Barrington Street Blues (26 page)

“Is Father Burke coming?” Lexie asked. She wasn't yet out of her teens but she had a small church choir of her own. “I have to ask him something about William Byrd.”

“He told me —” before the incident “— that he's going to try and make it.” After lights out, I hoped, unless that black eye had healed.

“Let's go. I want to sit real close so I can make faces at her,” Tom claimed.

“Don't listen to him. I wish my brothers treated me the way he treats Normie.”

We all went inside to face the music. The nonexistent MacNeil was in the third row, with several (other) empty seats beside her. Ever the gentleman, I ushered Lexie and Tom in ahead of me and sat in the aisle seat. The lights were extinguished and the chattering subsided. The curtain went up and the show went on. Normie hammed it up shamelessly as the nasty mother, but we in the audience lapped it up.

When it was over, the other three chatted as we waited for Normie to get out of her costume and join us. We heard someone come up from behind and turned as one. I saw Lexie's eyes grow big as pie plates. MacNeil and Tom asked in chorus: “What happened to
you
?”

“Downtown parish. You know how it is.”

“No. We don't.” MacNeil stared and waited for an explanation. None came. “What kind of a life do you live when that collar comes off, Brennan?”

Normie came flying from the wings. We all congratulated her on her performance, and she beamed, but her eyes were on the battered priest. Battered angel, perhaps, depending on how her research was going.

“Father Burke!
Who beat you up?
”

He leaned towards her. “Somebody tried to say you weren't mean enough to play Mergatroid. I said you were. And he hit me.”

“Did you hit him back?”

“Not allowed to. Have to turn the other cheek. Meek, mild Christian that I am.”

I was on my way home when I remembered that some of my fellow lawyers were getting together at the Twa Corbies on Spring Garden Road. I hadn't planned to attend, but suddenly I felt the need of a few stiff drinks and the companionship of people who knew nothing about my latest, and final, marital meltdown. Or my assault upon the Lord's Anointed. We partied for a couple of hours, then my drinking buddies left for home. I stayed on for a few more shots of whiskey. Afterwards I stood outside, disoriented, wondering where my car was. A late-night sax player across the street was doing “Don't Explain” the way I had heard Grover Washington do it in Montreal back in 1974. If ever there was an end-of-the-affair piece, that was it. I went over and put some bills in his case, then hailed a cab for home.

†

Thursday morning I was putting the final touches on a factum due in the Court of Appeal that afternoon. My head was pounding and my stomach was half-sick from the night before. It was good to give my full concentration to the intricacies of a legal argument that had nothing to do with me personally but would make or break the case for my client. My position was that the wiretaps on my client's phone contravened Section 8 of the
Charter of Rights and Freedoms
and should never have been admitted in evidence at trial. Under Section 24(2) —

“What's this now?” I looked up at the sound of the Irish voice and saw Burke standing by my desk.

“Who let you in here?” He affected not to hear me, engrossed as he was in the private papers sitting on the desk.

“Montague Michael Collins, petitioner, versus Maura Anne MacNeil, respondent. No, this isn't right.”

Fatigued and hungover, I had no patience for him. “What the fuck are you talking about, ‘not right'? What are you doing?” He had folded the divorce papers and was putting them in his pocket. “Put those back. I'm waiting for the bailiff to pick them up and serve them.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“Fuck off! Give me those. They've been issued by the court.”

“Settle yourself down, Montague. Why add more stress to the woman's life? What's the rush?”

“Burke, you hypocritical prick, I just do not need any aggravation from you.”

“How am I hypocritical?” He sat and made himself at home, helping himself to one of the new Stratton Sommers fountain pens we had just received. Then he took a second one.

“You're hypocritical because if it was your wife — if you had a wife — and she got pregnant by another man, your behaviour would make mine look like bowing-and-scraping, hat-in-hand acquiescence in comparison. I would be the Brit who came home and found his wife in bed with three men and all he said was: ‘Hello. Hello. Hello.' Compared to you. I've come to know quite a bit about you over the past year, Brennan, don't forget. And I've met your old flame in New York. And she told me that when she had, temporarily, ditched you for another man, you saw her attending a concert with the other guy — not getting knocked up by him — attending a concert. And you staged a major scene in the theatre —”

“Montague, Montague. You are speaking of events that occurred in the long distant past. Before I was called to God's holy priesthood. Before I became a man of infinite love, wisdom, and forbearance.”

“Let's move to more recent times, then. How about the night you intercepted a phone call from my errant wife's Latin lover, Giacomo, and you — not me — you set about discouraging his advances and hung up the phone without passing it to her.”

“I merely slagged him a bit. If he couldn't stand up to that, he's hardly a match for MacNeil.”

“Well, he was good enough to provide her with a child. Or somebody was. Who knows who? And, for some unfathomable reason, you expect me to overlook this. You wouldn't stand for it at all, if it were you, so don't give me any of this tiresome crap about adding to her problems. Give me those goddamned papers.”

“You need a bit of time to cool off.”

“What, I'm going to get cool, calm, collected, and giddy with joy as the time of her delivery approaches? I just don't need you pissing me off right now.”

“This is not what I came for. Are you all right? Did you drink
yourself stocious last night? You don't look well at all.”

“Get on with it. What did you come for?”

“The latest from Vernon.”

“Yes? Go on.”

“It took some doing on my part but I got a couple of names from yer man. Literally. Two names were all he could come up with. And even then he whispered them to me as if we were being watched. Which we were not. But Vernon warned me: ‘Beware the mighty Romans!' One participant was a fellow by the name of Fred Tolliver.”

“Tolliver! He was a cabinet minister in the previous government. Minister of Justice! Are you sure you heard him right?”

He didn't deign to answer. “The other was Negus. First name Vince but they called him Vegas Negus. Quite the man for the gaming tables, it seems.”

“Like Dice Campbell.”

“This fellow apparently gambled for the favours of a young girl at the party. They played cards to see who would have, well, first crack at this poor child, who was brought there blindfolded under the promise of drugs and dinner.”

“Jesus Christ. I can't believe I never heard whispers about any of this.”

“Perhaps somebody tried to tell, and nobody took it seriously.”

“Or they were intimidated into keeping their mouths shut. I have no trouble seeing this as the kind of secret someone would kill to protect.”

“True. Well, I've delivered my message, Monty. Now I'm off to spread more joy amongst my flock.”

“Yeah, you've done wonders for the mood in this office. Forgive me if I don't see you to the door.” I rested my head in my left hand and returned to my factum, trying to get back to the
ratio decidendi
of
R. v. Duarte
, but my concentration was broken. It didn't help matters when I looked up and realized Burke had really had the gall to keep — to
steal
— my divorce petition. What were the chances he was going to act as process server and deliver the papers to MacNeil? They were probably crumpled up in a waste can already. I was going to cut a very impressive figure with the prothonotary: “Good morning. This is Montague M. Collins, B.A., LL.B, Q.C. calling. You
remember those divorce papers I filed with the court? Right. Well, I, uh, like, lost them. Or somethin'.” I would deal with it later. I went back to my arguments for the Court of Appeal.

When I finally looked up from my work I was famished. I needed nourishment to get me through the afternoon, so I decided to take a run across the street to the Athens.

“Off for a little bite to eat, Monty?” My
femme fatale
law partner, Felicia Morgan, had stepped into the elevator with me.

“Uh-huh.”

“Where are you going?”

“Athens.”

“Oh, I love the pastitsio there. Maybe I'll join you.”

“Sure.”

On the way to the restaurant she talked shop. “You and I should work together, Monty. We could team up on some of my major files.”

“Well, I'm not much of a team player, as they say.”

“You're working with Ross Trevelyan.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Let's hope he can handle it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He had a breakdown, you know. Had to be hospitalized. Didn't you hear?”

“I never hear these things, Felicia.”

“It was a long time ago. In his early days working with John.”

“John?”

“Justice Trevelyan.”

“I'd have a breakdown too, if I had him lording it over me every day.”

“His brother, Ian, didn't have any trouble dealing with the father. Look where he is now.”

“Where?”

“A big country estate in England. Consorting with the best people, don't you know. I heard there are a couple of royals in their circle!”

“There you go. Ian moved three thousand miles outside the old man's jurisdiction.”

Felicia kept up a stream of conversation while we waited for our orders and ate our pastitsio and moussaka. She didn't seem to notice that I was distracted by the appearance of a hugely pregnant woman
at the next table. I began to stew once again about Maura's pregnancy. When we finished, Felicia ordered a cappuccino. I was anxious to get back to work but was not rude enough to get up and leave.

“Monty?”

“What was that? Sorry.”

She leaned over and put a manicured hand on my arm. “I was telling you about the night at Ken and Bunnie's.”

“Oh. Right.” Something about the Fanshaws' swimming pool.

“Anyway, as I was saying, there was something wrong with the indoor pool, so they had filled the outdoor one. Everybody went out for a swim even though it was only the middle of May. But I hadn't brought my bathing suit. Bunnie offered to lend me hers but, well, Bunnie's so nice and slim — almost boyish, isn't she? — and I knew her suit wouldn't have covered me very well. So, good girl that I am, if I couldn't be decently covered, I wasn't going in. Everyone else had an absolute blast in the pool while little Felicia sat on the sidelines with her J & B.”

I tried to sneak a glance at my watch but I knew she'd notice. She went on: “I drank too much to drive home so I stayed over. At about seven in the morning the temptation of that glistening water was too much for me. So, with everyone else fast asleep, I slipped out of the house for a little skinny-dip in the pool. I'm sure you know how delicious cool water feels on those parts that don't usually get exposed!”

“I do.” Was there anyone who didn't?

“So there I was paddling around in nothing but the birthday suit the Lord gave me, and you'll never guess who turned up!”

“No. Who?”

“Come on. Try. You know where Ken and Bunnie built. Not far from the Waegwoltic Club. Tore down, was it two or three old houses? Anyway, near the Waeg. And what else is near there?”

I shrugged and caught the time. One-fifteen. Time to wrap this up.

“I looked up from the pool and saw the archbishop! The Catholic one. The bishop's residence is right along there, and apparently he goes out for a walk early every morning. He just nodded, wished me good morning, and kept on walking!”

“The old get-a-picture-of-herself-naked-in-his-mind trick again, eh, Flayshe?”

“Drop dead, Ed.” Ed Johnson had made an appearance by our table. “Contrary to your crass interpretation, I was just telling Monty —”

“Save it, sister.” To her annoyance, he sat down with us and grabbed a menu from the next table. “You don't need this anymore, do you, dear?” he asked the expectant mother.

“No, you go ahead.”

“When's the big day?”

“Two more weeks.”

“Great.”

“Do you have kids?” she asked Ed.

“No. My wife thinks the gene pool will be better served if my kind dies out.”

“Oh! I'm sure she doesn't mean it.”

“I'm sure she does,” Felicia insisted. “I cannot imagine why she puts up with you.”

“She feels sorry for me,” Johnson answered. A waitress stopped by, and he ordered a Keith's, then continued. “She knows if she dumped me I'd be at the mercy of some of the man-eaters who are out there on the singles circuit. I'd be defenceless. Barracudas, she calls them.”

“I think you have unresolved issues about women, and I'm not going to sit here one minute longer and listen to your ravings. Sorry, Monty. See you back at the office.” With that, Felicia got up, turned on one stiletto heel, and walked out of the restaurant.

“What was all that about, Johnson?”

“That old campaigner. I can't stand her.”

“That much was obvious, but was it necessary to be so rude?”

“It's necessary, Collins. Trust me. I've seen her in action before. The stories of herself naked, which she just happens to drop into the conversation: oldest trick in the book. Next it will be a pair of tickets to some pricey event that she was handed at the last minute. ‘Would you care to come along with me?' Or: ‘Here, you take both tickets. Have a great time.' Of course only a cad like me would take the two tickets and leave her standing there. Remember when Malcolm Finlay's wife died? Malcolm didn't even get through the funeral reception before old Flayshe was all over him. The hand on his arm, the look of concern: ‘If you ever feel the need to talk.' Now she's glommed onto you. She's obviously heard that you and Maura
have really hit the skids; she smells a divorce. She's desperate for a husband, but he's gotta have money, which she must think you have. Don't tell me you can't see through her.”