I got back to my car without walking by the show windows. To anyone keeping track of my movements, and who knows, it could happen, I must have looked as guilty as hell as I crossed and recrossed Niagara Street.
In the Olds, I began rehearsing a speech to be addressed to Abe Wise. It reviewed the circumstances of my coming to work for him and went on to ask how he hoped to get away first with the murder of Ed Neustadt and then with the stabbing of Gordon Shaw. He would deny it, of course, and I would … what? Resign? Hello, Cooperman! Resigning isn’t an option. Remember? “We’re not talking ‘ifs’ here,” he said that night.
So, what was I going to do? Sit tight? Keep on looking for people who wanted to see Abe’s blood on the floor? It seemed a little distant and abstract for me. I needed to talk to somebody. Where was Anna when I needed her? Off hobnobbing with her fellow historians for the whole damned weekend. This was leading nowhere. Cooperman, don’t whine! Gordon Shaw is dead, not you. You don’t even come into this. Not directly. You went to see Shaw earlier this week and again today. The post mortem examination will show that he was dead some time before your second visit to the showroom. Again I could see Shaw’s eyes. They already had the dead look. He could have been killed a short time after he left his office. A call comes in: “Will you show me that Alfa Romeo in your yard? Give me a personal demonstration?”
I parked the Olds behind the Murray Hotel and went in for a haircut. It wouldn’t hurt being seen downtown and nowhere near Niagara Street. There were two men waiting for Bill Hall’s chair. I picked up a magazine and waited.
* * *
On Chestnut Street there is a phone booth that can hardly be seen from St. Andrew. It was from there that I called 911 and told the dispatcher where to look for Shaw. I didn’t hang around to chat, but even slinking guiltily back to my office, I felt better than I had been feeling. And to hell with Wise! I wasn’t snitching on him, just telling the cops where to find the cold meat. When the phone began to ring as soon as I got behind my desk, I wondered how they had traced me so fast. But it wasn’t a call-back from 911, it was Victoria Armstrong saying that Mickey was on his way over to pick me up. I tried to ask her what was up, but she said she didn’t know.
“Mickey was waiting for me in the Volvo this time. It was parked in front of the Russell House or the Sniper’s Roost, as I liked to call it. I asked Mickey the same question I asked his wife. “Mr. Wise doesn’t send out press releases. He just told me to fetch you.” I liked the word ‘fetch’; it implied a return to where he picked me up. But I wasn’t thinking too clearly. We drove in silence out of the city and over the route I’d first travelled last Monday morning. It was prettier with the sun shining on the farms. Once or twice, I caught a glimpse of the old canal. The snow was in retreat.
Victoria was waiting at the door when we arrived. She took my coat and shrugged when I asked with a look if she knew any more about what was going on. She was wearing one of her dark peasanty woollen skirts. When I was ushered into Wise’s august presence it was into the same room where our first interview had taken place. The pine hutch, the big partners desk, the arrow-backed chairs and the little terracotta figures that pre-dated Columbus.
Wise was sitting when I came in, but quickly got up and came towards me with a wide smile and an outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming at such short notice, Mr. Cooperman.” We shook hands and he kept walking past me to the liquor cabinet. “Will you take a drink at this time of day?” He made a Scotch and water for himself and a rye and ginger ale for me. I wondered where he found that out. “I’ve read your report, Mr. Cooperman. A very impressive piece of work, given the short time I’ve given you.”
“It’s just an interim report. It doesn’t include the fact, for instance, that Gordon Shaw was murdered this morning sometime. He was the car dealer who was pressing charges against your son. You remember that Hart bought a Triumph sports car from Shaw.” I could hear the mounting anger in my voice, so I was glad when Wise broke in.
“A Triumph! You think this is about a Triumph, Mr. Cooperman? How naïve you are. But you are right to tell me. Of course, you think I’m behind it. Well, maybe I am and maybe I’m not. But we both know that Hart is involved in this and I don’t want to see any harm come to that boy!”
“That boy is nearly forty. The sooner you understand that, the sooner you’ll begin getting through to Hart.”
“I warned you last time about your free advice for troubled families. Let’s hear no more of it. I insist!”
“Why didn’t you wait until I was asleep before calling this meeting?”
“Cooperman, I’ve no time for your hurt feelings. Now shut up and listen to what I have to say.” I sat down in a chair near the liquor cabinet next to a particularly ugly Central American mask. My sitting reminded Wise that he had been left standing in the middle of the room. He pulled a chair towards me, leaving tracks in the broadloom.
“I want you to continue on this assignment. I need my head examined for this decision, but you’re the best available. Keep at it. I also want to know what you can discover about Julie’s new suitor, Santerre. I understand that you met him last night. How did he strike you?”
“That whole crowd is out of my league, Mr. Wise. I don’t understand the gaudy talk. I don’t know what they are on about to be honest. They have enough cocaine when they need it. You may know where they got it.”
“Was Julie …? Was she …?” We both got to our feet.
“I didn’t see her, Mr. Wise. But you know, better than most of us, the stuff is around for people who know who to ask.” Wise rubbed his forehead with a white handkerchief, thinking. I don’t know how long I stood there waiting for him to look up. When he did: “Phil Green will drive you back to town, Mr. Cooperman. I have a job for Mickey to do this afternoon. I hope that I needn’t remind you that it would be in your interest not to involve me in the investigation into this terrible murder of Mr. Shaw.”
“Then why remind me?”
There was a knock at the door, and I heard Victoria’s voice informing Wise that the car was just coming around to the back door. He repeated the message to me, while I was thinking of all the things I would like to put to my client before he again slipped out of reach.
“Good-afternoon, Mr. Cooperman,” he said. I didn’t see him say it, since it was addressed to my back as I was being hurried through the door in the rear. I was a back-door kind of fellow, I thought. I had the feeling that I was being frog-marched away from the facts, being returned to a life in black and white after a delicious flirtation with Technicolor.
Back home again, I soaked in a tub for half an hour, hoping that the phone would ring with some good news. It didn’t. My only consolation for the whole day was the contents of the envelope that Phil Green handed me as I got out of the car. It contained a fat cheque.
Friday-night dinner at my parents’ went off as usual. I ate an over-broiled steak that had been cooked fifteen minutes per side because Ma puts them into the broiler frozen solid. I treated myself to a movie afterwards. I was still anxious, both about the murder and about my meeting with Wise. I base this on the fact that I ate two Kit Kat chocolate bars before the feature was well started.
The Saturday paper brought the news of the discovery of Gordon Shaw’s body behind his sports car showroom on Niagara Street. Pete Staziak was in charge of the investigation and he said that he had several leads which he was following up and when there were developments he would keep the public informed. The story mentioned details of Shaw’s education, marital status, and a few of the cups and trophies he had won in races and rallies in the Niagara district during the last ten years or so.