Ryan waved down a waitress. 'Monica, these gentlemen have to leave,' he said. 'Bring their bill right away, please. And add a nice tip-twenty per cent okay with you?' he asked the big man, still leaning over him like they were pals. The man nodded quickly.
Only then did I notice the man's steak knife was no longer next to his plate. The food was outstanding. Ryan wouldn't let me see a menu, just kept sending out dishes for me to sample. First what he called poor man's caviar- herring roe in oil flavoured with hot peppers. Then chilled eggplant seasoned with garlic and oregano. Tuna marinated in a lemon and black olive sauce. And finally lamb chops, Calabrian style, carefully arranged on a plate with grilled red peppers, artichokes and mushrooms.
'I spared you the octopus salad,' he grinned. 'It's an acquired taste for most people-and for a Jewish guy? I figured it might be over the top.'
Each course came with a glass of well-matched wine. The best was the Montepulciano he brought to go with the lamb. 'Life's too short to drink cheap wine,' he said.
This from a guy who used to shorten lives professionally. Hollinger probably would have broken the bottle over his head.
When dessert came-a tart that was both sweet and fiery-he brought two espressos and sat with me at the table.
'That's made with orange marmalade and a chili jam,' he said. 'We call it Devil's Tart.'
'After the owner's heart,' I grinned.
'How was everything?' he asked, his dark eyes fixing on mine. 'Honestly.'
I said, 'Mmph,' as I had just stuffed a forkful of tart into my mouth. When I could speak, I said, 'You've outdone yourself.'
'Thanks. So how come you showed up out of the blue like this? No phone call, nothing.'
'It's a long story.'
'You and your long stories. I've sat through a few before.'
I inhaled the last bite of Devil's Tart and pushed the plate to the side. 'Remember the Homicide sergeant who dropped in on me that night?' He'd remember which night: the two of us eating pizza, drinking wine and planning to murder his boss.
'Sure,' he said. 'Kate? Katie?'
'That's right. Katherine Hollinger.'
'Wait a sec. Hollinger. We had a no-show tonight. Seven o'clock for two.'
'And you're looking at one of them.'
'What happened?'
'She didn't tell me which restaurant she picked. And I didn't ask. Once we got here, it was too late. I had to tell her about us.'
'About us what?'
'Being friends.'
'And she had a prob-oh, yeah. I guess she would, being Homicide.'
'Yup.'
'Sorry, guy.'
'It's not your fault.'
'I can still be sorry. So listen,' he said, leaning in. 'There's no grief coming my way, is there? About what happened last summer?'
'She told me they've closed the books,' I said.
'Because there's no going back for me.'
'I think you're clear. I think we both are.'
'All right.'
'How's Carlo?' I asked.
'He's terrific, thanks. Cara too.'
'I'm happy for you,' I said.
'Thanks, Geller. And how's your new business, this repair shop of yours?'
'We've got a case.'
'I hope it works out better than ours did.'
'We did all right.'
'Let me rephrase it then: I hope so many bodies don't pile up.'
CHAPTER 11
I'm walking up a trail in a northern forest, a steep, narrow path lined with club pine and Labrador tea and the brilliant yellow petals of Arctic cinquefoil, opened wide to catch beads of morning dew. I walk carefully over moss- covered rocks that can turn an ankle, past trees scarred by bear claws, birches rubbed free of bark by moose antlers. Step around a nasty clump of wolf shit full of coarse white fur, probably from a meal of rabbit. I come to a fast-running stream and start across a path of stepping stones. I'm almost at the other side when the second-to- last stone gives way under my foot. I look down and it's not a stone at all but the submerged face of a man dressed in a suit. 'Watch where you're going!' he snarls and my foot slips off his face and I tip over into the freezing water. Fish bump against me. Something long and slick slides over me. I put my hand down to brace myself and it sinks into the mud and I can't pull it out. The harder I try, the deeper I sink. 'You ruined my goddamn suit,' says the underwater man. 'I'm never going to get these stains out.' And the water rises higher around me until I too am beneath the surface. I woke up with my stomach in a knot, my breath shallow. Seven in the morning and nowhere to go but into the shower, where I tried to wash away the memories of Stefano di Pietra and his miserable end in the Don River. Maybe seeing Ryan last night had brought them back.
I made coffee and took a cup out onto my balcony to look out at the city, as I did every morning. Indian summer was finally ending. The sky was overcast, the morning light weak. A wind was blowing down out of the north through the valley, leaving poplars trembling, stripping them of their remaining leaves.
I wolfed down a bagel and cheese, then grabbed my gym bag and drove a few blocks east to Carlaw Avenue and parked in back of a two-storey building with a sign that said Gym: By Appointment Only.
I had been studying and teaching shotokan karate for years. That's how I met Graham McClintock, the man who first recruited me as an investigator. But before karate, while serving in the Bar Kochba Infantry unit of the Israel Defense Forces, I had learned Krav Maga with my sergeant, Roni Galil. Krav Maga is a system of self-defence created by an Israeli army man. It is more elemental than karate, teaching you how to use your own strengths and instincts to fight off attackers. I had only recently gone back to it: it seemed more right for me now than the formal, scripted katas of shotokan. Krav Maga assumes that every situation is life-and-death, that your attacker has to be put down with maximum efficiency. It is not a sport; it will never be featured in the Olympics. The name itself means close combat: the only rule is there are no rules. Whether fighting one attacker or more, whether they are armed or not, you use everything you can, including objects at hand. You always run if you have the chance. If not, you counterattack at the earliest opening. You bite, gouge eyes, butt heads, rip testicles. You do as much damage as humanly-or inhumanly-possible.
This anonymous gym on Carlaw was run by a man named Eidan Feingold, a former Israeli and world judo champion who'd embraced Krav Maga during his own army stint. I had seen him disarm a volunteer assailant with a knife while the assailant was still thinking about where to stab him. I had seen him slap away a gun pointed at his face before the trigger could be pulled, then take the gun away and pretend to pistol-whip the attacker. He had demonstrated defences against shotguns, garrottes, machetes, anything short of a rocket-propelled grenade, and somehow I think he could deal with that too.
'Yoni,' he greeted me. 'You're too early for class. Nothing starts before nine.'
'I know. I was hoping for a little one-on-one.'
He looked at his watch and shrugged. 'Sure,' he said. 'I can give you half an hour.' He led me into a small locker room, where I changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. I put on a helmet, mouth guard, protective cup and arm and shin pads. Eidan did the same. Then he strapped my left arm tight to my body with a belt. The last time I'd
