Chapter Nine
Done for now at the Dominion, I step out of the hotel and glance at my phone.
I’m astonished by how fast the time has flown, and I pick up my step.
I was supposed to be at the Nickel project an hour ago.
Claudia has made it clear that even though I won the contract, that project is hers, but since she’s out of town, I’m responsible. See how that works?
I get that we need more housing, but honestly, these condos are not the answer.
They’re incredibly expensive, which means they don’t even make a dent in the homelessness crisis.
There is no need for more foreign-owned “luxury” condos with alarmingly small square footage, most of which sit empty.
But developers run this city, and they are constantly trying to outdo each other.
We have fifty-four storeys at Yonge and Davisville, fifty-five on Harbour Street, Trump Tower on Bay Street is fifty-seven, then we jump to sixty-five storeys at the Shangri-La, and finally seventy-eight at the “Aura” at Yonge and Gerrard.
Every day I wait to hear that someone has hit the one hundred mark.
Heights don’t bother me, but I’ll be honest. I don’t want that contract when it comes.
I’m only working on the thirty-seventh floor today, and I wish I didn’t have to.
The Sixes’ elevators are fast and eerily quiet.
My ears pop while I watch a little monitor over the door constantly streaming news, weather, and traffic.
I can’t help but think about the Dominion’s sophisticated elevators, with their polished, etched brass doors, the carved wood around the cab, and the classy metal grates around the top that let me see the lights of the floors as I fly by them.
This elevator has mirrored walls on two sides, where people will soon primp before disembarking.
In the Dominion elevators, there is one tastefully framed, spotless mirror.
On my way up to the thirty-seventh floor of the Sixes, I contemplate the ceiling of nothing in particular and recall the gorgeous wood inlay in the Dominion’s elevators, with their Art Deco lighting.
The carpet under my feet is fine, but nondescript.
Nothing compared to the Dominion’s stylish tiles.
I sigh, resigned to reality, and step out at the thirty-seventh floor.
Everything smells new: the carpets, the paint, the drywall dust, even the gunmetal-black hardware.
Empty boxes line the hallway, and I hear the satisfying songs of drills and hammers behind closed doors.
I check the vents and outlets in the corridor as I walk to today’s condo inspection.
Inside, the construction guys have left me a short ladder so I can climb up to see the crawl spaces, checking for firewalls and potential issues.
I spy a small water circle on the floor and trace it back to the bathroom plumbing, so I mark down the leak on my list, then I climb out and keep inspecting.
The last thing I check is the fuse box in the front closet.
Cardboard boxes fill the space, and I do a double take.
MONTEY SERIES INDUSTRIES is stamped on the sides.
Until today, I’ve never heard of that company.
It’s especially odd to see them here as well as in a historical building like the Dominion, since they’re so different.
I make a note to investigate, even though it’s not my responsibility, then I give in to my curiosity and carefully pry open the top box.
Inside are smaller, unmarked, white boxes.
Trying not to bend anything, I peel one open and see it’s just hardware, as marked.
As Paul and Gary had said, Montey Series is just a new supplier that I haven’t heard of, but now I want to know who they are.
I step out of the condo and head down the hall to the next one, which has an identical floor plan to the last. People always think they’re getting something special in these shiny new places, but really, they’re cookie-cutter.
I go through the inspection and am just finishing up when the door opens.
In steps Paul from the Dominion, who has a sack slung over his shoulder like Santa.
It’s strange, seeing him here at the Sixes.
He said he’s been at the Dominion for fifteen years.
It’s not as if he isn’t busy enough over there.
“Hey, Paul,” I say, picking up my bag. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
He’s visibly startled. “Hey. Nice to see you. I’m just making a delivery here before I see Mr. Samson.”
“You’re working two jobs?”
“I’m more of a delivery guy at this place. Nothing special. My real work’s back at the hotel. But hey, everyone can use a little extra income, right?” He chuckles. “My grandkids call it a side hustle.”
The zipper on the sack he’s carrying is open a bit, and I catch a glimpse of its contents.
“Montey?” I ask, indicating a box inside. “I keep seeing that name, like on those crates at the hotel. What are they like?”
He hesitates. Why does he seem tense? Am I imagining things? “Uh, good enough, I guess. Nails, screws, basic hardware. You know.”
“Good quality?”
I may be reading into this, but Paul appears dubious. “I mean, it’s from China. Good enough.”
There’s no need to push him on this and wreck his day. “Ah, okay. Well, I’m on my way out,” I say with a smile, and his tension drops. “All done here. I’ll see you later.”
“Everything good in here?” he asks.
“Most things. I left my questions for the crew on the counter. Nothing major.”
He’s still standing in the same position, clearly uncomfortable. I feel him watching my back as I walk past, toward the door. I get the impression he wants to say something, but he won’t. Now it’s me who’s uncomfortable.
I take the elevator down and step out of the hotel, where I text Claudia.
BK: Ever heard of Montey Series Industries?
CV:…
While I wait for her response, I stop in at a crowded Starbucks. I order an Americano, then I realize I’m starving and add a slice of lemon poppy-seed bread. All the tables are taken, so I order it to go.
CV: Hey doll. Montey’s a new supplier. Seems legit. Gotta go. Byeeeee
Claudia’s the first person I’ve spoken to who recognizes the name.
Strange how their materials are at two of her sites.
I wonder what she’s up to. Is she dabbling in supplying materials now, on top of just inspecting them?
I’ve half a mind to call up another construction company, like GroundUp or maybe Apex, and ask if they’d ever done business with Montey.
Then again, I don’t want to get her in trouble if I don’t have to.
Instead, I search Montey, using a different search engine, but I still come up empty.
Picturing that secret door I’d discovered in the hotel as well as Paul’s tongue-in-cheek suggestion about the haunted pipes, I google “Dominion Hotel ghost” and read a few reviews.
A quick scan reveals that quite a few guests had their sleep disturbed by disembodied voices travelling up the ancient pipes.
On a whim, I google “Dominion Hotel smuggling” and “Dominion Hotel tunnel” but come up empty. So I go to my contacts and text Jack Samson.
BK: Question about plumbing and ghosts?
JS:…
My name is called by a barista, so I grab my food, then sit back down, watching my screen.
JS: lol Oh yes. Our haunted pipes.
BK: What do I need to know?
JS: Nothing. It’s been happening forever. No worries. Plumbing investigated many times. Personally stayed up all night and heard nothing. People have wild imaginations in an old place like this.
BK: Found a door in the basement that’s not on the prints. Any ideas?
JS: Ghosts probably hang out there. Haha
I pause. Shouldn’t he be a little more interested in the conversation? After all, it affects his hotel and the comfort of his guests. He must notice my hesitation, because he starts typing again.
JS: Drinks? Early dinner?
I pop a soft piece of lemon bread in my mouth.
BK: Just ate. Another question: Is there an archivist or librarian available to speak with me about the history of the hotel? Personal interest.
JS: Matthew Buchanan at the City of Toronto Archives. I’ll give him your number?
BK: Yes, thanks.
Right away, my phone buzzes.
Grandma: Hello my favourite granddaughter! Bring dinner!
I taught Grandma how to text a few years ago.
It takes her ages to write anything. She’s ninety-four years old, and her hands are understandably gnarled from arthritis, so it makes for some great autocorrect moments.
She also loves to finish every sentence with an exclamation mark.
Her “favourite granddaughter” line is a joke between us. I’m the only one she’s got.
BK: I’ll bring your favourite.
Grandma: Chicken balls with red sauce!
BK: And chicken fried rice. See you around 5:30.
Grandma: I will put the kettle on!
I remind myself to stop on the way and get her some chocolate-covered digestives.
My phone vibrates again.
MB: Hello. This is Mr. M. Buchanan, Archivist with the City of Toronto Archives, responding to your query, delivered by Mr. J. Samson.
I shouldn’t be, but I’m amused by the formality of the message.
I appreciate history, but my love for it is nothing like what true history nerds feel.
Based on the ones I have met, I’d say most don’t seem completely comfortable in the present.
I reply with the same formality, since he’s the one doing me a favour.
BK: Hello. I’m Bridget Kelly, Building Inspector, Amateur Historian. Mr. Buchanan, I am doing some work at the Dominion Hotel, and I am curious about the hotel’s history. Do you think you might have time for a coffee?
MB: I am currently busy in the archives. Perhaps you could come here at your convenience?
BK: That sounds ideal. When would be a good time for you?
MB: In an hour?
BK: Please send me the address.