Free Up in Smoke by Ross Pennie Page A

sandwiched their health unit between a muffler shop and a pizza joint at the back side of a strip mall. They’d awarded the prime riverside location downtown to the LCBO , the government-run liquor store. At least he knew the local priorities without having to ask.
    All he needed to do now was gather the files he planned to review at home this evening with his single malt. Tonight, it would be a Balvenie, the Doublewood. In an hour, he’d be home with Max, who was usually at his best at the dinner table and a lively tonic against the workday’s curveballs and nasties. An enthusiastic talker and eater, Max knew more about the herbs and spices of international cuisine than was probably seemly for a ten-year-old. They shopped together at Four Corners Fine Foods, across Concession Street from his old office. The lady at the confections counter handed Max a different assortment of European chocolates at every visit. The boy was now an authority on the differences between Swiss, Dutch, Belgian, and German chocolate.
    Max was certain to be attentive at supper, thanks to Zol’s no-electronics rule. As soon as the food hit the table, no cellphone, no computer tablet, no video games were allowed. Not for either of them. Nothing was permitted to inhibit the fine art of conversation. For tonight’s supper, Zol had asked Ermalinda to prepare spaghettini with clam sauce. She was a fantastic nanny and housekeeper, but not much of a cook. She did do a nice enough job with tinned clams, and Zol had taught her how to cook pasta al dente. All he’d have to do was pull salad greens from the fridge, add toasted almonds and dried cranberries, and zap the clam casserole in the microwave.
    The desk phone started ringing beside him. Who the hell was calling at five-fifteen? Probably someone with a complaint best left to the answering machine. He waited six more rings, but couldn’t stand the noise any longer.
    â€œAnswering for Dr. Szabo,” he said. Anyone who didn’t yet know his voice would think they were dealing with an underling and might be persuaded to have their concerns addressed by the big cheese first thing tomorrow.
    â€œZol?”
    That voice, even with some sort of commotion in the background at her end, was unmistakable. It had seared itself forever into his brain.
    Shit. What did she want? Francine never called to chat. She’d never spoken to Max since she’d deserted the two of them nine years ago — with five minutes’ warning. Zol had been a surgical trainee at the time, standing gowned and gloved in the operating room. Francine paged him to say she was on her way out the door and leaving for good, and by the way, Max was asleep in his crib and would soon be wanting lunch. Zol raced home, and while Max flung canned spaghetti at the walls, Zol called his program director. They arranged his immediate transfer to a public-health traineeship, where the working hours might be more predictable. That wasn’t exactly the case, but he’d never looked back.
    The last time she’d called was over a year ago, from an ashram in India, with a crazy plan to travel halfway across the planet to take Max away for a weekend. Of course she didn’t show up. Sometimes she wanted money via Western Union. Never very much. It was faster to send a couple of hundred bucks than to argue.
    He cleared his throat. “Where are you?”
    â€œCambodia.”
    Thank God. Half the world away. But what was she doing in a Buddhist country? Wasn’t she hooked on Hindu mysticism? Well, she didn’t stick at anything for long.
    â€œZol?”
    â€œI’m still here.”
    â€œI’m flying into Toronto. For a conference and retreat.”
    Who was she trying to kid? Francine wasn’t the conference type, and any retreat she might attend would be stoked with so much weed she’d never remember what happened.
    â€œI have my ticket. October twenty-sixth. It’s a