“Anna’s not the girlfriend, Martha. Wishes still aren’t horses. I’m on the prowl on my own.”
“Whoopee for us! See you in half an hour. For you, I’ll even put some clothes on.”
“Don’t break the habit of a lifetime for an old pal.”
“Maybe I was in the mood anyway. Bring some real beer, not that play-beer they sell on television.”
“I’ll see what I can find. See you.”
“M’yeah, I guess.” And she was gone.
* * *
An hour later three pieces of uneaten pizza lay congealing in their carton and four of the bottles of ale had been returned empty to their case. Martha had put on slacks and a pink sweater topped off with a round medallion on a chain. She’d even done something new to her hair since I saw her last, but I couldn’t figure out what. Part of the effect of the transformation was spoiled by the fact that she was still wearing bedroom slippers that had probably been around when William Lyon Mackenzie roused the province to rebellion in 1837. With her Churchillian chin, Martha could have outfaced a battalion of rebels or the same number of Tories if it suited her.
I’d met Martha Tracy about ten years ago when I did that investigation into wrongdoing at City Hall. Martha worked in a real-estate firm that was mixed up in the story. She’d been keeping her eyes open around the powers that moved and shook Grantham for many years. Nobody knew Grantham like Martha. She once hinted that the firm she worked for, Scarp Enterprises, kept her on because they couldn’t afford to let what she knew fall into other hands. She didn’t do much around the office any more, but she answered the phone and watered the plants in a way that gave peace of mind to the partners. Her telephone manner was gruff; she tended to discourage triflers.
There’s nothing more burnt-out looking than a cold pizza, is there?”
“Reminds me of lonely birthdays in strange towns. Not mine, but I get that feeling. Another beer?”
“Moved and seconded. Why do you want to know about what the city does with its garbage, Benny?”
“I’m not sure I know yet myself. But if the city’s up to some funny business, I won’t find out by asking questions without knowing the background. If I’m going to stir up a local bees’ nest, I want to know when I’m doing it. It’s easier to stick handle the traffic that way and stay alive. I’m not interested in all of the garbage, just the toxic stuff: PCBs, dioxins and heavy-metal waste.”
“Hey, Benny, you’re pretty good! You must have been reading up on the stuff.”
“Bedtime reading since I got involved,” I said. Martha shook her head in sympathy. But she was right, I was getting better at talking about toxic garbage. But it was still more abstract than real to me. I couldn’t really imagine that stuff leaking from a truck could send me to hospital. In fact, I was dreading my encounter with reality. What form was it going to take? For Martha I tried to look innocent. Maybe I achieved the look of a kid caught cramming before an easy exam.
I opened a beer for Martha, and she poured most of it into the glass in front of her. My own glass was still full. What with my visit to the O’Maras’, I was seeing a lot of beer suddenly. I got back to questioning Martha. First, though, I decided not to light a new cigarette. It was a peculiar feeling.
“Who is in charge of the toxic waste that comes out of the city, Martha?”
“The head man is Paul Renner, director of sanitation.”
“Is he elected?”
“Not on your life. It’s a paying job and Paul’s been in it for four or five years. As director he sits as a commissioner along with other non-elected heads of standing departments: roads, parks, finance.”
“Does the city deal with its own waste?”
“No, it does what you and I do: it passes it on to somebody else. In this case it’s a contractor. Kinross, I think. Why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat? You know I can’t stand secrets. Benny!”
“Okay. Okay. Kinross has been doing a lot of dumping, legal and illegal. Some of that is for the city. How much does Paul Renner know about what Kinross does with the toxic stuff it collects?”
“How come you give a damn? What’s in it for you?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, expenses and maybe a broken kneecap if I make the wrong moves. So far I haven’t been moving at all, just asking fool questions. Who controls the money and the hiring of an outfit like Kinross, Martha?”
“The purse-strings of city council are held by the inner circle called the executive committee. The committee picks the contractors to do all sorts of jobs. It’s the old tender process. You know, justice must not only be done but be seen to be done. The director of sanitation has a job to do, he gets a description of the job circulated and contractors put in their bids. The winning bid is often, but not always, the lowest bidder. That’s the way business is done by governments. Doesn’t matter whether you’re a hamlet out in the township or a big outfit like Toronto or the province. Everything has to be seen while the deals are being made. No secret deals.”
“Really?”
“We’re talking theory here, Cooperman. Sure there are small jobs that are below the tender minimum. Sometimes big jobs get chopped up into smaller bites so that they’ll avoid the whole process. But in the case of Kinross …”
“Uh-huh? What’s the scoop on Kinross?”
“As far as the city’s concerned, there isn’t another outfit big enough to take on the city business. Whenever the contract comes up for renewal, there’s not a competent rival putting in a bid. Kinross has Grantham’s business sewn up.”
“What responsibility does Renner take for what Kinross does with its toxic waste? We’ll assume that the sweet-smelling stuff goes into land-fills and regular dumps. What about checking up on Kinross? Is there an inspection setup?”
“As far as I know, the only inspection system is what we get from the media and that Environment Front outfit. Anybody can lodge a complaint.”
“Can you find out when Kinross is coming up for renewal?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. I do have friends in high places, you know.”
“You’re an amazing woman, Martha.”
“Keep it coming, Cooperman. You know I eat it up.”
“All I want to know is what you left out. What’s the keystone to what you’ve told me?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You know Paul Renner I was telling you about?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s married to the former Adelaide Grier.”
“Give that man a chocolate mouse.”
“You haven’t been doing your research. You’re slacking, Cooperman. Not up to the mark. Adelaide is the older sister of one Caroline Grier Forbes. She’s Ross Forbes sister-in-law!”
I knew I lived in a small town. I knew that in the nature of things there were lots of shortcuts. I knew Pete Staziak from school. Now Pete’s a staff sergeant at Niagara Regional. I never walk up St. Andrew Street without seeing dozens of people I go way back with. So, why was I getting so excited? The Griers, Forbeses and Renners moved in the same exalted circles, that’s all. I couldn’t bring Renner and Forbes to book because of a little nepotism. And which came first, anyway? I’d have to get better information than just a family connection. I can’t remember ever reading about a local story dealing with a conflict of interests. Conflicts of interest were items for national or provincial stories. We all loved them but, of course, nothing like that ever happens around home. We keep our integrity all locked up in a blind trust. That way it won’t spring out and shoot you between the eyes. Nepotism, like charity and incest, begins at home.
I gave her a warm hug before I left and she saw me out onto the porch in her slippers. I looked back along the street and returned her wave.
Before calling it a day, I dropped by my office to see whether anybody was looking for me. The answering service disappointed me as usual. I consoled myself by going through the box of papers I’d borrowed from Irma. It was an old shoebox, held together with three elastic bands. Two of them snapped as I tried to wiggle them free. What is the life-expectancy of a rubber band? About fifteen months, I guess.