Race

  RACE

  A NOVEL

  MOBASHAR QURESHI

  RACE © Mobashar Qureshi 2011

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof, in any form.

  Visit the author’s website:

  www.mobasharqureshi.com

  Visit the author’s blog

  Mobashar’s Musings

  OTHER WORKS

  The October Five

  The Paperboys Club

  Ten Typewriter Tales

  The City

  The Town

  The Village

  Roman Solaire and the Crystal Towers

  Reviews from Amazon.com

  [5-star] “The main character 'Rupret' is a truly original hero, who will have you laughing throughout the story.”

  [5-star] “Move over inspector Clouseau, the world of crime fighting has another hilarious and bumbling yet serendipitously brilliant character.”

  [5-star] “The main character will have you rolling with laughter and cheering for the underdog.”

  [4-star] “If you need a pick-me-up, the main character will have you laughing in no time, brightening your mood. For sure this book is worth the read.”

  [4-star] “A great novel that combines serious and dangerous situations with a refreshing light-heartedness.”

  [4-star] “I laughed while reading this police story.”

  [4-star] “I really enjoyed this book, and it was very hard to put down!”

  [4-star] “This book was laugh out loud funny!”

  [4-star] “Those looking for an entertaining read need look no further.”

  Dedicated

  To my mother,

  Munawar J. Qureshi

  For her unconditional love and support

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people: my sister, Wajeeha, for always believing in me; my brother, Furrukh, for pushing me to make the novel better; my father, Faiz Qureshi, for being my motivation; my best friend, Kam J. Chu, for always being there; my editor, Beverley Daurio, for doing a wonderful job on the manuscript; and in the end a person whom I consider a true gentleman, Mike McElroy, without him this book would have never existed. Thank you all.

  ONE

  I lifted my head from the pillow and squinted at the clock. It was time to get up. Five more minutes, I warned myself.

  Twenty minutes later groggy and bleary, I sat up on my bum, my feet dangled over the bed. I yawned and then yawned longer and wider.

  I’m not a morning person.

  In fact, I’m not even a night person.

  I’m a sleep person.

  Wrap and seal me in a coffin and leave me alone; that’s what I’m talking about. And no need to dig me up, as I would still be sleeping. But, like three million others in Toronto, I am forced to go to work.

  I rubbed my belly. It was soft and natural. I once dreamed of having six-pack abs. It turned into a nightmare when I realized I had to actually do something. I was able to manage a two-and-a-half-pack. No more than that.

  I pulled myself up on my feet. I felt along the walls and found my oasis: the bathroom. I finished my task and then moved to the kitchen, following my morning routine. A sweet smell seeped into my nostrils. My state-of-the-art coffee maker had spurted the last drop twenty minutes ago.

  I grabbed my favorite cup, a picture of a mouse snoozing in bed, and filled it with the dark liquid.

  I strolled to the second-floor balcony and inhaled the morning air. It smelled of…um...let’s see…well, it just smelled.

  Below, Gerrard Street bustled with the early morning commute. Cars, minivans, and SUVs maneuvered around the white-and-red streetcars, afraid of getting stuck behind one.

  Across, a brown tow truck parked in front of a gray Honda Civic. The Civic had already been tagged; a yellow ticket flapped underneath the windshield wiper. The driver emerged from his truck and swiftly began securing the vehicle.

  It was the most beautiful sight in the world. Justice was being done right before my eyes. At this moment I could have shed a tear or two, but I wasn’t.

  The name on my Toronto Parking Enforcement badge reads: Jonathan Rupret—not Rupert—but Rupret. If there’s ever any confusion, always remember, R before the E. Jon Rupret is my name, parking tickets is my game.

  I had arrived from Guelph two years ago, as a mild-mannered college graduate. Now, I was a superhero in a parking enforcement uniform.

  As I am an only child—with no siblings and not many friends, my Mom wasn’t too happy with me coming here. She thought I’d be lonely. A superhero was never lonely. His friend was his duty and my duty was to keep the parking in Toronto efficient.

  The Civic was now secured.

  “Keep up the good work,” I yelled across, saluting with my cup.

  The tow-truck driver waved back, approvingly. Two law enforcers sharing a Kodak moment; it was priceless.

  I have to say I cannot stand violators. They never seem to understand that the roads are for everyone. There are city-parking laws and they must be enforced.

  Obviously, the owner of this Civic had no regard for the law. Parking wherever and whenever he wanted. He probably even thought he was above the law. While everyone else got up early to move their cars, he could sleep in and not worry. That crook!

  The tow-truck driver was inside his truck and was now easing it into the road. The Civic trailed behind.

  I took a sip of my coffee. My senses flooded back. Everything seemed much, much clearer now.

  Wait a minute…I squinted…that Civic looked familiar…

  “Hey, wait,” I yelled. “That’s my car!” The cup slipped out of my fingers.

  ***

  I skipped down the stairs and was out onto Gerrard Street in no time. But I was too late. The tow-truck dragged my car into the distance.

  “Not again,” I mumbled.

  This was the morning rush hour and it was tag-and-tow time.

  I decided to go back inside. I was attracting too much attention in my Toronto Raptors pajamas.

  My building had one parking spot and my Filipino landlady, who, by the way, lives below me, occupied it. Her son lived a block away and I was allowed to park in his driveway any time. But last night I was too lazy to drive over there. Come to think of it, what had I done last night?

  I stomped up the stairs and was ready to slam the door when I realized my landlady would hear me and come up to see if everything was okay. I didn’t want to spend the morning explaining why I didn’t drive that one block.

  I nearly screamed when I saw my favorite cup in pieces on the floor. I was ready to shed a tear now.

  Would this mean I had to give up coffee? Who would replace the snoozing mouse? Could I ever get over the snoozing mouse and continue on with my life? There were too many questions running in my head, with few answers.

  I cleaned and then had breakfast—without coffee. I wasn’t going to replace the snoozing mouse so soon. I had to give myself time to mourn.

  I changed into my Parking Enforcement Officer (PEO) uniform: light blue shirt with black tie, black pants with blue stripes on the sides, a black police cap, and a handy-dandy radio. Half an hour later I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the streetcar.

  It was embarrassing. Here I was a member of the police force, looking exceptionally fine in my uniform, waiting for transportation.

  If only I’d come to my senses sooner, I would have yelled at the tow-truck driver and would now be in my car. Instead, I had saluted and congratulated him for taking it away. The only thing left was to give him a box of Turtles and sing him a song.

  Crap.

  Rain pelted my shirt. I was wet.

  You cannot trust the weather in Toronto. It could be bright and sunny one minute and pouring the
next. That’s why the weatherman always says it like it’s a guess or a possibility: Today, it’s going to be sunny, partly cloudy, thirty percent chance of precipitation, some mild wind, slight chance of humidity and maybe some snow. In Toronto, you wake up and take your chances. I’ve had days where it’s freezing in the morning and damn hot in the afternoons.

  The rain was soaking my uniform, and not to mention, wrinkling my beautiful black skin.

  I could walk five steps left and save myself from the rain in the bus shelter, but there were already four people inside it. Two teenagers, an old lady with a dog that looked more like a raccoon, and a guy in a business suit.

  Civilians.

  Officers don’t share bus shelters with civilians. Never. Okay, technically, a Parking Enforcement Officer is also a civilian. But I’m a civilian with a cool uniform.

  I pushed my police cap lower and stuffed my hands in my pockets. Eventually, this rain would stop or the streetcar would come.

  Ten minutes passed and neither happened.

  I decided my stubbornness was going to get me sick. Abruptly, I turned left and took the five steps.

  The inhabitants of the bus shelter made room as I took my position in the corner, dripping and wet.

  I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, especially the dog, but I did. It was staring up at me. Then his or her—I can never tell the difference—tongue came out.

  Fine. Mock me.

  You don’t even look like a man’s best friend. You look like a large rodent.

  When no one was looking I stuck my tongue out. The dog’s tongue instantly went back in.

  That’s right. Now who’s the man?

  The streetcar approached.

  ***

  I went up the steps and the driver nodded. Officers of the Toronto Police Services do not have to pay fares while using public transit. The Toronto Transit Commission or TTC allows officers to ride free of charge; it deters crime while they are on a bus, train, or in my case, streetcar.

  A punk kid snickered at my wet uniform and I was ready to arrest him but seeing that he was only six years old, I gave him a warning look and moved to the back of the car.

  The ride was uncomfortable. I kept my focus on the advertisements plastered above, but I could feel eighteen eyes on me. The passengers were probably wondering why I wasn't prepared like them and carrying an umbrella. This was Toronto, they’d say, you should know better.

  I didn’t make eye contact with any of the passengers. I was happy reading the ad about how, I, too, could be debt-free. Being debt-free was on my list of things to do.

  TWO

  Between his thumb and index finger, Armand Dempiers held a small tablet. It was oval and smooth, and resembled an over-the-counter medication. But it was not. It was far more dangerous than anything available in the drugstores.

  He returned the tablet to a tray and slid it into the dryer-oven. As he moved away, the door behind him flew open.

  “Joey, what do you want?” Armand said.

  “Is it ready?” Joey looked too young to shave.

  It would never be ready, Armand wanted to say. Not if he had anything to do with it. “A few more minutes.”

  He moved across the windowless room, no bigger than a two-car garage, passed a large motorized ventilator and slumped on to a chair behind a battered steel desk.

  He shoved a stack of books and note-filled binders aside and rested his head on his palms. Through his fingers he caught sight of a picture frame with gold borders hidden underneath the pile of material.

  He squinted at the photo inside the frame. Four smiling faces looked up at him. Three children and one…he stopped. One, a man he no longer knew. The man’s smile was, perhaps, the widest. He seemed healthy and full of life.

  Through the cracked glass he saw his own reflection. The man looking back at him was weak and exhausted.

  How did his life end up like this?

  He caught the three smiling faces again and he couldn’t help but smile himself. His children brought him immense joy. His smile drained when he thought of the person who had taken the photo: his ex-wife.

  He was glad she was not in the picture. How he hated her. It was her fault—all of it. She wanted to take the kids from Toronto to Vancouver. How could she expect him to see them over the weekends when they were that far away?

  He closed his eyes. This was a mistake. A mistake he no longer wanted to be part of.

  What was he thinking, creating this drug? Was it that it would bring instant relief to whoever used it? Or was it that it would make him instantly rich?

  This was supposed to be for his children. Once he was rich, he would give them everything they’d ever want. He’d buy a house so that they wouldn’t have to move to Vancouver.

  So, what was wrong with providing relief and profiting from it? He wanted to shout. Nothing. Except when the user has no choice but to want more, and more, and more...

  This was Bantam’s fault, as well. He’d worked for Bantam Pharmaceuticals Limited for over fourteen years, giving them the best years of his life. He’d been working on a painkiller that would irrevocably change the drug industry. But, just as he had discovered a revolutionary instantly absorbing version, Bantam had cold feet. It was dangerous, they said; it had potential for something sinister. It wasn’t finished, Armand retorted, there were tests that still had to be done. Give me more time, he begged. They didn’t. They shut his project, and when he protested, they fired him.

  He stole the designs and was here, working for them in completing his masterpiece…except, he had realized, his creation could one day cause so much misery that could even affect his children. So now he…

  "Armand, it has to be ready by now," he heard Joey say.

  Armand shut his eyes tight; deep lines etched his pale skin. His wiry fingers moved in a circular motion around his temples, trying to alleviate the pain in his head.

  After tonight he would do what he should have done months ago. Call the police and give himself up. He would confess. Surely, they would be lenient; after all, he would save them a great deal of trouble.

  "I think it's ready," Joey said.

  Armand lifted his head, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath. For now, he had to continue this charade. He had to show the kid—a chemistry student whose job was to watch over him—that the drug they had been laboring over for the last three weeks was capable of doing what it boasted: providing such intense relief, the body couldn’t help but crave more.

  He went over and pulled out the tray he had been examining not two minutes ago. Two dozen, identical, yellow tablets lined perfectly across the tray in rows.

  Joey rubbed his hands. "We have it. I know we do."

  "Armand will never have it," said a female voice from behind.

  They both turned.

  She stood near the door with one hand on her hip. Her auburn hair flowed down her back. Her lips were parted slightly, revealing glossed teeth. Her emerald eyes bore into Armand.

  “We have it, Ms. Zee," Joey said, moving his hand through his shaggy hair. "Don't we?" He turned to Armand.

  Armand didn't meet his eyes.

  “Armand never had it," Ms. Zee said. "And he never will."

  “But…" Joey started. "We've been working…"

  The look on Ms. Zee’s face was both menacing and disappointing. “Joey, get out!”

  When the door had closed behind him, "Kong!" she commanded.

  A massive figure emerged behind her. Veins throbbed from the side of his shaved head. His black t-shirt was ready to tear from the bulging muscles. His neck was the size of a tree trunk and his chest the width of the door.

  The tray in Armand's hand shook; a few tablets fell. "Ms. Zee, I will have it. I just need a little more time."

  She shook her head. "No."

  Kong moved toward him.

  Armand lifted the tray over his head—tablets scattered to the floor—and threw it at Kong.

  A loud metal thud reverberated
as the tray hit Kong on the forehead. Kong stumbled back, jerked his head and clenched his jaw. His nostrils flared.

  Armand grabbed a binder and a book and threw them at Kong.

  Kong was ready. He flicked them aside with his massive hands as if they were nothing. He charged.

  Armand moved backward, slipped on the tablets, and fell sideways. His head hit the edge of the desk with a loud crack. His body slumped to the floor awkwardly, his right arm underneath him, his left turned upward, his legs spread apart, and his neck twisted to one side.

  Bone protruded from the side of his neck, revealing a lump underneath the skin. His chest was still. His eyes, empty and hollow, stared up at the ceiling.

  Armand Dempiers was dead.

  THREE

  When I reached my destination, I exited the streetcar but was greeted by the bright sun. My eyes took a second to adjust to the glare. Hadn’t it been raining just a short while ago?

  The Toronto Parking Enforcement Unit is inside the Toronto Police Headquarters, located on College Street.

  The salmon-colored building has a twelve-story tower and a ten-story-high atrium. From far away it looks like someone stacked granite cubes and glass blocks on top one another, something like those Jenga shapes, where you stack wooden blocks as high as possible until they fall. Lucky for me, this building was not made out of wooden blocks, so I felt pretty secure going in. Plus, it had a cool domed roof atop the elevator lobby.

  I got off on my floor and was stopped by the front desk officer.

  “What happened to you? You’re all wet,” she said.

  I shook myself slightly, like an animal coming out of a lake, but better.

  “What happened?” she asked again.

  “It’s a long story,” I said, wiping my hair, which was now pretty much dry. “You wouldn’t want to hear it.”