Janine Armin - Toronto Noir

I take it out of my briefcase and open it up. She writes,

— How was your day?

After dinner, we curl up on the sofa again, Mag at one end, me on the other. We’ve hit on black gold — a marathon of home improvement shows. Mag giggles when they take a sledgehammer to the walls. During a commercial break, she says my name. I look over. She splits her legs apart, lifting her T-shirt. No panties. My face goes hot. I stand up and walk into the kitchen. She follows behind. The laptop is on the counter. I type,

— I am very tired. I am going to bed .

— I arrive to your bed too?

I shake my head.

The phone rings at midnight again. “I hope you enjoyed yourself,” comb-over sneers. “Now you know the drill. You want her for another night? Just leave the money there, same time, same place. If not, I expect Magda to be standing there instead. Got it?”

“And what if I need to phone you?” I say. “If there’s some kind of problem?”

“Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

“Hello?”

I turn out the light and settle into my pillow. This whole charade could cost me a fair wad of cash. I’m drifting off again, when I hear the latch to my bedroom door click. I reach for the light. It’s Magda. She’s leaning up against the doorframe, her blond hair tussled.

“You need something?” I say. “You okay?”

She walks over to the bed and climbs in.

“Fine,” I say, “But no funny stuff.”

I put out the light. I’m too tired to argue anyway. I turn my back to her and fall asleep.

I drop the money off and walk the same loop as before. It’s picked up by the same girl, same shtick with the telephone. I wonder what Magda is doing in my apartment. I should get another set of keys made if she’s going to be staying awhile. At least then she could go out. I explained to her yesterday how the auto-lock works. If she leaves, she won’t be able to get back in. She didn’t seem to mind. She’s probably sleeping the day away. I imagine she has a lot of zeds to catch up on.

The phone rings at my desk at noon. “So, you want her until Friday, but what about the weekend?” says comb-over. “I’ll need a bigger wad tomorrow, in that case. It’s Thursday today, you dig?”

“How did you get this number?”

“You must think I’m a bloody nincompoop. So, what’s your deal?”

“How much for the weekend?”

“A grand.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“And how much for Magda, you know, outright?”

“Fifteen grand.”

“It was ten grand before.”

“You don’t qualify for the discount.”

“Call me back,” I say. “In an hour. I need to think.”

I hang up the phone and put my head on my desk.

It’s not the money. I have the money. I have over forty grand saved up for the condo I didn’t have to buy. And hell, I could probably get her for ten, if I haggle. Maybe that’s what I should do. I’ll just haggle for ten, and then comb-over will be out of my hair and I can think about this properly. I’m out a grand this week already, so it’s not like the price isn’t fair. What’s a few grand for a person’s freedom? If I buy Magda then I can do what I like. I can get her a key made, and we can just move on with our lives.

I practice my lines until comb-over calls back. I deliver them quickly, in a tough-girl voice: “I’ll give you ten for her, not a penny more, and then you gotta leave us alone.”

“Make it twelve and you’ve got a deal.”

“Fine, twelve,” I say. “How and where do you want it?”

“Same time, same place. Stand there with a briefcase full of cash and a phone in your ear. When my girl comes and picks up the receiver next to yours, you put the briefcase down by her feet. She’ll pick it up straight away, then you say goodbye into the phone and fuck off.”

“Done.”

“Nice doing business with you, Chris,” comb-over coos. “You’re a filthy dyke, but I like you.”

I’m still shivering when I get home. She must see the look on my face, because she turns off the tube and comes right over. The bank asked some pretty awkward questions, but I explained that I owed my parents some cash. It was a convoluted story, but the young thing behind the till handed it over.

“It’s gonna be all right now,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. She points to the laptop. I write that I’m buying her from the bad man. I click Translate . She shakes her head, types:

— Again?

I guess the translation isn’t going through right, so I try another wording. She seems to get me this time, because she puts her arms around me and buries her face in my neck. I start to shiver more violently and she grips me tightly. Then she pulls away and kisses me on the mouth, but I can hardly feel it. My lips are dry and there’s a fever of blood in my ears. She takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. I sit down on the edge of the bed. Magda kneels on the floor. She lifts my left foot, slipping off my shoe. I lie back on the bed. She pulls off my sock and runs a finger along the sole of my foot. I quiver. Then she starts massaging my ankle. Her hands run up and down my legs, under my trousers. She stops and I look up in time to see her pull off her T-shirt. Her body is thicker than I’d imagined, but perfect. By the time she unbuttons my fly, I have no will to resist her. All I can do is let go.

I wake up happy, Magda breathing deeply beside me. I kiss her forehead and slip out of bed without waking her. My laptop under one arm, briefcase of cash in my hand, I’m actually whistling as I board the train. Whistling! The drop is easy. I start shivering when I get to the pay phone, but then I revisit last night, and that settles it. I set the briefcase down next to the redhead. She picks it up, and I say goodbye to the dial tone and hang up the phone. I don’t bother doing the U-turn today.

Comb-over rings at noon. “This is just a courtesy call,” he says. “She’s yours. Enjoy the merchandise.”

“Don’t call here ever again,” I say, relishing the hard shape of the words. I hang up first this time.

After the call, I swing by Darrin’s desk. “You’ve been quiet since the presentation, Chris,” he says. “Thought you’d be ass-pompous with success. Everything all right?”

“Little under the weather,” I say. “Keep shivering. Think I’ve caught a fever-flu. Mind if I duck out early?”

“Knock yourself out. We can live without you today.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, pulling a listless face. “Appreciate it.”

“No sweat. Just be in shape by Monday, all right?”

“You bet.”

I get to the station in time for the 1:43. The pay phone kiosk is empty. A kid walks by and checks all the change slots with his finger.

On the train, I think about Magda. Maybe I should take her shopping for some new clothes. We could go to the grocery store too. I’ve never asked her what she likes to eat, just cooked her what I had in the fridge. What if she hates fish?

I reach the condo by 2:30. I call the elevator, but I can’t wait, so I take the stairs. I think of what to type into the laptop.

You’re free, I’ll type. I’ve set you free! What do you want to do now?

I unlock the door, already picturing her on the sofa, an oversized T-shirt cinched high on her thighs. What will we do tonight?

But she’s not there. I look for a note, but there’s no sign of one.

I should have known better.

Queen West

She moved to Toronto from one of the smaller cities a couple hours west along the 401, a place with a borrowed, European name that embarrassed her, so that now when people ask where she’s from she shrinks it in her mind until it’s only a country crossroads, a pair of stop signs with white crosses in the ditch to tally the fatal car accidents, and answers, “It’s so tiny. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”