It never used to be this busy, but so much in the old neighborhood has changed since he last lived here twenty years ago. The video store where he and Joey used to work is gone. The Portuguese bakery is gone, too. But Junior’s is still here, and so is the Golden Cherry, right beside it.
He locks his car and looks over at the iconic neon sign and blacked-out facade of the former strip club. Drew has been inside the Cherry exactly once, for a bachelor party he didn’t want to attend, for a wedding that never happened. The Golden Cherry was popular back in the day, but when the strip club industry started to decline about ten years ago, the old “gentlemen’s club” was turned into an upscale nightclub. The owner took on a partner, but kept the original name. Other than a fresh coat of paint, it doesn’t look much different.
But Junior’s does. The best Jamaican restaurant in this part of the city, famous for its jerk chicken, curry goat, and oxtail, is three times the size it used to be. There was a time when Drew would eat here at least twice a week, but he rarely comes back to this neighborhood anymore unless he has to. In fact, it would be fair to say he avoids it.
Everything here reminds him of Joey.
He pulls open the door, and the bells overhead announce his entry. Gone are the days when the place was just a hole-in-the-wall with three tables and a busy takeout window. The restaurant, having taken over the bakery next door, is bigger and brighter, with fresh yellow paint, new green vinyl chairs, and glossy black tables. Samsung TVs are mounted in each corner of the dining room, and on the wall by the door is a giant framed photograph of a grinning Junior standing beside Usain Bolt. But while all these changes are good, Drew notices their prices have gone up. Their signature beef patties, which used to be 99 cents, are now a whopping $2.50 apiece.
He walks up to the counter and orders one anyway, then grabs a table while he waits for his lunch guest. As he savors the patty, which tastes exactly as he remembers, he watches the TV closest to him. Three pundits on CNN are arguing about something the US president just said, and while Drew doesn’t find American politics that interesting, the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen catches his eye.
PARIS PERALTA, CHARGED WITH FIRST-DEGREE MURDER, SET TO INHERIT $46 MILLION FROM LATE HUSBAND JIMMY PERALTA’S ESTATE
Forty-six million. Damn. So the wife probably did do it, then. Drew has never paid much attention to the trials and tribulations of celebrities, but the Jimmy Peralta murder is interesting. He just watched Jimmy Peralta Lives on Quan not that long ago, and is looking forward to the second special. Seriously funny shit, though the title of the first show is now ironic, and sad.
“As I live and breathe,” a delighted voice says.
Drew turns away from the TV to find a woman standing a few feet away with a big smile on her face. It takes a few seconds to place her, but when it comes to him, his mouth drops open.
“Charisse?” He stands, trying to reconcile this lovely woman with his memory of the gangly middle schooler whose dad forced her to bus tables here. “That you?”
“Drew Malcolm,” Charisse says, hip cocked. “What are you doing back in this neck of the woods?”
“Just meeting someone for lunch,” Drew says. “Look at you. You’re grown.” And fine, he thinks, but that would be a hell of a weird thing to say, even though Charisse has to be in her thirties now. Gone are the skinny limbs and braces. This woman has curves and a twinkle in her eye.
“All right, give me the five-second summary,” Charisse says. “Married? Kids? Home? Job?”
“Never married. One daughter, Sasha, nineteen, who just finished her second year at Western. I have a condo in Liberty Village, I was an investigative journalist for fifteen years for Toronto After Dark, and now I host a true crime podcast out of my den.”
“Toronto After Dark?” She looks impressed. “I remember that newspaper. It came out every Saturday, right?”
“Until it shut down, yes.”
“Ugh, sorry. Okay, my turn.” Charisse clears her throat. “Married for ten years, now divorced, but we’re still best friends. One amazing kid, Dante, eight. Just bought a house three blocks away, and I run this place now.”
“Wow, Junior finally retired?”
Her smile fades. “No, Daddy died. Four years ago. Prostate cancer that spread to his bones.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Drew says, and he truly is. “Junior was a good man. Heart of gold and the best cook this side of Toronto.”
“Amen,” Charisse says. She raises an eyebrow and gives him the once-over. “So what, you waiting for your Tinder date?”