A City Called July (28 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

What I knew about diamonds could be written on the knee of a gnat. But I knew this much: a tidy way to make two point six million dollars disappear into a fairly compact space would be to convert them into cut, unmounted diamonds. I’d read somewhere about the diamond trade in New York, about how big deals were still settled with a handshake. If Larry Geller intended leaving town, diamonds would have made ideal travelling companions. Diamonds travel well because they are what they are and anyone with a jeweller’s loupe can see whether they’re real or not. No papers or signatures are required. You don’t even need one of those Swiss bank accounts with the numbers. My diamond in the pocket of Mr. X is Mr. X’s diamond if he says it’s his. Larry Geller had prepared to leave town with a bag full of goodies. Somebody knew he had them. Goodbye Larry. Diamonds and secrets can be equally deadly.

I went back to my hotel for clean socks and an argument with my landlord about the weekly rent I was behind in paying. The fact that I hadn’t been in the room for a few days, and that he had seven other unrented rooms was noted with some interest in an academic way, but it cut no ice. When I told him the cheque was in the mail he looked at me like I thought I was a comedian. I gave him twenty dollars on account. That left forty dollars between me and a heart-to-heart with the bank manager.

I managed to get both into the room and out without running into Glenn Bagot or three of his merry men. I felt silly coming down the stairs into the din of the Ladies and Escorts Beverage Room. If there was no threat, why was I holed up at Martha’s? If I was in real danger of running into Bagot asking about his proposition, what was I doing looking for trouble around here? The country and western band didn’t help my thinking. The lead singer was dressed in leather and silver from head to foot. I couldn’t tell whether his outfit came from a couturier or a saddler. He was holding the microphone close to his mouth and distorting the sound at the beginning of every phrase.

… and those shoes come walking back to me …

* * *

Luc Bolduc was sitting in the living room watching TV when I knocked at the screen door of the house on Nelson Street. I’d driven up half an hour before, and watched until I saw Alex and his wife leave the house, take the car and drive off in some direction that held no interest for me. It was the old man I wanted to see.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said through the screen, seeing less than a sight for sore eyes. “Alex’s not here. You want come back tomorrow.”

“I want to talk to you, Mr. Bolduc.”

“Talk?” he said, “I got not’in’ to say to you, mister. Better you come back, talk to Alex. Hokay?”

“Not hokay, Mr. Bolduc, because we have to talk about things you don’t want Alex to know about. Right?”

“I got not’in’ to say,” and he started to close the front door in my face. I opened the screen door and put my hand firmly on the handle of the door.

“He’s worried about you drinking again, Mr. Bolduc. And you’re worried about Alex getting mixed up with Tony Pritchett. Right?”

“Tony Pritchett got not’in’ to do with my Alex.”

“That’s your story and you’re stuck with it. What I know is that you’re right: Tony doesn’t even know about Alex. Alex isn’t doing any of Pritchett’s dirty work.”

“That’s true. That’s what I say.”

“You say it, but you don’t believe it. You told me last night. You think Pritchett called Alex on the phone. You heard him call him Tony.”

“He not call Alex,” he lied, looking me in the eye.

“You think he called last Saturday morning, and they had a hush-hush conversation. I’m telling you it wasn’t Pritchett. It was Pia Morley. Sid Geller’s girl. You remember she used to be Antonioni, used to be Alex’s girl, right?”

“You say that Alex and Pia Morley …?”

“I’m not saying anything more than that they talked on the phone. You must remember when he played hockey, he used to call her Toni, from Antonioni?”

“Toni? Yes, that’s right. He liked her when he was young. Called her Toni. That’s right. So, it was not Tony Pritchett talk to my boy. That’s good.” He began to let a smile steal over his wrinkled features. Suddenly, he was holding the door open wider and motioning me into the living-room. The old man was plainly delighted by the news. Now I was hating myself for what I had in mind for him to do to pay for my good deed. I followed the hospitable gesture to the inside and snapped off the TV when I had my back to it and Luc was clearing newspapers off the sofa. I sat where I’d sat when I talked to Alex, the last time I was under the Bolduc roof. The old man sat in an overstuffed occasional chair. “You’ll drink a glass of wine, mister? I made it last year.” I agreed to the wine because I knew he would be more relaxed if I was holding a glass.

He was gone for less than a minute. I guessed that the wine came from the family stock and not from a covert supply of his own. He poured me a glass with a tired grin and waved away the suggestion that he should join me when I tried him out on his teetotal resolve. “Mr. Bolduc, tell me about Larry Geller. We both know that you know his body is in that footing on the building site.”

“Look, mister I don’ want to get involve’. I forget what I don’ know.”

“The cops are digging the body out of that footing tonight, Mr. Bolduc. If you don’t tell me, you’ll soon have to talk to one of them.”

“Better to wait. I sure don’ have to talk to you.” He shifted in his deep chair as I moved my drink from one hand to the other.

“Suit yourself. There’s quite a bit I know already. And the rest I can guess. You knew Sid and his brothers, didn’t you? Sid ran the yard and did the business, but his younger brothers were in the background. I’ll bet Larry made a deal with you to let him get into the shed at the fire-hall site. He paid you to let him put some things there. Am I right?”

“You’re doing the talkin’. I’ll just listen, me.”

“You made a deal with Larry, gave him a duplicate key. If you cut the key in Grantham, we’ll have no trouble finding the guy who cut it for you. How many hardware stores are there? It won’t take long to run a check.” That rattled Luc. He stuck his thumbs in his belt like the cops were after him already.

“So what, eh? I cut lotsa keys, mister. Dat don’ prove buttons.”

“Look, Mr. Bolduc, nobody’s trying to hang Larry’s death on you. But he didn’t get into the cement by himself. That makes it murder. And murder is a word, Mr. Bolduc, that the cops get excited over. They’ll put in a lot of men and they’ll pick up a lot of overtime.”

“Why should I tell you dis t’ing?”

“It’ll show that you’ve got a cooperative character, that you were willing to help without having three lawyers standing around collecting fat fees. Alex would see you had the best.”

“Alex got nothin’ to do wit’ dis. I tol’ you.”

“And I believe you. I’m on your side. I want to know who killed Larry Geller. I don’t think you did it, but when you throw up a smoke-screen, I don’t know what to think.”

“Hokay, hokay. I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not much. I t’ink I feel better after anyhow.” He took a cigarette from the top pocket of his shirt and lit it after rolling it in his fingers like it was a fine old cigar. I tried not to lean forward in my seat. I sipped the wine and waited. “A couple weeks ago; no, more; beginning of the mont’, Larry comes to me in Sid’s yard and gives me twenty bucks. He says he wants to leave a suitcase under the boards in the shack, where I used to leave my beer. Larry, he knew about dat place. I guess everybody knew. Maybe dey laugh at me. You t’ink?” I shook my head and he went on. “Anyway, I get him a key. I don’t know when he puts in dis suitcase, but I see it in dere. Den, a week later the suitcase is gone, and I forget all about it, excep’ he leaves me another twenty in dere, the hidin’ place I’m talkin’ about.” He took a new drag on the cigarette and continued slowly. “Den, one night I was checking dis place an’ see dat ole feller Wally Moore hangin’ around. He always been hangin’ around, but dis night he’s liquored up good and asks if I see not’in’ funny about dis footing. I have a look, like I t’ink he fine some hairlines, cracks, bad t’ing like dat. But no. I look around, see not’in’. Den he show me. He show me the finger wit’ da ring on it. He says dere’s a man inside. He nods his head and shows me clear where da ring show t’rough. He tell me not to tell anybody, cause den we all have hell to pay, hokay? So, I don’t say not’in’. Da next t’ing I hear in da yard is dat Sid’s brother, Mr. Larry’s gone missing. Mr. Sid looks bad, and I feel bad because I don’ say not’in’. Maybe I should, but I keep still. I figure it’s smarter to keep eyes open and mout’ close. I get me some beer and keep quiet wit’ da beer in da shed. Cover ring wit’ new cement. Dat way nobody fin’ hout not’in’.”

“I told you that Wally Moore’s dead, didn’t I?”

“I t’ink ’bout dat las’ night. I know I’m goin’ to t’ink about it again tonight. That Wally was goin’ to make a buck out of dat business, you bettcha. He say we keep quiet, but Wally, I bet he tell wrong person. Get killed.”

“What could Wally know besides all this?”

“Wally, one smart feller in a dumb way. What he t’ink he is? Structural engineer? Make me laugh. He no see hairlines or ring or finger in footing wit’out seeing Mr. Larry go into da cement. In t’ousand years you not see da ring. No, Wally see Mr. Larry go into cement. And dat’s for sure.”

TWENTY-FIVE

I drove by the site of the new fire hall where Niagara and Geneva come together at Queenston Road. If I counted one cop cruiser, I counted a half dozen. When I found a place to park, I could see the lights they’d wired up down below. I didn’t want to get too close, because I figured that now that the cops were investigating a bona fide murder and not just a disappearance, they might want to have a further chat with me at Niagara Regional, just to fill in the time between digging Larry out of his cocoon and getting the official word from the forensic people.

The night was cool and a mist crowded low-lying areas. It seemed to overflow the valley of the canal and spill into the dark empty streets. I could see shadows moving down below with a fancy piece of machinery. Other figures were watching like sidewalk supervisors from the upper level near the shed. I recognized Chris Savas with his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. There were other cops running around the way they do when something like this happens. If it had been earlier, there would have been a crowd they could manage, but as it was I couldn’t see anyone watching who wasn’t directly involved. Sid was there, of course, and so was Glenn Bagot. They were standing on the upper level, Sid close enough to Savas to be within earshot. Glenn was farther off and not getting more involved than he had to by the look of him. Sid looked grim, like he’d already been up all night and had been drinking cold coffee from styrofoam cups for the past two days. Bagot looked like he’d been pulled out of a party. Under a light raincoat I could see what looked like evening clothes. Tonight he was getting mud on his patent leather shoes.

I watched Savas lean over to speak to one of the uniformed men, who nodded then came away from the site, crossed the street and approached a parked car a few yards up from mine on the other side of Geneva. A window was rolled down and through it I thought I saw one or other of the Kaufman sisters. I couldn’t tell whether it was Ruth or Debbie in the rising mist. The officer made an attempt at a cross between a salute and a tip of his hat and returned to Savas. The window went up again and the car just sat there waiting. Even with the windows of my car closed, the smell of the paper-mills was in the air. There was sulphur in it and other stuff. Stuff I’d been smelling on nights like this since I was a kid.

I was certain that there was no news beyond what I already knew to be expected. But it was like a stage set that’s just aching to be played on. This scene, for all of the dramatic equipment and the fancy cast, would never be played. The real drama would come on a slip of paper from the Forensic Centre in Toronto. If that was drama, I’ll stick to Shakespeare in Montecello Park.

A cigarette was lit in the car across the street. I could see two heads. I had an idea that I wanted to say something to them. I don’t exactly know what, but I had this urge that something had to be said. I opened the door of my car and began moving my bulk past the steering wheel, when I felt a hand on my arm assisting me, if that’s the word. I came out looking into the smiling face of Gordon. Geoff and Len stood behind him.

“Well, Mr. Cooperman! Small world, right?” I was standing now by the closed back door of the Olds. Gordon slammed the front door, so I wouldn’t attempt to re-enter the car unassisted.

“Hell, Mr. Cooperman,” said Geoff. “We been looking all over for you. Where you been?”

“Now, look, you guys. There are two dozen cops over there.” I tried to make a snatch this close to trouble sound ridiculous. The boys laughed away the suggestion that this was a snatch.

“We just want conversation, that’s all.” I didn’t want to encourage their kind of conversation. I hoped that I wasn’t going to come down with a sudden case of broken kneecaps.

“We want to talk to you, Mr. Cooperman. You come easy and there’ll be no trouble.” Len moved in behind me as Gordon pulled me away from the dubious redoubt offered by the Olds. By now I could see a large black Lincoln parked across the street. Even in the mist I could see it was one of the kind with the windows darkened. But I had the feeling it wasn’t empty. There was someone in there watching what was going on and waiting.

Gordon had shifted his grip on my arm but he found a better one higher up. From the rear, Len offered encouragement. I was sure that as soon as we were across the street, I was going to feel another sap on the back of my head where I was still getting over the clout they’d given me at our last meeting. I moved as slowly as I could. The boys were going to have to earn their pay. I didn’t want to wake up in the trunk of another car even if it was a Lincoln. Again I could smell the exhaust from the first car I’d tried out. I was glad I’d fixed their spare tire with my Swiss Army Knife. That, I thought, might be my very last unrecorded thought. I could see the light at the end of a cigar through the dark window of the car.