Blood Count, page 10
“Bartley.”
“Yeah.”
Ross was looking less like Cesar Romero. He wasn’t showing much of the white choppers, and his eyes in the tanned face had the warmth of last year’s ice.
“Are you his father?” I asked. “Bartley’s?”
“Stepfather. I’ve known the kid since he was, I don’t know, fifteen, sixteen, since I started dating his mother, my wife.”
“Your wife’s a bit sensitive about Bartley’s chosen fields?”
“The porno movies she don’t know about and she ain’t gonna. The stripping, okay, there’s sometimes ads in the papers and she might see them, but she don’t understand what goes on in those clubs. She thinks it’s artistic, whatever, modern dancin’ or somethin’ crazy like that.”
“Your interest is in keeping her in the dark?”
“Till I get the kid to lay off with this shit. My wife’s a very classy person, you follow me, Crang?”
“That’s what the workout centre is all about down the tunnel and the replica of MGM’s back lot in there?”
“Only two things the kid gets it up for, long as I been around, longer probably, they’re bodybuildin’, liftin’ weights, that crap, and movies. Makin’ them, I mean. So, okay, I fix it so’s he can do the both of them right in his own home, and his mother’s got her family together, under one roof, y’know, me and the kid.”
“But Bartley’s opted for independence?”
“If he stays with me, I can put him in business, he’s gonna clear thirty, forty cents every dollar. Instead, he goes porno.”
“His money as well as his body? You mean, besides performing in these movies, he finances them? Produces them?”
Ross hesitated. “Whadda I know? Bartley’s maybe got a little money, his sources. Anyway, this is off the track of why we’re talkin’.”
Behind Paulie Ross, an oil portrait of the attractive dark-haired woman hung over a fireplace. The woman’s head was looking slightly down, the black hair falling like a screen over part of her face. She was wearing pearls and a pale blue sweater set.
“So now you got the picture, Crang, you and your friend,” Ross said, glancing at Annie, “and now that you got it, the two of you can butt out.”
“What you’re requesting,” I said, “is assurance nothing I do, or Annie, will lead to Bartley’s mother catching a whisper of his involvement in porno movies.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Or in stripping.”
“What she doesn’t know already, the little she does.”
“Or,” I said, “his bisexuality.”
Ross let out a long sigh. “The kid’s gonna drive me nuts, but one thing, he’s no faggot.”
“Half a one.”
“Let’s keep it simple, all right, Crang? I’m not warning you here. I’m telling ya.”
“That Bartley’s mother learns nothing through any action of mine or Annie’s?”
“You got it.”
“Or else.”
“Or else is somethin’ Albert and Joey B. are good at.”
“Except,” I said, “you’re leaving a murder out of the equation.”
“Guy downstairs at your place?”
“It doesn’t matter how much or little I mess in your stepson’s sex life or his movie career. If Bartley’s mixed up in Alex Corcoran’s murder, they could come unravelled, anyway, get so public even his mother would catch on.”
“Not Bartley. The kid’s got a lotta balls, but not for killin’ a guy.”
“Hey, listen to you, the stepfather who doesn’t think Bartley’s gay, either.”
“This conversation’s goin’ on longer’n I’d like.”
“Or how about Bartley’s pet piece of muscle, Axe? How about him for the killer?”
“How’d the guy get knocked off downstairs from you, remind me?”
“A knife in the chest.”
“Forget about Axe. Baseball bats, axe handles, okay, but Axe knows shit about knives.”
“Always a first for everybody.”
“Crang, you gettin’ my message or what?”
I looked at Annie.
“All clear over here,” she said. “Everything Mr. Ross has explained.”
“Your friend’s a smart little lady,” Ross said to me. “The thing that bothers me, Crang, is that I keep hearin’ your name lately. Crang comin’ by some club Bartley’s dancin’ at, Crang tailin’ after Bartley another night, Crang doin’ this and that. What I’m sayin’ here and now, one time only, that stuff stops, understand what I’m tellin’ ya?”
“Somebody spotted us following Bartley the other night?”
“Crang, all the crap I know about you, I don’t need to know no more. Here on in, I don’t want there to be no more.”
Paulie Ross stood up.
“Finish the wine if you’d like,” he said. “Albert and Joey B. will give you a lift downtown after.”
Ross flashed us some teeth and left the room.
I swallowed a little wine. “You think I should have told him he doesn’t need to wear a tie with the pinstripe suit?” I said to Annie.
“I’m sure he observed your example.”
“He apparently observed everything else about me lately.”
Chapter Fifteen
I dawdled at home Monday morning, taking my time over coffee and the Globe and Mail’s letters section, rallying from the command performance at Palais Ross, and waiting for James Turkin to come by. Tom Catalano phoned.
“We need to get together,” he said.
“This for business or you just think it’s too long since we beheld one another’s smiling faces?”
“We should catch up.”
“So it’s business.”
I’ve known Tom since law-school days, from the years before he proceeded ever upward to the senior ranks at Mcintosh, Brown and Crabtree. It’s a King Street law factory with maybe three hundred partners and associates, specialists in mergers, takeovers, lease backs, and other machinations that have nothing to do with widows and orphans.
“Only a few minutes of business,” Tom said, “and there’s a treat that goes with it. How about I take you to the ball game tonight? Have some beers, a Big Mac, watch the Blue Jays.”
I didn’t answer.
“Well?” Tom said.
“When do we get to the part about the treat?”
“Baseball, beer …”
“I heard all that. Baseball, hours go by nothing happens. Beer gives a guy a lethal dose of halitosis. And Big Macs, leaving aside McDonald’s environmental record, they’re like mainlining cholesterol.”
“My God, fella, what’s your stand on the flag and Anne Murray? The beaver?”
“Why don’t we meet in a chic bar and be civilized about it?”
“Look, the firm has a box at the SkyDome. Very congenial surroundings. You don’t have to order a beer or a hamburger. You don’t even have to watch the damn ball game. All I’m asking, would you meet me tonight?”
“In this box,” I said, “you get to drink whatever you want?”
“Even that weird Hungarian stuff you like. I’ll phone ahead and make sure.”
“Polish,” I said. “Wyborowa. You better write it down.”
“This means you’ll come?”
“Sure, I’m curious about the inside of the place. Looks absurd enough from the outside.”
“The SkyDome? You’re kidding, you’ve never been inside? It makes the city world class.”
“I’m considering a move to the west coast. One of the humble Canadian-class Gulf Islands.”
“Come early, six thirty,” Tom said and hung up.
I went back to my coffee and dawdling. The doorbell rang at exactly ten and I hustled downstairs. James Turkin had on a pair of loose-fitting white coveralls with lots of pockets. There was a white painter’s cap on his head, and across the coveralls, on the left breast pocket, a name was stitched in blue. Larry.
“Neat disguise, James,” I said.
“Larry,” James said. “That’s my name soon as the commission commences, which it has.”
“You call the shots,” I said, “Larry.”
James held out another set of white coveralls, folded, and another white cap.
“Wanta put these on upstairs?” he asked. “Or in the back of the truck?”
Behind James on the street was a white panel truck with Surefire Security Systems painted along the side.
I unfolded my coveralls. They had a name in blue on the breast pocket. Moe.
I looked at James. “Moe?”
“It’s what they come with,” James said, “Moe.”
I stepped into the hallway and pulled on the coveralls over my jeans and shirt. The cap sat loosely on my head.
“Dressed and ready,” I said.
James and I climbed into the truck’s front seat. A third guy was at the wheel, about James’s age, pudgy, a faint blond moustache on his upper lip. His white coveralls bore a name. Curly.
“Come on, James.”
“Larry.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” My voice bounced around inside the truck. “The names.”
James and his colleague, Larry and Curly, exchanged looks. The colleague’s expression was as blank as James’s.
“The truck and the uniforms,” James said, speaking to me in a deliberate tone, “were rented from a gentleman who specializes in equipment for the commission-agent trade.”
“This gentleman got a sense of humour?”
James shrugged. “He kids around.”
I thought for a moment. “Okay, never mind,” I said.
Curly started the truck’s motor and pulled into an opening in the Beverley Street traffic.
“The names better not be an omen,” I said.
“What?” James asked, impatient.
I sighed. “Let it go.”
“This commission,” James said, “I don’t know what you’re worried about, it’s been researched and analyzed. Since yesterday, me and Curly have been extremely thorough.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Curly drove south on York Street to Front and across Front to David Rowbottom’s condominium. He pulled up on the east side of the building and parked.
“Everything synchronized?” James asked his colleague, Larry to Curly.
“The three different positions we talked about, I choose one for the truck depending on things transpiring out here.”
“It’s in your, ah, discretion.”
James leaned into the back of the truck and came up with a clipboard and a long narrow metal toolbox. He and I got out of the truck and walked to the condo’s entrance.
“Wait a sec, Larry,” I said, “shouldn’t you brief me?”
James handed me the toolbox. It was heavy. “Carry this and don’t open your mouth apart from signifying accordance with me.”
“Concordance might be a better word there.”
“Oh, yeah? Remind me when I got my notebook.”
James led the way into the lobby. The doorman behind the counter was a beefy, red-faced man. He wore a maroon uniform and a questioning expression.
“How ya doin’?” James said. “We got a rush job for …” He consulted the paper on his clipboard. “Apartment 16A. Guy wants his security system checked out. Fault in the wiring, something of that nature.”
The beefy doorman shook his head. “News to me. That’s Rowbottom’s place, and nothing here, no messages, about letting you guys in if that’s what you think you’re askin’. ”
“How ya like that?” James put one hand on his hip.
“Night man, Andy, he goes off at eight, he woulda told me if Rowbottom wanted something done about his … what’d you say?”
“Security system. Jesus, this really pisses me off.”
“Rowbottom’s outa here, six thirty, seven, before I even come on.”
James turned in my direction. “This always the way, Moe? Guy orders a rush job, he forgets to set it up?”
I shifted the heavy toolbox from one hand to the other. “You said it, Larry.”
The doorman said, “What can I tell ya?”
“Listen,” James said. He lay his clipboard on the top of the counter. “You wanta do me a favour … What’s your name?”
“Mikey,” the doorman said, sounding like a man giving away something he wanted to keep.
“Okay, Mikey, you wanta just call this Rowbottom’s office, ask if it’s okay to pass us in, save everybody a lotta grief?”
“I don’t know, he’s a cabinet minister, busy man.”
“Cabinet minister’s exactly the reason he’s in a knot about security. That’s what they said down our office. State secrets in there, all that crap.”
The doorman had large, suspicious eyes in his red face. “I got an office number for him.” He slid open a drawer and drew out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic folder. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna get a hold of the man.”
“You wanta give it a shot? Means Moe, here, and myself don’t have to come back a second time. Maybe you could, like, talk to somebody else in authority, his secretary, whoever?”
“’Kay,” the doorman said, reluctance at the edges of his voice. “I’ll dial the number, but if I don’t get Rowbottom, that’s it, forget it.”
He picked up the receiver on the counter phone and, looking at the list of names and numbers on the paper in the clear plastic folder, he began to dial. One digit, the second digit, third …
“Hey, what am I thinking,” James said suddenly.
The doorman stopped dialing. “Yeah?”
James spoke more quickly. “You probably got just the regular office number, am I right, Mikey? Some receptionist gonna come on the line? Okay, right here on the order form, I got a number that’ll put ya straight through to the man himself’s office. Says right here, David Rowbottom’s executive assistant, any trouble comes up.”
The doorman put down the receiver and spent some time studying James’s face, considering.
“Means we don’t hafta screw up our schedule tomorrow, bill Rowbottom for the two trips,” James said. “Don’t wanta annoy the customer, know what I’m talking about?”
The doorman took a deep breath. “Read off the number from that form you got there.”
James read it, and the doorman dialed.
“Hello,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, this is Mr. Rowbottom’s office?”
He paused.
“Yeah, sorry, lady. I heard what you said the first time when you answered. Well, thing is, this is the doorman at Mr. Rowbottom’s apartment and there’s two gentlemen here want —”
The doorman stopped, listened, covered the receiver with his hand and looked at James. “Surefire Security, that you?”
“Tell her yeah.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the doorman said into the phone. He listened again, his face going a marginally deeper red. “Well, look, I’m sorry, nobody told me — Right away.… Yeah, no problem.”
He hung up the phone. “Woman’s a real ball-buster, Jesus.”
“Dame gets a job like that,” James said, “thinks she’s the Queen of England.”
The doorman rummaged in his drawer. “She says to give you guys the passkey.”
“Hey, Mikey, I owe ya.”
The doorman handed James the key and buzzed the lock on the glass door. James and I stepped around the counter and pushed open the door.
“That key,” the doorman said from behind us, “I’m the one responsible for it. Come back to me personally when you’re done up there.”
James waved a friendly hand. The wave didn’t appear to dispel the doorman’s wary look.
There were two elevators. One was waiting on the ground floor. We got on, and James pressed number sixteen.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “It was your sister.”
“Who the guy phoned? Yeah.”
“Nice, James.”
“Larry,” James said. “How long’s the shortest amount of time you need?”
“In Rowbottom’s apartment? Hard to say. Fifteen, twenty minutes. Why?”
“The guy down there, he might give us trouble.”
“Mikey?”
“Guy acts like he doesn’t trust two members of the …”
“Working class?”
“Proletariat.”
The elevator stopped at sixteen. David Rowbottom’s apartment was directly across the hall. James put the key in the lock and opened the door.
Chapter Sixteen
James and I stepped across the Rowbottom threshold and into a Victorian parlour.
Close to the centre of the room, two cane rocking chairs flanked a table draped in a fringed shawl. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn across the three windows. The colour of the curtains belonged in the mauve-puce range. There were two student lamps on tables at either end of a fat stuffed sofa. The shades on the lamps were crimson, and the sofa had petit point pillows tossed here and there. On another table, which was a solid mahogany piece of work with a lot of curlicues carved in the side, a stuffed owl sat under a glass jar.
I looked around the strange room, and at first, I couldn’t spot doors leading off of it.
“Ah,” I said.
The entrance to an adjoining room was made almost invisible by a thick curtain of beads.
“Sure we got the right apartment?” James asked.
“Positive.”
“More like somebody’s grandmother’s place.”
“Larry,” I said, “would you do a fast inspection in the other rooms?”
James disappeared through the beads.
I put down the metal toolbox and made a slow tour of the parlour. Nothing caught my eye. Or rather, everything caught my eye but nothing struck a chord of recognition.
James came through the beads.
