Slow Recoil by C.B. Forrest Page A

business B-10078837,” Hattie recited in the voice she reserved for testifying, for reading the facts as presented. “And yes, I had a pal at the provincial records office check into the business registration before they closed for the long weekend. It’s a garage in Rexdale. Jarko’s Automotive.”
    McKelvey scribbled the information down on a note pad. “Thanks,” he said.
    â€œHey, no problem,” Hattie said. “Listen, if there’s anything else I can do to help you get me demoted or suspended without pay, don’t hesitate. We have operators waiting to take your call.”
    â€œHattie,” he said. And that was it, the best that he could do. His mind was already working through the next steps here.
    â€œAbout tomorrow,” she said.
    â€œRight.”
    She sighed and said, “You forgot, didn’t you? You forgot about inviting me over. Jesus, I’m such an idiot. This is like the third time you’ve done this in a month.”
    â€œI didn’t forget, Hattie,” he said, recovering, coming back on line. “Dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make some macaroni and cheese. With the crumbs on top.”
    â€œAs long as it’s not out of a box,” she said. “And remember, I caught you last time. I have these rather sharp deductive skills.”
    â€˜ I love you ’, he could have said. Or even ‘ Have a great day, sweetheart ’. It was there, it was on the tip of his tongue, always on the tip of his tongue, these best of intentions. He laughed instead and made some joke about soda crackers and the kind of cheese that came in a spray can. As soon as he hung up, he reached for the Toronto phone book. McKelvey remembered how they used to try and split the behemoth in half with their bare hands standing around the change room after a shift, a bunch of young beat cops full of piss and vinegar with too much to prove.

    The superintendent was a human cliché. He was in his early fifties, but he already owned the look of a man resigned to a life of cheap rent in exchange for waking at all hours to a mind-numbing and seemingly infinite flow of requests. Change the light bulb, fix the fridge, repair the leaky faucet, do something about the goddamned bed bugs. He was perhaps five-six, a hundred and forty pounds, and his t-shirt was stretched across a tight, round belly that was the direct result, McKelvey surmised, of the nightly six-pack of budget beer consumed while sitting in a tattered recliner to watch, hopefully uninterrupted, as Vanna White stood there flipping letters in exchange for a seven-figure salary.
    â€œHelp you?” the man said. He held the door open just enough. He had what appeared to be a fleck of corn flake glued to one corner of his mouth.
    â€œName’s McKelvey,” McKelvey said, and handed the super one of his old business cards. He had a stack of them in his sock drawer. He had crossed out the office number and neatly printed his own number beneath it, fully aware of the legal implications of that simple action.
    â€œHank Chinaski,” the super said. He took the card and read it. “Hold-up Squad, eh?” He shrugged, scratched the back of his hair then adjusted his testicles like some old man out in public. “You looking for one of the losers lives in this crap hole? Lotta old people on pension, maybe one of them robbed a bank?”
    â€œDonia Kruzik. Single woman lived up in 801. She moved out. What can you tell me about her?”
    â€œThe Polish chick?”
    â€œBosnian,” McKelvey said.
    â€œNews to me if she cut and run,” Chinaski said. “Wouldn’t be the first midnight move around here. We don’t have what you’d call a service elevator, you know, with the option to put it on hold while you move all your shit. They woulda had to hold it up manually. Then again, she didn’t have much stuff, now that I think of it.”
    Chinaski sighed, opened