— Okay. Let’s have a drink to your newfound wealth, detective.
— Where do I pick up my package?
— Same place. Old Port. By the pier. Ten o’clock.
— Near that restaurant?
— Yes, I’ll meet you myself with a briefcase, from the restaurant.
— Eccellente! Salute!
Bouvert and O’Meara clink glasses; Adamson doesn’t.
— By the way, your friend, the PI, Mr. Robert James — Bob — he stopped by our offices an hour or so ago …
— Aw gawd.
— Yes.
— It’s a problem.
— Nah. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. He meddles but he knows nothing, less than nothing, so he’s not a threat.
— It’s a problem.
— He’s harmless — doesn’t even carry a handgun!
— Detective, we –
— He’s stuck in his own head. Really …
— It’s a problem.
— I know he doesn’t have a clue but I’ll get rid of him. Don’t worry.
— That’s included in the bonus, right?
They all laugh evil-sounding laughs. O’Meara slams back his drink.
— Gotta run, fellas. But I’ll be seeing you later.
— Don’t be late.
— Ten o’clock.
— Good evening, detective.
— Okay, gentlemen — merci et à bientôt!
They watch O’Meara leave. Adamson says …
— He could’ve offered to pay for the drinks, considering how much he’s milking us for.
— It’s not your money.
— Nonetheless, he shouldn’t get paid.
— Well it’s only sixty more.
— Today. He should be eighty-sixed.
— So what do you propose we do?
— Well …
Adamson leans in and whispers something into Bouvert’s ear for what seems to be an unnaturally long period of time and eventually Bouvert chuckles. He leans back …
— It’s worth considering.
The waiter approaches and Bouvert hands him a black Amex. They leave shortly thereafter. I pay in cash. My beer, with tip, came to thirteen dollars!!
FIN
22
I sat reading and rereading Darren’s transcript in the passenger seat of the hatchback in a state of disbelief. How could O’Meara be working for Bouvert and Adamson? I wondered, or rather: How could O’Meara be working for a client of Bouvert and Adamson? — a client who was more than likely Elaine Andrews, I thought, sitting in the car, a few blocks away from Hôtel Athènes, where Darren had followed the two lawyers into the bar, sat close and surreptitiously taken the minutes of their meeting with Detective Michael O’Meara of all people, a fucking fraud! In all the years I’ve known O’Meara I never had him pegged for being on the take, I thought, not to this extent at least. Sure, all cops are sort of dirty, I thought, enjoying the perks of the job — but this was different. This was aiding and abetting a murderer — or worse. I felt stupid for not having seen this coming, never suspecting O’Meara of play this foul. How much does he know? I wondered. Does he know Elaine’s whereabouts?
‘What the hell did he do?’ I said and Darren said he wasn’t sure.
‘Well you did a good job, Darren.’
‘Thanks. But we gotta figure out where this restaurant is, so we’re there for the handoff.’
Darren bounced in his seat, jacked up on adrenalin. ‘Get the drop on the drop.’
‘Well, Old Port, not far from the pier.’
‘There’re a bunch of restaurants around there.’
‘We’ll ask Michelle if Bouvert has a favourite.’
‘Good idea,’ said Darren and pulled out his cell and her card and called her.
While Darren sat, cell in hand, waiting for Michelle to pick up, I sat stunned. I felt amazingly stupid. I’d been deceived by essentially everyone, I thought, for the nth time, save Darren. But then I cast a sidelong glance at him, wondering if somehow, in some way, Darren was tied up in this conspiracy, in this web of lies, this hell I now inhabit, a hell I was dragged into with a late-night phone call while I was minding my own damn business and reading and drinking on my couch in relative peace. Could Darren be working for these goddamn lawyers and these rich assholes, these assholes who chew through people, masticating them, in service of their tawdry dramas and the further accumulation of vast wealth? Anything was possible, I thought, though I hated myself for having to always be so paranoid, though still never paranoid enough. I wondered what to do about O’Meara. Should I confront him before the handoff, or after the handoff, or at the handoff, at the pier, with Bouvert and perhaps Adamson, too? Also, I wondered, what was O’Meara going to do about me?
It seemed like an eternity as we sat there waiting for Michelle to pick up her cell. Darren had his cell up to his ear but I could hear it ringing, over and over again, while I sat there mildly suspecting Darren of being in on this strange conspiracy, one I didn’t understand. The ringing was loud and I found it odd that a machine hadn’t picked up yet, and the phone rang and rang ad infinitum. I didn’t really suspect Darren, I thought, while listening to the abyssal ringing of the phone. But then I didn’t really suspect O’Meara, either, and he was involved somehow, involved enough to be paid off to keep his yap shut. Clearly O’Meara was only partially involved, I thought, from what I could deduce from Darren’s notes, since it was clear that he didn’t know everything, and was ultimately incidental to the overall conspiracy, et cetera. That is, if Darren’s notes were an accurate transcript of the conversation overheard at Le Charon. Perhaps, I thought, Darren’s notes were entirely fabricated and scripted by O’Meara, Bouvert, Adamson and (I hated to think it) Darren so as to set me on the wrong path. I kept giving Darren sidelong glances as he held the loudly ringing phone to his ear. It was clear that Darren didn’t suspect me of suspecting him, I thought, as he sat waiting for Michelle to pick up. No, Darren wasn’t involved, he wasn’t working for Bouvert and Adamson, I decided, and I desperately wanted to believe right then and there that Darren wasn’t working for Bouvert and Adamson (or their client, rather, or clients, plural) and that he was in fact on my side, assisting me with the case, acting as my sidekick, a partner I could trust. Then, the loud ringing stopped and for a second there was complete silence.
‘Hello … ’
‘Hey, Michelle, I’m sitting here with Bob and need to ask you a question … ’
‘Um, another time would work better.’
‘I just need to know what restaurant Bouvert likes in the Old Port.’
‘Okay, so later sounds good. Thank you.’
‘Michelle, just think — does he have some place there he goes to often?’
‘All right. Sounds good. Talk to you soon.’ And she hung up.
Darren looked perplexed but I said, ‘Somebody’s with her. She can’t talk.’
‘Right,’ said Darren. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait and call her back.’ I rocked in my seat. I blurted out, ‘When you call her back, though, don’t ask questions — just give her a location to meet us at.’
‘Right. Where?’
‘A bar?’
‘Okay, but what bar?’
‘Shit, I wish I knew the name of the railway-car-like bar … ’
‘Where is it?’
‘About twenty minutes east of the Andrewses’ but I don’t really remember.’