s fingernails then watched his eyes. “We both know why you’re here. Arthur phoned Mavis because he’s worried about you, and she got you in first thing this morning.”

  Lane nodded.

  “Arthur thinks you’re depressed. By the look of you and the amount of weight you’ve lost, I tend to agree. Have you been thinking about suicide?”

  Lane shrugged.

  “I want you to see a psychiatrist, and I’d like to prescribe medication.” Keeler wrote Lane a prescription. “Take one a day. After three weeks, see me again, and we’ll see if it’s necessary to up the dosage.”

  Lane took the prescription.

  “Will you see a psychiatrist or psychologist? I can recommend a couple.” Keeler crossed his arms.

  “What do you think?” Lane asked.

  “Arthur gave us a name he got from a friend of yours. She’s a very good choice. We’ll send you to the psychiatrist, then.” Keeler wrote a name on a piece of paper and looked at Lane.

  “Yes?” Lane asked.

  “The indications are that Arthur’s breast cancer is treatable. I’ve sent him to one of the best surgeons in North America. Even so, you’re going to have to take care of yourself and be there for Arthur and the kids. If you have any questions, you call. Are we clear?”

  Lane nodded.

  “Mavis will call the psychiatrist and book an appointment for you.” Keeler shook Lane’s hand.

  Ten minutes later, Lane sat in a coffee shop on Fourth Street. He watched the rush hour traffic — four-wheeled, two-wheeled, and two-legged — as it paraded past. His mind traveled back in time as he remembered Arthur’s sister. How the cancer ate away at her until she was practically a skeleton, with Holocaust eyes.

  “Mochaccino. Extra large. Extra hot!”

  Lane got up, picked up his coffee, and sat back down. I’ve got a couple of minutes, he thought just as his phone rang. Lane set his coffee down and reached for the cell. “Hello?”

  “Lane? It’s Lori.”

  “You’re at work early.” It’s funny how cheerful I can sound when I’m supposed to be depressed.

  “Just got a call from the deputy chief’s office.”

  Lane looked out the window as a police cruiser passed, with its flashing lights painting the inside of the coffee shop in shades of red and blue.

  “The deputy chief wants to see you Monday morning at eight o’clock instead of this morning.” Lori paused. “You got that?”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks.” Lane was about to hang up.

  “Lane, wait! There’s more.”

  “Okay — give it to me.”

  Lane pulled into a parking lot framed by a rectangle of shops. He parked in front of a business no more than three metres wide. The JELENA’S ALTERATIONS sign on the window was half a metre high and went the width of the glass. He closed the Chev’s door and stretched. Through the open front door, he could see Jelena taking cash from a smiling young woman holding a wedding gown wrapped in clear plastic. Lane waited for the young woman to edge her way out the open door. She was careful not to allow the dress to drag on the ground or touch the doorframe.

  He stepped inside.

  “Detective!” Jelena crossed her arms.

  Three women worked on sewing machines lining one wall at the back of the shop. Lane recognized a mixture of fear, anger, and curiosity on their faces as he stood across from Jelena, who leaned against the cash register. She wants me to get the message that this is her turf, Lane thought.

  “You have more questions for me?” Jelena pushed the cash register closed.

  Her implication is clear. She’s showing the others I can’t be trusted. “We’ve been doing some research on the name Borislav Goran.”

  Jelena glanced at the clock on the wall, then addressed the woman working at the first sewing machine. “Rasima! I’m for coffee.” She grabbed a pack of cigarettes and led Lane out the door. “Coffee?”

  Lane nodded then followed as she crossed the parking lot. She lit a cigarette. Lane kept to her right in order to avoid the cloud of exhaled smoke trailing behind her. “Where are we going?”

  Jelena pointed her cigarette at a sub shop tucked between an ice cream shop and a furniture store. When they reached the sub shop, Lane opened the door, but Jelena sat down outside at a picnic table squatting on a tongue of grass jutting out into the pavement. “Tell Jordan that Jelena wants a coffee.”

  Lane stepped inside. Jordan was around twenty-five, blonde, with an athletic build.

  “What would you like? I already know what Jelena wants — black coffee.” Jordan smiled from behind a counter of meats, cheeses, and vegetables.

  Lane looked at the coffee menu posted above the espresso machine. Jordan’s specialty was a double shot of espresso, chocolate, caramel, and fresh cream. “I’ll have the special,” Lane said.

  “Large?”

  Lane nodded and looked over his shoulder at Jelena, who watched him through the window with her hunter’s eyes while taking a drag from her cigarette.

  “She’s tough, but she‘s had no choice, in case you’re wondering,” Jordan said as he poured cream and chocolate milk into a metal cup with a thermometer hooked inside the lip.

  Lane watched Jordan move with practiced efficiency as he measured coffee grounds for the espresso machine. “You know her well?”

  “I opened my business at the same time she started over there. Gradually, we got to know one another. I send customers to her, and she does the same for me. She keeps her business going, takes care of herself and her daughter. Single mom making it work — you know the story.”

  “Sort of,” Lane said.

  “Her husband left about a year ago. He used to work the cash register in the shop when he was able.” Jordan steamed the chocolate milk and cream.

  “When he was able?”

  “Alcoholic.” Jordan poured the espresso into t
he milk and cream. Then he added a shot of caramel and put Lane’s special on the counter. Jordan poured coffee from a carafe into a second cup. Lane handed over a twenty. Jordan made change. “Jelena came here after the war. She started over, raises a daughter, runs a business, and does it on her own. It hasn’t been easy for her.”

  “Thanks.” Lane took the change, tucked it into his pocket, and took the drinks outside.

  Jelena stabbed her cigarette into an overfull ashtray and took her coffee. She closed her eyes when she tasted it. “Jordan makes good coffee.”

  Lane sipped his. I have to agree.

  “What you want?” Jelena asked.

  “Who’s Borislav Goran?” Lane watched her eyes.

  She looked through the window at Jordan. “Died in the war.”

  “He looks a lot like your husband,” Lane said.

  “Borislav was Andelko’s cousin. We called him Bo. He liked that nickname.” Jelena continued to look away.

  “What did you and Andelko fight about before he left?”

  She looked directly at Lane. “He drank too much. I got tired of it.”

  “Did he drink because of the war?”

  Jelena reached for another cigarette. She lit it, inhaled, and blew her smoke away from the table. “Andelko saw a man downtown, at Eau Claire.”

  Lane waited. Her answers sound rehearsed.

  “A juggler. It was on a weekend. Andelko saw the juggler, came home, got drunk, and we started to fight.” She drank the last of her coffee.

  “What was this juggler to Andelko?” Lane asked.

  “Andelko said the juggler was going to kill him. He kept saying the juggler’s name was Mladen.”

  “I need to find out all I can about Borislav Goran. Apparently he died in the war.” Lane set a cup of lemon tea in front of Lori.

  “So, give a girl a cup of tea and she’ll do your work for you?” Lori smiled, ready for some verbal fencing.

  “We both know you’re the computer genius, and I’m hopeless at it. I need to know what’s available on Borislav Goran and Andelko Branimir. Today I was told that Goran was a cousin of Branimir. If possible, that fact needs to be verified.”

  Lori leaned forward in her chair. She cocked her head to the left. Lane moved closer.

  “Something’s up. I don’t know for sure what it is, but the deputy chief called Harper in. They met for most of the morning. Whatever it is, the whole building is buzzing with rumours.” Lori leaned back in her chair.

  Lane sat down in a wooden armchair. He sipped his cup of coffee. Guess that means I’ll be out of a job come Monday. He shrugged. “I’ve got this case to solve.”

  “And you’ve got Arthur to worry about.”

  Lane tried to smile. “We see the surgeon in a week.”

  Gregory stepped into the office. He was wearing a white shirt and tie. His belly was a muffin top hanging over a black leather belt. He glared at Lane. “You getting paid to sit around?”

  Stockwell followed Gregory into the office. He was wearing the high black boots and the jodhpurs of a motorcycle cop. He put his hands on his hips and looked down on Lane. “It’s what the good detective does best — sits on his ass and drinks coffee.” Stockwell’s close-shaved head shone like Gregory’s.

  Gregory went into his office, followed by Stockwell, who closed the door.

  Lori said, “Charming pair of assholes.”

  “Eau Claire? What time?” Christine asked.

  They sat around the dinner table. Roz had her nose at Christine’s elbow.

  “Please stop feeding her from the table,” Lane said.

  Christine pointed her fork at Matt. “How was work at the golf course today?”

  “Same old, same old. Bunkers and mowers.” Matt speared a piece of chicken and sawed at it with his knife. His arms and face were a Mediterranean brown.

  “At least you’re getting a nice tan,” Arthur said.

  Lane spotted Christine as she took a piece of chicken from her plate and dropped her hand under the table. “Stop that!” Lane said.

  “What?” Christine smiled innocently back at him. She blinked several times.

  Lane shook his head.

  Christine shrugged. “Roz likes chicken. When do you go to Eau Claire?”

  “It’s something I have to do for work.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow your day off?” Arthur asked.

  “Why don’t we all go?” Christine asked.

  “Good idea.” Arthur cut a slice of chicken and added blueberries.

  Good, blueberries are antioxidants, Lane thought.

  “I’ve got the afternoon off,” Matt said.

  Anything to get away from here so we can think about something besides Arthur’s cancer.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 18

  chapter 4

  “You need to be at work this early?” Matt climbed to the top of the stairs. He wore his heavy khaki-coloured denim work pants and tan golf shirt.

  Shit, Lane thought, I forgot he gets up early to work for a few hours at the golf course. “Couldn’t sleep. Want a cup of coffee?” Lane slid his chair back.

  “I’ll get it.” Matt reached into the fridge for chocolate milk. He poured it into a cup, and set it in the microwave.

  “What are you doing?” Lane asked.

  “I heat up the chocolate for forty-five seconds, then add coffee. Try it.” Matt pulled the cup out of the microwave, filled the cup with coffee, and sipped.

  “Want me to make you some breakfast?” Lane looked into his half-empty cup.

  “It’s Saturday. I buy breakfast at the snack shack on Saturdays.” He sat down beside Lane at the table.

  Lane looked out the window. When kids get older, they get a life of their own. The belly of an overcast sky was purple with a hint of pink. “Is Christine driving the beer cart today?”

  “Tomorrow. There’s some kind of tournament going on.” Matt hesitated. “Uncle?”

  Something in Matt’s tone warned Lane he was about to say something important.

  “What’s going to happen to Uncle Arthur?” Matt looked out the window.

  “All I can tell you is I think it will be okay. Everybody says I’m depressed, but I think it will all work out fine,” Lane said. Matt must think I’m crazy, Lane thought as he sat in the driver’s seat at a red light. He looked to his left.

  The female passenger in the adjacent pickup truck looked down and smiled. Her hair was blonde, her full lips were red, and she was smoking a cigar.

  Lane smiled back. I’m talking to myself. The doctor is right, I do need a shrink. That’s on the to-do list, right after Arthur beating cancer and finding out who killed Andelko Branimir.

  The light turned green. The pickup roared ahead, leaving behind a cloud of diesel smoke. Lane changed lanes before turning left. Towering condos and hotels gathered along the south side of the Bow River around an upscale enclave called Eau Claire. It was the area of the water park, the bridge to Princess Island, and the concourse in between that Lane was headed for.

  He parked the car in front of a hotel across the street from a restaurant that had, at one time, been home to a lumber mill. It was ten in the morning and the sun was forcing its way through the clouds, promising a rare warm, summery day. Glad I didn’t wear a sports jacket, Lane thought as his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. “Hello.”

  “Where are you?” Christine asked.

  “Eau Claire, looking for street performers.” Lane looked around at the people on bicycles and rollerblades weaving around the walkers and joggers and wheelchairs.

  “We’re coming too.” Christine hung up.

  At the wading pool, kids aimed water guns at one another. Adults dressed in shorts or rolled-up pants were bent over, holding the arms of toddlers who splashed the water with their feet.

  A trumpet blasted a saucy salsa tune. Lane looked toward the source of the sound. The trumpet player leaned on one crutch. He wore a red T-shirt, shoes, and shorts. His red cap was turned backwards.


  “It’s Leo,” Lane said under his breath.

  The Latino music turned heads. A pair of toddlers began to dance. Lane smiled at their natural grace and total lack of self-consciousness.

  Lane spotted a juggler. He was taller than Leo, but close to the same weight. He was black-haired, and wore a white loose-fitting shirt and knee-length shorts. He began to juggle four knives. The sun flashed on the metal blades as each knife spun to the top of its arc before falling back into the man’s hand, only to be launched again into the sky. The knives and the juggler moved to the trumpeter’s beat.

  Soon the music stopped. The knives fell. The juggler caught them neatly and stashed them in his equipment bag. He looked around at the crowd. “I need a young assistant.”

  Parents looked at one another. Children waited for the music to start up again so they could dance. A teenaged brother pushed his little sister — she was about five and wore a blue jumper and running shoes — out into the open. Lane noted the butterfly painted on her face.

  The juggler bent down to her. She whispered something to him. “This is Katie, my new assistant!” He walked her to the edge of the crowd. “Show your appreciation for Katie!”

  Katie’s brother stood and encouraged the crowd to clap and cheer. Leo played a tune that sounded like it belonged at a bullfight. Katie smiled and walked a little taller.

  The juggler bent over his bag and pulled out a sword. “Katie?”

  She looked up at him. Leo played louder, faster. Now it was the music of a warrior.

  “Would you hold this for me?” The juggler handed her the sword. “Here, with two hands.” He showed her how to hold the sword so that it was at a right angle to the ground. Then he turned, reached into his bag, and pulled out a basketball. He spun it on his finger as he walked around Katie. He spun the ball one last time and placed it on the tip of the sword before bowing to Katie and backing away.

  She stood there for a full thirty seconds with the ball spinning and the crowd cheering. The ball fell off. The juggler caught it after the first bounce. “Everyone! I give you Katie!”

  Leo blasted notes of triumph from his trumpet. Katie handed the sword to the juggler and walked to join her brother, who put a proud arm around her shoulder.