Date with a Sheesha (5 page)

“Well, you shouldn’t have been,” Anthony informed me.

I was surprised. I was expecting a lecture on how dangerous it would be for me to travel in a part of the world infamous for its abysmal treatment of gay people.

“If people stopped going places they weren’t wanted,”

Anthony told me with a tone of approval, “I dare say some of the greatest social and political achievements of the last several decades would not be ours to enjoy today. And I’m not just talking about gay people: I’m talking about people of all races, colours, and lifestyles. This is how we free ourselves, Russell. We take baby steps. Some are less safe than others. Some are judged to be not the most intelligent thing to do at the time. Some even appear to have no effect at all. But they do, Puppy, they do.

“And you, my dear Russell, are one of the most intelligent people I know. You understand precautionary measures. You know how to keep yourself out of trouble…no wait…that’s someone else—”

That counted for a smirk.

“You know what I mean, Russell. Of course I’ll be worried for you when you’re there, but no more than I worry about any of my loved ones when they travel to unfamiliar foreign countries. It’s only natural.

“All that aside, my boy,” he expounded with a wave, as if to 32

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shoo away any unpleasantness, “what a fantastic opportunity for you to see a part of the world that is nothing short of extraordinary. Some of the most significant civilizations of antiquity rose and fell in the Middle East, you know. It’s the birthplace of Judaism, Christianity, Islam. And the cities. Oh my. What magnificent cities, surrounded by those splendid sand dunes. And, Russell, what of that achingly handsome Peter O’Toole in
Lawrence of Arabia
? Don’t you love him? My god, the crush I had on that man.”

I smiled at my friend’s enthusiasm. “Does Jared know about your thing with Peter?”

Jared is Anthony’s husband. Together, they are what you call

“men about town.” Everyone knows them and they know everyone. No event on Saskatoon’s social calendar is complete without them, and the coolest people fight for invitations to the gorgeous, extravagant parties they host in their own fabulous penthouse.

Jared was once a successful international model. Now, along with my boyfriend, Ethan Ash, he runs Ash House, a care home for the swinging senior set.

“He does,” Anthony admitted. “But he deals with it.”

“Have either of you been to Dubai?” Between stock buying trips for Anthony’s stores and Jared’s former career, the two have been almost everywhere. “I could use some tips on what to expect.”

“Expect the unexpected,” he said and sipped. “Expect glitz, glam, glorious architecture. Dubai is truly over the top. I think of it as the Middle East version of Las Vegas-slash-Disneyland—of course without the gambling and drinking and that pesky mouse.”

“No drinking?” Alarming.

“Of course you can drink.”

Phew.

“You can do pretty much whatever you want. Just not officially, and not outside the tourist zones. But in Dubai, almost everywhere is a tourist zone.

“If you’re looking for an authentic cultural experience, however, I must warn you, this is not the place to go. Dubai is manu-33

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factured culture. I imagine Sheikh Mohammed—or Sheikh Mo as he’s come to be known—woke up one day, wondered what to do with all his ka-billions in oil profits, dreamt up what a fairy-tale Arabian city would look like, and then built it. It’s exaggerated, drop dead gorgeous, flamboyant, must-be-seen, but in the end, it’s as made up as Dolly Parton.

“More importantly, the shopping. Puppy, it is simply inde-scribable. Ever hear of DSF?”

I shook my head.

“The Dubai Shopping Festival. Yes, they actually have a festival for shopping. How can you not adore a city with a shopping festival? Outrageous and wonderful all at once.”

Anthony was right. This was not quite what I expected. Like everyone else, I’d seen the pictures distributed through mass Internet mailings and on YouTube: the tallest building in the world; the residential islands that look like giant palm trees or replicas of the world; the exquisite hotels. But certainly, that wasn’t the real Dubai, the modern-day Middle East. Or was it?

“And if all that doesn’t convince you to jump on the next plane heading east,” Anthony added after a genteel tipple of his drink, “you do remember that Sereena is in Egypt, don’t you?”

I jolted upright in my bistro chair. My knees knocked the table, nearly sending the half-full Chianti bottle into my lap. I’d forgotten. In the same way as Anthony and Jared are men-about-town, my next door neighbour, Sereena Orion Smith, is a woman-of-the-world. She’s someone who wears mystery like perfume. Her past is elusive and fantastical, filled with tales of madcap adventures that just might be true. Her greatest feat is to have survived. Just barely. Now somewhere north of middle age, Sereena continues to trek into the worldly wilds of the rich and famous every now and again, but in between she seems quite content to live a quiet life in Saskatoon. Well, quiet in an indisputably Sereena way. It was fitting that she was in Egypt. I had no difficulty imagining her as a modern-day Cleopatra. Except without the lands to rule. And fewer asps.

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“Where exactly is she?” I asked, trying to recall my high school geography lessons concerning a part of the world I knew shamefully little about.

“Near Luxor, I believe,” Anthony told me. “No doubt redecorating one of those dusty old temples. Some of them have fallen into shameful states of disrepair, I’ve heard tell.”

I chuckled. “Well, if memory serves, that’s on a whole other continent.”

“True,” Anthony agreed. “But close enough. You know, just in case you need a cup of sugar or some such thing.”

“Sad as I am to leave this lovely resort,” I said, “I really need to get back to the office, do some travel research.” I tossed back the last of my wine.

“Of course,” Anthony said, pushing back from the table. “I’ll see you to the door. I have a few things I’ve put together for you to take home.”

I gave my friend a look. I’d long since stopped resisting his never-ending ambition to get me to dress like “any self-respecting gay detective should.” It was because of Anthony that my closet at home was filled with the current fashion season’s best designer wear. Much of it was black, and to me, looked pretty much like last season’s best designer wear. One black shirt and one black sweater looked just like the next. One particular pair of black pants however, I must admit, had no match.

My wonderpants. Black. A bit stretchy. Made my ass look great. Always fit, no matter how many slices of pizza I’d shovelled down my pie-hole the night before. And they never went out of style. It didn’t matter what Anthony sent home with me in his eagerness to get me to wear something other than my WPs. When push came to shove, and I was in a bind, they were my official pant of choice.

As we descended the grand staircase that led to the store’s ground floor, Anthony surveyed his kingdom. He seemed pleased. Indeed, the Dereks were busy, either entertaining customers or attending to primping and fluffing and re-folding the merchandise to its best advantage.

“Anthony,” I asked, as he yanked a pearly white sweater off a 35

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display shelf, mumbling something about my “absolutely need-ing” it. “Do you know anything about a young man named Neil Gupta? You might also know him as Nayan Gupta.” Although no one had ever given him a crown or anything, Anthony is the undisputed King of Gays in Saskatoon. If anyone could find out about my client’s deceased gay son, and in a hurry, it would be him.

“Hmmmm, sounds vaguely familiar,” he murmured, as he helped me on with my coat, and thrust two bags of clothing into my kid-gloved hands. “Let me do some shoulder-tapping.” He kissed both my cheeks in farewell. “I’ll get back to you.”

And then I re-entered the deep freeze we affectionately call outside.

Not far from
gatt
, just out of downtown on Spadina Crescent, is my office. Russell Quant, Private Investigator, does business from a small space on the second floor of an old character house overlooking Riverside Park, and beyond it, the South Saskatchewan River. The building’s owner, Errall Strane, runs her one-lawyer practice out of the largest suite on the main floor, the balance of which is rented to Beverly Chaney, a psychiatrist. Two smaller offices on the second floor belong to Alberta Lougheed, a psychic, and me. A varied group of tenants to say the least.

I parked the Babamobile in the back parking lot next to a fancy sports car—Errall’s—a mellow family car—Beverly’s—and a jaunty-looking junker—Alberta’s. Entering through the back door took me right into the kitchen where I knew I could score fresh coffee (to clear my red-wine-head) and, if I was lucky, a scone or muffin. I poured myself a cup of caffeine and mentally assessed the status of my jeans’ waistband while eying up today’s selection of Beverly’s homemade pastry.

“Russell, I knew I’d find you in here.”

Ta Da! The amazing Alberta, everyone!

Our resident psychic did not wear clothes. She wore costumes.

Normal, everyday work outfits were just too dull for her, I guess.

I stood back and shielded my eyes as I was confronted with a yel-36

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low jumpsuit so bright even Tweety Bird would have returned it for something a little less garish. Beneath the jumpsuit Alberta had chosen a comparatively sedate silk shirt dotted with lemons, cherries, oranges, and apples. It was the slot machine of blouses.

Her heels were pink patent leather, matching the band around the fire-engine red fedora perched at a sprightly angle over her left eye. She certainly knew how to brighten a dull winter day.

“Do you know if there’s a difference between a muffin and a cupcake?” she asked as she selected a Black Bottom cupcake (or muffin).

“Is that why you were looking for me?”

“In part. Where are you off to?”

I must admit to some skepticism about the whole psychic thing. Yet time and again, Alberta astounds me by knowing things she really shouldn’t. Errall insists that psychics are simply people who’ve made it their profession to become experts at reading other people, assessing body language, zeroing in on non-verbal cues, that sort of thing. I looked down at myself to see if I was displaying any I’m-going-to-the-Middle-East–type, telltale signs.

Was there camel hair on my coat lapel? Coucous on my breath?

Fear of being kidnapped by Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves in my eyes?

“Actually, I did just accept an out-of-town assignment.”

“And you’re planning on asking Errall to take care of Barbra and Brutus while you’re away?”

Barbra and Brutus are my dogs, two of the best-looking schnauzers in all of dogdom.

“I always ask Errall to look after them when I’m away for more than a day or two.” Otherwise I ask Sereena to look in on them. She’s right next door, so it’s convenient. But any longer than forty-eight hours just doesn’t work for her and her ever-changing schedule.

“I’ve wondered, Russell…”

Duck!

“…why you never ask me to look after Barbra and Brutus?”

Suddenly it had gotten very hot. I put down my coffee and slipped off my jacket. Good stalling technique while I considered 37

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my answer. I certainly couldn’t tell her that to do so would cause me to fear for my pet’s lives. Not that Alberta would abuse them or forget to feed them or intentionally cause them pain in any way. It’s just that no one—man or beast—could spend any large amount of time with Alberta without somehow being altered. For instance, how long could you stare at her bright yellow outfit without starting to see those little bursts of light like when a camera flashes in your face? And Barbra and Brutus need exercise, something which Alberta is resolutely against. The only part of the body that requires exercise, she maintains, is the brain.

Instead, I could imagine her reading their fortunes and auras, while teaching them yoga and how to chant, doggie style. Oh no no no. I just didn’t want any of this for my pooches. I liked them just the way they were.

“Well, I’d love to,” I started out, keeping a careful eye on the length of my nose. “Thanks for the offer. But if you remember, Brutus used to live with Errall once upon a time. He knows her house and likes it there. I like to keep him and his sister together in one place when I’m away. Besides, I know she doesn’t show it, but I think Errall enjoys the company.”

Alberta stared at me. Suddenly I remembered the time my mother asked me if I’d eaten the saskatoon berry pie she’d left to cool in the basement pantry. My head shook no, while my purple tongue said, oh yeah, of course I did. Would Alberta see my purple tongue? Could one successfully lie to a psychic? But this wasn’t a complete lie. The part about Errall was all true. I had a chance here.

“That makes sense,” Alberta said, turning away.

Pent-up air escaped my lips.

“But you should know,” her voice sailed back into the kitchen over her retreating yellow shoulder. “Yoga is very healthy for dogs.”

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Chapter 3