“Clarence took these, but as you know, we didn’t run any of them. These are hard times in the world of print journalism.” She said this last in a sad, breathy voice that showed how much recent economies had hurt her personally. I took four glossy pictures out and looked through them. There was Barry Bosco being introduced, there he was giving his talk, there he was accepting the T-shirt, and there he was posing with some of the others, “informally chatting with his audience.” The only trouble was that Barry Bosco wasn’t Barry Bosco. The man in the photograph was Roger Cavanaugh, the man Raymond Devlin brought with him last Wednesday to sign the contracts for Dermot Keogh Hall. Roger Cavanaugh may not have had the most prepossessing of faces, but here on these glossies, he cut quite a dash. I could almost hear the sound of an exploding alibi as I grinned idiotically at the prints. The first thing I learned when I started in this business was to check everything. This was one of those times when it paid off.
I paid for one of these photographs, collected a receipt and found, on locating the Olds, that my parking meter had expired, but that no parking ticket had yet been placed under my windshield wiper. I was at least half an hour over-parked and within spitting distance of the police station. After that, I won’t say a bad word about Orillia again, ever.
SIXTEEN
Tuesday
Once more, I was installed at the New Beijing Inn on Bay Street, not far from Toronto’s Old City Hall. Although the floor was different-they’d moved me up to the ninth-the view from the window was unaltered. After showering and sorting my laundry, I called Sally at the office.
“Benny! Did you have a good weekend?”
“From the sound of your voice, I take it that Vanessa’s not back yet from sunny California?”
“You’ve got it. Rumour has it she’ll be home late today. But I’d put my money on Wednesday. She has to be here on Wednesday.”
“You know her pretty well, don’t you?”
“Benny, I’m just guessing. She’s never here when Ken, Mr. Rankin or Mr. Thornhill are on the phone every ten minutes. All three of them have called at least twice. They’re still after her head. After all she’s been through.”
“And all she’s put you through.”
“Well, that’s show business. Are you coming in?”
“I’ll be there in about half an hour, Sally. You want me to bring you a Danish?”
“Why didn’t I meet you years ago, Benny? I like the gloopy kind. Bring napkins and-oops! I’ve got another line flashing. ’Bye.”
Last night, as soon as I had got back into the steaming city and applied calamine lotion to the few itchy places on my legs, I got dressed in my remaining clean clothes and found a bite to eat at a deli called Yitz’s on Eglinton Avenue West. Here the service was crisp and speedy. Here I could afford to branch out from my diet of chopped-egg sandwiches and try a little chopped liver and a corned beef sandwich with sweet lemon tea. Just the way I like it. Still, I missed Orillia’s Bert and Ernie, or whatever their names were. I thought of Orillia again as I removed a parking ticket from my windshield. With the threat of starvation once more in check, I drove down to 52 Division on Dundas Street. Kids were climbing into the holes in a gigantic bronze sculpture at the corner outside the art gallery. They were having a wonderful time, while their parents looked as though they thought the holes might be better employed if they were filled with useful, necessary clocks.
I didn’t stay in the cop shop long. I just delivered my plastic-wrapped package addressed to Sykes and Boyd. My name appeared on the label, but I had to fill out a form that duplicated what already existed clearly printed. I got the feeling that all parcels were regarded as bombs until proved to be innocent bags of laundry or forgotten lunches.
Not too many blocks from there and a good night’s sleep later, I bought a couple of fat Danishes and two large coffees and walked down University Avenue, past the other TV network on the street, to NTC, with its big rooftop icon looking down on my progress. Near the front doors I saw George Brenner, the talented car jockey, sitting on the edge of a cement flower bed, sipping a coffee of his own. I parked my carcass on the same planter, hoping to find some useful conversation. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. As far as I could see, there wasn’t a pack of Camels or Lucky Strike tucked under either of his short sleeves. Nor was there an ad for British ale on his T-shirt. After a few thoughts about the continuing warm weather and some philosophical remarks about city living as opposed to life in the wild, we went on to more interesting things. “Vanessa Moss tells me that you’re a very clever computer animator.”
“I used to be. Worked for George Lucas for six years. That makes me an old man in this business. A year ago I left. Now I need a job here, but I can’t get back in.”
“In? In where?”
“Inside. Through the door behind you. Back under the two big eyes of the NTC owl. That ‘in.’”
“Why’s that?”
“You working for her now, right?”
“Started last Wednesday. She’s kept me hopping. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“She said she could do me some good, but I don’t know …” He was sipping his coffee through a hole in the plastic cover.
“She told me a little more about you than about your computer skills.”
“Yeah? She digs my bod. I know that. Not many around here keep in shape. You understand? It turns to jelly if you don’t work it. One time I kept in shape surfing in San Diego. The waves burn off the fat. But I can’t afford that any more. I worked myself hard in the joint for eighteen months. When I got out, I ran into a brick wall. The people around here don’t want an ex-con getting back in. Oh, they let me handle cars, but they won’t cut me any slack about getting into the Art Department. She brought you in as her bodyguard, right?”
“Where’d you hear a thing like that?”
“Drop it. Everybody knows you’re a PI. Everybody except Security, that is. They don’t know it’s raining out until they have a meeting about it.”
“What were you in for?”
“It was drug related. The boys in blue can’t tell the difference between personal use and trafficking. You understand?” I nodded encouragement, and he went on. “Fellow upstairs in the Art Department says there’s nobody like me in computer animation except for a guy out in Vancouver, who’s already got as much work as he can handle. But this guy upstairs I was telling you about, he can’t get me past Security. And Security has an assbreaking hold on things. I can’t even use the john inside. Have to find my own crapper, except when I’ve parked a car down in the parking garage. Sub-sub-basement. They’ve a toilet down there that Security hasn’t heard of yet.”
“Have the cops hassled you about this murder thing?” I was glad I remembered “hassled.” Hassle was a good word from the sixties.
“They talked to me. Local cops. Yeah.”
“Has anyone else been asking you questions about Vanessa?” I thought my use of her first name would suggest that I was on his side. He took another sip of his coffee to think on.
“Ken Trebitsch, uh, you know, from News: he’s been asking about her. He knows about us getting it off together. You know how he knows about that?” He looked honestly puzzled, as though a toy had come apart in his hands and wouldn’t go back together.