Famous Last Meals by Richard Cumyn Page A

catching her dry sense of humour. Perhaps he had been hallucinating. No, that couldn’t be it, for then he would be hallucinating even now, and the sirloin he was chewing was as real as the chair he sat on. Did she even work where she said she did? Maybe she was part of an even more shadowy operation that functioned outside of the government. She had known who he was before interviewing him, had either known he was going to be working at the PMO or had arranged it herself. But how was that possible? That would mean that his father had been involved, and Adam could not picture Mr. Lerner being involved in anything shadier than a Sunday snooze in the backyard hammock. It must be that she had been watching Adam at every step. The suicide in the BSC parking lot—did she have something to do with that? Thinking about it was knotting his stomach. Some spy he made.
    He went up to his room and was lying on the bed when the phone rang. It was his father. He had tried to get Adam at the Lord Nelson and they had transferred the call.
    â€œThey ran out of rooms, Dad. Some mix-up. How are things there?”
    â€œWe’re OK . Your mother had one of her feelings and she wouldn’t let go of it until I called you. Some crazy idea you’re not well. Are you all right, boy? Do you need money? Clean underwear?”
    Adam laughed, secretly thanking him for giving him this small outlet for his tension. He told him that he was having the time of his life. The campaign was chugging along like a freight train. Unstoppable. No worries.
    They talked about the weather, the PGA tour, international news. By the time they said goodbye, his father seemed reassured that Adam was all right.
    The air conditioner blew a cold wind, preventing sleep. A knock came at the door. When he opened it a beautiful girl in a shimmering golden evening gown was standing there. She said her name was Tracy, she worked for the hotel’s hospitality staff, and she was inviting him downstairs to the tables. She smiled as she held up a package of betting chips encased in molded plastic. She looked so much like a Bond girl that he thought he was dreaming.
    â€œI should get dressed,” he said, figuring that if it were a dream he might not require clothes, and when she said that, yes, it might be a good idea to put on pants, he blushed.
    â€œThat is,” she added, “if you want to go downstairs. We could always stay in.”
    â€œThis is for real?”
    â€œYes, why wouldn’t it be?”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    â€œOld enough.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you know who sent you.”
    â€œMy boss. He’s usually the one who tells me what to do.”
    â€˜So, what next?’ hung unspoken in the stale, chemical air coming in from the hallway. He got dressed, put the door key in his pocket and walked with unreal Tracy to the elevator.
    â€œJust so you know,” she said as they descended, “I don’t...you know.”
    â€œAh. Right.”
    He played some blackjack after watching a few hands, lost a third of the chips Tracy had given him, and moved to the roulette table. He asked her where she was from and what she liked most about working at the casino, which had a desperate, muggy, soiled atmosphere, so unlike the image portrayed in the movies. The players looked punchy, slumped, sleep deprived. Not a tuxedo in the room.
    Tracy said she was from Stellarton, that all of her friends had stayed there or gone away to school, but that she hadn’t liked high school all that much and couldn’t wait to get away. Halifax was like a dream. She loved the port city. There was so much to do. The people weren’t quite as nice as the folks back home, but they were generous, mostly, with tips and advice and the like, and she got to meet people from all over the world. She asked him what kind of business he was in.
    â€œBusking.”
    â€œReally? What’s your routine?”
    â€œI get myself