Road warrior, p.1
Road Warrior, page 1
ROAD WARRIOR
Copyright © 2019 Vivian Meyer
Except for the use of short passages for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced, in part or in whole, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or any information or storage retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Collective Agency (Access Copyright).
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
Road Warrior is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Holly Meyer-Dymny
eBook: tikaebooks.com
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Road warrior : a mystery / Vivian Meyer.
Names: Meyer, Vivian, 1958- author.
Series: Inanna poetry & fiction series.
Description: Series statement: Inanna poetry & fiction series
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190094532 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190094540 | ISBN 9781771336093
(softcover) | ISBN 9781771336123 (PDF) | ISBN 9781771336109 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781771336116 (Kindle)
Classification: LCC PS8626.E945 R63 2019 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Printed and bound in Canada
Inanna Publications and Education Inc.
210 Founders College, York University
4700 Keele Street, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M3J 1P3
Telephone: (416) 736-5356 Fax: (416) 736-5765
Email: inanna.publications@inanna.ca Website: www.inanna.ca
ROAD WARRIOR
a novel
Vivian Meyer
INANNA PUBLICATIONS AND EDUCATION INC.
TORONTO, CANADA
To my mother, Inge.
Your strength, keen inquiring mind, and energy give me inspiration every day.
Perfect! How fitting it is to come to consciousness in the dark, on a cold, hard floor; unable to move. It’s been frustrating enough that, for the last week, all I’ve been able to do is spin my wheels while the search for Thomas continues. Now I can’t even do that.
Sure, I’ve helped out and maybe focused the buzz in the neighbourhood while fileting fish and drinking my usual copious cups of coffee. Sure, my friends have been nice, telling me I’m so good at sleuthing, but what have I really done?
Constrained by the delicacy of the situation, all I’ve been able to do is prod the local gossips, hang out with an admittedly interesting police officer, and fill my stomach. And, now my hands really are tied.
Is it pure coincidence that I’ve been put out of commission or is this linked to Thomas’s disappearance? And, if that’s the case, what have I missed that’s led me right into this trap?
CHAPTER 1: MONDAY
THE LAST TIME I SPOKE WITH MARIA I could tell by the sound of her voice that something was wrong. Despite her reassurances, I was worried and I felt incapable of helping her from a distance. So my worry about her, plus a declining bank account balance, prompted me return to Toronto and my beloved Kensington Market.
So there I was at eight o’clock in the morning, standing out in front of Neptune’s Nook Fish Shop, my eyes as tired and red as the flight had promised, and there wasn’t a sign of life inside the building. It was way past the time Maria and her mother usually started chipping ice, creating a cold bed for the red snapper, cod, and sundry other delectable seafood that would lure in buyers. My worry quotient was going up.
On the sidewalk beside my bags were the Styrofoam boxes of fish that had been dropped off in anticipation of the shopkeeper’s arrival.
“I might as well get these inside,” I said, to no one in particular, as I bent over to move my luggage and the boxes into the shop.
Just then a pimply nosed young man clad in jeans sauntered up. “Hey! What are you doing with Maria’s stuff?” he asked demandingly.
I stood up and looked at him. He wasn’t a market regular. “I’m sorry,” I said, prickling a little. “I’m Maria’s friend, Abby. And who are you?”
“Name’s Paul,” he replied, leaning back on his heels. “I’ve been working here a coupl’a months now.” He nodded at the shop. “Maria hired me to help out.”
His voice had a bit of a twang to it. I wondered where he hailed from as he continued to clip his words.
“I used to fish … down home,” he said, volunteering the answer to my unspoken question as he jerked his head in an easterly direction. “Thought this job might work for me. The Missus mentioned you were coming back.” He looked inside and raised his eyebrows as if he had just figured it out. “She’s not here then?”
“No,” I replied and held out my hand, which he shook somewhat reluctantly. “I was going to take the stuff inside.”
He looked at me with surprise. “So, you have a key? She hasn’t given me one yet,” he grumbled, kicking the ground. “Oh well, I figure I might as well get started in there anyway.”
“Obviously, I have a key,” I said drily. “I live here, although I usually go in from the back.”
He nodded absently as I shouldered my backpack and stepped forward to open the shop. Paul began gathering up the boxes and, once the door was open, I turned around to help. We silently carried in my luggage and the fish. I wasn’t sure what to do next—go upstairs and check my apartment or help Paul with the set up in the shop. He seemed a bit detached and not overly friendly, but as he started the morning routine he looked like he knew what he was doing. Better him than me stabbing away at the solid chunk of ice, I thought, so I addressed his turned back:
“Listen Paul, I’m going to take my gear upstairs and check out my place. Then I’ll be back to see if I can help. Maybe I’ll try calling Maria too.” I wasn’t sure if he heard me, what with all the chopping noise, but it looked to me like he nodded so I grabbed my stuff and walked to the back of the shop.
Dumping most of my luggage just inside the open door to my little living room-cum-office on the main floor, I could see piles of mail on my desk waiting for me. That can wait a little longer, I thought as I closed the door and headed upstairs.
Everything else was ship-shape as I knew it would be. The clean freaks, Maria and my mother, would have had their way with it once I’d left. It was okay. I knew that even they would not touch my bikes, which were hanging neatly in a row. One went missing while I was out West, and I felt a twinge at the loss as I eyed the lonely, empty hook. Then I shook my head slightly and thought, ah well, room for one more, and I joyously ran my hands over all the others. “Oh, my beauties,” I said softly. “I’m home. I’ll do a good check on each of you soon. I bet you miss your friend,” I nodded at the empty hook, “as much as I miss Sunny.” I felt a second, slightly sharper twinge as I said his name, but then gave myself another shake as I continued to commune with my beautiful bicycles.
Sunny is a former courier turned bike-shop owner on Peregrine Island in the Strait of Georgia in British Columbia. We had shared in a little adventure there while I was on vacation, and I soon decided to settle in for a longer visit. We’d found ourselves falling into a comfortable relationship, so I stayed longer than I had expected. Even though my worry for Maria and the lure of the speed in the big city drew me back, my relationship with Sunny was the first one to ever make me take a pause and question my choices. After some time, I finally decided to go home to Toronto to see how it would feel to be away from him and the island. I also wanted some time to see how my new gig with investigating would turn out, and I truly missed the rush of couriering. Quickly surveying my little place, I realized it felt right to be home. Maria’s absence from the shop was unusual, so talking to her was my first priority, but I still couldn’t wait to get back on the road.
Maria was my idol. We have always been very different, but we’ve been friends since we were children in Little Portugal, not far from Kensington Market, in downtown Toronto. She was steadfast, beautiful, and settled—all the things I was not. It was like she was the complement to me. I could be the reckless, carefree, and speedy one as long as Maria held up the other side. She used to be the yin to my yang. She was the one with the perfect marriage to Frank, her childhood sweetheart, two wonderful children, and the nice house in Mississauga. And now what was going on? Where was she?
I was startled by the sound of a knock at the door, but relieved when it opened and there, finally, stood Maria. But she didn’t look like her old self at all. I could only take in her eyes, overly bright from recent tears, and the deep worry lines on her forehead before she rushed forward.
“Abby! You’re home!” she said, enveloping me in a big hug.
“Hey, Maria.” I returned the hug twofold, and then we held each other at arms-length. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s not like you to be late,” I said as I took a good look at her. Maria looked disheveled—for her—and then there were those worry lines.
She brushed away my comments as she pushed a loose hair from her eyes. “I’m sorry—things are a bit rushed these days. Frank’s on shift work, the kids are acting out, and mother is on holiday….”
I opened my mouth in awe. “Irene? On holiday?”
She nodded, brushing away another audacious, uncooperative curl.
“I know,” she said, smiling a little. “It is amazing, but I think she had a bit of a scare when she had a small angina attack. Believe it or not, her friends finally convinced her to go to the old country with them on a bus tour! I’m glad she went, but I am feeling her absence and the customers miss being bullied by her.”
I smiled, willing myself to believe that that was all that was wrong. I decided—uncharacteristically—not to press Maria for the moment.
“I see you have a new helper. I hope you don’t mind that I let him fend for himself down there? I was going to help if you didn’t show up….”
She smiled. “Thanks for all that,” she said, letting go of my arms and walking toward the window. “Yes, Paul is capable but doesn’t talk much. I haven’t decided if I trust him yet.” She turned and frowned. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know him, but usually I soften up faster than this.” She walked back over to me fingering one of the bikes as she looked into the distance. “One thing in his favour is that he seems good with the kids. They have only been around the shop a couple times, but Thomas has taken to him completely.”
“I remember how good you were to Anita right away, even when she was still a junkie.”
“I’m glad about that,” she said. “Anita is special. We’re lucky you found her cowering behind the store the night Dan Burnett was killed. If you hadn’t entrusted her to my care, before you figured out what really happened, she might not have survived. Anyway,” she said coming up to me and giving me one more, tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re home. Do you really have to work today? Aren’t you exhausted from your trip?”
“Yes and yes, Maria,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me. I’d better get moving; I’m behind already. I’ll take it easy today—I promise. But we have to get together to talk more soon. I’m not so sure you’ve told me everything that’s going on with you.”
Her eyes teared up and she shook her head in protest. “Not now, Abby, please. I have to work.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not going to press you now unless you want to talk. I know we’re both busy. I’m just relieved to see you.”
Maria wiped the corners of her eyes with the side of her hand. “I love you, Abby,” she said softly. “I’m so glad you’re back. She gave herself a metaphorical shake, squared her shoulders, and took on her more familiar firm expression. “Promise me you’ll be careful. You’re not riding on lazy country roads anymore.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said contritely, and then I laughed. “I’ll see you later in the day.”
As Maria headed down the stairs, I began pulling on my slightly musty courier gear, which I’d left in the old trunk beside my door. Grabbing my trusty Trek road bike, I headed down to make a quick call to the courier company and get at least my route for the morning. As I bumped my way down, I felt a shiver of excitement for a little more than the “sedate country roads” as Maria called them. Besides, there was a good chance that focusing on the traffic would keep my mind off both my faraway love and my stressed friend.
I dug up my cell phone, which I mostly only use for the courier job, and quickly texted the office. The short message back from Jan, the dispatcher read: Decided to give you a break. Go for a ride; get a coffee—as if you wouldn’t, anyway—lol. First pick up 10:00 at CBC on John Street. Front desk. Delivery address on envelope. Text back when done. Oh yeah—welcome back. Prepared for work and now liberated for an hour and a half, I decided to take the dispatcher up on her offer and steal a quick ride to get the cobwebs out and to serve as a warm-up for the day ahead.
CHAPTER 2
IT TOOK ME NO TIME TO GET BACK into the groove. Hyped, I inhaled the gloriously familiar smog during my pre-coffee “get re-acquainted with the city” ride. Peering intently through the visible fog of murky air, and feeling the thrill of speeding beside and between hundreds of idling cars, evoked a sense of place I realized I had sorely missed. I was back in my element, in downtown Toronto, happily anonymous as I sped back to my morning cappuccino haunt. High on a shortage of oxygen and a burst of adrenalin, I felt on top of the world and almost ready for my first day back at couriering.
Then I hit an open stretch of road and almost stalled in a shiver of fresh autumn air. The freshness probed at the still slightly open wound of yearning that I was choosing not to acknowledge. Fortunately, a blast of diesel and the pungent aroma of a garbage truck refocused my attention, and I was back in the thick of it on my way down Spadina Avenue towards my beloved Kensington Market.
Grinning, I turned the corner onto St. Andrew Street where Overdrive, my coffee sanctuary, came into view. Overdrive is a hangout for cyclists and locals in Kensington, and I like to think of it as my other living room. Joyfully, I locked up the Trek and bounced in to visit with my old pal, Mario, the proprietor.
“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” drawled the handsome barista. “You sure you haven’t returned from a world cruise? You look way too healthy for a courier. No, no,” he shook his head, “it couldn’t have been a cruise, you would have eaten too much of the readily available food you are so fond of and,” he looked me up and down appraisingly, “you’re looking fabulously fit my friend.”
“Hey Mario!” I ducked around the counter and gave him a big hug. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Mine are quickly becoming lovely and sore, what with my overnight flight and this land of smog. Besides, you know I’ve been out West visiting Sunny. All I did was take a bit of an extended vacation but,” I said teasingly, “I missed your coffee so much that I had to come back.”
He smiled dryly. “Yeah, Anita came by and shared the news of your adventures out there. She mentioned you shacking up with old Sunny; you lucky devil.” (Mario had harboured an unrequited lust for our mutual friend when Sunny lived in Toronto.)
“How is the old guy anyway and why, in God’s name, girl, did you come back?
“Sunny’s great,” I said with a half-smile. “The coast totally suits him and he’s even developed a western drawl. We had a fabulous time together, wrenching bikes in his shop and just mucking around otherwise.” I shook my head and grinned, “When I put it that way I guess I really must have missed your coffee, Mario. Actually, despite that little bit of heaven, I think I was getting restless.”
As Mario nodded his head, he turned to make the strong cappuccino I was dying for while I made my way back to the other side of the counter. “What puzzles me, Ab,” he said with his back turned, “is how you managed to stay away so long. We were placing bets on how long you could stand being an old married woman in the back woods.” He set my frothy java on the counter. “The first one’s on me. Welcome back.”
“I guess you’re right about the relationship part,” I smiled ruefully. “It might have been different if he could come back here but, as it is, we’ll have to mourn the absence of his handsome butt together.”
The café queue had grown as we chatted, and there were many impatient, and nosy, customers hanging on our words. I decided to be magnanimous on my first day back and not make any snippy comment about them minding their own business. Instead, I gracefully accepted my beautiful, giant capp. “Thanks bud, I’ll be back for many more as the weather gets even colder.”
“I know that, Ab. You’re good for frequent flier points,” he quipped as I left the counter and searched for a seat.
The only available chair was at a table occupied by a newspaper held in two hands, effectively hiding the person attached to them. I made a throat-clearing sound as I asked, “Is it okay for me to sit here?” The individual behind the paper must have been engrossed, as I merely received a gesture of an open hand, which I assumed to be assent. I sat and tried not to guzzle my brew while I stared blindly at the back page of the paper facing me. I wondered if perhaps the owner of the paper was just using it to avoid conversing with the riff raff. Ah well, I thought. At least I won’t have to make idle chitchat.
My chair, painted blue with yellow flowers, was part of a mish-mash of unmatched furniture packed tightly into the small seating area. The room was steamy with other couriers, pre-work folk and, perhaps, a few early risers in the drug scene in Kensington, although this wasn’t their usual haunt or time of day. The other half of the shop contained the counter with tons of baked goods, the espresso machine, a cold drink cooler, and a continuously simmering soup pot. The shelves opposite the counter were filled with freshly roasted coffee beans; the milk, cream, and sugar shelf; a selection of gourmet loose teas; and urns of plain and decaf brewed coffee for those really on the run. I sat back and sighed. I was home!
