Up in Smoke Read Free Page B

There was no mistaking the smell of the cleanser from the Maxi-Wash, three blocks over on Garth Street.
    Caledonian University’s workaholic assistant professor — and one of Hamilton’s ace diagnosticians — looked as if he’d been plucked from the brink of Niagara Falls.
    â€œGood God, Hamish,” Colleen said, pulling off his sodden jacket. “What in heaven’s name have you been up to?” She fished two dish towels out of a drawer, threw one to Hamish and rolled his dripping jacket in the other. “Don’t tell me you went through the Maxi-Wash with your windows down?”
    Hamish shot her a look that said
Give me a break, I’m not that dumb
. “The track jammed,” he said through blue lips and chattering teeth.
    Zol clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh that was bursting to come out. He couldn’t trust himself to say a word; Hamish was easily offended, and his limited sense of humour never included jokes on himself.
    â€œSo you got stuck in the Saab?” Colleen said. “With the water jets and rollers running?”
    He rolled his eyes and backed away from Colleen, who was now attempting to relieve him of his soaking-wet shirt. “I honked and honked.” He glared at his watch. “Sat there thirty minutes and no one came. Finally climbed out.” He drew his hand across the back of his neck and made a face at the pink lather on his palm. “Ultra Wax.” He swept anxiously at his flat-top. For once, his hair wasn’t perfect. He patted his trouser pockets, and his face lit with alarm. “The keys. Hell’s bells, still in the ignition.”
    â€œI’m sure the guys will take good care of your vehicle,” Colleen reassured him. “Heavens, it’s almost a member of their family.”
    Did Hamish get the irony of his predicament? Probably not — he was too cut and dried to appreciate satire — but he was the Maxi-Wash’s best customer. Who else had their car preened at a carwash half a dozen times a week? Of course, Hamish’s anxiety over his vehicle was understandable. The Saab had been stolen from outside a gay bar a few months ago, during his first experience drinking to excess. When the cops found the vehicle and returned it to him, he had the body repainted, the upholstery repaired, and the carpet fumigated.
    Zol swallowed his laugh and clamped his jaw, then persuaded Hamish to come upstairs and change into dry clothes. Of course, Mr. Fastidious balked until Zol promised that the plaid shirt, Blue Jays sweatshirt, and slacks he was offering were freshly laundered. Zol conceded the pant legs were too long, but assured Hamish they’d roll up easily enough.
    Back in the kitchen, Colleen handed Hamish a mug of hot coffee and excused herself to get dressed. Hamish sank onto a chair and drank in silence, the fiery blush on his cheeks broadcasting his mortification. More than anything, Hamish hated two things: being wrong and looking foolish. Socially, he was the Tin Man, largely unaware of the feelings of others and inept at idle chatter. Sometimes he came out with tactless zingers that really stung. He had no idea they were hurtful. Zol put it down to his lonely childhood as a brainy kid — no siblings, few friends, and parents who bickered constantly.
    Hamish drained his mug and thumped it on the table. He was scowling. “You should’ve returned my calls.”
    â€œHang on,” Zol countered. The sharpness of the guy’s tone was a bit rich, dressed as he was in Zol’s favourite sweatshirt and basking in the warmth of his kitchen. But he did have to admit, it was a relief to hear Hamish speaking in a normal voice again. The croaky whisper he’d been plagued with for a couple of years had disappeared a few weeks ago as mysteriously as it had come. Colleen was probably right — the feeble voice had been some sort of psychosomatic manifestation of