Free Leper Tango by David MacKinnon Page A

seen the Newfie lose her footing before, but Sheba had clearly unnerved her, despite being half her size. Sheba stared at her wordlessly for several moments, considering something. Her mouth was slightly parted. She calmly scrutinized the Newfie, whose next phrase was emitted in a higher octave.
    â€œWhere is my money?”
    The phrase spilled out in a vaudevillian chirp. Again, Sheba paused. She looked back at me, whatever she had been considering now confirmed, then back at the Newfie. Finally, she spoke.
    â€œWait here.”
    She walked over to a coffee table, picked up her burgundy-toned pack of Dunhills, her back to the two of us, drew one from the pack and inserted it in her mouth, taking her time about it. A languorous ether permeated the atmosphere, anesthetizing the three of us. Sheba walked back to the door. She lit her cigarette, allowing a small pyre to drift into the Newfie’s face. As I watched the drama unfold, it came to me that every breathed insinuation, sideward glance and mocking smile had been stage managed down to its finest detail, and that the performance had nothing to do with money, or with the Newfie. It was meant for me, and me alone.
    â€œYou had better be able to back this up. Otherwise I will make you pay. I promise you.” I think that what shook up the Newfie more than anything was not Sheba’s icy threat, but the revelation that she had no self-knowledge whatsoever. She knew Sheba had stolen her money, and had no intention of returning it. Sheba’s casual stare was ample evidence of that. That bland admission first enraged the Newfie. Then, she came to a grinding halt, as if her inner hard drive had suddenly shut down. The shock and suddenness of her defeat filled her with an unfamiliar, nascent desire which confused her. When she looked at Sheba, she could see that Sheba had detected whatever this perversity inside of her was, even before she had suspected its existence. And somehow, Sheba’s seemingly random scenario had triggered it within her.
    The Newfie was like a lot of other people we came across, in the sense that I have no idea what happened to her next. Maybe she went into social work.
    Later that day, we stopped in at the Air du Temps , a jazz bar in the old city. She was leafing through a real estate magazine, and I was having a coffee, mentally replaying the scene earlier that morning, where Sheba had somehow managed to convince the Newfie to write out a cheque for the furniture we had left behind in the other flat.
    â€œListen to this, Franck. Luxurious loft, overlooking the old port in the oldest street of North America. Must lease immediately . It will make a good pied-à-terre . While we review our options.”
    â€œYou’re the CEO, baby.”
    I rang up the number. The voice answered in French and switched over to English immediately.
    â€œWhat do you do? You are a lawyer? Fine. That’s just fine. I have a slot open later this afternoon.”
    We decided to kill some time walking around the old port. She had been asking me about my sexual fantasies. “Fantasies are for people with shitty sex lives. That’s never been a problem for me. Actually, come to think of it, Sheba, Franck Robinson is my fantasy.”
    â€œNo, Franck. That’s not sufficient. It must be something that you have kept for yourself. Something dark, which fills you with shame. That, if the world knew of it, you would feel exposed and ruined.”
    â€œI don’t think I have that kind.”
    â€œThat’s impossible, Franck. Everyone has one thing.”
    â€œYou have to care about the world for that one thing.
    That’s not really a family trait. The Robinsons have never cared enough.”
    She stared darkly ahead.
    â€œI know you like beating me, Franck. There was a look in your eyes. As if you were discovering something for the first time.”
    She watched me for a while, still probing for something, or as she would call it,