By Anne Fraser and Barbara Zuchegna
With assistance from Sharon Pickrel and Jean Lamb
Copyright 1999

Chapter Two

A day off. It had a really nice sound, Jake reflected as he sat back, popped the cap on a bottle of Upper Canada Dark, and turned on the football game on the tube. It meant that he had a job to have a day off from. Granted, it wasn't 100% in his field, but it was close enough. And now he had the money, thanks to that strange bequest from Gabe, to write a book on anthropology. He could expand his thesis, perhaps. The department head had been pretty excited about Jake's research.

He needed some munchies to go with the beer. He reached for the bag of cheesies. He was still eating like a student, he reflected with a grin. Well, on a beginner's salary, it was the best he could do, really. Rents were astronomical in Toronto, and maintaining his car was expensive, too. Not much left over for food and entertainment.

Just as he'd crammed several cheese sticks into his mouth and was washing them down with the dark ale, the phone rang. He glared at it. He hastily gulped down his soggy, cheesy mouthful and reached for the offending instrument.

"Hello," he grunted. Probably some stupid sales ...

"Mr. Jacob Fowler?" inquired a voice on the other end.

"Yes?"

"I'm calling from Metro Police, Division 52. We have a Mr. Richard Plantagenet in custody and he gave us your name as someone to contact for posting bail. Can you please come to the Division as soon as possible for this purpose?"

Jake's brain froze. "Who did you say you've arrested?"

"Mr. Richard Plantagenet. You do know the gentleman in question, Mr. Fowler? He assured us of acquaintance."

"Um..." a few synapses thawed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know him." Jake wasn't even going to ask what Richard III was doing in a Toronto jail or how the king had gotten his phone number and knew to call him. That could be summed up in two words. Adrian Talbot. "How do I get to Divison 52 by TTC?"

The voice gave him directions, and he hung up. He crammed a stick of gum into his mouth so that he wouldn't smell like beer when he got to the cop shop, grabbed his wallet and jacket, and set out for Division 52.

He'd take it out of Adrian's hide later.

Division 52 was one of the downtown police stations, and relatively new. The newness did nothing to disguise the utilitarian function, or the smell of despair and donuts. Jake felt the lurching sinking of his stomach that even the most honest of citizens can't avoid when walking into the clutches of the law. All those blue uniforms made him feel about ten years old, caught with a stolen apple in his hand.

He walked up to the duty desk. "Yes, sir?" inquired the constable behind the desk.

"My name's Jacob Fowler," he said, "I'm here to bail out Mr. Richard Plantagenet ... I got a call a little while ago ..."

"Yes, Mr. Fowler, if you'll just wait a moment, I'll have someone come out and meet you." The constable spoke into a phone, and a minute later another nearly identical constable appeared to lead Jake through a door and into the mysterious depths of Division 52.

"Um, may I ask what he's charged with?" Jake ventured to inquire.

"Dangerous driving, assault, and carrying a concealed weapon," came the reply.

"Holy shit."

"Well, frankly, it sounds a bit worse than it is. He was speeding, rammed into another car, and punched out the other driver. For a little guy, your friend packs quite a punch."

"And the concealed weapon?" Jake ventured to ask.

"Couple of hunting knives. That charge probably won't stick, but we've confiscated them anyway. Here we go, the bailiff's office. Hope you have the money."

Jake had his donation from Gabriel, and just hoped that somebody would pay him back. He posted bail for Richard, and was told yet again to wait while somebody fetched the suspect of the alleged crimes. He was offered coffee, which he accepted, and a donut, which he refused. For some reason, he hadn't been able to look at donuts in months.

17 Oct 1998
To Adrian Talbot from Richard Plantagenet

Adrian,

An establishment called "North 44" has been recommended to me as an adequate dining place, and I have secured reservations there for nine o'clock this evening.

You will be expected; if you give your name to the maitre d'hotel as you arrive, you will be conducted to the appropriate place.

I'm looking forward to this, my friend.

Richard

(Jake Fowler, having received an unexpected call to come to a police station and bail out a certain 15th century king, is wondering again if being Adrian Talbot's friend is really such a good idea.)

The man who was led out from behind the grilled door separating ordinary people from the duly incarcerated bore little resemblance to the man Jake remembered, rather fuzzily, from that night at Hoolihan's. Then, in 15th century doublet and hose, or later, stripped down to fighting gear, Richard had clearly been a man out of his own time. Now, dressed in a dark, slate-blue suit whose fabric had the sheen of silk and whose line screamed Armani, at least, Richard didn't look so much out of his time as simply out of his milieu. The suit had probably cost enough to pay every cop in the station for a week or two.

He was wearing a white shirt, open throated, and carrying his belt and tie. And he was clearly avidly interested in everything that was going on around him ... from the nervous-looking cops to the tired-looking hookers now being led in through the front door. His eyes lit on Jake, traveled upward over the scruffy jeans and sweatshirt, to the worried face. "You're Jake," he said, as if Jake mightn't have known it otherwise. His smile was surprisingly gentle, at odds with the aura of overwhelming energy the man exuded. "My most profound apologies for intruding on your day."

"That's okay ... Richard." Was that the proper form of address, under the circumstances? Probably. The cops might take too much interest if he said, "Your Majesty" or some damned thing.

He held his hand out, and Richard looked at it, puzzled, for a moment. Right. He wouldn't know about shaking hands. But before Jake could pull the hand back, Richard had taken it between both of his and shook it once, too hard. His hands were not as small as Jake would have expected, from his body size. They were very long-fingered and surprisingly callused. Somehow, Jake hadn't expected a king's hands to be callused, and then he remembered the mock battle at Hoolihan's. This king, he remembered, was a soldier.

Richard looked around at the hovering police. "Is there something else you gentlemen require?" he asked politely. Being assured that there wasn't ... and Jake thought the cops were just standing around staring because they couldn't figure out what this odd hothouse flower was themselves ... Richard said his goodbyes quickly and graciously, took Jake's arm and led him firmly out to the street. Once there, he said, "I require a telephone." Jake, clearly, was expected to supply this.

The best he could do was a public telephone half a block from the station. Richard didn't seem to mind. His eyes darted everywhere ... from the traffic speeding by to the short-skirted women walking briskly on the sidewalk to the windowed facades of the buildings on both sides of the street. Led to the phone, he seemed to understand it well enough, quickly punched buttons, spoke briefly, and then said to Jake, "What is the address of this corner?"

Jake told him; Richard repeated it into the phone and hung up. "They will send a car," he said. And then, "How much were you forced to pay to secure my release?" When Jake told him, he frowned. "Is that a large sum?"

It is for me, Jake thought, but said, "Not all that much."

Richard nodded. "Nevertheless, you will return with me to the hotel, and the sum will be returned to you."

"Oh, hey, look," Jake said quickly, "I really should ..."

"It will take very little time," Richard interrupted. There was a look of mild surprise on his face. Apparently, people didn't usually disagree with whatever he said.

To have something to say, while they waited, Jake said, "Have you been in Toronto long?"

"No. Do you know Adrian Talbot well?"

The question caught Jake off guard. But he said, "I'm not sure anyone knows Adrian well. I've known him quite a while."

"And you are his friend?"

Jake was. He nodded, and hoped Richard wouldn't ask more ... because the truth was that he wasn't exactly sure why he was Adrian's friend. But Richard had nothing else to say. He paced, restlessly, his interest given once more to the traffic going by. Then he said, "I think perhaps I should not have struck the man whose automobile hit mine."

"Probably not," Jake agreed.

Richard nodded. "It is difficult to become accustomed to so much ..."

The "car" was a block-long limousine, elegantly black, driven by a liveried chauffeur who jumped out to hold the back door open for Richard and Jake. They were quickly whisked through downtown Toronto to the huge, elegant pile of the Four Seasons Hotel ... a place Jake remembered vividly. But the last time he'd been here, the manager hadn't been waiting on the steps to usher him to the elevator, nodding quickly and efficiently as Richard issued brisk orders. The elevator took them up to one of the very top floors, and the manager himself opened the door to what was clearly one of the hotel's most expensive suites. Jake was too busy staring at the incredible luxury of the place to notice when the manager disappeared.

"Refreshments will be brought," Richard said. "Please, be comfortable while I change my clothing." And he disappeared into one of several bedrooms.

Jake looked around in the abrupt solitude. Fresh flowers in huge displays were set out around the room, and the paintings on the walls gave every indication of being originals. Even the bric-a-brac scattered over tables and in wall displays looked like it must have cost an arm and a leg. The furniture was a nice, eclectic mix of modern and antique that managed to achieve a harmonious and richly comfortable whole. There appeared to be, from the doorways leading off of this huge room, three bedrooms, and Jake had to wonder exactly what Richard needed all this space for.

Richard was back quickly, wearing casual dark slacks, a plaid shirt, and over that, a deep burgundy sweater that had to be cashmere. He smiled at Jake and headed straight for the terrace beyond the glass wall at one side of the room. Jake followed, impressed with the view, looking south over the city to the lake. "I prefer to be out here," Richard said briefly. He was standing at the balustrade, apparently unaware of the great distance down to the street from there. He stopped, suddenly, and turned back to Jake. "I really am most sincerely grateful for your rescue of me, Jake. I make mistakes, I know. But I cannot abide being confined to the hotel, and I have never been in a modern city before. It's very different from what I have known." He smiled, that same, soft, self-mocking smile. "And of course, Adrian, though he has been very kind, can help me little during the day. That is why he supplied your name and phone number. I'm very sorry I found it necessary to call on you."

"Then you're here to visit Adrian?"

"He ... helped me to secure clothing and a few ... other things, last night. We are to meet, tonight, for dinner. It would please me if you would join us."

"Oh ... well ..."

"It would please me," Richard repeated, pointedly. "And I'm sure it would please Adrian as well. I have arranged to meet Adrian at an establishment called 'North 44' at nine o'clock this evening. I will leave your name with the management; you will be attended to when you arrive."

"North 44" was one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, and Jake had never been inside the place. His mind began to root around through his meager wardrobe. What did he have that would be appropriate for ...

"Ah," Richard said, as a battalion of hotel employees trooped into the suite and out onto the terrace. A glass-topped table was arranged, set with silver serving dishes and crystal so delicate it looked as if it would shatter if touched. "Do you like seafood?" Richard asked, as first he, and then Jake, was served a luscious-smelling salmon steak in a crust of seasoned mustard sauce. Jake's mind flitted briefly to the idea of a steak, blood rare, but he pushed it away. One of the waiters was pouring white wine, another was ladling out a side dish of zucchini in a white sauce of some kind, and another was tossing a salad with eggs and parmesan cheese.

"I prefer the greens served with the meal," Richard said, "but if you would prefer them first, the fish can be kept hot."

"No ... no this is fine." Jake couldn't remember ever being served with quite so much sleight-of-hand finesse, or eating off of china so transparent. He wasn't about to bitch about anything for fear someone would snatch it all away.

"Good," Richard said. He waved a hand and most of the troop vanished. Two waiters hovered just inside the glass doors, waiting, ready to refill wine glasses or do whatever else kings needed done.

Richard ate with single-minded concentration ... almost as if this was a chore he was impatient to complete. And he ate very little. A small beckoning gesture brought a waiter scurrying to remove his half-full plate and to pour coffee. While Jake finished his own meal, he watched Richard, who didn't seem inclined to talk. The most striking thing about the man was his restlessness ... he seemed never to be entirely still. Fingering the silver, folding a napkin, picking at non-existent lint on his sweater, he seemed full to bursting with energy which had no outlet. It made Jake wonder about the incident that had landed him in jail. Had the other driver, that man whose car had run into Richard's, simply run afoul of that barely-leashed temper?

The hotel manager reappeared, bowing, to hand to Richard a set of keys and a slip of paper. Richard thanked him with careless grace and waved him away as if he were no more important than one of the waiters. And the manager seemed to expect no more attention. He bowed again, and left.

"I think this will cover the sum you were required to pay on my behalf," Richard said, handing over the slip of paper.

It was a check, made out to Jake from the hotel, and for almost double what he had paid in bail. "Richard," he said, "I can't take this ..."

"Please. It is little enough for your inconvenience. Have you finished eating?"

Actually, Jake hadn't, but Richard was obviously in a hurry to be gone someplace, so Jake pushed his plate away and the hovering waiters zoomed in. Coffee was poured for him, too, and Richard eyed it impatiently. "A car," he said pointedly, "has been brought. I can take you to your home, or wherever you wish to go."

Another ride in the limo? Jake pushed his cup away. "Great," he said. He could drink coffee any time.

Only it wasn't the hotel limo that was waiting at the foot of the broad front steps. It was a small, sleek, off-white BMW convertible, with the top down. "Uh ... you're going to drive?" Jake asked.

"Certainly." Richard jogged down the steps, went around the car and slipped neatly under the wheel, inserting in the ignition one of the keys on the ring the manager had brought for him. He looked back at Jake, eyebrows raised, waiting.

Jake wasn't sure this was a good idea. Richard had already been in one traffic accident today. And how much experience could a 15th century king have driving an automobile ... especially in Toronto traffic? But there was no real way to refuse. He got into the car and fastened the seat belt, with the air of a man who has decided to leave his fate in the hands of the gods. He had no sooner settled in place than the BMW jolted off with a small screech of tire rubber.

"Which way?" Richard had brought the car to an abrupt halt at the foot of the drive. It was rush hour; the stream of multi-laned traffic seemed to have no breaks in it at all. Reluctantly, Jake pointed to the right (he was not about to ask Richard to make a left turn across traffic), and Richard sent the car careening out into the street into a break much too small. Behind them, brakes squealed stridently.

Convertibles, Jake was discovering, offered little in the way of places to hold on, white-knuckled, but he managed. To describe Richard's driving style as eccentric was the kindest possible explanation of what was an imperious manner that seemed to make no allowances for the possible consequences of zig-zagging in and out of smaller and smaller breaks in the stream of cars. But Richard was managing it with a certain admirable finesse. At least, he hadn't hit anyone, and no one, yet, had hit them.

"The car," Richard said after a moment, "has more gears than those to which I'm accustomed."

Jake looked down at the floor shift. Five gears. "Ah...you really don't need the last two unless you're going really fast," he said, fervently hoping there would be no need for them.

"Yes," Richard said absently. "I discovered that this morning." They were nearing the University area, and Jake said, warning, "You'll need to make a right turn up ahead here a little way."

"Ah." Richard immediately jogged the little car over into the right hand lane, causing a large truck to slam on its brakes. The driver, leaning out the window, roared something that Jake was sincerely glad neither he nor Richard could hear. Reaching the corner Jake indicated, Richard swung the BMW around it on two wheels onto the quieter cross street and Jake began to breathe a bit easier.

He shouldn't have. There was a crosswalk just ahead, and a woman pushing a stroller, with baby, stepped out into it as they roared down the street. At what seemed like the last second, Richard hit the brakes and damned near stood the little car on its nose. He made a small, irritated noise.

"Uh ... people in the crosswalk have the right of way," Jake said, and Richard turned to look at him with surprise. "The crosswalk?" Jake said. "The painted lines on the street?"

"Ah." Richard was clearly filing this away for future reference. The woman had reached the far side of the street now and the BMW jerked abruptly forward.

"You know, Richard," Jake said carefully, "it isn't necessary to give the car quite so much gas when you take off." Richard turned to look at him briefly, nodded, and gave his attention to the street again. When they came to a stop at the next corner, he managed to start the car moving again without slamming Jake back into his seat.

They reached Jake's building without an accident, which was on the plus side. Getting out of the car, Jake couldn't help feeling as if he was avoiding some sort of responsibility. This man really shouldn't be left to wander around modern Toronto on his own. But, dammit, this was Adrian's problem, not his.

"I will expect you, at nine o'clock, at the place called 'North 44,'" Richard said.

"Uh ... sure. See you then." Jake had no sooner closed the car door than the BMW zoomed off.

Adrian, Jake thought, as he headed for the building, was gonna hear about this.

Shortly after sunset that evening, Adrian had barely stepped from the shower when the doorbell rang. Cursing under his breath, he reached for his robe and made his dripping way down the stairs. He reached the door just as the bell rang again.

"Delivery for Professor Adrian Talbot," intoned the young man on the other side of the door.

"I ordered nothing," said Adrian sharply, not wanting to let anyone into the house when he was unprepared, not to mention mostly naked.

"It's from The Stollery, sir, under the direction of a Mr. Plantagenet."

His suspicions somewhat allayed, Adrian paused. "Richard?" he asked. "What could he have asked the store to send me?"

"There are a number of parcels, sir. If you could just sign here ..." A form was thrust at Adrian, with a pen. "Where would you like them put, sir?"

"On the couch, I suppose," Adrian said, taken off guard.

The young man whipped back his form and disappeared, but returned shortly with either his twin or his clone, both of them bearing several boxes and bags. They made three trips each, piling the packages on Adrian's couch.

"Um, thank you ..." Adrian, dazed, became aware the parade had stopped. "I'm afraid my wallet's upstairs ..."

"No tip necessary, sir. Good night, and I hope you enjoy your gifts, Professor."

The two delivery men trooped out. Adrian locked the door after them and crept up on the couch, now hidden beneath the various bundles. He randomly picked one and opened it. A beautifully tailored blazer, identical to one he had picked out for Richard, met his eyes. Before long, he had investigated every package. Richard had sent him duplicates of everything he had bought in The Stollery, down to the pajamas.

There was no note, but Adrian didn't really expect to find one. It was, to him, a staggering gift, yet to Richard it probably appeared but a small token of gratitude and friendship. He decided to accept it as the same. He began carting the clothing up the stairs, hanging it up or folding it away neatly in drawers. He went back into the bathroom, dried himself off, then came back into the bedroom and dressed in one of the brand-new suits, shirts and ties. Then he checked his e-mail and phone machine messages, finding the expected one from Richard, asking him to come to North of 44 at nine that evening.

Richard didn't do things by halves, apparently ...

So Adrian hopped into the Miata, drove to Yonge Street, and headed north. He arrived at North 44 and had to practically arm-wrestle with the eager valet parking attendant to stop that young man from parking the Miata. He managed to finally park his own car, safely, and keep possession of the keys. He offered the valet a nice tip, though, to allay the disappointment in the boy's eyes.

Adrian straightened his new tie and walked into the front door of North 44. He found himself in a foyer decorated with brushed-steel nuggets outlined in black. There was a steel compass embedded in the gorgeous marble floor. The textured walls were hung with mirrored sconces holding exotic arrangements of fresh ginger and lilies. This was a very, very expensive restaurant; the decor alone told him that. Not to mention the swiftness of the appearance of the maitre d', and the unctuous way he was immediately ushered into the sumptuous private room in back when he gave his name.

He expected to find Richard. That Jake was also sitting at the table, in an obviously new suit (purchased with the surplus money Richard had given him), came as something of a shock. Jake looked angry.

"Jake, what a pleasant surprise," Adrian said. "Good evening, Richard, I trust your day went well?"

'Stuff it, Talbot,' Jake's thoughts rang with clarion clearness. 'I had to pull your king's ass out of jail today.'

Adrian raised an eyebrow. 'Tell me later,' he replied by the same silent path. 'I'm sorry if it inconvenienced you. I thought Richard should have somebody he could call if he needed help.'

'Huh.' But Jake didn't pursue it. This wasn't the time or place, and Richard was looking at them both, puzzled by this non-verbal exchange.

It was an odd meal. Richard ate only a fraction, seemingly impatient with the entire business of having to sit still long enough to take in nourishment. Jake was still angry, and disconcerted at finding himself dining at such a lofty establishment. The menu had no prices on it. That made him lose most of his appetite. Adrian simply drank his wine, pretended to eat a few bites of the light dish he'd ordered so as not to raise comment, and was studying the decor. It was awkward, to say the least, and all three parties were relieved when the meal came to an end.

Jake made his apologies, noting that he had to go to work in the morning, and bid Richard and Adrian goodnight.

"A most helpful young man," Richard stated.

"Yes," Adrian agreed, feeling that he was going to hear, in detail, just how helpful Jake had been.

"There are still hours left until daylight, are there not?" Richard asked.

"Certainly," Adrian replied. "Is there someplace you would like to go?"

"Wherever you would suggest. Perhaps you would show me some of the nightlife, as I believe it is called."

A gleam danced in Adrian's beautiful eyes. "My kind of nightlife, or the more ordinary kind?" he asked.

"Wherever you would suggest," Richard repeated firmly.

"The nightclubs will be hopping," Adrian said. Then he shook his head. "No, I don't think you're either ready or dressed for the Velvet Underground or the Big Bop. How about something quieter?"

"I am entirely at your disposal."

"Okay, I know a couple of good piano bars. Dominic's playing at one of them; he's very good." Seeing that Richard was politely not looking blank, Adrian explained, "A piano bar is someplace where you sit and have a drink and listen to piano music. Dominic is one of the hot young piano players who perform in such places."

"Ah. You have intrigued me, let us go listen to this Dominic."