Crosshairs Read online

  “Speak for yourself,” Loose Tie said through even looser lips. “Charles and I are being perfect gentlemen.”

  Liv looped her bleach-blond hair behind her ear and recited the specials. “Well, the chef has two amazing platters tonight and—”

  “What about you? Do we get you on a platter?” Bloodshot Eyes said.

  Loose Tie put his hand around Liv’s waist. “Don’t scare her away! Look. She’s scared. She’s scared.”

  “Two of the platters. Just bring one of each,” Charles intervened. He looked at Liv apologetically as she retreated to the kitchen.

  When their table was just about finished for the night, another Drunken Suit approached Liv.

  “I need to settle my bill, beautiful,” he said sloppily, pretending he didn’t know Liv, pretending they had not trained together for months for this very moment. Liv began processing his receipt. In Charles’s plain view, Drunken Suit began stroking Liv’s triceps with the surface of his knuckles. Liv swatted him away like a fly, and like a fly his hand returned.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Charles said to Drunken Suit, aggressively putting his arm around him, like they were pals.

  “I’m paying my bill.”

  “How about this: you can go back to your table and put down two crisp fifties and call it a night.”

  “I don’t think so. I just had four beers.”

  Charles stepped towards the man until they were practically nose to nose. “Put down the money at the table and leave the lady alone.” The man wavered and did as he said.

  Liv made a face. “Yikes. Thanks. I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with fools like that all night, including my friends over there.” His pale blue eyes flashed towards his booth. Bloodshot Eyes and Loose Tie were struggling to get their jackets on.

  Liv waved off his concern. “It’s part of working here. The bankers are the worst. Lawyers a close second.”

  Charles rubbed his boxed beard with a sly grin. “And the businessmen like me?”

  “They’re okay, I guess.” Liv pretended to fight back a grin and made eye contact, long enough for him to remember her face.

  The next morning, at his office on King Street, Charles looked up and saw Liv distributing the paperwork among his colleagues. Their eyes met and she made a face, the same face she’d made in the bar, before quietly exiting the meeting.

  Later that day, Charles leaned on the door frame of the staff lunchroom while Liv waited for her food to microwave. “Hi, intern.”

  Liv held up her hands defensively. “I swear I didn’t know who you were when I met you last night.”

  “Moonlighting?

  “That’s my part-time job so I can afford the life of an intern.”

  “I hope you know who I am now.”

  “Of course I do. You’re Charles Greene, CEO of CAN Create.” Liv looked to the side, blushing. “And you’re a great fighter of drunken men who manhandle waitresses. Thanks again, by the way.” Charles smiled a slow smile, interest alive on his face.

  They both threw protocol aside and shared dinner at Flax, Toronto’s latest organic farm-to-table restaurant. By the end of their dinner, the two were sharing dessert.

  “Okay . . . I have to ask. What’s it like? Being a CEO of this multinational corporation? God, I hope I don’t sound like a hick saying that.”

  “You sound like you think I’m a superman or something.”

  “Well, you kind of are, aren’t you? I mean, your company occupies the top seven floors of a skyscraper that has the best views in the city. You have thousands of employees. These people have houses because of you. They can feed their families and send their kids to school.”

  A waiter approached politely. A Black man, hands behind his back, smiling gently. “How are we enjoying the dessert?”

  Charles paused with his spoon in the air and snarled, “How about you let me eat without you asking me questions that interrupt our conversation?”

  The waiter’s smile faded slightly before he attempted to reinvigorate it at its edges. He failed. He bowed and receded to the kitchen. Charles threw Liv a look and she snickered.

  Wiping the edges of his beard with his napkin he continued. “I dunno, Liv. It’s a little more complicated than that. There are thousands of employees here in Canada and thousands more elsewhere. Take this dessert we’re enjoying right now. This ridiculous toasted-pumpkin-seed, beetroot-reduction, cane-sugar crisp, whatever dessert. I want you to consider the hands that processed the pumpkin seeds, harvested the beetroots and extracted the sugar cane juice. In order for us to even afford organic food, we have to ensure those very hands are not paid well. And in order for those people to be willing to be underpaid . . .”

  “They have to be desperate.” Liv scooped another spoonful into her mouth, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

  “Exactly. Just last month, in one of our facilities in China, those desperate people we employed were ravaged by a third typhoon in two years. The Chinese are hard-working. They know how to take orders. They do things quick and they do things cheap. It saddens me to think of how many of them were lost. Truth is a bunch may die and they have millions more willing to take their place.” Charles tossed his napkin onto the table.

  “I’m sorry. That’s a lot to handle.”

  “Meanwhile, here in Canada, we aren’t desperate enough. There are people here, especially after the floods on the east coast and the droughts on the west coast, who should be begging to keep their hands busy with repairing what we have left. But instead they’re asking for handouts. You have these Others wandering around aimlessly, when they should be proving themselves and being useful.”

  Liv chimed in, playing along. “There’s this one waitress over at Legal Tender who drives me up the wall with her hipster discourse about fair trade. We’re all folding napkins and wiping wine glasses; meanwhile, she’s preaching to us about how important it is for us to buy vintage clothing to ‘divest’ from sweatshop operations.” Her fingers made rabbit ears in the air at the word “divest” and Charles pressed his palm to his forehead, closed his eyes. “But no one thinks of how, even if this little Bengali girl is making five cents a day making my sweater, it’s a hell of a lot better than her selling her body in some brothel. ‘Divesting’ without giving actual options to these Others is talk I don’t have patience for.”

  Charles waved his hand in agreement. “Here’s the thing. Your co-worker feels bad about these little Brown children making shoes because, unlike China or Bangladesh or the Philippines, people here in Canada, no matter how poor, are not willing to do this kind of work. It frustrates me to no end seeing these Others who would rather ride a gravy train than put their skills to good use. And when people like this . . .” He pointed his fork towards the waiter, “accept handouts they become dangers to our society. But I want to change that. That’s why we’ll be ending our overseas manufacturing within a year and have everything Canadian-made.”

  “You can afford that?”

  “There are ways.”

  They left Flax and strolled east along King Street’s theatre district, with its marquee bulbs blinking rhythmically over the faces of restaurant hostesses hoping to lure passersby to their overpriced menus. Everything was overpriced due to the shortages. The more expensive the food, the bigger the hostess’s smile. At each intersection, partygoers sat on lines of sandbags to enjoy their cigarettes, the swollen lake lapping at the other side. Some were inebriated enough to stand knee-deep in water that had yet to recede back into the lake, with high heels hooked in one hand and splashing people with the other. Some sat on the roofs of halted streetcars, unable to move in the deluge, and playfully shot plastic pistols at passersby.

  In a dry clearing stood a hot dog cart with the promise of street meat sizzling on its grill. Liv turned to Charles.

  “Be honest with me. Are you still hungry after that organic meal?”

  “Starving. But I’m s
ure these hot dogs are organic free-range something or other.”

  Charles sat on the edge of a concrete tree planter to eat, and she perched on his lap and leaned in close to grab a bite.

  “Great. Now I’ve got ketchup down my bra.”

  They laughed. They held hands. They kissed.

  They kept strolling until the crowds from the clubs and bass-heavy music dissipated amidst the quiet of the skyscrapers in the business district, stopping to kiss heatedly in the shadows of buildings. At the sight of his Adelaide Street East condo building Charles said, “Come upstairs.”

  Just as Liv was about to play the nice girl and shrug her shoulders coyly, Charles pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger. It was rough enough to throw her off balance. He held her steady and gazed directly into her eyes. His breath was heavy and laboured. Liv hardly breathed at all. “That wasn’t a question.” He let go to retrieve his keys from his pocket. She straightened her blouse and went through the door.

  From elevator to hallway to Charles’s penthouse, the pair vacillated from licking to choking to sucking to pushing to fucking. By the end of the ordeal, after he finally orgasmed, Liv sat at the edge of Charles’s bed, an ice pack placed on her swollen cheek. The twinkling lights of the sprawling city, and south across the lake, could be seen from his expansive window. In the foreground of St. James Park below, clusters of tents glowed with the goings-on of the newly homeless, thankful for a dry place to rest their heads. Yet another tent city.

  “Here.” He surprised her with a lollipop. Liv was able to resist the urge to flinch. He unwrapped the lollipop and handed it to her. She didn’t move. “Take it,” he said firmly. She placed the candy in her mouth. Strawberry. Softly he said, “Good girl.” He kissed her temple, then headed into the shower.

  Sucking the lollipop, Liv tried to look around the bedroom, considering what information she could gather from its numerous drawers and cabinets. But she could only think of Erin and their baby.

  Time passed. Just as quickly as the relationship had bloomed, she resigned from her internship at CAN Create and her waitressing job at Legal Tender. Over the course of a year, Liv traded in photocopiers and pencil sharpening for executive luncheons, company soirees and more-casual catered barbecues at lavish estates. She shook hands with numerous bigwigs the Resistance had been watching closely over the last several years. Footwear tycoons. Firearms distributors. CEOs of social media networks. Government officials. For Liv, feigning ignorance was easy when she pretended to be more fixated on backsplashes and light fixtures in people’s homes than the hushed conversations happening between businessmen and politicians in corners.

  “Who was the father of the bride, again?” Liv asked in bed while Charles massaged her sore feet after an epic wedding. “His speech tonight was hilarious.”

  “Quincy Rutger of Q Tobacco. He’s one of our affiliates.”

  Liv pretended to luxuriate in Charles’s touch and adjusted her body so he could massage the other foot. “Whoa. Isn’t Q Tobacco under investigation because of that murder on that plantation? Is that the one?”

  Without warning, Charles pulled Liv’s leg until she slid down and was pinned underneath him.

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  Liv smiled. “Just trying to make conversation. I really don’t care.”

  “You don’t? Because you should.” An aggressive kiss was pressed on Liv’s mouth before he grabbed a fistful of her hair. “Do you know how difficult it is to manage thousands of workers, only to find out one of those Jamaicans has been syphoning goods? Do you know how difficult it is to make an example of that person so that others don’t do the same?” His weight was unbearable.

  “You’re right. That is difficult.”

  “It won’t be difficult for long. Things are going to change for the better, Liv.”

  At a fundraising gala for the Elita Norwich Foundation for Breast Cancer Research, Elita’s daughter, Maureen, approached the podium. She positioned her reading glasses and unfolded the pages of her speech.

  “I am thrilled to bring up to the stage a man who inspires us all: CEO of CAN Create, Charles Greene. CAN Create’s pilot project, the Renovation, is making bold and necessary changes to this city. Facilitated by the help of the skilled—and, may I say, handsome—new special forces, the Boots . . .” Maureen paused for comedic effect. Giggles tickled the audience as their heads nodded in the direction of a lineup of Boots standing at attention in the stage’s right wing. Collectively, the Boots remained still. They did not smile back. “His dream of unity and peace in the face of disaster will put marginalized and vulnerable populations to work while housing and feeding them and their families. And this evening, we are celebrating Charles’s generous donation of two and a half million dollars towards the construction of the Elita Norwich Wing of St. Cecilia’s Hospital, dedicated to the care of breast cancer patients. I truly believe this tremendous individual can add the words ‘philanthropist’ and ‘visionary’ to his title.”

  Liv applauded along with the adoring crowd, her new solitaire-cut engagement ring twinkling with each clap. Hundreds of chairs shuffled wide from banquet tables to allow for a standing ovation.

  Wearing the newly designed Boots black leather regalia, Charles, with mock modesty, took to the stage where Maureen waited with an oversized cheque. While he posed in various handshakes and embraces, shouting was heard at the back of the hall. Everyone turned to look, curious about the commotion.

  “Charles Greene!” screamed a Black man who was making his way past the line of sandbags at the entrance of the reception hall towards the stage. Trails of flood water followed in his wake. He tilted his chin up towards each corner of the room, ensuring his voice carried to the bewildered crowd. “You have blood on your hands, profiting from forced labour and—”

  Two security guards hurriedly made their way to the man. He shifted left and right in an attempt to escape.

  “CAN Create and its affiliates profit from forced labour!” he managed to say before the guards dragged him past the sweets table, past the line of sandbags, then finally off the premises, kicking and screaming. Venue staff discreetly mopped up the trail of water left behind from the unexpected kerfuffle.

  Maintaining a smile, Charles waved and the audience applauded again.

  “Can you believe someone would do that? He’s so generous,” a woman at the same table whispered into Liv’s ear while clapping her white evening gloves in rhythm. Others chimed in.

  “And then you wonder why Charles is doing all this in the first place.”

  “Ungrateful.”

  “He’ll be thanking Charles once he gets a job.”

  “Doesn’t he look handsome in his Boots uniform?”

  “Love a man in uniform.”

  Liv nodded in pretend agreement. “What can you do? Can’t please everyone.”

  During the taxi ride home, Liv caressed Charles’s cheek. “That was awful. I’m sorry.” Charles grabbed Liv by the wrist.

  “The only person who’ll be sorry is him.” He let go of her wrist and looked back at the taxi driver’s concerned face in the rear-view mirror. “What are you looking at, Paki? Drive.”

  One week later, that Black man, Leo Ebil Amodo, prison-reform activist, father of two, was found dead, supposedly from suicide.

  Liv removed her panties, stuffed them into her purse, hopped onto the examination table and placed her feet in the stirrups. A knock at the door.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Dr. McKay entered with a file folder under his arm and closed the door. “Let’s take a look,” he said, crisp and professional, his sunburned baldness reflecting the office lighting. He wheeled his chair to Liv’s face and squeezed his hands into the squeak and snap of latex gloves. After switching on a directional floor lamp just beyond Liv’s legs, he shifted to a tender tone. “How you doing, Liv?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “We’re all thinking about you.”


  There were no words. Dr. McKay put a gloved hand on Liv’s forearm and the two shared a knowing look and a forced exhale.

  “Shall we get started?” At Liv’s nod, Dr. McKay opened the file. “As you can see here, our boy Charles has been busy.” Liv adjusted herself sideways for a better view, her feet still in the stirrups. Photos of Charles travelling through the city. Charles shaking hands with tough guys. Tough guys who had served prison sentences for what were called hate crimes long before hate crimes became the norm. Tough guys who were done cooking meth and would rather burn the Others alive. Tough guys humiliated by Black women who had put them into the friend zone. Tough guys traumatized after being carjacked by Asian gangs. Tough guys who hated Indigenous boys for getting their teen daughters pregnant.

  “Yup. Got it.”

  Dr. McKay shuffled through the photos until a series of drone shots of industrial warehouses made it to the top of the pile.

  “And here are the workhouses. So far, we’ve counted seven of them in the Greater Toronto Area. According to our sources, some of them are outfitted for garments. Some are outfitted for food production. Some for electronics. Each one is different, depending on their stakeholders. And we’re talking multiple international corporations having some skin in the game.”

  Dr. McKay pushed back his wheeled chair to sort through the photos until he arrived at the one he was looking for. “Aha. Here we go.” He dug his heels into the floor to close the gap between him and Liv. “See here?” He adjusted the neck of the lamp to shine on a drone photo. His gloved hand pointed to what looked like a gaping scar opposite a warehouse. From above, what appeared to be several dots of people encircled the scar.

  “What is that?” Liv strained her eyes at the pixelated image.

  “We asked the same thing. Our drones recorded them digging this ditch over the course of a few days. Other warehouses had them too, of varying sizes, but all located within walking distance of the compounds. Then we got these images from one of our Boots on the inside of the Junction workhouse.”

  Dr. McKay filed the drone shot to the back of the pile and looked at the next photo for a brief moment before revealing it to Liv. The lower left corner of the photo was obscured by fabric, perhaps the pocket of the undercover Boot, and the curve of a fingertip.