Howard Shrier - Buffalo jump

“You have someone on the other end to help you unload?”

“My grandson lives in the basement,” she said. “He’ll look after me.”

I closed the door behind them, locked it and ventured farther down the hall. An archway on the left opened into a large living room with a marble fireplace and mantel. About a dozen people were standing by the fireplace or sitting on sofas that faced each other across a glass coffee table. A few looked me over and went back to their conversation.

A second, wider archway led from the living room to the dining room, where another fifteen or twenty people stood around a table that had wine, light beer, soda and other drinks. There were platters of fruit and cheese and a basket of bagels, surrounded by bowls of cream cheese and a plate of thinly sliced smoked salmon, garnished with onion, capers and lemon slices.

Most of the people ranged in age from late-forties to mid-sixties, the split between men and women about equal. Most were dressed casually yet expensively. The snatches of conversation I could hear revolved around the heat, plans for the long weekend, the exhibition of Chuck Close portraits at the Albright-Knox and the fickle nature of real estate.

I didn’t see the long-haired guy who’d been unloading the truck. I was trying to figure out who Amy might be when a woman’s voice said, “You’re new.”

I turned to see a trim fortyish woman in a mauve linen jacket and faded jeans. Long Navajo-style earrings dangled amid her feathered hair, a shade of red that wasn’t her own but suited her blue eyes. As she held out her hand, a bracelet in the same style as her earrings slid down her forearm. “Cassandra Lawson. But everyone calls me Cass.”

I took her hand. “Joel,” I said. When lying about my name, I always choose something that sounds like my own.

“What’s taking so long?” said the older man I had seen pushing his cart up the walk. He was reclining in a maroon leather Queen Anne knock-off. He was grossly overweight, his ankles puffy and purple above his socks. “It’s nice they put out a spread and everything, but there’s not a damn thing here I can eat.”

“So have a drink, Harv,” Cass said.

“The only thing I can drink is water, hon, and if I have one more glass I’ll have to pee ten times tonight instead of the usual five. Did Barry say why everything’s upside down today? Normally I come when they tell me, I’m in, I’m out, goodbye, go home.”

“The delivery was much bigger than usual,” Cass said. “And it didn’t come packed the way it normally does. It was just bulk cases. Amy has to open them up to fill the orders, unless you’re willing to take a whole case of something.”

“I already got a case of something!” Harv roared. “Why the hell else would I be here!”

“Can you tell me where Amy is?” I asked Cass. “Or Barry? I need to talk to them a minute.”

“You’re not from here,” said Harv. “I can hear it in your voice. Canadian, eh?”

“I’m from Toronto,” I said.

“Then why the hell are you buying medications here?” Harv asked. “The whole point is to get them cheaper from Canada.”

“That would be illegal,” I said, with all the innocence I could manage on short notice.

“Illegal! We can’t have that, could we?” Harv laughed until the laugh turned into a rolling cough that ended with him clearing his throat and hawking something into a napkin. He took a couple of deep breaths and tucked the napkin into his jacket pocket. “Listen, kid,” he wheezed, “I don’t know what you’re doing here. You look healthy enough to me. But I take ten medications a day- ten — between my heart condition and diabetes and cholesterol. Even with insurance, you know what the co-pay is?”

“Come on, Harv,” a man cut in. He was dressed casually enough in jeans and a black silk shirt, but the watch on his wrist probably cost more than my Camry. He looked very fit for his age, which was early fifties. “I bet Medicare covers most of what you need.”

“What do you know about Medicare, Marty? You got more money than the rest of us combined. I don’t know why you even come here.”

“I don’t like paying full price for anything,” Marty said.

“But you could if you had to. I can’t. I went to a presentation on the Medicare guidelines last week, and I didn’t understand half of what the guy was saying. And neither did he. Every question I asked him, he’d say, ‘Well, I’ll have to check that and get back to you.’ I taught high school mathematics for thirty-two years, my friend, and the guidelines might as well have been in Greek.”

“Hey, Harv,” a voice called out behind me.

Harv’s eyes widened and his face broke into a grin. I turned to see the grey-haired man in the Jerry Garcia shirt. He had a carton in his arms. He said, “Want me to take this straight out to the car for you?”

“Barry!” Harv said. “You’re an angel.”

“Just the one carton?”

“That was all the cash I could raise on short notice. If there’s anything left on Monday, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Barry said. “Amy wants everything out of here as fast as possible.” Then his eyes settled on me. Settled and narrowed to suspicious-looking slits. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

“He’s new,” Harv said.

“I can see that.”

“My name is Joel,” I said.

Barry set the box down and walked over to me. He was about my height and heavier. I hoped it wouldn’t lead him to start something. Busting up his place-or him-wouldn’t help any.

“If I don’t know you,” Barry said, “what are you doing in my house?”

“Can I speak to you privately?” I asked him.

“No.”

“It will only take a few minutes,” I said.

“What are you, a cop? A narc or something?” People were stopping their conversations, looking our way, moving toward us. Marty in particular was glaring at me.

“I’m not a cop,” I told Barry.

“Then get out,” he said. “This is a private party.”

“As soon as we’ve had our conversation.”

Marty walked over to Barry’s side, about Barry’s size but in better shape. “Why don’t you get out like he asked?” he demanded. A man used to getting his way.

“If you’re a police officer, you have to tell me, right?” Barry asked.

“I’m not a police officer, so I wouldn’t know.”

“FDA?”

“What?”

“Food and Drug Administration.”

“No. I’m from Toronto.”

He looked at me for a long moment, making up his mind. Maybe he was picturing the damage that might occur if his friend Marty and I got into it. “Okay,” he said, nodding toward the back of the house. “In the kitchen.” He asked Marty to help Harv out with his carton.

Marty looked disappointed, like he’d missed his chance to impress someone. Maybe himself. “You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I can handle it,” Barry said and led me back to a large eat-in kitchen with a round oak table on ornate ball-and-claw legs. A woman sat at the table, surrounded by dozens of pill vials and boxes of all sizes. About a dozen cartons were stacked near the rear door behind her. I looked out the door; no sign of Ryan through its glass panes.

The woman, whom I presumed to be Amy, looked about fifty, with long grey hair pulled into a loose braid and striking grey-green eyes. She wore her clothes baggy and loose: wine-coloured harem pants and a billowing white linen blouse. If she was trying to hide her body, it wasn’t working. Her curves were apparent and sweetly placed. “Who’s your friend?” she asked Barry.

I took out my wallet and showed her my identification. The warmth in her eyes was replaced by a flinty glare. I let Barry look at it too. Amy’s mouth tightened as she looked at her husband. “You walk an investigator right into our kitchen?”