LITMIR.BIZ

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daughter, Rosanne.

      “Bellesy,” she said. “Haven’t seen you since the school year started. I hope I haven’t come at a bad time. Mom said you would let me on the computer.”

      Relieved that the clear speech seemed to discount possibilities of a pierced tongue, Belle got up. “Sure, Rosanne. I’m finished. Just don’t access the hard drive or use the mouse as a foot pedal,” she joked, peering at the pencil drafts the girl carried. “Early Christian Burial and the Catacombs?”

      It was for a course on the history of education, Rosanne explained. “Our prof, such a cool guy, told us that since the subject was dead meat, all that Dewey and Maritain and Whitehead, that we could do our term paper on anything we wanted. I’m going to be a social studies teacher, but I have a gruesome side.”

      “Really?” Belle whispered as she watched the girl log on. Suddenly a neuron twanged across into a distant connection. “You took your degree at Shield, right?”

      “Yep, graduated two years ago, but it took me that long to make teacher’s college. The quotas are ruthless.”

      “Did you know Eva Schilling?”

      “Well, sure. Not too many of us crazy history majors.” She tapped away furiously.

      “What happened to her? She dropped out, I heard.”

      Rosanne shrugged. “Who knows? You could say she was the new star of the department, scholarships coming out the . . . uh, ears. Some found her stuck-up, but, like, she just didn’t seem to have a life beyond that dumb island and the library. We asked her to parties, but she always had to get a ride with her brother. Can you believe? Then in her second year she did a fade-out at midterms. No sign of the babe again.”

      “Pressure?”

      “It’s schizy to have straight As going. That’s why I avoid it at all costs.” She flashed an impish smile at Miriam. “Anyway, if she weren’t in school, why would she want to stay on that island? Could be she’s working out of town. In the States, maybe. Wish I could get one of those pretty green cards.”

      “Cheap cigarettes and liquor would be your ruin, Rosanne. But don’t panic. Wal-Mart has arrived. Say, could she have married an American? There must be some Yanks at Shield.”

      “UN-likely. She was more like a nun or a saint, if you get my drift.” A chime sounded from the courthouse. “Hey, two o’clock. I’d better get my buns in gear. Thanks, Belle. And I won’t save or anything. Just work it up and print.” Unwrapping an entire pack of sugar-free gum and wadding it into her mouth like loading a flexible cannon, she bent to her task. Belle whiffed cinnamon all the way to her van.

      Tripping over a rubber taco toy as she entered her house inspired dinner: hamburger fried with chili powder, garlic and tomato juice, topped by Monterey Jack, all nested in crispy corn tortillas. When her charred taste buds had recovered sufficiently to permit clear speech, she called Derek Santanen.

      “You gave me a hand when I needed it, Belle. That’s why I’m being dead honest with you. I don’t have nothing more to do with the trade, no old friends, nothing,” he sighed elaborately. “I can’t tell you what’s coming down now, just the action before I was busted. Prob’ly all changed. They don’t do nothing in the same place twice. Security.” He spoke like a proud professional.

      “Well, where was a good spot to deal then, pal-o-mine?”

      “Hardy har-har. Like I told you last time, my buys use’ to be at the Paramount.” Chomping and slurping sounds followed this information. Belle wrenched the phone from her ear and inspected the receiver. “On Brewster Street?” she asked next. The rotten end of the downtown core. Winos, small fry drug dealers, and those with newspaper in their boots who with the price of a few beers fell into drunken brawls and an occasional murder—if the victim landed in a snowbank at thirty below and couldn’t crawl to a warm place. Every big city and some small ones had their Brewster. The only time the place really stirred into life was the day the welfare cheques arrived.

      “You want I should take you down there? Kind of a bodyguard like?” he offered generously.

      “That might spoil the effect, Derek, but thanks anyway.”

      “Maybe, but lock your car doors. Hey, remember Brooks? He mentioned you last time I did some tune-up work at the Beaverdam. You didn’t go looking after them machines I told you about, did you? Were you bugging him?”

      “Why? What did he say?” Belle felt a frisson of warning.

      “Nothing much. Just asked if I knew this nosy babe. Described you pretty well.” He snorted a dubious compliment. Then his voice grew serious, nearly brotherly. “Stay away from him, Belle. Guy’s a coward, and that’s the worst. Gimme a crazy anytime. Least you’re allus on your guard.”

      Belle thanked him for the crunchy concern and headed to her closet, sorting through a collage of clothes she hadn’t worn since Rod Steiger had played a pawnbroker. What outfit would raise the fewest eyebrows at the Paramount? She chose a costume of circulation-cutting wheat jeans, a green silk peasant blouse, short leather jacket too small for her expanded winter body and fake armadillo cowboy boots optimistically purchased for the Calgary Stampede. “Sorry, guys,” she apologized as she shoehorned them onto spreading feet spoiled by years of cushy runners. “You’re not getting any younger.” As an afterthought, she dug out the wig her mother had bought for her unsuccessful rounds of chemo. It was tasteful, neatly short-cut in dark brown curls for a soft, vulnerable look. As a final touch, she unearthed some makeup from vainer days and applied powdery blue eye shadow and a bronze lipstick, tucking them into a small handbag which usually held her coin collection. A final whiff of Chanel 22 followed her shivering body to the van. The boots were cold and stiff. Why did people dress this way in the North?

      The van rolled along next to the railroad tracks which bisected the city, past a grim strip of soup kitchens and cheque-cashing places: a pawn shop’s beckoning golden balls, a few greasy spoons with the cheapest breakfast outside Vegas and second-hand furniture stores with shabby rooms upstairs. Too cold for the roaches, though. She flinched as a freight chuffed by. When the transcontinental rail traffic pulled into Sudbury, this lowlife panorama greeted the passengers as they sipped daiquiris inside the insulated windows of the club car, or so a national magazine article had said. The town fathers had rumbled and frothed, countering that Sudbury had just made the top twenty best cities in Canada. But they couldn’t very well drag the tourists from their seats and limo them around to the postcard spots.

      Belle hesitated at leaving her precious van in this neighbourhood, relaxing only when she remembered the comprehensive coverage on her insurance policy. With steely determination she clumped to the door of the Paramount, passing three chubby Harleys parked out front. Bluestocking days still left one door reading “Gentlemen” and the other, “Ladie’s and Escorts”. No grammarians need apply, but inside all was one. Beery fumes and raucous country wails greeted her along with smoky drifts of conversation and the occasional click of ivory rounds across a baize table. Large hairy males, tattoos undulating to the music, cigarette packs stuffed into their T-shirt arms, lifted bottles around a video game. Gang members? A few years ago a riot between rival clubs had made the national news.

      She plowed through the layers of haze to order a Scotch and soda, although she knew her stomach might rebel. Only bar brands, but hoping a few of Derek’s reliable Paws might quell indigestion, she munched from a large bag, rationing them carefully, treasuring the sensation of perfect crunch, salt and cheese. About twenty feet away, a horseshoe runway with a tape deck featured what the sign outside euphemistically called “Montreal Table Dancers”. Most rare traces of Canadian exotica seemed to emanate from that colourful city. Watching the two women, one young and faintly pretty, the other a stretch-marked pro, called up an ironic comparison: “The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” Pretty snide, Belle, she thought. These women were making a hard-won living shaking their worn gilt tassels instead of collecting welfare. Two pot-bellied men on furlough from their wives tucked bills into the bikini underpants gyrating in their steamy faces, hooting and elbowing

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