DEVIL IN THE WATERS // 9.004

It would have been impossible to find Updike’s without Devlin’s explicit instruction. Devlin’s careful email directions to the obscure location was a good sign that tonight’s meeting with his high school bully wasn’t a ruse. As much as he’d grown mentally stronger over the last month, a fourteen-year-old and frightened fraction of himself still snuck around in the dusty attic and walls of his psyche. It wasn’t impossible to believe that, just as Josh had that skittish victim scurrying around his brain, Devlin’s brain had its own squirrel in the attic: a fourteen-year-old sadistic tormentor. And what if Devlin couldn’t prevent that nasty little tormentor from swimming to the surface when one of its old favorite foils drew near and showed vulnerability?

Updike’s wasn’t at all like the kind of place Josh expected to meet Devlin for a drink before the Jays game. What he expected was some ostentatious and snazzy neon city bar you’d read about in a slick Toronto magazine with lots of photographs. But the narrow doorway into Updike’s was sandwiched between a hat boutique and a sushi restaurant. In the narrow brick doorway: a simple glass and aluminum door you would expect lead to a second-floor apartment above the boutique—the kind of apartment suitable for a college student.

From the subway station at Keele he’d summoned an Uber to take him into The Junction. The idea of sweating in his expensive suit drove him crazy—he’d already worried about getting made fun of in the subway—like some teenagers would taunt him for riding public transport when his suit cost as much as a good used car. Updike’s was on The Junction’s main drag, Dundas Street, hidden amongst the two-story brick rows of deluxe stores and bars and restaurants. After work he drove from Ajax to park the Qashqai in Kimmy’s spot in the underground lot below her office in North Toronto. He hitched a subway ride into the city. Kimmy would be home already—she was going to spend time with Hyun tonight while he was out with Devlin.

He paused at the simple door, hand on the rectangular aluminum pull, and got a good look at his reflection in the glass. He angled his head one way, then the other. Gone was the boyish head of layered hair he could brush forward or back, or leave messy on the weekends. Same haircut he’d had since high school—though there’d been tepid variations along the way. With Kimmy’s encouragement, he’d gone out last night and cheated on his barber. He’d visited a salon, and showed the stylist a picture Kimmy texted him. Short back and sides, brushed back on top. Not unlike Devlin.

Past the door there was a steep, narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs the space opened up to a drinking parlor. Down one side ran a polished walnut bar, the other side interspersed with shallow, upright walnut booths, like church confessionals. The place had a distinct masculinity: cigar smoking was prominent; a mounted deer head with a wide rack posed high behind the bar; the clientele was mostly male and well-dressed; the bartenders wore dress shirts and vests, and one sported a hipster handlebar mustache; most of the art on the walls were black-and-white photos of substantial men from history.

Devlin sat at the bar, wearing a dark-colored suit, elbows on the bar’s red-leather padded edge, whisky glass in hand.

Josh made his way across the stylish drinking establishment, conscious of not only his new haircut and his seven-thousand-dollar suit, but also the caramel leather wingtip brogues Kimmy bought him on Wednesday night. The brogues hadn’t broken in yet, so they were stiff. If it was quiet—like it had been in the tunnel-walk into the subway station at Sheppard—the leather creaked. Fortunately the low chatter at Updike’s drowned out any embarrassment, and he made it to the empty bar stool next to Devlin.

“Fancy place,” he said to Devlin, hoisting himself to sit on the red leather stool next to the guy that used to scare the shit out of him when he was younger.

Devlin wheeled on the swivel stool, expression widening with unexpected friendliness. “There’s the guy— Hey, Josh.” He clapped a hand on Josh’s shoulder then signaled to the bartender with the mustache. “Bourbon over here.” Then he leaned closer to Josh, saying, “We’re having bourbon tonight—hope you’re okay with it.”

Bourbon was what got him into this whole crazy situation. Bourbon had clouded his brain and put nasty thoughts racing through it. Bourbon provoked his worst fears and speculations and opened him to Amy’s mighty powers of suggestion. “Fine by me,” he said, playing it cool.

Devlin told the bartender to pour one for both of them, then pointed to the glass of the man sitting on his other side. This man wore a steel-gray suit. His bulk filled out the chest and arms, and he wore a gold watch. Devlin said to him, “This is Josh.”

The man leaned his head forward to look past Devlin at Josh. He had crystal blue eyes and a thick brown beard, neatly trimmed. “Hey, what’s up, Josh?” His voice was deep but creaky, and his smile huge and friendly. He nodded to Josh and Josh nodded back.

Devlin said, “Josh, this is Glenn. Friend from U of T.”

Josh did the expected, “Hey, Glenn,” nodding again, doing his own friendly thing, neither of them shaking hands because of the awkward seating arrangement. The bartender returned with an unlabeled crystal bottle of amber fluid and poured a generous measure into Josh’s glass, and then Devlin’s and Glenn’s. Devlin asked the bartender for more ice, and when the bartender turned, Devlin said to Josh, “Gotta have ice in this one. Brings out the smoke. Trust me.”

Glenn leaned forward to ask Josh, “You’re at Swanson, right?”

Josh said he was and Glenn looked to Devlin then back to Josh. “Yeah, we know a couple guys there, too. You’re at that Ajax office, right?”

“Yeah. It’s like the data processing hub. Big complex.” He waited a beat as the bartender plied silver tongs to add rough chunks of frosty ice to their heavy glass tumblers, then delivered his exciting news: “Swanson is sending me to Italy next month. Part of a team, looking into breaking into the Euro market.”

Glenn said, “Oh yeah?”

Devlin raised his eyebrows like he was impressed. “What’s this about?”

Harmeet had summoned Josh from crazy midday car sex with his sexy wife in fashionable Yorkville to Harmeet’s dreary office so he could offer good news, not bad news, like Josh had feared. Josh said to Devlin, “Swanson wants a bigger bite of Europe. They already partner with Gnadennote in Berlin, but it’s kind of boutique.”

Glenn got it, nodding. “You’re not going global with boutique.”

Devlin said, “Boutique is the antithesis of global data.”

“Gnadennote has great research but their markets are too young. Swanson wants a finger in every pie,” Josh said.

Devlin laughed. “Not just the young pie.”

Glenn said, “What part of Italy?”

The telling of Josh’s practical promotion at Swanson—his inclusion in a small team of executives traveling through Europe—had been something he’d practiced and played with before tonight. This good news had been something that excited him in the approach to today’s meet-up with Devlin. Glenn’s presence had been intimidating at first, but Glenn was friendly and charming and a different kind of guy than Devlin. Josh leaned one side against the bar, taking the glass tumbler of fine bourbon and swirling it to coat the ice. “Rome. Never been before. Should be a blast.”

“Rome in September should be pretty nice,” Devlin said without looking over.

“Best time of year to go,” Glenn agreed.

He’d anticipated his story of travel flopping. How would he expect either of these guys to care about his business trip to Europe when they both probably traveled extensively for work? It wasn’t the end of the world, though—if they asked questions, he’d be prepared to answer, but offering too much now would look unsophisticated. He asked Glenn, “What do you do?”

“Lawyer,” he said. “Not practicing. Work in finance now, M.Y. & Weir.”

Josh brought the bourbon to his lips and breathed it in. It’d been a while since his terrible escapade with the bourbon at Tiffany’s post-reunion party and he feared that the smell would turn his stomach. The bourbon at tiffany’s had been a good quality, and he anticipated this one would be even better. He wasn’t disappointed. It was rich and smelled like hot cherrywood, but it went down so smooth he widened his eyes with surprise. It breathed smoke on the exhale. He set the tumbler down, “That is some top shelf bourbon.”

Devlin took a swig of the whisky and then made a face like there was something wrong. He peered into the glass.

Josh looked around Devlin to Glenn, saying, “You live downtown?”

“Apartment on St. Clair.”

Devlin still stared at the tumbler, but murmured, “Glenn can’t keep away from UCC. He’s still stuck in high school. This doesn’t smell right.”

Josh peered over Devlin’s hand to look in the glass. Just plain old bourbon. He said, “Mine smelled fucking fantastic.”

Glenn said his did as well, and as if to offer proof, took a hefty swig and polished the whole measure off in one gulp.

Devlin held the glass toward Josh for him to smell it. Josh leaned his face in and smelled. All he got was bourbon. Devlin rotated the glass a little and now Josh did detect a funky, earthy sort of smell. He shrugged his shoulders and looked to Devlin who looked back at him quizzically. Then Devlin offered it to Glenn, who leaned to sniff.

Glenn made a look of disgust and retreated. “Yeah, it’s body smell. What the fuck?” He rubbed his nose then regarded Devlin for a long moment before he broke out laughing and said, “Dude, it’s your fucking finger or something. Gross. Go wash your hands, you filthy hobo.”

Devlin set the tumbler down on the bar and looked at his hands, front and then back. They were clean, the fingernails manicured. Josh scooted over and swiped up Devlin’s tumbler. He took a whiff, smelled only bourbon, and joined in taunting Devlin—but doing it carefully. “Yeah, that’s not the bourbon,” he said sarcastically, leaving it open for Glenn to launch a jibe rather than him.

Glenn took the opportunity. “Aw man, Devlin, it’s some fucking skank stripper or something. Jesus, dude, don’t hookers offer up Wet Wipes these days?”

Devlin laughed and slipped off his stool. “The skank stripper days are long gone, buddy. This ain’t college anymore.” He grabbed Glenn’s collar with both hands and squeezed. Glenn was a big bear in a nice suit and could take Devlin’s squeeze, but he hunched up his shoulders and recoiled, swiping at his suit like Devlin had left cooties. Devlin laughed and adjusted his jacket then headed toward the rear of the bar, toward the hall where Josh figured the bathrooms were.

Josh was alone now with Glenn. Glenn smiled, set his elbows down on the bar and signaled for another bourbon. Josh said, “So you guys went to U of T together?”

Glenn swiveled his chair toward Josh, mouth open like he would answer. Then he caught a look over Josh’s shoulder and his expression went to one of masculine exuberance. Josh swiveled his stool around to see a man had mounted the steps and entered the bar, standing and adjusting his jacket as he scanned the bar, scowling. He was mean and imposing, with a ruddy face and twisted nose. Though he wore a nice suit, he looked like a working man, one who spent time outdoors, with oversized hands and gnarly knuckles. His neck was thick, his collar sloping bearlike from small cauliflower ears down to powerful shoulders.

A shimmer of recognition rose on Josh’s horizon, like heat off sunbaked asphalt.

Glenn cheeped a shrill whistle to get the man’s attention and then hollered, “Johnny fucking Rumble in the house.”