Quid Pro Quo Page 9

  He already knew about Andy somehow—my guess was through the Immigration Resource Center. He was a big volunteer, he spoke Spanish. I could see him helping out down there. Maybe he saw her or heard about her and realized that that big-time lawyer (ha ha) was little Squeaky, all growed up. He didn’t say anything—he probably wanted to see her even less than she wanted to see him—but then the fire happened and he needed her. He needed a place to hide. Byron tracked her down. She took him in.

  The thing that stumped me for a long time was Consuela. What did she have to do with it? I went through everything I knew about her.

  She was an immigrant.

  A Spanish-speaking immigrant. That would be a connection with Byron. Maybe he was one of the few people she could talk to.

  She was a Spanish-speaking immigrant with a bandaged arm.

  Was that a burn by any chance?

  I ran into the kitchen and took another look through the freezer file. It was time to decipher Andy’s notes. What did Consuela tell her at that meeting in the park?

  I looked at the loose-leaf and realized I might never know. Andy’s handwriting was unbelievably bad. I mean, I could have written more clearly with a broken crayon stuck between my toes.

  I’d seen notes like this before. Andy used to do the same thing in class — not look at what she was writing and then get home and have no idea what the scrawl meant. I remember lots of nights trying to help her figure it all out. I guess I should be glad I had such good practice.

  I smoothed down the paper. I squinted at it. I turned it upside down. After half an hour, this was about all I could make out.

  C.R. imm. 99. Kds in Mex. Hsekpr B.C. $$$ stole Jn. BC Dprt CR?

  See DOH-NUTZ

  B.C. sd mt. No 1 hrt. K Died. C.R. wnt to B.C. B.C. sd jail. No kds.

  chapter

  thirty-three

  Menaces

  Threats of injury in order to force

  a person to give up something of value

  Have you ever had a test you forgot to study for?

  That’s what this was like.

  I stared at the words for a long time thinking, I have no idea what any of this means. I’m going to fail! But this time, instead of somebody giving me a lecture about how it’s my responsibility to know when my homework is due, somebody was going to hurt my mother.

  If they hadn’t already.

  That kind of helped me focus on the problem in front of me.

  I got practical. I tried not to think about what I didn’t know and started to concentrate on what I did know.

  DOH-NUTZ. Easy—and typical. Andy was hungry. Kind of weird, I thought, that she’d have to make a note to herself about it right in the middle of talking to Consuela, but that was Andy. Kind of weird.

  One word down, thirty-three to go.

  After a while, I realized the rest wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. Andy was just doing that thing again where she left out the vowels. I could see “kids” and what I figured was “June.” Some of the other abbreviations I recognized from Andy’s law school notes. Sd=said. Mt=empty. Imm=immigrant/immigrate. And “Dprt” had to be “deport.”

  But the thing that really hit me was “Hsekpr B.C.”

  Think about it: Hsekpr. B.C.

  Housekeeper, Bob Chisling.

  Consuela was Chisling’s housekeeper! That’s why she was there. That was the connection.

  I was so pumped now. I knew exactly how scientists must feel when they discover a cure for cancer, or the dweeb gene, or the way to keep Cocoa Puffs crispy even in milk. It was like “Yes!” I could do this. I could work this out myself. I went flying through the rest of Andy’s notes.

  C.R. imm. 99. Kds in Mex. Hsekpr B.C. $$$ stole Jn. BC Dprt CR?

  Consuela immigrated to Halifax in ’99 to work for Chisling. She left her kids in Mexico. She stole money in June. Chisling caught her and was going to have her deported.

  I skipped the doughnut thing and went on.

  B.C. sd mt. No 1 hrt. K Died. C.R. wnt to B.C. B.C. sd jail. No kds.

  Chisling said empty. No one hurt. K died. Consuela went to Chisling. Chisling said jail. No kids.

  Consuela knew Chisling set the fire! She was going to rat on him! He said, If you do, I’m going to charge you for stealing the money.

  Yes! I had it.

  No. I didn’t.

  Chisling was in Saskatchewan the night of the fire. I kept forgetting that.

  I stared at the paper again. All the words made sense now, but they didn’t add up right yet. What was I missing?

  DOH-NUTZ!

  Why didn’t I think of that before? Andy didn’t write “dnts” or “dnuts” or “donuts” or whatever little codeword she needed to remember to pick up a dozen on the way home.

  She wrote “Doh-nutz.” The name of the chain. In fact, she wrote “See Doh-nutz” in great big letters. She was talking about a legal case! Suddenly, it was all coming together.

  You know how Andy used to go crazy when I made fun of Atula’s clients. She’d give me those lectures about “how the world really works.” She had a homeless lecture (“All I’d have to do is lose my job, and we could end up on the streets ourselves. So I wouldn’t be so smart if I were you, Cyril MacIntyre.”), a crazy person lecture (“One in three Canadians ends up with a mental illness sometime in their life. It could be Atula. It could be me—or it could be you. So I wouldn’t be so smart if I were you, Cyril MacIntyre.”), and a poverty lecture (“In this country, three hundred thousand kids a month survive on food from the Food Bank. Someday, it could be three hundred thousand and one. So I wouldn’t be so smart if I were you, Cyril MacIntrye.”).

  Andy also had an immigrant lecture. That’s what came barreling back to me right then. Or at least, bits and pieces of it did. We were on our way to Tony’s Donairs for supper one night and I made some crack about that Korean guy who used to come into Atula’s. I can’t even remember what it was. Andy went nuts and started ranting away at me about parents who have to leave their kids behind so they can come to Canada and make some money just to survive. About how hard it is to live in a place where you can’t speak the language. About how easy it is to be taken advantage of. BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.

  Then she started telling a story about this guy from Afghanistan, I think, who got this job working in a Doh-Nutz shop in town here. People would come to the drive-through window and order some type of donut the store didn’t sell, say “anchovy fudge crullers” or “cauliflower danishes” or something like that. The Afghanistan guy was confused, but what did he know about donuts? The owner told him it was nothing to worry about, just hand the customers these special Doh-Nutz boxes he kept behind the counter. The Afghanistan guy was supposed to ring it in as a dozen apple fritters and put the envelope the customer gave him in the cash register.

  Anyway, one day the Afghanistan guy dropped a box by mistake and it popped open and he saw a little bag of drugs stuffed into one of the donut holes. He was going to tell the police, but the owner found out and said, “Look. You’re the guy that’s been selling the drugs. Your fingerprints are all over the box. You call the cops, and who are they going to believe? Me—a successful Canadian businessman? Or you, some immigrant just off the boat? Go ahead. Call. See if I care. They’ll send you back to rot in some Afghanistan jail so fast you won’t know what hit you.” The Afghanistan guy was too scared to do anything about it. It probably would have gone on like that for years if some new employee hadn’t accidentally donated the “Cocaine Crunch” donuts to a church tea and sale. (I wish I’d seen that.)

  That’s why Andy wrote “See DOH-NUTZ.” That’s why she told me to buy a box of donuts with “the special filling.” She was saying the same thing happened to Consuela. Somebody set her up too.

  I chewed on my hangnails while I reworked my theory.

  Okay. I knew Chisling was already in money trouble because both his construction projects got shut down. He needed to start building again. Let’s say he’d somehow fo
und out about the estoppel on the Masons’ Hall. He knew that if anything “happened” to the building, the land under it went back to him. He couldn’t help thinking it would make a lovely parking lot.

  But how was he going to get rid of it? Simple. He faked the robbery, blamed it on Consuela, then blackmailed her into burning the Hall down for him while he was conveniently out of the province.

  “B.C. sd mt. No 1 hrt. K Died. C.R. wnt to B.C. B.C. sd jail. No kds.”

  “Bob Chisling said the Hall was empty. Said no one would get hurt. Consuela did what Bob asked her. Then Karl died.” That was the Carlos Consuela and Byron were talking about in the park—and Chisling said, If you tell, you’ll go to jail for murdering him and never see your children again.

  I knew it sounded a little far-fetched, but maybe that’s why Chisling was getting away with it. He couldn’t risk burning the building down himself. He also couldn’t risk asking around until he found someone he could pay to do it for him. (What if they blabbed?)

  But what was the downside of forcing Consuela to do it? He didn’t have to pay her. She was too scared to talk. And if she was like most mothers, she’d do whatever she had to do to see her kids again.

  It was perfect—in a sick sort of way.

  I decided to ask Consuela if I was right.

  chapter

  thirty-four

  Ward of court

  A minor child under the care of a guardian

  T here were only two Chislings in the Halifax phone book One who lived on Artz Street, just around the corner from us (I was willing to bet that wasn’t Big Bob), and one on Bloomingdale Terrace.

  La-di-dah.

  That sounded just like the kind of place he’d live.

  I thought for a second about heading over on my skateboard and knocking on the door, but I couldn’t do that. Bob knew my face, and I didn’t think he’d be too happy to see it again.

  I decided to call Consuela on the phone instead. I know that sounds kind of stupid because she didn’t speak much English, and I didn’t speak Spanish, but I thought of a way around it—I hoped.

  I knew a few Spanish words from Bonanza Burrito commercials (and Speedy Gonzales cartoons, of course. Who says watching TV is a waste of time?). She knew Byron and Andy’s names. And she had to know where Citadel Hill is. (It’s this big giant fort right in the middle of town. Everybody knows where Citadel Hill is.)

  So this is what I was going to say (and I was going to say it really, really slowly): “Byron… Andy… Manana… Citadel Hill… Que hora es? Uno.”

  I knew “manana” meant “tomorrow,” and I really, really hoped that “Que hora es?” meant “What time is it?” and not “How hot do you like your Bonanza Burrito?” “Uno” had to mean “one.” What else could it mean?

  If everything went right, I’d be meeting her the next day at the Citadel at one o’clock. I figured that would give me enough time to find a good Spanish-English dictionary.

  I called the phone number and put on this really cheesy accent. “A-lo. I woulda lika to speaka to Consuela Rodriguez.”

  A woman who sounded Spanish answered the phone. “I’m sorry but Consuela ees no long-air hhhere.”

  I sort of knew she’d say that even before she said it.

  “Canna youa tell me wherea she issa?”

  “Consuela went hhhhome to May-hi-co three days ago.”

  “Doa you know when she’lla be back?”

  “Her leetle girl ees bery seek. Señor Cheesling said Consuela will not come back.”

  I bet he did.

  “I am the new hhhhousekeepair. May I hhhhelp you please?”

  Not unless you have commando training.

  “Noa thank you.”

  I hung up the phone. It hit me that everyone who suspected that Chisling was behind the Masons’ Hall fire had conveniently disappeared.

  Everyone, that is, except me.

  This was getting scarier all the time.

  I suddenly felt like bawling, just bawling my eyes out. It had been almost three days since I saw Andy, and it was getting harder and harder to believe I’d ever see her again. Part of me just wanted to call the police.

  And I should have.

  I know that now.

  But I just couldn’t.

  I was scared for Andy, but I was even scareder for myself. What if my current theory was wrong and Andy was up to something criminal? She left me a message. She could have told me to call the cops. She could have at least hinted. She didn’t. Maybe she didn’t want anyone finding her.

  But what if my theory was right and Chisling had kidnapped her? I knew the answer to that. She was probably dead already. Why would he keep her around?

  My mother was a criminal, or my mother was dead. Either way, I’d be put in foster care. I knew a kid that happened to. He had two nice foster mothers and four rotten ones in three years. I couldn’t stand that. I’m only a year younger than Andy was when she started living on the streets. If worst came to worst, I could do it too.

  I only sort of believed that. I picked up Andy’s keys lying on the table and looked at them. They were the last connection I had with her. I imagined her opening the door with them. I imagined her scratching her head with them. I imagined them in that old green coat of hers, going shopping with her, going to court with her, heading off to the movies with her… I was clearly losing it. I was jealous of a set of keys.

  I threw them back on the table, and that’s when I noticed it. Andy had this ugly pink key chain that you could put a picture in.

  The picture she chose, of course, was my grade five school photo, the goofy one that caught me right at the height of my Beaver Boy days (honest to God, my teeth were so big I looked like I was chewing on a piano keyboard). Anyway, when I threw down the keys, I noticed that the picture wasn’t there.

  Then I looked again. The hair on my arms sprang up like toothbrush bristles.

  The picture was there. It was just flipped over. Andy had written something on the back.

  I’M OK. BIRCHY H. LOVE U. LOVE U. LOVE U.

  chapter

  thirty-five

  “Vi et armis” (Latin)

  With force and arms

  I spent the night getting ready. I tried to think what I needed.

  A knife?

  A crowbar?

  A cat-o’-nine-tails?

  Oh, geech. I’d clearly played too many violent video games during my formative years. Like, who did I think I was? A hit man? I wouldn’t even make a decent hit boy. I was just some scrawny kid who had to find his mother.

  Or what was left of her.

  I wasn’t going to bother with any of that stuff. I just took the walkie-talkies that came with my old spy kit. I made sure the batteries were okay and then stuffed them in my jacket. I took the $58.72 from the Player’s Tobacco tin and put it in my pocket with the last of the Oreos. (I’m a regular commando, eh? Packing a snack for recess. You’d think I’d be embarrassed to admit it.)

  As soon as it was open, I stopped at Toulany’s for a couple of bottles of pop and then headed off to the Commons. It was Saturday. I knew Kendall would be there early, before the bowl got too crowded. He wasn’t a knife or a crowbar, but he could help. Better still, he would help. He was that kind of guy.

  I knew I shouldn’t have asked him, but I had to. I couldn’t do it on my own.

  I was too scared. I wanted someone to come with me. I told myself if anything went wrong, if we had to do something we shouldn’t, he was still under eighteen and would be tried in Youth Court. Maybe the judge would be easy on him. That made me feel not quite so bad for asking.

  He’d just stepped on his board and was getting ready to roll into the bowl when I saw him. I yelled, “Hey, Kendall!” I guess I screamed a little louder than I meant to because he gave me this crazy look and then did something I never thought I’d see Kendall Rankin do.

  He fell.

  Like “Smash!” right on this big concrete curb.

  I gave him a bottle
of pop to put on his swollen eye and some more-or-less clean Kleenex to stop the blood where the tooth came out. Then I told him all about Andy and Byron and Consuela and Big Bob Chisling. It took me a long time to explain everything, and Kendall kept looking up at me like, “So where’s the punch line?” After a while—around the time I got to the part about the Haliburton Building—I could tell he’d stopped expecting me to break into a Daffy Duck impression. He realized I was telling the truth.

  When I finished, he just said, “How are we going to get there?” I didn’t even have to ask.

  He let this kid he barely knew borrow his skateboard for the day, and we went to find a cab.

  Kendall probably should have changed his T-shirt or at least wiped the blood off because none of the taxi drivers lined up in front of the mall would take us. I even showed them the money. Counted it out for them. Held it up to the light so they could see it was genuine. No one would go for it.

  I could sort of understand. A kid who looks about eleven and a six-foot thug impersonator with a black eye and a lip swelled up like an Italian sausage probably aren’t your ideal passengers—but still! It wasn’t fair. I had the money. Geez. What else did they want?

  I was getting frantic. I tried to talk some sense into this one driver, but he just kept yammering right over me, “I don’t care. I ain’t gonna take ya. I ain’t gonna take ya. I ain’t gonna take ya …”

  That’s when I heard someone say, “I’ll take you, Cyril. Where would you like to go?”

  I turned around and saw Atula coming out of the mall. Could I have picked a worse time to run into her?

  I was going to lie and say we were going to the movies or something, but Big Mouth Taxi Driver went, “You’ll be sorry, lady. They want to go all the jeezly way out to Birchy Head!”

  “And so I shall take them!” Atula said, all uppity. She made it very clear that she didn’t approve of him not driving us just because of our age and appearance. I was half ready for her to announce that she would forthwith sue him for discrimination under Section Something Something Something of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms.