After the Horses Read online

  For Red Cruz, a great companion

  And for Felice Picano, Andrew Holleran, and Edmund White, great pathfinders

  “Why lock the barn door after the horses have bolted?”

  — English idiom

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Immigrants

  1 Izakaya

  2 Tall in the Saddle

  3 Fathers and Sons

  4 Accountable

  5 Due Diligence

  6 Rich Men

  7 Slow Train Coming

  8 Demimonde

  9 The Approach

  10 Outskirts

  11 My Life So Far

  12 The Keening Edge

  13 Let’s Dance

  14 Run Wild, Run Free

  15 Menthol or Unleaded

  16 Under the Eaves

  17 Desecration

  18 Where the River Narrows

  19 The Grain Silo

  20 I’d Rather Be High

  21 Alarmed Forces

  22 Rare Flowers

  23 Post-Op

  24 Clean

  25 Stable Boy

  26 Bloodless

  27 Breaking Glass

  28 What Remains

  29 Orchids

  30 The Unravelling

  Epilogue: Home

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Toronto — 2011 Immigrants

  Her breath came out in white slashes. February was a hateful month, inhuman and frozen over. She was late and not for the first time. It wasn’t her fault, but that wouldn’t matter to him. She willed her feet to hurry, watching warily for ice. No good falling and breaking her neck on top of everything else. His words came back to her in the crisp, precise tones of someone who had learned English as a second language: I need punctual help, Irma. I don’t appreciate dawdlers, even if you’re just cleaning my toilet. I expect you to be on time. Please don’t let it happen again.

  Please. He’d said please at least.

  What he hadn’t said was what would happen if she showed up late again, though she had a sinking feeling she was about to find out. He was a wicked man. There were no warm feelings, no acts of kindness stirring in his depths. A snowman planted in one of the yards reminded her of his tiny eyes and bleak, humourless gaze. Yuri Malevski.

  “Bloody Macedonians — hard as rock!” she swore under her breath.

  She would beg, if it came to that. She would remind him she was honest. Nothing had gone missing by her hand in the two years she’d worked for him. Everyone knew stories about the help who stole and pillaged, taking what wasn’t rightly theirs. She would never steal so long as she had food to eat and a roof over her head. She was poor, not desperate.

  It was the same from house to house. She scrubbed toilets, mopped floors, and wiped the children’s bums, all without question. She walked pets and toted empty liquor bottles quietly out the back door so the neighbours wouldn’t see. There was no end to the services she provided. The women were the worst. They expected perfection: floors you could eat off, countertops you could see your reflection in, toilets you could drink from. She wondered that some of them didn’t ask her to screw their husbands to save them the bother.

  They all took advantage. No papers, Irma? Tsk-tsk. Here’s what we will pay you, then. What choice did she have? They might be surprised to know she’d grown up with finery. As a girl, she had ball gowns and jewellery and cut flowers in the house. Back home she’d had manners and once — once! — she’d been beautiful. Then time caught up with her. She wasn’t young anymore. Even her hands were pitiful to look at now.

  Everywhere she went, they wanted something from her. This one especially, with his parties and the boys coming and going at all hours in all states of dress and inebriation and god knows what else. The tales she could tell, if she had the chance. He was almost like a woman himself! Fancy clothes and expensive haircuts and all the trappings. He once told her how much he’d paid to have his hair done. She was shocked! It was more than he gave her for an afternoon’s wages.

  No wonder everyone took from him. Boys he met god knows where, eating his food and drinking his alcohol. Because he let them! He just laughed. And then there was that dreadful one she’d run into early one morning, neither man nor woman. She could hardly countenance that.

  “Filth. Depravity.”

  She spat the words like stones then looked around to see if anyone had seen her talking to herself. No one had noticed.

  Yes, the stories she could tell. There were drugs in that house and worse. Oh, far worse! She couldn’t choose her employers, but she could pray for their salvation. It was her duty. God’s little test. She had the pamphlets in her purse. She would leave another one on the counter today. Maybe one day he would read it.

  She turned the corner onto Beatty Avenue, counting the steps to the grey monolith. The house loomed. Stone, built in the last century, with three separate chimneys. Necessary, no doubt, back in the day when people heated everything with coal and the rich had servants to stoke their fires. She shivered, grateful at least that she lived in the present age. It was hard being poor today, never mind in centuries past.

  She let herself in the iron gates and pulled them closed, trudging along the path like a dwarf approaching a giant’s castle. Yesterday’s snow lay undisturbed. No one had shovelled or swept the drive. If Yuri Bloody Malevski was so proud of his yard, he might pay one of those boys to clear the way. Or get them to do it for free for all the parties he threw.

  She gripped the railing with a gloved hand and hauled herself up. The door was double-locked from inside. Strange, because that only happened when her boss went out of town. He’d texted her a new entry code the previous day, but he hadn’t said anything about being away. He was a stickler for security, having been burgled twice. She knew that because he made a point of telling her. His home was full of valuables: artwork, rare books, carpets, antique table settings. The sort of things you found in the best residences in Europe. All the doors and windows were alarmed. He made sure she knew that, too.

  She stepped back and looked up at the house. Dark and unwelcoming, that was how she always saw it. The windows were uniformly large, but darkness showed behind them all, even in daytime. A devil’s house. It made her shiver. There was nothing for it but to go all the way around back.

  She stepped off the porch, the snow already over the tops of her boots. Drifts like white waves curled and froze mid-air. The storm had blanketed the yard. No footsteps showed here, either. She pulled open the rickety screen door, checking her phone for the new code. He was always changing it then changing it back again. At least this time he remembered to tell her. Once he forgot to let her know. She’d showed up and couldn’t get in until he returned in his big blue Mercedes. Fine for him to make mistakes!

  She punched in the numbers. A red light turned to green. The latch clicked and she pulled hard. The door crackled from the cold. Then she was inside, a beep registering her entry. She had twenty seconds to re-enter the code and shut off the alarm or she’d have security swarming over the premises. Or so he said. Maybe one day she’d let it go off and see what happened. What could they do? She re-entered the numbers and the beeping stopped.

  Safe.

  Inside, all was silent. She hoped she wouldn’t find naked bodies lying on the sofas and spare beds. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sin and abomination. Sodom and Gomorrah. God’s wrath on the sinful.

  A quick glance told her the place was tidy. Maybe the boy, Santiago, was back. He was one of the few who bothered to lift a hand around the place. An illegal like her, he once said she reminded him of his mother. Sometimes he slipped her an extra twenty for her hard work. Malevski had taunted the poor boy by dangling citizenship in front of him, getting hi
s hopes up. Men marrying men, imagine that! It was a crazy country she’d come to. But then they’d argued and he’d been out of favour for the past few weeks.

  If not Santiago, then maybe it was that other boy who lived under the stairs. The one with the pale makeup, his face like a vampire’s. There was something not quite right about him. She didn’t like to be alone in the house when he was up there in that little room. She’d read his diary once, just a few lines: Dear Darkness, I want to die. Terrible!

  She set her purse on a table in the hall then took off her gloves and coat, laying them over the big blue chair. It was cold. That was Malevski saving money on the heating bills again, no doubt. She flicked the thermostat and heard the furnace starting up.

  Still no sign of her boss. If he was going to fire her for being late, surely he’d have been there to meet her when she arrived. Or maybe he intended to let her finish her day’s work then give her the sack without pay. It wasn’t as though she could complain to anyone.

  The kitchen was dirtiest. The remains of a meal lay in the sink. She put on gloves and soaked the dishes, making sure the water was extra hot. The food was caked on and hardened. Italian? Lasagna, maybe. There was something sticky on the floor and a spray of dried sauce across one of the cupboard doors.

  That was the worst of it. The dining room hadn’t been used since her last visit. A little dust only. Once again she wiped down all the surfaces, wringing the rags out, the water left clean in the pail. When she finished, she took the pamphlet from her purse and carried it to the long dining table. She always left one behind for him, but he never said anything. Someday he would read them.

  She stopped abruptly. There he was already, the same pamphlet propped against the silver candlestick holders. Jesus with his purple heart staring back at her.

  “Make him repent his wickedness!” she hissed, crossing herself.

  She stopped for a moment to listen. Irma was used to being in empty houses, but this one gave her the creeps. She wondered if the strange boy was upstairs in his little room. Fortunately, he never asked her to clean it. He was rather neat in that regard, and kept the place spotless. Once, she asked if he would like her to wash the floor. I’m entirely capable, he told her. She wasn’t sure about that, but didn’t bother to contradict him.

  A phone rang in another room, echoing through the place until an answering machine picked up. “This is Yuri Malevski,” came her boss’s voice with its distinctive pronunciation before clicking over to record.

  Irma listened, thinking he might be trying to reach her. Perhaps he got delayed somewhere because of the snow and wanted to give her special instructions. But it wasn’t him. It was his accountant saying he was still out of town and confirming Saturday’s meeting.

  The call ended. Almost immediately, it rang again. This time it was a florist saying he’d attempted a delivery on Tuesday, but hadn’t been able to use the entry code he’d been given. He was unwilling to leave the flowers because of the cold and left a number to reschedule. So it wasn’t just her. Yuri Malevski forgot to give the code to others, too.

  She paused with the dust rag to listen for sounds from upstairs. For all she knew, he could still be lying in bed. He expected her to get to his house by eight in the morning, while he idled away the day. He probably hadn’t any idea how horrific the weather was outside. And why would he? When he went out, he simply stepped into his car and zoomed off without feeling a thing. Life was easy for some.

  She rinsed out her washcloths and emptied the bucket into the kitchen sink before going back out to the hall. The place was finally beginning to warm up.

  It was the flowers that gave her pause.

  She’d always thought it a marvel how you could be in the depths of darkness in that mausoleum, and then step through a doorway where all was light and airy, the windows stretching up twenty feet. Now petals lay curled and withered on the conservatory floor. He’d always been fastidious about his plants. Never touch my orchids, he told her when she asked if he wanted her to water them. They’re particular. Just like you, she wanted to say, but held her tongue. They required three ice cubes per pot, once a week, he explained. He preferred to do it himself.

  Ice cubes!

  They didn’t even grow in soil, just absorbent material that retained water after the ice melted. Now, looking over the petals strewn across the floor, she saw that nearly all the flowers had dropped. How could he not have noticed? Not that she cared. She disliked orchids. They were sinister. The leaves were waxy, the petals cool to touch like the flesh of the dead. One or two had kept their flowers, the blossoms curling around the centres as though shielding a tiny throne. They looked as if they concealed something evil, like in those horror movies where creatures emerged from things when people turned their backs on them.

  He’d given her a tour the first day she came to work for him. Some of them cost a great deal of money, he told her. They’d been imported from far-off lands. She wasn’t sure if he said it to impress her or to make her wary of touching them when he wasn’t around. The name comes from the Greek orchis, he’d informed her in his precise English. Why is that? she’d asked in all innocence. He’d smiled his cruel smile and pulled one from its pot. Orchis means testicle, you see. There, dangling before her, were twin tubers looking for all the world like a man’s privates.

  Wickedness!

  He laughed to see her blush and cross herself. Ah, Irma! You’re so innocent, he told her, then turned back to his flowers.

  But here they were now, fallen at her feet. She went to the pantry to retrieve the vacuum, sitting it upright while she trailed the long black cord to the wall and inserted the plug. The whirring noise was comforting. The blossoms were gone inside a minute. She just hoped he wouldn’t blame her for the damage.

  She closed the door on the plants and lugged the vacuum to the foot of the stairs. Carrying it up was always a chore. Of course, he was too cheap to get a second one for upstairs. She stopped to rest a moment before continuing. Then she saw the stains. Like the ones in the kitchen, only darker. First on one stair and then another higher up.

  “God in heaven!”

  She left the vacuum at the foot of the stairs. Her hands shook as she continued upward. Dead flowers and a house in the deep freeze. Yes, there was evil in this place.

  She felt it in her bones, and her bones were never wrong.

  One

  Izakaya

  “Just talk to the guy, would you?”

  Dan rolled his eyes. “I can’t get involved. This is police business.”

  There was a pause followed by the telltale sound of a match being struck on the other end of the phone. Any excuse for nicotine, Dan thought. Where the hell does he get actual matches these days?

  Donny was using his Reasoning with a Child voice: “No one’s asking you to get involved. He just wants your candid opinion. I know he would very much appreciate it.”

  Dan sighed. It was no good arguing; he was useless at evasion. Drive the truck straight down the freeway, none of this mucking about in back alleyways stuff. That was his style.

  “All right,” he conceded. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As a favour to you — no other reason.”

  “So in other words, I owe you.”

  “In other words, you owe me again.”

  There was a breathy, pack-a-day chortle. “Let me know when you want to collect.”

  “Oh, I will. Don’t worry.”

  In any conversation with Donny, the smooth exhale of a well-smoked cigarette was a familiar sound. Being asked to participate in a case that had all the markings of a police-only investigation was not. If anything, Donny was the one to urge caution, advising Dan to keep a low profile on risky undertakings, but here he was encouraging Dan to step directly into the ring.

  “So who is he again?”

  “You remember Charles?”

  “Sort of. Well, no. Not really.”

  “He’s the lawyer I
dated briefly after Jorge the Argentine soccer player.”

  “Jorge I remember. Oh, yeah. The legs.”

  “Right. Getting back to Charles.”

  “Sorry. No facial here. Remind me.”

  “Good looking. White. Square jaw and all that. Probably not exotic enough for you, that’s why you don’t recall him. Anyway, Charles started dating this guy, Lionel. An accountant. Also very good-looking. They’re the perfect couple. They had the most spectacular wedding on their penthouse balcony in Radio City a couple years ago. It was big enough to hold a hundred people. They’re both very successful, lots of money between them. And believe me when I say they lack for nothing.”

  “Oh, I believe you.”

  “Good. So when I say that Charles was panicked, you’ll understand why I thought of you. Guys like that normally don’t even sweat when they play handball, but Charles is an absolute mess. He wouldn’t even talk about it on the phone. Insisted we meet in person. With all his connections, he couldn’t think of anyone to call, so I mentioned you.” Pause, with intent. “I sort of offered your services.”

  “Nice touch. So what exactly is the problem?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not helpful. Are you saying he wouldn’t tell you?”

  “He was too afraid to tell me. All I know is it has something to do with the murder of Yuri Malevski, owner of the Saddle and Bridle.”

  “The country-and-western bar on Richmond?”

  “That’s the one. They’re a rough crowd to look at, but mostly pussycats when you meet them. They host the Mr. Leather Contest when it’s in town.”

  “I heard they closed after the murder.”

  “They did. Yuri was killed at his home in Parkdale, but the bar’s been locked up ever since. Apparently the police are looking for evidence of immigration scams, not to mention the usual narcotics aspect and anything else that comes to light. They think Yuri was running all that through the bar.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be thorough, since it was a gay bar.”