The following is the latest in the on-going Aurora trilogy. It contains scenes of consensual homosexual sex between teenage boys and contains strong language. Parental discretion is advised (OK, I've been watching too much television). If you live in a province or state, city or town, an igloo in the north or a tent in the south and reading, owning, downloading or possessing literature of this nature is prohibited by law, please move on. If your religion or whatever frowns on reading or possessing literature of this type, please, read something else.
I emphasize, as I always do, that this story is set in 1976 and reflects the ethics, mores, customs and usages of the times. Do not, please, writ me a long e-mail nattering on and trying to equate what is in vogue today with what was actual in 1976. I may have beaten the Big "C" but I am still a grumpy old sailor!
While this chapter contains no sex, I still emphasize that while abstinence is the best form of keeping safe, although I doubt any of you will be content with that lifestyle. Therefore, please, practice safe sex! I plan on being around for at least another 20 years or so and I would like to know that I have some readers!
In order to understand what is happening and to know the Boys, you really should read the first two books of the Trilogy: The Phantom of Aurora (now available in paperback) and The Boys of Aurora. Both are available on Nifty.
My thanks to Peter, my editor, who as always came through and made what I write much better. My thanks, as always to all who write. Your comments and criticisms are always welcome.
Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 17
The morning sun streamed through the deep-set trefoil side windows, turning the stained glass to jewelled portraits. Above the widows broad rays of sunlight traced the heavy-timbered roof structure as it glowed through the triangular dormers. Around the wood-panelled walls and chancel the flowers were banked, filling the small chapel with their intoxicating, almost overpowering scents.
Margaret Winslow had chosen as the setting for her funeral the Chapel of St. James-the-Less, a High Victorian, Neo-Gothic gem of a building that, set on a small knoll directly opposite to the entrance, dominated the cemetery of the same name.
In front of the altar, resting on a brass and wood frame, waiting to be lowered into the bowels of the building and wheeled to the crematorium, was Margaret's pall-draped coffin.
Margaret had planned her funeral well. She had spent her entire married life dominated by her overbearing husband and was determined that her last rites would be as simple as possible. Her husband would have preferred the Cathedral, with the combined choirs of St. James and St. Paul's, the Bishop on the altar steps, a procession preceding her coffin, with the organ thundering "The Sentences".
Instead she had chosen this small chapel which, with its pitched roof, deep caves, protective wooden porch, monumental spire with its broad base rising high over the nave, as her starting point for her final journey. To The Gunner, who sat in the first pew to the right of the altar, the chapel was reminiscent of the small village churches he had visited during his walking trips when in England.
Beside The Gunner, dressed in formal black mourning clothes, was his uncle Edward. Behind him sat Sophie, Chief Edgar, and Aaron, with Ace and three of the Rangers, Teddy, Max, and Jeff. Lester, who had simply appeared, was wearing a dark grey pinstripe, looking quite handsome, his pale lavender striped shirt accented with a mauve paisley tie. Beside him sat Brent, who was wearing his dress uniform, Gil, Sam and Shane.
Margaret had wanted no crowd of pseudo mourners and had relied on Sophie, and Mr. Grimes, and the capacity of the chapel, to ensure that the her last rites would be observed by as few people as possible. Aside from Sophie, Chief Edgar and his son, and the Rangers, the pews were filled with friends of Edward, all of them looking as if they were just killing time until the markets opened or their name came up for tee-off time at the club.
There had been no procession from the house. Margaret's coffin had been taken discreetly to the church. There would be no procession to an open grave. Margaret would be cremated and her ashes placed in a small niche, already purchased. She would rest alone.
The service, conducted by an old family priest, was in strict conformance to the Book of Common Prayer, Margaret having no truck with the new "Book of Alternate Service."
The hymns had been sung, and now it was time for the committal. The undertaker offered the priest a small, plastic vial of sand, which was refused. Instead the priest turned to the young boy who served as his acolyte. The boy offered a small wooden box containing earth taken from the priest's own garden that morning. Sprinkling the pall with the earth, forming a cross, the priest intoned, "Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ, who shall change our corruptible body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself."
With the committal service finished, the priest looked out at the small congregation. He had been ministering to grieving families for many years and knew instinctively those who grieved and those who were only putting on a show for the neighbours. He had once told his bishop that there was a special aura that seemed to envelope the true mourners, and he believed that the aura was present today. Not in all, for he knew the man that Margaret had married, just as he knew the men who occupied the pews to his right that stretched toward the door and their escape to the world. These men were here not out of love for Margaret - they barely knew her, the priest was certain - and were only here because it was expected of them, lest the neighbours, or their business colleagues, tsk, tsk at their absence.
Margaret had specifically decreed that there be no eulogies. She had always told Sophie that very few of the speeches made at funerals were sincere, and all too often were avenues of conscience salving, or ways to wreak some pitiful vengeance against the deceased, or the families. Sophie disagreed, but had promised Margaret that her wishes would be obeyed.
The priest had also disagreed, for Margaret had been a truly saintly woman. She had remained steadfast in her faith, and given of her charity. His own mission to seamen, once a broken down caravan, had a chapel, a rest house, a dining hall and landscaped grounds thanks to Margaret's generosity. He could not let her go without saying something.
Clearing his throat, the priest cast his gaze upon the nephew, and the circle of friends that had gathered around him. The priest's eyes narrowed at the sight of Edward, dressed more like an undertaker than the undertaker, and sniffed inwardly. He knew the measure of Edward Winslow and while he would pray for the man's eventual salvation, he would not be over fanatical about it.
"Dear friends," the priest began, "we have gathered to say goodbye to a wonderful woman, a woman who was, I believe, the most caring person I have ever met. She held her friends dear, and she had no enemies. She lived her life as a true Christian woman and by her charity she has been assured a place amongst the blessed.
"God, in His inestimable way, blessed Margaret in many ways. He gave her wealth, and she used it wisely. He gave her many friends, and she returned ten-fold the love they gave her. He gave her no children, but he gave her a son, who was always close to her heart and who today mourns her truly."
Beside The Gunner, Edward squirmed uneasily. The silly old man was touching too close. He glanced from the corner of his eyes and saw the tears coursing down his nephew's face and sniffed. One did not mourn in public!
The priest saw the look of disdain in Edward's eyes and glared at the banker. Words would be useless against him, of course. Edward Winslow was a fool, and there was nothing more to be said. With a smile of love and remembrance, the priest continued, "Margaret loved her family with all her heart. She asked of them only that they return her love, and that one day they would return to her in the panoply of knights. Her only request was that they bring good to this world, that they return to others the love she gave them. As I look out upon those who truly loved her, I believe . . ." Here the elderly man paused and looked, not at Edward, but at The Gunner, Sophie and the Rangers, "As I believe in the True God, that her wishes will be fulfilled." Placing his hand on the green silk pall, the priest smiled down at the cloth-covered casket. "Go in peace, dear Margaret, in the knowledge that you were and are loved and that your memory will live on in many hearts. Dear Margaret, friend of my youth, unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit thee. The Lord bless thee, dearest friend, and keep thee. The Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace, now and evermore. Amen."
The Gunner ignored the small crowd of mourners that gathered in front of the chapel for the ritualistic hand shaking and insincere expressions of condolence that followed every funeral. He walked slowly down the path outside the chapel and followed it around behind the building, passing the rows of gravestones and markers until he came to small, marble bench, a marker of some sort. He sat and buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with sobs of remorse. He had not been a good nephew to his aunt. Time and again he let opportunities to see her, as she fervently wished, slip away. Too often he had told himself that what he was doing at the time was much more important than a day or two with his aunt. Too often he had found excuses not to return to the woman who loved him. England had been more important, Vietnam had been more important, the Order, Phantom, all had been more important. He could have taken a day or two, he could have picked up the telephone, but always he had not and now . . .
Sophie sat beside the weeping man and placed her hand on his. "Margaret would not wish you to weep," she said kindly.
"I failed her, Sophie," returned The Gunner passionately. "I was a bad nephew to her and she never knew it!"
"She knew only that she loved you. She wanted you to follow your path, remember."
A small smile broke The Gunner's tears. "Follow my path! I did and I lost everything dear to me."
Sophie handed The Gunner her handkerchief, fine linen edged with lace, a lady's handkerchief that became lost in The Gunner's large hand. "Are you weeping for Margaret, or for yourself?" asked Sophie, trying to keep the coldness from her voice.
Staring, The Gunner digested Sophie's remark and then was forced to nod slowly. "Myself."
"Then you must stop!" Sophie looked around and Chief Edgar, who with the Rangers had followed The Gunner into the depths of the cemetery, handed her a cigarette, lit it, and then withdrew. As she smoked, Sophie gathered her thoughts. Presently she dropped the cigarette onto the gravel patch surrounding the bench, ground it under the toe of her shoe and slipped her hand into The Gunner's. "Margaret wanted you to do great things, sir Knight," she said quietly. "She knew that there was a destiny waiting for you, and wanted you to have the means to find that destiny."
"She also wanted me to fill her house with children - boys," added The Gunner.
"She was always partial to boys," replied Sophie with a not quite lascivious chuckle. She gave The Gunner a slight nudge with her elbow. "But then, so was I."
The Gunner could not help smiling. "Build a house and fill it with boys," he quoted softly.
Nodding, Sophie squeezed The Gunner's hand. "You are called to do something wonderful and selfless, Stephen. It is time that you put aside your grief and began to build that house, the house that Margaret wanted you to build." She looked over to where the small group of men had gathered, casting nervous glances towards Sophie and The Gunner, some smoking cigarettes. "You army awaits, my general."
"A small army, Sophie," replied The Gunner.
"It is not the strength of your army, but the strength of your faith that will prevail," returned Sophie. "You believe in what you are doing, and soon enough others will share that belief and join you. Come, Stephen."
Sophie rose and gestured for Chief Edgar. Then she turned to The Gunner again. "You have already influenced young men to follow you," Sophie continued as she followed a slow, winding path through the tombstones. "When you came here there was just you, and then Ace. Now you have the young men who call themselves your Rangers, sybarites, men who thought of nothing but their own pleasures. Look at them, Stephen, regard your creations and do not weep!"
The Gunner looked back to the small group who seemed to be hovering around a particularly interesting marble slab, ostensibly not wanting to intrude. He chuckled dryly.
"You see it then?" asked Sophie.
"Yes."
"You have given them a purpose, a cause, a crusade, if you will," declared Sophie firmly. "Acton is a changed man, and you will change him further. What is important, however, is that now each of those young men has a goal, and a purpose. They might not realize just how much has changed, and will change, but they will eventually come to realize that they are better men for joining you."
"You give me too much credit," protested The Gunner.
"Modesty is well suited to virgins on their wedding night, not to leaders of men," retorted Sophie. Then she smiled sweetly. "You even managed to change an old Jenny Wren, which three husbands never managed to do!"
"Not so old," replied The Gunner, his mood improving.
"Thank you for that," said Sophie. "But I am old enough to know my limitations, and to know that I'll be joining our Margaret soon enough." She stopped abruptly and looked into The Gunner's eyes. "Until then, I have work to do! As do you. You, I, we, must do what has been set for us! There can be no flagging, no hesitation."
"I know," replied The Gunner softly. "I just wonder, sometimes, if the price we might pay will be worth it."
Sophie's hand reached out to rest gently on The Gunner's shoulder. "Stephen, my father was a great admirer of Theodore Roosevelt, who once said, 'Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory or defeat." She squeezed The Gunner's shoulder with a strength she had forgotten she possessed. "Lead them, Stephen, lead then out of that gray twilight!"
Before The Gunner could reply to her inspiring admonition, Sophie turned her eyes to the small group of men waiting down the gravel path. "Young Aaron needs a purpose. He is too much under his father's influence. Please do what is necessary for my future stepson to dare mighty things."
Leaving the slack-jawed Gunner, Sophie turned and held out her hand to Chief Edgar. "James, darling, come and walk with me. I have an urge to visit old friends."
As Sophie and Chief Edgar walked off down the path the others could hear her voice, crystalline in the morning light, trailing away, "Did you know that this is the oldest continuing cemetery in the city? Dear Margaret will be resting with the elite, James. Gooderhams, and Worts, why even . . ."
The Rangers gathered around the bench and The Gunner looked at each man in turn. "Last chance to back out, gentlemen," he said slowly. He was prepared to dare mighty things, but would not ask others to join him unless they were willing. "Once we start, we finish what we started." Aaron spoke for all of them. "Too late for that. We've made up our minds."
"I did not exaggerate when I told you all that you are embarking on a potentially dangerous mission," The Gunner warned. "The men we search for have no scruples and many, I believe, have great power. Before this is finished there will casualties."
"Perhaps," agreed Shane diffidently. "But we are still going ahead."
The Gunner again looked at the men. "What we need now is information. Whatever it is you unearth, ring Ace's flat." He looked at Lester. "Write everything down and if there is something in what they report, research it. Do not leave anything to chance and do not leave any loose ends. You are the man, Lester. Everything goes through you."
Lester ducked his head. "You can rely on me."
"I know. Now, have any of you given any thought to obtaining photos?" The Gunner smiled at Lester. "I saw your note about cameras."
Max grinned. "Gil has a Zeiss and knows how to use it. He'll be in the service truck with Jeff."
The Gunner's eyes widened. "You've a plan?"
"Of course," replied Max in a disconcerting, offhand manner. "All that needs to be done is for Shane and me to swing by the Mormon Tabernacle up off of Don Mills Road and pick up supplies. We'll need some brochures and handouts, and a copy of the Book of Mormon."
"And Jeff and I are going to pick up a Bell service truck," said Gil. "His cousin came through."
"He's even throwing in hard hats and service belts," offered Jeff. He winked at Teddy. "Kissin' cousins do that for a guy."
Teddy winked back. He'd seen Jeff's cousin.
"And Sam and I are off to City Hall to do some research," put in Brent. He looked seriously at The Gunner. "Steve, have you given any thought to weapons? If these guys are as dangerous as you seem to think they are, it might be a good idea."
The Gunner looked thoughtful and then nodded. "Well, with the exception of Lester, we've all handled side arms." He scratched his chin reflectively. "Right now though, let's not jump to conclusions. We really don't know how the men who have the boys will react. I think we should have weapons available, though." He glanced at Brent. "Just enough firepower to show our enemies that we mean business."
Brent understood. "I'll arrange it, then." Brent looked at the Rangers. "I'll get something for each of you and lock them away in Ace's apartment. If any of you need some training, tell me." He turned and smiled at Lester. "As for you, we're going to a firing range this evening."
"We are?" asked Lester, wide-eyed.
"We are," confirmed Brent. "If you're in this with us, you're in this all the way."
Sighing, for he was secretly afraid of guns, Lester nodded.
"Gentlemen," said The Gunner as he rose to his feet. "Let's keep this one thought in mind: discretion. Do not, please, do anything that will arouse suspicion. Right now all you are looking for is information. Do not take chances."
The Rangers nodded their agreement. They had been dodging metaphorical bullets for years hiding their homosexuality. They had been role-playing, and for them their forays into the unknown world were just extensions of their roles.
As the men began walking down the path, Aaron Edgar asked, "And what am I to do?"
"Right now? Why you are going to accompany Ace and me to the bank," replied The Gunner.
In 1793 John Graves Simcoe, first Lieutenant-Governor of Upper Canada, in order to promote the new colony and town of York, and to ensure that the future leaders of that colony would be gentry, or at least landed aristocracy of a sorts, began awarding 100-acre parcels of land to the east of the small, earthen-walled fort and scattering of log cabins and half-built structures that was the town of York, to members of his official family and entourage.
While all the recipients of Simcoe's largesse took the land, only a very few country houses were built. Instead the land was subdivided into smaller lots and sold as farmland.
As the town of York grew, and became the city of Toronto, the land that stretched to the west of the growing city to the crumbling ruins of Simcoe's Fort York, had few takers. The lots, which sold for $350.00 each, were out of reach for many, and the rich preferred their mansions in Rosedale, or Moore Park, or along Jarvis Street
Much of the land remained derelict and fallow until 1870, when Colonel Robert Denison, whose parcel of 56 acres was unsaleable as a whole, divided each of his lots into three parcels and put them on the market, cheap. These smaller lots began to attract the swarms of new immigrants flooding the city, primarily tradesmen and labourers from the British Isles.
As time passed Colonel Simcoe's dream of verdant lawns and country houses was replaced by small sturdy, red brick houses built along streets named after the heritage of the new owners: College, Oxford, Wales, and so on. The main street, named for Queen Augusta, was soon lined with substantial houses set on wide lawns, and the area became known as Kensington, a solid, working class neighbourhood where the Queen's birthday was celebrated every 24th of May with gusto and true British patriotism.
In time the British immigrants prospered and began to move north or east and their places were taken by a new wave of immigrants: Jews, Ashkenazim, from Eastern Europe; many Germans, many Poles and many Russians fleeing the pogroms and hatred of their Motherland.
From the turn of the century until after World War II, Kensington attracted Jews of all shades and descriptions. Many were merchants and sold their wares from pushcarts on the front lawns of their homes, and the area became known as the Jewish Market, and ultimately home for 80 per cent of the small city's Jewish population.
In time the pushcarts gave way to small shops, usually set up in the front rooms of the houses that lined the small streets. Along with the shops came schools, a hospital, and over 30 synagogues. There were also kosher meat processing plants, chicken slaughterhouses, and a theatre that boasted the finest in Yiddish entertainment this side of New York City.
After the Second World War the Jews, who had prospered, began to move away, their places taken by Italians, Ukrainians, Hungarians, and Portuguese immigrants, with a smattering of Chinese as Toronto's original Chinatown expanded west from Spadina Avenue, to the extent that the ethnic diversity was held up by the Liberal government as a perfect example of what Canada should be.
As the neighbourhood changed the 30-odd synagogues had dwindled to a small handful, including the Anshe Minsk, the Rodfei Sholem Anshel Kiev, and the Adass Jisroel, home to the Livadianers, or Livadian Jews who alone refused to leave their first Canadian home.
The congregation was located in and around Belgrave Square, a large, leafy enclave much enjoyed by the residents. The synagogue, a huge, Neo-Romanesque structure with twin, domed towers and a central dome (part of which had been financed from a large contribution from the Emperor Franz Joseph) decorated with gold leaf and crowned by a gold Mogen David, dominated the square and neighbourhood. Clustered around the synagogue were the usual structures of Jewish culture: a yeshiva, a school for girls, a library and a now closed hospital.
Ace, who had lived in Toronto much of his life, pointed out the historical buildings that dotted the Kensington landscape as they walked down Augusta Avenue. The three men had visited the bank and then ridden the Rocket to Yonge and College, and walked over from the subway.
The Gunner, who had never really seen much of Toronto, was enjoying the scenery, the variety of goods on sale in the house-front stores and shops, taking in the colour and noise of the vibrant neighbourhood when Ace's voice broke his reverie.
" . . . Now remember, we're about to meet Orthodox Jews, men who have lived their lives a certain way and some of their ways may seem strange to us."
"Such as?" inquired Aaron, who was much taken by the cages filled with live chickens, geese and ducks that cluttered the sidewalk in front of one of the shops.
"Well, the Livadians are ultra-Orthodox. What that means is the older ones won't have anything to do with non-Jews, who being Goyim, are by definition, unclean."
"I'm Jewish where it counts!" returned Aaron with a grin. "Do they really slaughter those poor chickens right here?"
"Yes, with a bloody great knife," returned Ace impatiently, much to The Gunner's amusement. "You're still a goy and they wouldn't look at you anyway, because it's a sin."
The Gunner was tempted to remind Ace that his association with one Livadian had entailed a little more that looking, but decided against it. Ace could be very touchy when reminded of his past lovers.
"I made arrangements to meet with Chaim Goldschmidt. It took some doing and I don't want either of you fucking things up!" Ace glared at Aaron, who smiled back. "Don't offer to shake hands, because he won't and don't unzip and show him how 'Jewish' you are. Don't swear, and please, no jokes of any kind."
"Why Ace, do you take us for buffoons?" asked The Gunner with a grin.
"No, but you have to understand these people. They have their ways and they're going out of their way to accommodate us. Ordinarily they only deal with other Jews. And please, if they dress differently from us, do not laugh, or even smile!"
"This had better be worth it!" said The Gunner as he sidestepped a man carrying a huge load of bolts of cloth.
"The Goldschmidts are very highly regarded," replied Ace. "They've been trading in gems for at least 200 years and have connections in London and Amsterdam. They also have a reputation for impeccable honesty. They won't cheat you, Steve, and will give you a fair price for your aunt's jewels."
"That's all I can ask for," said The Gunner.
If The Gunner expected pale-faced Yeshiva boys dressed in black, ill-fitting suits with payos, or curly side locks hanging down from under black fedoras, talliths, or any other outward sign of the Jewish faith, he was to be much surprised. As he, Ace and Aaron approached the stout brick building across the square from the synagogue he saw two young men dressed in sweats ostensibly playing a game of one-on-one in the small parking area beside the building.
What none of the men knew, and would learn in time, was that both of the basketball players were Goldschmidts, Sabras who had been brought to Canada to learn the family business. Both young men - they were brothers - were veterans of the Arab-Israeli wars, had served in the Israeli Defence Force in the Negev and on the Golan Heights, and each was a crack shot with the Berettas they had concealed in the small of their backs, which were hidden by their very fashionable sweat tops. They were also expert marksmen with the Uzi, two of which were concealed in the athletic bags that sat, seemingly forgotten, at the edge of the lot.
Aaron Goldschmidt, the younger of the two brothers, a tall, trim blond, saw the three strangers approaching and nodded imperceptively to his brother. Yacov Goldschmidt, who was as dark as his brother was blond, returned the nod and slowed his dribbling as he moved closer to the athletic bags. Although the strangers were well dressed, in suits and ties, one never knew. Both Yacov and Aaron had served their time in the Israeli Commandoes, and in a special unit, and were trained to recognize danger. The three strangers seemed, at first glance, to be quite normal businessmen, come to visit the offices in the building next to the parking lot. Both young men had learned, however, that the most innocuous of men, dressed in the most commonplace of garments, could be in reality one of Arafat's terrorists, or the Grand Mufti's trained assassins and thugs. As sons of Holocaust Survivors neither Yacov nor Aaron left anything to chance.
The Gunner noticed the two young men position themselves. The blond would be the spokesman, the darker one, who had moved closer to the athletic bags, the guard, the backup. He assumed that both young men were armed, with additional firepower available in the innocuous bags.
As the three strangers approached, Aaron Goldschmidt looked at each one in turn, his deep blue eyes scanning their suited bodies. None had any suspicious lumps in their suit jackets, although that didn't mean bugger all. They could be carrying at the hip, in the small of the back, or in an ankle holster. Two of them, by their carriage and haircuts, screamed military. Aaron felt no danger, and saw nothing out of the ordinary, not even the large leather bag the oldest of the men was carrying. Strange men carrying strange packages were the norm around Goldschmidt Freres. Aaron paid particular attention to the tall, skinny, younger man, the one with the rimless spectacles who looked like a recent graduate of the yeshiva. It was the quiet ones, the ones who looked innocent and naïve that you had to watch out for.
"May I help you?" asked Aaron as the three men halted.
"My name is Acton Grimes," replied Ace. He gestured toward The Gunner and Aaron Edgar. "This is Stephen Winslow and Aaron Edgar. We have an appointment with Mr. Goldschmidt."
"Which one?" Yacov asked warily. "There's a dozen of them up there," he finished with a nod toward the building.
Aaron Goldschmidt gave his brother a dirty look. "It will be Chaim. Chuckles is the only one who deals with . . . strangers."
The Gunner's eyes widened. "Chuckles?"
A slow smile crossed Aaron's face. "He's our older brother. He never smiles." He held out his hand. "I'm Aaron Goldschmidt and that rude thing over there is my brother, Yacov."
The Gunner, who had noticed the use of the inoffensive "strangers" instead of "goyem", smiled and shook Aaron's hand. He felt an immediate affinity, a sailor to a soldier. "Do you mind if I call you Aaron Mark II?" he asked with a grin. "My young friend is also named Aaron."
Shrugging, Aaron Mark II held out his had to Aaron Edgar. "Then you must be Aaron Mark I," he said with a grin.
"Guess so," replied Aaron Mark I as he took Aaron Mark II's hand. A thrill raced through his body at the touch of the young Jewish man's skin. "Uh, I'm glad to meet you," he said, not realizing that he was blushing.
The Gunner, who saw Aaron Mark I's reaction, smiled inwardly and looked away. His eyes were drawn to the left-hand spire of the synagogue across the square by a movement. "More backup," he thought. He looked at Yacov, who was scowling, and never taking his eyes from the three strangers. "You might tell whomever in the spire that he shouldn't make any movement."
Yacov started and then glared angrily at Aaron Mark II. "I told you that Mordecai is too young. The little fuck is probably stroking himself when he should be . . ." Yacov abruptly closed his mouth.
"Give him a break," returned Aaron Mark II. "He's only 17."
Yacov did not reply.
Turning to The Gunner, Aaron Mark II said, "We have high security, at least we thought we did." He pointed at the leather satchel that The Gunner was carrying. "You're expected. Second floor, last door on the right." As The Gunner turned toward the building, the young man added, "Chuckles is all right. He won't cheat you."
"I never thought he would," replied The Gunner, hoping that his words would not come back to haunt him.
Chaim Goldschmidt was short, fat, and very serious when he sat behind his desk, loupe in his eye, examining the treasure spread out on the bare wooden surface. He clucked and fussed, shook his head at this piece, nodded at that and then looked at the three men sitting apprehensively in front of him.
"The pieces are of exquisite workmanship," said Chaim. "Most are of French origin, although these . . ." he picked up the emerald tiara and necklace, " . . . are of the House of Faberge." He looked sternly at The Gunner. "Which leads me to think that these pieces are of more importance than one would think."
"We understand that many of them were once owned by members of the Czarist nobility. We have a provenance of sorts."
Chaim's eyes lit up. "You do? Well, that changes the entire situation."
"It does?" The Gunner looked at Ace, who shook his head slightly. He was as much in the dark as his lover.
Smiling, Chaim picked up one of the pearl necklaces. "My brothers, who are schmucks, but very valuable schmucks, call me Chuckles. They call me that because they say I never smile. Today Chuckles is smiling."
"Pardon?" The Gunner again looked at Ace, who again shrugged.
"I will explain." Chaim sat back and crossed his hands across his ample stomach. "The stones are very well cut, excellent in fact. The settings are small works of art and I can well believe that they were owned by Russian counts and whatnots. The Russian nobility had a long history of owning fine gems and pieces. They loved their jewellery."
"It served some of them well, in 1918," returned The Gunner somewhat icily.
"To your advantage," replied an unruffled Chaim. "Now, I can send these pieces along to Hatton Gardens, which is the centre for the gem market in London, and dispose of them with ease. Unfortunately, the pieces would be then broken up, the gold, the platinum settings melted down, the gems recut into more modern forms."
"Then why don't you?" asked Aaron Mark I.
Chaim ignored the rudeness. "Because I can guarantee a better price, for you, for me, if you offer them at auction."
The Gunner's eyes widened. "Auction?"
Nodding, Chaim continued. "You have a provenance?" The Gunner nodded that yes, there was a provenance. "Then we hold an auction," said Chaim. "I will handle all the details. How does Monte Carlo, or perhaps Nice, suit you?"
"Why there?" asked The Gunner.
"Because those places were the playgrounds, the places the Grand Dukes went. They both have a long history with the Russians. What better place than say, the main room of the casino in Monte Carlo? The Americans will lap it up!"
Again there were looks exchanged between The Gunner and his companions. Chaim laughed. "My friends, you have historical pieces, pieces that were once the pride and property of nobility! Their intrinsic value, a value based only on the carat weight of the stones, the gold settings, is high, I admit. But think. Here is a necklace once owned by a Grand Duchess. Over there, a piece that was made for a member of the Imperial family - the workmanship and the Faberge hallmarks tell me that. Each piece would be snatched up! Trust me. The American millionaires love this type of jewellery. Imagine, a lady of fashion strolling into a posh ballroom in say, Palm Beach, wearing a piece of jewellery once own by the Tsarina! She would be the envy of all her fashionable friends."
Chaim was obviously very excited. "I will handle all the details. We will use Sotheby's, I think. We will advertise discreetly, play on their greed. When I am finished you will have double, maybe triple what I could pay you."
"I . . . um, well . . ." began The Gunner.
"You doubt me?" Chaim assumed a hurt air. "I tell you what. Chaim Goldschmidt, and the firm of Goldschmidt Freres, will assume all responsibility, and will pay an advance of say, one hundred thousand . . ."
"Dollars or pounds?" asked Aaron Mark I quickly. He had picked up on the reference to Hatton Gardens, where everything was dealt in pounds sterling.
Chaim fixed a look at Aaron Mark I. "Are you sure you're not Jewish?" he asked.
"Only where it counts," muttered Ace.
Fortunately Chaim did not hear Ace and reached into his desk. He pulled out an official looking form. "By close of business today I will have a draft in the amount specified . . ." He looked at Aaron Mark I warily. "Pounds, not dollars."
"Only where it counts," complained The Gunner as they exited the building. "If you were one of my cadets I'd turn you over my knee!"
"Well, I'm not," returned Ace. Then he grinned widely. "However, if you want, I'm not going to say no if you . . ."
"You have no couth," The Gunner said with a slight frown. "And as for . . . well, don't go near there!"
Aaron Mark I made a great show of examining Ace's firm behind. "You do have the tochas for it," he said to Ace. Then he glanced obliquely at Aaron Mark II, who was lounging against the wall of the building, studying the area. "And as for a certain Jewish laddie, well, now . . ." His voice trailed off as he continued to study Aaron Mark II, who pretended not to notice Aaron Mark I's admiring glance.
"Sophie would faint," Ace agreed. "You know what a bum person she is."
The Gunner, who was trying not to listen, scanned the leafy square, taking in the wide expanse of greenery. It was all so very peaceful, this little oasis in the heart of a bustling city. His eyes were drawn toward a white building located next to the synagogue.
The building was large, three stories with an attic hidden behind a plain entablature. The main entrance was large, larger than one would have expected. The style of architecture was early-Georgian military, foursquare, plain and very sturdy, a building erected to last the ages.
Gesturing, The Gunner called Aaron Mark II over. "What's that?" he asked, indicating the white structure.
Aaron Mark II shaded his eyes and looked to where The Gunner was pointing. "Oh, that's the old Jewish Hospital. It was opened just in time for the great Spanish Flu pandemic in 1919. It closed when Toronto Western Hospital opened."
"It looks to be in good shape," observed The Gunner. He began walking across the square. Ace, Aaron Mark I and Aaron Mark II followed him.
"It is," said Aaron Mark II as they neared the old hospital. "After it was closed the synagogue took it over as a yeshiva. That lasted only a few years." He shrugged. "All the little Jewish boys moved away to Lawrence and Bathurst. Not too many Portuguese Jews around here, you know."
Nodding, The Gunner rubbed his chin, thinking carefully. He noticed a small square of discoloured stucco beside the door. "Someone took the sign," he observed.
Laughing, Aaron Mark II shook his head. "The rabbis took it. After the yeshiva closed the building was converted into a small hotel. Unfortunately the rabbis kicked up such a fuss over the place selling booze that the owner finally gave up."
"Who owns it now?" asked The Gunner. "And is it available?"
"What are you up to now?" asked Ace in a low mutter.
"An idea," replied The Gunner. He turned to Aaron Mark II. "Is it in good condition, can it be used for say, a hospital?"
"A what?" Ace blurted. "A hospital? What do you want with a hospital?"
The Gunner turned to Aaron Mark II. "Who owns this place?"
"Why, the synagogue," replied Aaron Mark II. "When the hotelier defaulted on the mortgage the synagogue took it back. They've been trying to unload it for years."
"You know, Ace, the term 'hospital' has been sadly misunderstood," said The Gunner reflectively. "Originally it was a haven, a refuge, for weary travellers where, while they could receive medical attention, they also found rooms and food. The original 'hospitals' were actually inns of a sort."
"And?" drawled Ace, wondering what The Gunner was about.
"And did you know that some of the oldest English public schools started out as 'hospitals' for the children of the poor? In 1552 Edward VI founded five, I think. Christ's Hospital comes to mind for some reason. It's a school today, the Blue Coat School, and still called a hospital."
"So?" Ace had a very strange feeling about all this.
"So, can you see that small square of discoloured plaster?" asked The Gunner.
"Yeah."
"Am I, or am I not the Protector of the Hospital at Jerusalem?"
"Which hasn't existed since Saladin came calling," groused Ace.
"True. Now, picture a brass plaque, discreet, with the Order's crest and underneath 'The Jerusalem Hospital'. The rabbis wouldn't object to that, I'm sure."
"Hold on," exploded Ace. "First of all, you don't know if the place is habitable. And if it is, where were you planning on getting the students?" He turned to Aaron Mark II. "No disrespect, but would the rabbis enjoy having a school full of Christian boys next door to their synagogue. Boys who would be 'unclean' in their eyes."
"They didn't object during the 'Flu epidemic," replied Aaron Mark II. "The hospital took in anyone who was sick. Why would they object to a school for boys?"
Disappointed in that answer, Ace turned again to The Gunner. "You'll need teachers, instructors, equipment. Beds! Who is going to administer the place?"
"The Headmaster, of course," replied The Gunner smoothly.
"What Headmaster? You haven't even got a school yet, or students, and you're talking about a Headmaster!" Ace scowled. "Really, Steve, sometimes I wonder about you."
"Ah, my dear Ace, but I do have a Headmaster. And a Commandant of Cadets," returned The Gunner with a sly smile. "As for the students, well, we will have a small number to start with but . . ."
His eyes wide, Ace glared at his lover. "You've lost your mind!" he declared loudly, much to Aaron Mark II's amusement. "And what's with this 'Commandant of Cadets' crap? What cadets?"
"If you'll calm down, I'll enlighten you." The Gunner returned to looking at the building. "What's a good boys school without a Cadet corps, Sea Cadets, of course, with a band? I like a good brass/reed band." He smiled at Aaron Mark I. "And who better than an RMC graduate to look after them?"
"Him?" Ace looked Aaron Mark I up and down. "Look at him! He looks like a geek. He's as skinny as a snake! He wears glasses! A good wind would blow him over!"
"He's not so bad," interposed Aaron Mark II. "You'd be surprised what boys who are Jewish where it counts can do!"
Ace's jaw dropped. "Now come on, I do not need this! I mean, Aaron is a nice guy, but . . ."
Aaron Mark I, miffed at Ace, sniffed. "I will have you know that I graduated first in my class. I also managed to ace the physical training exercises and managed in my spare time to plan a 14-day exercise in the Algonquin Forest, did it and lived to tell about it! I was Captain of the College wrestling team and played Lacrosse! I am also an expert in hand-to-hand combat. Do you want me to continue?"
Defeated, Ace tried a different tack. "Okay, I apologize. Don't go flashing your balls at me! You got 'em and they clang." He turned on the Gunner. "Now listen, Steve, I applaud the idea of a 'hospital', I welcome it, but really, you just can't throw one up overnight! Aside from the usual things, silly things such as books, and teaching aids, all of which cost money, you just can't waltz down to Queen's Park and knock on the Ministry of Education's door and say, 'Hi, I'd like to start a school, can I have a license?' It just ain't done!"
Aaron Mark II coughed delicately. "Actually, it's done all the time," he said in an offhand manner.
"I beg your pardon?" Ace stared at Aaron Mark II. "What do mean?"
"Under the law, anybody can establish a private school." Aaron Mark II looked at the old hospital and grinned. "So long as you have teachers, or instructors accredited to the Ministry, and pay the fees, you're legal. Of course you also have to abide by the statutes, but that's not a problem."
The Gunner smiled and gave Ace a "So There!' look. "Ace's ringing endorsement noted, it's decided." He waved toward the old hospital. "Aaron do you know who has the lease, who can authorize a lease agreement?"
Aaron Mark II looked around and then realized that The Gunner was speaking to him. "Sure. The Chief Rabbi. He's usually around making life miserable for some sinner or other."
Laughing, The Gunner asked. "Will you arrange a meeting?" He turned to Aaron Mark I. "Please arrange to meet with the Rabbi. Negotiate a lease. Try not to give away all our money!"
Aaron Mark II placed his hand on Aaron Mark I's shoulder. "Tell you what, let me go and change and then we'll go to see the Rabbi together."
As the two Aarons walked off toward the office building Ace glared at The Gunner. "Okay, you're about to get your damned 'hospital'. Now where did you plan on finding a Headmaster?"
"Oh, I've already found him. He's quite good, I think, even has a university degree, not to mention a killer caboose," replied The Gunner with a slow laugh.
Ace almost died of apoplexy when the import of The Gunner's words sunk in. He turned red, he turned white, and then he turned red again. "Me? You want me to be the Headmaster? Now wait one damned minute, Steve, I don't know a damned thing about running a school, must less working with boys!"
"You'll learn, and you'll have an administrator in any case," replied The Gunner with a wave of his hand.
"I will, will I?" snarled Ace. "Well, the 'administrator' can't be Aaron, so who will it be." His eyes widened as he saw the look on The Gunner's face. "Oh, no. Not Lester! Tell me it isn't going to be Lester!"
"Why not?" The Gunner asked placatingly. "He's organized when he wants to be, hell, you saw the charts and maps back in the apartment. There are plenty of things he can do, and he needs a purpose."
Ace raised his eyes to heaven. "God help me!" he wailed. "A broken down old hospital, filled with rats and bugs and a bug doing the paper work!"
The Gunner, when he stopped laughing at Ace, took his lover's arm and began leading him toward Dundas Street. "Come on, Headmaster. Sophie is going to buy us lunch."
"She is?" asked Ace. This was the first he had heard of Sophie buying lunch, or anything else.
"She doesn't know it. Over lunch I'm going to hit her up for a bloody great donation. Then we're going to the apartment to see how the Rangers are doing."
Max and Shane walked down Buttery Street, passing the Bell Canada van sitting to one side of the road. They nodded to Jeff, who was dressed in blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a hard hat. Around his waist, dragging down his jeans and exposing his floral-patterned boxers, was a wide leather belt hung with the tools of the trade of a telephone lineman. In the van Gil was ostensibly writing up some papers. In reality he was fiddling with a camera fitted with a telephoto lens. Sitting on the passenger side of the van as he was, Gil was in the shadows and all but invisible to any of the occupants of the house on the opposite side of the street.
After the funeral Max and Shane had returned to their apartment, changed, driven to the Mormon Tabernacle and pilfered as many pamphlets as they could. They also bought copies of the Book of Mormon. Now, as Elder Brigham Young and Elder John Smith they walked the narrow, tree-shaded streets of the subdivision.
A quick glance at the list of names of suspected paedophiles showed that all lived in upscale, expensive neighbourhoods. This, of course, was hardly surprising, given the figures bandied about for the purchase, or hire, of one of the boys. The subdivision they were walking in was no exception. The houses were set widely apart, on one-acre lots. Almost every one had a stone or brick fence around it, and wide, green lawns. The trees that lined the winding streets were old growth, while the trees on the lots were younger, planted when the houses were new.
All four men found that it was ridiculously easy to blend in. As Shane pointed out to Max, if you could afford to live in a house that cost a million plus bucks or more, you didn't rinse your smalls in the bathroom sink or mow your lawn. They saw laundry trucks, at least two different lawn service trucks, and the ever-ubiquitous pool maintenance truck.
No one paid the slightest attention to the Bell Canada van. It was just another service vehicle in a street that saw a veritable tide of service vehicles. Two young men, well dressed, well groomed, and obviously on a mission of some sort, drew some attention, which was to be expected, from the drivers of the expensive motorcars that exited from the driveways. A friendly wave seemed dispel any suspicions, however. Both men made a show of having nothing to hide.
To maintain the fiction of two young Mormons searching for converts, Max and Shane deliberately avoided the target house. They visited the two houses on one side of the two-story, red brick English Tudor house, and the two opposite. While they hadn't gained any converts, they had established their presence, and that was what was important.
"You ready for this?" asked Max as they walked up the brick drive to the house they were interested in.
"No, but let's do it anyway," replied Shane. "I hope Gil and Jeff are in position."
Max pretended to look around, admiring the lawn and plantings. "The van is right across from the gate. Just remember to keep to one side of the doorway so that they get some good shots."
Nodding, Shane approached the double doors to the house and pressed the doorbell. From deep inside they could hear a two-toned chime. When the door was not answered after a minute or two, Shane pressed the bell again. They waited, and then, deciding that there was no one home, were about to turn and leave when the door opened.
The boy could not have been more that ten, perhaps eleven, years old. He had coal black hair, dull, lifeless eyes, and a large bruise just under his rib cage. He was dressed in briefs, white, with red bands and covered in Loony Toon characters. "Ya?" the boy asked in a small voice as he looked at the two men on his doorstep.
"Why, hello young man," replied Shane brightly. "I wonder if your Dad or Mom is home?"
Before the little boy could answer there came a small shout from inside. Whatever had been said caused the little boy to cringe and mutter something in German. Neither Shane nor Max understood a word and were exchanging glances when another boy appeared.
This boy was older, and taller than the little one. He was perhaps sixteen or so, had blond hair, and rimless spectacles. He was also wearing underpants, tighty-whiteys, which clung to his spare frame like a second skin. He was a very beautiful young man. "We are not allowed to talk to strangers," the blond-haired boy said as he pushed the younger boy away from the door. "Please, you must go."
"We are only here to speak to your parents," said Shane, stalling for time as Max tried to peer into the interior of the house. He moved to one side so that Gil, or Jeff, had a clear field to work with. "I'm Elder Brigham Young, of the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints, and I wonder if I might speak to someone. We're here doing missionary work and . . ."
A loud bellow echoed from the house. "What did I tell you about answering that door?"
The blond-haired boy was pushed abruptly to one side, his place taken by a huge, bear-like man dressed in an immaculately pressed Italian silk suit. "Who the hell are you?" the man asked with a snarl.
Shane stepped back and introduced Max and himself. He was about to launch into his spiel when the man turned and snapped angrily. "Go and find your brothers, Jergen!" He turned to the two false missionaries and made to close the door. "Fuck off," he snarled as he slammed the door.
"So much for good manners," muttered Max as they retraced their steps toward the street. "What a fuckin' tool!"
"What do you expect from someone who wears Italian suits?" returned Shane, who would not have been caught dead in Italian anything. "At least we know one of the boys' names."
Nodding, Max made a show of handing a pamphlet to Jeff, who was standing beside the Bell truck. "Get anything?" he asked Gil.
"Good pictures," confirmed Gil. "Two kids, and the asshole as well."
"At least two," reminded Shane. "He told the older boy, the one he called Jergen, to go and find his 'brothers'. There has to be at least three kids in that house."
Max shook his head and started walking toward their parked car. "You know, Shane, I'm getting a bad feeling. If there are three kids here, how the hell many are there in the other places we have to check out? How the hell many kids are there?"
"I don't know," replied Shane. "And this is only the tip of the iceberg. We still have what, six more places to check out?"
"Yeah. And that's just the ones we know about here in Toronto."
"Let's find a payphone and report in." Shane slid onto the driver's seat and slammed the steering wheel of the car. "God damn, Max, God damn!"