Free Buffalo Jump by Howard Shrier Page B

done after finishing Grade 12, starting with my years in Banff, on the eastern slope of the Rockies, where I tended bar and skied in the winter and worked construction in the summer. I also gave him a brief précis of my time in Israel, focusing on the beginning, not the end. Like many other young Jews dismayed by the materialism of their parents’ generation, I had gone there searching for something purer and more demanding of myself. A collective dream I could be part of. While I gave only the briefest details of my army time, I did tell Clint how I hadbegun to study martial arts there, in the form of Krav Maga, a self-defence system designed by an Israeli army man. Roni Galil was my mentor. When I returned to Toronto, I abandoned Krav Maga for karate, needing at the time to leave all things Israeli behind.
    “So is that it for you?” Clint asked me. “Martial arts instructor for life?”
    “Why do I feel like you’re interviewing me for a job?” I said.
    He said, “Maybe it’s time you asked what I do.”
    The walls of Clint’s office were covered with photos of him with high-ranking cops and city officials, certificates of courses he had taken since leaving the Toronto force and framed newspaper articles about Beacon Security success stories. His large beechwood desk was covered with neat rows of current files. A laptop on his desk was networked to a large flat-screen monitor. He pointed to the visitor’s chair in his office. I sat.
    “How’s the arm?” he asked.
    “It’s fine.”
    “A hundred per cent?”
    “Maybe ninety.”
    “Let’s see.” He moved a row of files aside, rolled up his right shirtsleeve and planted his elbow on his side of the desk.
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope,” he said. “Show me what you got.”
    I rolled up my sleeve and placed my elbow opposite his. We gripped hands and locked eyes.
    “Go,” he said.
    There was no use trying to pin him. Being left-handed put me at a disadvantage to begin with; nor was my right arm quite the ninety per cent I’d claimed. I forgot about trying to take him down and focused instead on resistance, hoping he would tire. But when we had been stalemated at ninety degrees for thirty seconds or so, my triceps started to quiver. He put moreinto it; so did I. Clint’s face grew a shade redder but I ascribed that to his Celtic roots, not any challenge I posed.
    Carol Dunn picked that moment to walk in with a sheaf of messages and a stack of documents that looked like invoices. “Sir, I have Ted Sellers on the line about the number of surveillance hours we billed him and—”
    We parted hands as quickly as clandestine lovers, but not quickly enough.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know Jonah was with you.”
Obviously wasting your time,
her body language added.
    “It was my idea,” Clint said.
    “Mm-hmm.”
    “An evaluation of sorts.”
    “I’m sure.”
    “Tell Ted I’ll look at the file and get back to him. Anything I need to sign?”
    “Two contracts, the letters you asked me for and we have invoices to pay.”
    He patted the desk and she laid down her file.
    “Do you need anything else?” Carol asked sweetly. When Clint said no, she paused to throw me a look that was all stainless steel, then went back to her guard post. He asked her to close the door behind her.
    “Okay,” he said. “We have things to talk about.”
    “Like what?”
    “Your health, mental and physical. Your outlook. How ready you feel to get back to—”
    “Ready!”
    “Not so fast, champ. Getting shot leaves scars, and I don’t just mean the ones we see. I spent thirty years on the force and not every cop who got shot made it back to active duty.”
    “I am ready to go back to work. Real work, not typing Franny’s notes or covering his big ass.”
    He said, “Jonah, you’re one of the best hires I ever made.You’re smart, you’re creative and you have good instincts. You can handle yourself physically and you genuinely give a damn about