Jasminder Bansal

Everything hinges on being believed. I've spent months angling to get inside the corruption story and finally . . . a meeting with the man who employs my brother's killer. Vincent Peele, real estate attorny and the youngest board member of Marigold Group, one of the largest development firms in the country. You don't rise that far and fast without—
"—this is maybe not the best idea? Friday evening, life-changing interview with the boss, what kind of guy am I, to spring that on you with zero notice?"
Vincent uses his teeth to remove his soaked riding gloves while I tell him no problem, it's an honour, I appreciate the opportunity. I wipe moisture from a plastic patio chair and settle into the persona I've created to handle him, keeping my voice quiet and my body language subdued. The trick to getting sources to speak freely is to appear non-threatening. Mentally rehearse my pitch, how I've improved my proactive sales-oriented attitude, the steps I've taken to craft strong relationships with—
Vincent leaps out of his chair, admires the mud splattered across his fluorescent yellow rain jacket. Like a child, it seems he's having a difficult time staying still. "Just went for a killer mountain bike ride. Look at me! covered in mud, maybe even blood. It's awesome! There are bears in the woods. Predators. March, they're hungry. See a bear, Jasminder? Not many bears where you're . . . anyway, cool. Tigers, though?" Vincent curls his hands into claws, pretends to snarl and scratch. "Do tigers still exist? Do I have mud in my teeth?" 
Give him a you-must-be-joking hand wave, sip my tea, and decide he's the kind of okay-looking that, depending on lighting or mood, could easily become obnoxious. His face narrows from the square foundation of his beard to a sharp widow's peak. Precisely trimmed eyebrows. A mouth that hangs slightly open. He has the shitty habit of not looking directly at me, like I'm an interruption in an otherwise outstanding view. Vincent catches me sizing him up, gets the wrong idea, buries his fingers in his beard, says "uh-huh, yeah" under his breath, takes a selfie with the North Shore Mountains in the background. 
I was hired as an entry-level sales associate at Marigold Group five weeks ago. Making cold calls. Harassing mortgage admin. Guiding clients to local sights. The probationary period is over. My hope is that Vincent called this meeting to hire me permanently. To get this story written I need access to his office, his files. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mr.—”
“Wonderful, always, sure.” Vincent crosses right leg in front of left, bends at the waist, grabs his grimy cycling shoe, stretches, flexes his shoulders. “Mmm . . . brutally tight hamstring . . . jeez! Getting structurally integrated tomorrow, soma deep tissue, re-educate the body, heard of it? Nah, didn’t think so. Invented locally? Pretty sure, yes. Isn’t this great? Exercise and espresso! Simple needs. I live a very minimalist lifestyle, despite doing so well for myself.” Vincent looks up without breaking his stretch, nods toward a group sitting at a table on the other side of the outdoor café, lowers his voice. “Those people? Giving me stink eye for stretching in a coffee shop? Uptight, not real Vancouverites, not true West Coasters, stiffs from back east who don’t understand what makes this place so special. But anyway. I’m glad you came. Because I’m a very relaxed person, you know, not business-uptight at all, maybe too casual—I thought, well, how ’bout I call our promising new sales associate Jasminder Ba . . . uh, Bay . . . Bi . . .”
“Bansal—”
“—right now, and see what she’s doing? Give the girl some good news heading into the weekend. Brighten her day! Of course, you don’t mind?”
“Mr. Peele? Are you offering me a full-time sales associate position?”
Vincent waves toward the clouds ringing the mountains. “Look at this city. Nowhere like it! We are so. Lucky.”
We’re at Lonsdale Quay, seated under a steel and glass atrium on a paving stone patio a few steps from the Pacific. The corners of the structure have gone green with algae or moss or something that thrives in near-constant moisture, and the wind coming off Burrard Inlet inspires me to wrap my scarf more tightly around my neck. A blunt, red-hulled tanker inches beneath the Lions Gate Bridge, looks close to clipping the underside of the span. Seagulls shriek and dive into the ship’s frothing wake. “So lucky, Mr. Peele. And no problem about the short notice. I was close by. With family. In Stanley Park.”
Watch him, see if he clues into the lie.
“Family? I have some of those. Vancouver, ooh!”
“Lovely.”
It might even be. Everyone says it is. But I’m not sure anymore. Horizontal lines of slate-coloured water and depthless cloud interrupted by a skyline that appears blocky and indistinct, flattened, as if carved from a single mass. And a new tower rising in the middle of the downtown core. Needle-thin and twice as tall as the rest, made of platinum or chrome or a material not yet discovered . . . and an invasive organic growth erupting two thousand feet overhead, a plague or virus spreading toward the city. No. I take a second look. Of course the malformed skyscraper doesn't exist. Visions. Hauntings? The anniversary of my brother's death is less than a week away.