to the university administration building to track down Raquel Haddad before Jackson did. He was fuming. Jackson was supposed to contact him, not blunder off after sensitive witnesses on his own.
Green was glad he knew every pothole and stop sign in the neighbourhood, for he had been born in a dilapidated little house a mere mile away in Lowertown, on the working class side of Rideau Street. After his first brief, but expensive forayinto marriage and home-ownership, which had scared him off both for years, he had moved back to the inner city to a rundown brick low-rise in Sandy Hill. He had always referred to it, rather proudly, as âthe dumpâ. With each promotion and pay raise, he kept intending to move into larger, sleeker, more modern quarters but always found himself reluctant to part with it. It was in the heart of his daily life, a short drive from the police station, Nateâs Delicatessen and his father, who now lived in a seniorsâ apartment just off Rideau Street.
Greenâs apartment was cramped and drafty; it had no balcony, only one bedroom, creaky floors, balky plumbing and a shower that never stopped dripping. There was no room large enough for the spectacular, four-speaker sound system he wanted to buy so that he could blast the great rock classics from the four corners of the room. His mother had come from a musical family in Warsaw, before they all perished in Treblinka, and while he was growing up, she had supplemented his fatherâs assistant shipperâs salary by giving piano lessons. The children had been excruciating, but his motherâs fingers could make the dullest Bach
étude
come alive. His taste ran to a more raucous sound than hers, but even now, fifteen years after her death, music still brought her back to him.
But musical yearnings aside, a single man could live in the âdumpâ quite nicely, as long as he wasnât picky. Three, however, was a definite crowd. When Sharon had given up her modern high-rise apartment to move in with him, both had understood the accommodations would be temporary. She had grown up in a sprawling suburban bungalow, and she did not share his attachment to noise, car fumes and crumbling corner stores. She had been a good sport, but the arrival of the baby, which had ousted his favourite green lazee-boy from theliving room corner to accommodate the crib, had given the matter a new urgency.
Under the guidance of Mary, Brian Sullivanâs wife, they had looked at half a dozen houses in the price range they could afford, which wasnât high, because in addition to child support for a daughter he barely knew, Green paid almost all his fatherâs expenses at the seniorsâ home. But the houses Mary had found had been soulless chunks of vinyl and particle board; none had felt like homes to him.
This was home, he thought, as his car wove in and out between parked cars and potholes on the back streets of Sandy Hill. He covered the six blocks to the administration building with his accelerator foot to the floor. For once he appreciated the spritely little blue Corolla Sharon had insisted he buy last winter. At the time heâd considered it an alien yuppie affectation, but his rusty yellow Pony had been twelve years old by the time Tony was born, and Sharon had refused to allow the baby anywhere near it.
His first impulse had been to buy a Suzuki Swift, which was one step above a moped and the cheapest, most anti-inspectorish vehicle he could find, or, as a concession to his incipient midlife crisis, a used Mustang convertible. But Sharon was pushing for a mini-van. The Corolla was her bottom line, and given that choice, Green considered himself lucky. Heâd parted with his Pony reluctantly because, like his apartment, it had sentimental value, but as the Corolla leaped in response to the gas, he realized how loathe heâd been to admit that everything, including himself, was growing old.
His old Pony would have
Green was glad he knew every pothole and stop sign in the neighbourhood, for he had been born in a dilapidated little house a mere mile away in Lowertown, on the working class side of Rideau Street. After his first brief, but expensive forayinto marriage and home-ownership, which had scared him off both for years, he had moved back to the inner city to a rundown brick low-rise in Sandy Hill. He had always referred to it, rather proudly, as âthe dumpâ. With each promotion and pay raise, he kept intending to move into larger, sleeker, more modern quarters but always found himself reluctant to part with it. It was in the heart of his daily life, a short drive from the police station, Nateâs Delicatessen and his father, who now lived in a seniorsâ apartment just off Rideau Street.
Greenâs apartment was cramped and drafty; it had no balcony, only one bedroom, creaky floors, balky plumbing and a shower that never stopped dripping. There was no room large enough for the spectacular, four-speaker sound system he wanted to buy so that he could blast the great rock classics from the four corners of the room. His mother had come from a musical family in Warsaw, before they all perished in Treblinka, and while he was growing up, she had supplemented his fatherâs assistant shipperâs salary by giving piano lessons. The children had been excruciating, but his motherâs fingers could make the dullest Bach
étude
come alive. His taste ran to a more raucous sound than hers, but even now, fifteen years after her death, music still brought her back to him.
But musical yearnings aside, a single man could live in the âdumpâ quite nicely, as long as he wasnât picky. Three, however, was a definite crowd. When Sharon had given up her modern high-rise apartment to move in with him, both had understood the accommodations would be temporary. She had grown up in a sprawling suburban bungalow, and she did not share his attachment to noise, car fumes and crumbling corner stores. She had been a good sport, but the arrival of the baby, which had ousted his favourite green lazee-boy from theliving room corner to accommodate the crib, had given the matter a new urgency.
Under the guidance of Mary, Brian Sullivanâs wife, they had looked at half a dozen houses in the price range they could afford, which wasnât high, because in addition to child support for a daughter he barely knew, Green paid almost all his fatherâs expenses at the seniorsâ home. But the houses Mary had found had been soulless chunks of vinyl and particle board; none had felt like homes to him.
This was home, he thought, as his car wove in and out between parked cars and potholes on the back streets of Sandy Hill. He covered the six blocks to the administration building with his accelerator foot to the floor. For once he appreciated the spritely little blue Corolla Sharon had insisted he buy last winter. At the time heâd considered it an alien yuppie affectation, but his rusty yellow Pony had been twelve years old by the time Tony was born, and Sharon had refused to allow the baby anywhere near it.
His first impulse had been to buy a Suzuki Swift, which was one step above a moped and the cheapest, most anti-inspectorish vehicle he could find, or, as a concession to his incipient midlife crisis, a used Mustang convertible. But Sharon was pushing for a mini-van. The Corolla was her bottom line, and given that choice, Green considered himself lucky. Heâd parted with his Pony reluctantly because, like his apartment, it had sentimental value, but as the Corolla leaped in response to the gas, he realized how loathe heâd been to admit that everything, including himself, was growing old.
His old Pony would have
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