—Kate Morton
I caught up with Dan at The Wheat Sheaf a little past eight. He was nursing a Newcastle Brown Ale which he only does when trying to impress somebody—in this case, the pretty girl tending bar.
Did he tell her he was a columnist for the Toronto Star and did that fail to dazzle her?
I was tempted to go back out and phone and ask if he already met somebody, claiming I was tied up. But I could tell from the girl's expressions she wasn't buying what he was selling, so I opted instead to provide him an easy exit.
"Hey Clay!" he sang out as he spotted me walking in, "We should grab a table, I'm starving."
He said it non-convincingly, but I pretended to buy it to save him further embarrassment. "Sure, I haven't eaten as well."
The girl looked relieved and smiled at me. I felt like a traitor, but it was in Dan's best interest since it would only get worse after a few more beers. And I'm not good at playing agony aunt, even for my best friend.
"So, what have you been up to lately?" Dan asked when we were finally seated and had ordered our drafts and food.
I hadn't planned on telling him anything but the burden of Collin's proposal was weighing on me.
"Owen Collins wants me to write a biography of a Twenties' actress so he can turn it into a movie."
His jaw dropped. "You're serious, aren't you? I've seen all his films—the guy's a genius."
I nodded. "I guess he's got the Oscars to prove that."
Dan stared at me a moment, then lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "So, not to be indelicate, but what does he want from you?"
I took a good swig of draft before answering. "That's what I'm wondering. I can't say much because before he tells me the details he wants me to sign an NDA."
"Who does he think he is—Donald Trump? And what's so hush-hush he can't even tell you up front what he's got in mind?"
I shrugged. "My feelings exactly."
Dan looked out the window at grains of snow spiralling out of the late December sky.
"We better watch how much we drink," he said sagely, "they're forecasting a big dump tonight."
"Well, maybe we won't make it a late night—I might just go home early and watch the Leafs game I PVR'd and then hit the sack."
"Don't worry, " he whispered again, scrying the contents of his glass,"I won't write a column about you and Collins in The Star, unless of course you want to give me an exclusive."
"I really don't know anything, Dan, but the guy's going to pay me a huge honorarium just for listening. I got to admit—I'm spooked."
He shivered, "Don't blame you, Pal—sounds freaky weird. Just watch yourself. Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"
He uttered the last line in a sepulchral voice that would sound really good on a radio play from the Fifties, which I am certain was the source of his inspiration.
I was about to make a cynical quip when he grabbed my arm tight and squeezed, stopping me in mid-sentence.
"Bolo, bolo, " he hissed, "bogies at 12 o'clock."
From the size of his dilated pupils I knew better than to turn around, but could sense a presence looming behind me.
I stared at the mirror behind the bar and in its glassy depths saw Tara staring back at me and by her side, Norm Lockwood, the one man I truly despised.
My heart sunk. This was not the night I planned.