UNEASY LIES
UNEASY LIES
by
Eve Zaremba
CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Zaremba, Eve
Uneasy lies
ISBN 0-929005-17-1
I Title.
PS8599.A74U54 1990 C813’.54 C90-095066-8
PR9199.3.Z37U54 1990
Second Story Press gratefully acknowledges the assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.
Copyright© Eve Zaremba 1990
Printed and Bound in Canada
Published by
SECOND STORY PRESS
760 Bathurst Street
Toronto Canada M5S 2R6
For Ottie
and The Carnivores
ALICE SAYS I’M A LOUSY PASSENGER and she’s right. But this time I felt justified. My cabbie didn’t know his way. This Metro Toronto taxi driver had apparently never been north of Highway 401. And there’s a lot of city north of the 401. Much of it goes by the name of North York, but that doesn’t fool anyone. It’s still Toronto. As it was, I had to sit in the cab, watching the back of his neck, listening to him mutter, “Braemore, Baymore, Braemount …”
There are few of life’s minor inconveniences more annoying than being driven round in circles by an incompetent with dandruff.
“It’s Braymount. B-R-A-Y-M-O-U-N-T,” I told him for the tenth time.
It did not help that I wasn’t sure I really wanted to get to our destination. By the time we finally found the unlisted street in the brand new development and drove up the freshly paved semicircular drive leading to the bulky up-to-the-minute tower, which reared up over fancy glass doors, I would rather have been some other place.
Twenty-eight hundred Braymount Avenue would be better known to readers of the real estate pages as “DIAMOND PLAZA TOWERS, Exclusive Condominium Residences for the Discriminating. Phase I sold out. Priority registration for Phase II: Inquire Sales Office at 883–1111.” At the edge of the property, a large tastefully lettered sign listed all the wonderful people who were making big money building, designing, financing, marketing, and managing this latest in Toronto’s condominiums — for which we should all be duly grateful.
The recently landscaped grounds fronting the Towers didn’t help my mood. They had all the rustic charm of a diagram in a landscaping manual. You could just about see the ruled lines, the pencil shadings. Not a blade of grass out of place; not a twig an inch longer than plans called for. Horizontal junipers here, pyramid yews there; foundation planting with weeping mulberry; the ubiquitous dogwoods, forsythia, and decorative dwarf trees in one corner, young shade trees in another. A fountain, and something I am sure they call a gazebo, to make it formal. And of course a few strategically placed limestone rocks torn out of the Niagara Escarpment, for that touch of class. All set down with military precision, and surrounded by fancy decorative wrought-iron fencing. Nature kept under perfect control at all times and not allowed to run wild, upsetting the discriminating owners of these exclusive residences.
I walked past the row of intercom buzzers, coyly coded with numbers instead of names, and pushed the second set of double doors. A buzzer sounded; the doors swung open automatically. Inside more “no surprises.” A cavernous lobby, complete with chandeliers and maroon carpet. More maroon on a wall hanging, with an indistinct diamond pattern picked out in brown. Leather couch and armchairs on which nobody would ever relax, glass coffee tables which would never see a coffee cup. Set to one side was the pièce de résistance of every luxury-condo lobby — a large security desk. A U-shaped counter, with a double bank of video monitors overlooking an impressive control panel with more switches, buttons, and lights than a 757 cockpit.
And this was to be mine, all mine for six glorious weeks! I could hardly wait.
A pleasant-faced security guard in a maroon blazer with a diamond-shaped DP embroidered on the pocket directed me to the administration office. There, a secretarial type in mufti showed me the door to the manager’s office. And inside was Clare Harwood, sitting behind a utilitarian desk, chewing her nails.
“Hi, Helen! Glad you made it. I was afraid you would change your mind,” Clare greeted me effusively. She was a short, energetic Anglo, with carefully arranged hair, dressed in a businesslike shirtwaist dress of bright blue. No maroon in her office …
“I said I would come and so here I am. Against my better judgement, mind you … I guess you talked me into it.”
I was being ungracious and knew it. Clare was too happy and relieved to see me to notice.
“You’ll be glad you agreed, just wait and see. Consider it a vacation with pay. A snap of a job for you, for someone with your experience. And you’ll be doing me a great favour. I appreciate this, really I do. I don’t know what I would have done if we hadn’t met at the Common yesterday. Real lucky break. And you being free and all! Solves all my problems, and helps you, too. Come on, Helen, admit it!”
“Well, I guess. It’ll keep me out of pool halls, anyway. I was getting squirrelly just hanging around this town. Don’t much like not having anything to do and no place of my own to do it in. Now that I am here, let’s get on with this. You want me to sub for your house dick, right? Six weeks, a thousand dollars per, plus car and apartment. Sounds like money for old rope, all right. What’s the catch? Your house dick will be away for six weeks? Kind of long for a vacation. How come you need a replacement at such short notice? Fill me in. You got problems?”
“House dick! What an idea! Head of security, please, Helen!” Clare laughed. “He’s got a family emergency, and since it’s in India he was allowed six weeks unpaid leave of absence. And the problem? The problem is that I’ll be away for the first three weeks of the six. And Wayne, that’s the assistant manager, is only twenty-five. I cannot leave him alone, to cover for both me and Nicky.”
The picture was becoming clearer. I was being hired to babysit.
“Nicky who?”
“Nikhil Das. Head of security. He’s Indian, East Indian I mean. Naturally we call him Nicky. He will show you around presently. We’re very proud of our security system. State of the art, you know.”
“Bully for you! Okay, so he’ll show me all the bells and whistles. What else do you want from me? What else should I know?”
“Well, you must meet Wayne Tillion, like I said, he’s the assistant manager. This is his first responsible job. He’s keen and bright. So be nice. Don’t come on too heavy with him. Remember, he’s just a kid. He will sub for me and you’ll sub for Nicky and, with luck, no big problem will crop up while I am away. Just keep everything at status quo …”
Clare went on to tell me what she thought I needed to know. Names, places, routines, no-no’s, forms, keys. I listened with half an ear, on automatic pilot, thinking about my previous encounters with Clare Harwood.
Some dozen years before, Clare and I had had a brief encounter of the lustful kind. She had come out with someone she’d met at the Michigan Women’s Music Festival, and there had been no stopping her after that. She was young and ardent and I was experienced and available. It had been nice while it lasted but it hadn’t lasted long. When it was over, we parted friends. As I recalled, at the time she had just left her husband — or he had left her — and was alone with two young kids, little money, few skills, and no prospects.
Now, years later, here she was sitting behind a desk in a room with Manager on the door, hiring me to look after her boy-assistant.
I guess I should have stayed in Alice’s little sublet near Spadina and College. Or at least not allowed myself to be conned into coming here. Sitting at the Women’s Common the night before, trying to decide whether to stay and have another drink or go somewhere else and have another drink, I had found Clare a welcome distraction. Cashing in on our status as ex-lovers, no matter how fleeting and distant in time, she moved in to schmooze. Got me to admit that I was at loose ends in Toronto, only hanging around because Alice Caplan was here trying to break into Toronto’s theatre scene.
Clare immediately offered to buy me another drink — she herself still didn’t indulge — and probed for more about Alice. By then my moment of weakness was over and I clammed up on her. So she went on to ask whether I wanted a job. Just for six weeks, good pay, no sweat. I was tired of walking the streets and staring at the apartment walls, waiting for Alice to get back from some rehearsal or other. So I said yes, I’ll do it, I’ll solve your problem, I’ll come to Diamond Plaza Towers, I’ll take the job … Now that I wished I hadn’t, it was too late.
Reluctantly I switched back to what Clare was saying.
“You’d better see Wayne first, before Nicky takes you around. Just so he doesn’t have any reason to feel slighted.”
I wondered about this kid assistant manager who had to be handled with such care.
Clare picked up the phone and, a few moments later, in walked Wayne Tillion, an unexceptional-looking young man whose most salient feature was a prominent Adam’s apple. He was neatly dressed in an uninspired but well-pressed suit and looked quite grown-up, as I was relieved to note. Clare introduced me — “Wayne, this is Helen Keremos, she’ll be taking Nicky’s place while he’s away” — and went on to explain my status at Diamond Plaza Towers, using more words than were strictly necessary.
Tillion managed to do a fair job of hiding his dismay once my role had been made clear. But a shock it was, nonetheless. The sudden appearance of a middle-aged lady dick, when probably he had expected to run the place alone during Clare’s absence, was not welcome at all, at all.
“Tough break, my man,” I said, but only to myself.
Clare continued to wax managerial while Wayne Tillion and I shook hands and took each other’s measure. On eye contact it was silently established that the next tussle between us would wait until Clare had left, so he and I could square off without having to take her into account. The situation had possibilities.
“I am sure Wayne and I will get along just fine,” I lied through my teeth. “Now, better get Mr. Das to brief me on this state-of-the-art security setup of yours. And I’d like to see the apartment I am getting …”
“Ah, yes, I am afraid that will be Nicky’s apartment, he’s agreed you can use it while he’s away. We don’t really have any staff apartments other than the head of security. It’s on the second floor, quite nice, cleaners come in twice a week, I am sure you’ll like it. After all, it’s only for six weeks,” Clare said, all in one breath. From one sublet to another, I thought with resignation. “And a car, of course you’ll have the use of Nicky’s company vehicle. A Ford,” Clare continued.
“An Escort, to be exact.” Wayne looked pleased to be able to provide this detail. I bet he didn’t drive an Escort. He looked like a Firebird man to me.
“Ford Escort will be fine. Wheels are wheels.” I said, refusing to prolong this encounter.
Clare reached for the phone again. Wayne excused himself and I waited for the man whose job, apartment, and automobile I was to take over for the next six weeks.
NIKHIL “NICKY” DAS, HEAD OF SECURITY of Diamond Plaza Towers, was a stocky man in his forties who spoke upper-class British English with a slight Anglo-Indian accent. He wore grey slacks, well-shined shoes, a tweed jacket, and what looked liked a regimental tie. He was professional, unhurried, and courteous. A man to be reckoned with.
Sitting in his tiny office off the lobby, just around the corner from the main security desk, we talked first about his job.
The much vaunted state-of-the-art security turned out to be the standard garden variety system sold expensively to any number of condominium developments. It featured an outside alarm, which on being tripped took over the phone line and signalled the main security desk plus the nearest police station. I asked about false alarms. About two per week were standard, Nicky told me, smiling. “Nothing but a nuisance.”
Then there were the mandatory video cameras in all public areas and exits: in the elevators, the roof, at each emergency exit, underground garage, doors into the health complex, in the entrance to tennis and squash courts, swimming pool, change rooms. All together sixty-four cameras, some running full time and some motion activated, with sixteen monitors at the main security station, that is the desk in the lobby, each covering four locations. Plus one master monitor, which could be switched to any input, right there in the office where we sat.
“We have two staff on duty at all times, at least one must stay at the desk. They are supposed to check visitors in and out, help residents, answer questions, take deliveries, watch for strangers hanging about … and watch sixteen of these little grey video monitors. Have you spent any time looking at these things? Sends you cross-eyed and dulls the mind. After a while you don’t know what you’re seeing, if anything,” Das told me.
“But no condo development would be complete without them.”
“Exactly. Plus, there is a fire alarm system hard-wired into all this, smoke detectors, temperature monitors, utility system breakdown detectors, vibration and sound discriminators — God knows what else.”
“How much of this do you think is really necessary in a security sense?” I asked finally.
“Very little. Helen, I’11 be frank. This isn’t a high crime area. The only real problem spot might be the underground garage. And there are simpler ways of handling that. Of course a good fire alarm system is necessary, but apart from that, realistically, all we need is a couple of smart concierge types who know their job — which is primarily to service the residents. That is all. I don’t think a place like this needs a live-in head of security with a staff which is trained in security and not service. That makes a difference, as you are well aware. And we certainly don’t require a couple of hundred thousand dollars worth of gadgets. But people expect all this and are willing to pay for it. So it’s supplied.”
“What’s the appeal?” I probed.
“Well, I call it the world-class syndrome. People in cities like Toronto are prone to it. You have to act as if under constant siege, otherwise how will you be sure you are big time?”
We laughed together. Bright guy this Nicky Das, I thought as we left his office to see in action all this expensive technology and the staff who ran it.
In short order I met the security personnel on duty: Selena Amos and Raphael Clementi, with their neat maroon blazers, professional coolness, and bored eyes. On our way down to inspect the garage we ran across Sam Feng, the security supervisor. Das made the introductions. As his second in command, Feng would continue to run the operation, staff scheduling and routine details of the system. He didn’t make any particular impression on me at the time, but since he did all the real work, meeting him did leave me wondering just what my role was to be.
Phase I of Diamond Plaza Towers had only been completed six months previously. All the suites had been sold, presold in fact, but not all were currently occupied. We walked past the elevators, down the short flight of stairs, and through the fire door to the basement, with Das pointing out cameras which constantly monitored this, the most vulnerable area.
The garage area smelled new, of concrete and paint, rather than gas fumes and spilled oil, as it would very soon. Nicky Das led me past the fifty or so automobiles parked in well-marked spaces along the concrete walls. He had given me a numbered list of garage spaces, with all cars by model and licence cross-referenced to names and apartment numbers of residents. In the office we had already examined a master list of residents, with these data in reverse. Automatically I was registering information which my conscious mind did not see as of much importance. Any job, even a routine six-week locum, was more interesting when done well. There was no harm in getting to know whom and what I had been hired to serve and protect.
In spite of all the hype, DP Towers was not full of millionaires. Just people managing to get by on eighty thousand dollars or so a year. Types and models of cars, not to mention their vanity plates, are a dead give-away of the status of any residential development. At Diamond Plaza Towers about half the cars were upscale Japanese sedans in neutral shades, totally indistinquishable from each other. Who can tell a Legend from a Legacy; who wants to? Among them lurked a few much polished BMW’s and Audis, a number of North American minivans, woody station wagons and full-sized sedans, one Suzuki Sidekick, one beat-up Olds, a couple of sporty muscle cars, noses to the ground and tails in the air, a lone Thunderbird, and a SAAB, (Turbo, of course). All sadly predictable and dull.
The only anomalies seemed to be a rusty Dakota pickup on the downscale side, and on the upscale a handsome white Jaguar XJS with blue interior. Next to the Jaguar stood the only convertible in the bunch; a white Chrysler LeBaron with red interior. Something drew my attention to the licence plates: “FLOSSS” ordered the Jaguar’s, “FLOSSY” said the convertible’s.
“I guess dentists have to have their fun, too,” I said to Das, out of curiosity looking down the list. With no surprise I found that both the Jag and the little rag top belonged to Suite 1609, to Dr. Melhior Romulu and Ms. Eleena DeMoulard respectively. Das grimaced and said, “It’s all quite amusing, I dare say. Dr. Romulu is indeed a dentist and the young lady is … a friend of his. They occupy a double suite, are well mannered, and give no trouble.”
Short and not too sweet. The hint of disapproval in his voice was barely noticeable. In his own way, Nikhil Das was a snob. I promised myself to find out more about Melhior and Eleena — what juicy names — and perhaps make an effort to meet them. It would help pass the time at Diamond Plaza, time of which I was sure I would have more than enough.
I made no further comment as we moved on to the garage exit where a ramp led up to a solid overhead door controlled from the inside by vehicle-sensitive motion sensors and a coded card system from the outside. All perfectly standard issue security. I took my time examining the override mechanism for the door, in a locked box at the bottom of the ramp. Das had already handed over a very serious bunch of keys, and I knew there was a whole rack of them in his office.
“What about other exits from the building, including the basement level? Building codes demand exits, so does the fire marshal. How do you control mandatory emergency exits which cannot be kept locked?”
“That is a problem. All we can do is to have visual surveillance and an alarm system on all the emergency exits. When any of these doors is used, even if it’s opened only a crack, the camera is activated and a signal alerts the staff at the main desk that security has been breached. Usually it’s just one of the maintenance crew. He will wave at the camera and my staff will ignore it. Some residents like using these doors as a shortcut to the grounds. We try to wean them of that but it’s hard. Bulk of our false alarms are caused by unauthorized use of emergency doors.”
Having exhausted for the moment the entertainment possibilities of the garage and the “state-of-the-art” security system, we made our way via the elevator to the second floor and Apartment 211, which I was expected to occupy for the next six weeks.
“SCOTCH?” DAS HELD UP two heavy cut-glass highball glasses, pouring out a good two ounces of single malt whisky into one, presumably for himself. I nodded and he filled the second one. I was being treated as an equal, a gentleman of taste. It was a compliment and meant to be taken as such.
Scotch isn’t my drink and I am hardly a gentleman by any possible definition. Still, I accepted this treatment without protest. Das had found the only way he could comfortably treat me as a professional colleague. It was common courtesy, as well as sense, to let him.
We sipped our drinks in silence. I looked around the small apartment, one of only two such one-bedrooms in the DP complex. Das had already given me the brief tour mandatory on such occasions. Politely I had inspected the militarily austere bedroom, blanket on the single bed tight with hospital corners; the tiny awkwardly designed bathroom smelling of expensive aftershave; the galley kitchen with full-sized refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher packed together in the space of a closet.
Now we sat in the living room, with our backs to the dining area, facing a large window and door to the balcony which overlooked the staff parking lot. The room contained a black leather sofa and armchair set, a small coffee table, a compact Technics radio/CD player, and one full wall of bookshelves, probably from Ikea. I checked out the books with pardonable curiosity since I was to live with them for six weeks. Apart from a shelf or two of books in — I assumed — Hindi, they were English. A mixed lot of popular works on World War II, heavy on British and Indian military and regimental histories and biographies of generals. Some travel books by well-known people like Morris, Theroux, Naipaul, and Chatwin. And surprisingly a much-read selection of memoirs and novels of the Raj by Brits from Kipling to Paul Scott. I guess it was history to him, too. From the looks of their spines, very few were recent or bought locally. There were certainly lots I hadn’t read and only a few I was interested to try.
“I hear you’re off to India on a family emergency. Nothing too serious, I hope,” I said, judging the time ripe for a tactful inquiry.
“Serious enough. My brother-in-law had been very, very ill, not expected to live. So I made plans to go home and be with my sister. And indeed today I received notice of his death. It’s just as well that I will be there for the funeral. And of course there will be arrangements to be made for my sister and her children.”
“Ah, I am sorry. Are you close to your in-laws?”
“No, I am close to my sister,” he said, and fell silent.
Any further questions would constitute prying. My language stilted and uncomfortable, I said, “Well, I hope you have a good trip and that all goes as well as possible under the circumstances. You have been very helpful and I hope you’ll find everything shipshape when you get back. Oh, and thanks for the whisky.”
“Not at all, not at all. It’s been a pleasure. I should get on with my packing, otherwise I would love to have you dine with me.” A polite brush-off.
“I understand. I’m on my way. Before I go there is a question I hope you can answer without being indiscreet. Just what’s the scoop on Wayne Tillion? And how would you advise I handle him?”
“Wayne Tillion? Oh, my! Just a boy, you know. Clare babies him rather, not good for a young man. But you shouldn’t have any problems with him. He doesn’t have much to do with our work. Feng will deal with whatever needs to be dealt with, anyway.”
“If Feng will deal with everything, what am I needed for, may I ask?”
“Well, quite frankly I am not sure I know. It’s Clare’s decision, she’s the manager. Still, I expect she checked with HQ, and Mr. Glendenning advised her not to leave young Tillion on his own.”
“Who’s Glendenning?” I asked, exasperated. Das’ answer had left me no further ahead as far as my role vis-à-vis Tillion and Feng was concerned.
“Mr. Glendenning is the head of Diamond Development Corporation, the company which built and now manages Diamond Plaza Towers. He’s the commanding officer, as it were. Incidentally, I belive he’s some relative of young Tillion. Uncle, possibly.”
Incidentally, the man says!
AFTER THE RELATIVELY WIDE-OPEN spaces of north Toronto, Spadina south of College Street felt cozily urban. It was noisy with George Brown College kids and streetcars and smelly with gasoline fumes and rotting vegetables from nearby Kensington Market. For the past few weeks I had enjoyed the street life here, but now it felt good to leave.
Alice had taken the news of my new job and imminent departure very well. Too well. Not that I wanted any trouble in that department, but who isn’t a bit miffed when her lover accepts separation without apparent regrets?
“Great that you’ve found a job and with an apartment yet. Even if it’s in the burbs. You’ve been climbing the walls around here, with nothing to do and me away so much. Be better for both of us.” That’s what she’d said, word for word, on arriving home late that night, tired and full of her own theatrical affairs.
Alice Caplan is scathing about suburbs, having spent the first fifteen years of her life in one. Burnaby, British Columbia, was no place for her. At twelve she wanted to be a ballerina, at fourteen a rock-and- roll performer, at fifteen she left home and made her way alone to L. A. and show biz, becoming one of the lost children advertised on milk cartons. Predictably, by sixteen she was on the street, with a case of herpes, a budding cocaine habit, and a bad-ass attitude. Except she didn’t end up on the street. She looked around and saw that if she stayed tricking, her choice was either to get to like being a victim or to persuade herself she wasn’t one. Alice had the brains to figure out that this wasn’t much of a choice and the willpower to do something about it. Some of us are swifter than others, and Alice is nothing if not swift.