The Burma Effect by Michael E. Rose Read Free Book Online Page B

good news for you,” he said when she answered. “Two bits of good news. I’m going away for a week or so, so I won’t drive you crazy for a while. And I’m filing next week’s column early, today. It’s in the system now. Your lucky day.” Nothing ever made Patricia truly happy.
    â€œYou’re going away again?” she said “Yeah, I’m going to chase up some columns in London, maybe a few other places.”
    â€œThe focus is supposed to be on Canada and Quebec,” she said.
    â€œThe column is called ‘Delaney at Large,’” he said. “I’m at large for a few days. I’ve always got the Canadian angle firmly in mind, Patricia. It is lodged firmly in my mind. Have no fear.”
    â€œYou clear this with Harden?” she said.
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œYou going to?”
    â€œProbably.”
    â€œYou’ll need to for the travel money,” she said, apparently sensing an obstacle that would prevent the trip from taking place.
    â€œI’ll keep my receipts. Claim when I get back. Cash on delivery.”
    â€œI think you better have a quick word with Harden, Frank. I had a meeting with him yesterday. About your column. Where it was going, maybe trying to refocus it a bit.”
    â€œThat was good of you Patricia. Looking after my career like that.”
    â€œTo be honest, Frank, we don’t think you’re giving that column your full attention. We think it shows sometimes.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œYes. Harden is concerned too.”
    â€œBefore or after you pissed in my pond?”
    â€œI think you’d better have a word with Harden before you go anywhere, Frank,” she said.
    â€œDelaney is at large,” he said.
    â€œI’m serious,” she said.
    â€œMe too.”
    He tried not to slam the phone down too hard. A minute later, it rang. It would be Patricia, he was certain of that. Five minutes later his mobile rang. The tiny screen told him “Patricia, office.” He let it go.
    Cynthia Kellner lived a life of suburban Montreal ease. She had, as the saying used to go, married well. Her husband was in the rag trade, ran a big women’s wear operation in Montreal’s East End. Ladies’ blouses, skirts, cheap jeans with brands no one had ever heard of. Lots of Quebecois and Vietnamese and Haitian staff manning the cutting and sewing machines and the loading dock.
    When business had been very, very good, before Asian factories started chipping away at the trade in Montreal and New York, Cynthia’s husband, Josh Rabinowitz, had made serious money. He spent a lot of it on a giant house in Côte Saint-Luc —a split-level number with a three-car garage and perfect hedges. They had several children, apparently; rarely seen. Delaney had met Cynthia a few times; he could barely remember when or where or why. In the old days when he and Kellner had run in approximately the same circles, probably at a party somewhere, or at a bar. She was about 35 or 38 or so now. He had never been to her house.
    She was impeccably and expensively dressed for a weekday afternoon—black cashmere sweater, designer leather pants, black also, and what looked like fake snakeskin boots. Very black hair, very expensively done up, probably that morning. Cynthia had not wanted to meet him downtown.
    She was epileptic and didn’t drive. Kellner remembered that much about her.
    She kissed Kellner elegantly on each cheek in the European way. Her perfume smelled of money and order and calm as she led him through the cavernous entry and living area of the house to the backyard to where some weak April sun was making it just possible to sit outside on what was still known in such neighbourhoods as the patio.
    The outdoor table where she poured Perrier and sliced a lemon was the requisite wrought iron and heavy frosted glass. The chairs, wrought iron with the requisite cheery blue cushions and cheery yellow