Barrington Street Blues (6 page)

The Cunard Street Legion, Branch 25, was noisy and full of smoke. I was surprised at the size of the crowd until I noticed a bunch of tables grouped together. A party of some sort. All the participants were a couple of decades short of
WWII
vintage. Burke and I went to the bar. A beer for me, a Jameson for him. The bartender was young, but I asked anyway: “Is there anybody here tonight who served in World War Two?”

“The only one I can see is Mrs. Dryden over there. She was with
CWAC
, Women's Army Corps.”

I approached her table. She had the wrinkled face of a lifelong smoker; her cigarette burned forgotten in her hand as she perused the baseball scores in the
Chronicle Herald
. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dryden. I'm hoping to speak to someone who's a veteran of World War Two; the bartender pointed you out.”

“I'm a veteran, yes. How can I help you?”

“I'm trying to find the owner of a German pistol, a Luger that was used in a shooting here in the city. The owner's not in any trouble; I suspect the gun was stolen. I thought it might have been brought back after the war, and it would sound familiar to somebody.”

“Ha! Good luck, kiddo. I bet that would sound familiar to a lot of people. More than a few must have come over in forty-five. I wouldn't know; my war was in England.”

“All right. Thanks anyway.”

“You might try old Bill Groves, though. He's a collector.”

“Where would I find him? Does he come in here?”

“He'd love to come in here. But he's in an oxygen tent in Camp Hill Hospital.”

“Oh.”

“Go and see him. Bill loves visitors. His family never goes near him.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“And don't go empty-handed. Bring him a pack of Craven A.”

“For a man in an oxygen tent?”

“You young people are too serious about this stuff. Bill smokes in there all the time. What's he got to lose?”

An entire wing of the hospital if he blows it up
, I thought, but kept it to myself. I thanked her again and joined Brennan at our table.

“She spent the war in England. But she gave me the name of somebody else.”

“Good.”

I would drop in to see Bill Groves. I also had to find Wanda Pollard and see whether Yvette's story checked out. I hoped it wouldn't, but I could not just sit on it. Prior to the Blue Typhoon affair, I had seen Wanda in court numerous times on drug and fraud charges, usually represented by Legal Aid and at least once by Ed Johnson. Perhaps he knew where she might be found. I took Burke on a detour on our way from the Legion.

Ed and his wife, Donna, lived in a condo on Coburg Road, a block away from the law school. I punched in his number and he came down to meet us in the lobby.

“You guys out on a tear? Or taking part in a second-hand smoke study?”

“We were at the Legion. The ones who didn't die in combat are being felled by nicotine poisoning.”

“Legion, eh? Going anywhere now?”

“No, heading home. I have a question for you. You represented a hooker named Wanda at one time, didn't you?”

“Yeah, and I'm representing her again next month. Wanda the Wand Whacker.” Brennan rolled his eyes.

“Any idea where I might find her?”

“You're not that desperate, are you, Collins? Good-looking guy like you? Speaking for myself, I'd rather —”

I cut him off: “Spare us the details of what you'd rather do.”

“Livin' the blues,” Johnson said, “that must be it. You weren't born on Tobacco Road or blinded by a brutal stepfather, so cruisin' hookers would be the —”

“I find him utterly convincing when I hear him play the blues,”
Burke put in, “so he's either lived the life at some point or he's able to identify wholly with those who have.”

“Funny you should say that, Brennan. Of course maybe Collins got plastered one night and confessed to you about his road trip.”

“His road trip.”

“Right. Our Monty spent a year on the road with a band. Did you know that?”

“No.”

Ed leaned towards Brennan and said in a mock-conspiratorial whisper: “Let's just say there are certain jurisdictions in the United States of America where Collins, or whatever he was calling himself during that episode in his life, is
persona non grata
.”

“Can it, Johnson. I was asking you about Wanda Pollard. I want to talk to the woman, that's all.”

“What in the world do you want to talk to old Wanda about?”

“A case I'm working on.”

“What case?”

“Just tell me where the woman lives, will you?”

“She works Hollis Street near Cornwallis Park. Lives close by, in a dive on Mitchell Street. Unless she's in a drug-induced coma somewhere, you'll eventually be able to pick her up.”

Wanda was nowhere in sight when Burke and I cruised down Hollis Street. I decided to come back the next day and call at her building. Since we were in the neighbourhood, though, one thing we could do was check out the scene of the shootings. I couldn't remember the last time I had been inside the Fore-And-Aft. That may have been because it was long ago, or it may have been that I literally could not remember my time in there. It was that kind of joint. You didn't go there to sip Frascati and discuss the latest art film. You went there to get pie-eyed and watch the jaded strippers grinding away on the makeshift stage. Burke and I drove down to the tag end of Barrington Street, parked, and stepped out in the fog. We gazed over at the east side of the street. The Fore-And-Aft was a low yellow brick building with fortified plate-glass windows. Its main item of decor was a ship's wooden figurehead, a bikini-clad woman with cascades of golden curls, enormous lips and breasts, her face turned in a come-hither posture towards incoming patrons. Her
aft end was bulky and rounded. She had a white sailor cap perched rakishly on her head, and somebody had painted extremely dilated pupils in her turquoise eyes.

“I didn't even know this place was here. Are we going in?” Burke asked. Even the Fore-And-Aft would be a cozy shelter from the fog that chilled our bones, but I didn't want to waste my time in there.

“No point. The place was closed when the shooting occurred.”

The bodies were found in the parking lot at the side of the building. We walked around and saw that there was an extension, kind of like a back porch, at the end near the parking lot. Wanda could well have been servicing somebody on the other side of the porch, unseen by passersby. The only neighbouring buildings were the Wallace Rennie Baird Addiction Treatment Centre, the old Foundry Building, and some small businesses that were open only during the day. At this time of night the area where Leaman had been found was in shadows cast by large bright lights up the street. Scott's body had been farther out in the parking lot, beyond the shadowed area. I could see how someone bent on a murder-suicide would have felt confident that he could accomplish his aim in the dark hours of the morning without being interrupted. The only people who could have seen the event were night-owl patients or staff looking out the windows of the Baird Centre across the street. That may in fact have accounted for the choice of location, a point we would stress if our lawsuit survived the new information relayed to me by Yvette.

“Let's go across the street and take a look from there,” I said to Burke.

The Baird Centre was a nondescript brick building constructed in the sixties for offices. I suspected the Baird people had been able to buy it on the cheap and renovate it to their own specifications. It was set back from the street with an optimistic little garden in front and a driveway running along the side. As soon as we set foot on the property a floodlight came on. I continued to the entrance, went up the front steps, and looked at the Fore-And-Aft. I could see nothing but blackness in the parking lot, which was well out of the floodlight's range. People on the upper floors may have been able to see a bit better, but I didn't think so.

“We're not going to learn anything here. Let's call it a night.”

†

I could not keep Yvette's story to myself. If the shootings were murder, and if there was a witness, I had to inform the police. I would give it one more night, then I would call the investigating officer and give him the tip. But, as it turned out, I met up with the police sooner than planned. On Tuesday night, at the Hotel Nova Scotian, there was a fundraiser for the homeless. It was hosted by one of the city's most prominent do-gooders, Kenneth Fanshaw. Fanshaw had made some serious money in real estate development. And although — or perhaps because — he did not fancy street people lounging around outside his downtown condo developments, he had proposed the building of a new, fully-staffed shelter near the railway station and the hotel. This would complement shelters already in place in other parts of central Halifax.

Fanshaw was greeting people at the door. A short, compact man with smoothly coiffed dark brown hair, he was dressed down for the occasion. He was usually spotted in pricey European-cut suits; tonight he had on khaki pants, a comfy sweater, and loafers. His wife, Bunnie, was at his side, her perfect teeth bared in a grin, her short blonde hair sprayed up in birdlike tufts.

“Hey, there!” Kenneth beamed at me. “Your face is familiar, but —”

“Montague Collins.”

“Come right on in, Montague, and lay your money down!”

“I'll do that.”

There were casino tables and other booths run by various service clubs and organizations including, I saw, the Halifax Police Department. Fate had delivered me into their hands, so I headed in that direction. I greeted the uniformed cop at the booth, Phil Riley, and we engaged in a bit of banter. Then I delivered my message.

“I'm representing the families of Corey Leaman and Graham Scott in their suit against the Baird Treatment Centre. I received a tip that there may have been a witness. One of the local hookers. Ever come across a girl named Wanda?”

He nodded. “Wanda Pollard?”

“Yeah. If it checks out, this may in fact be what you guys suspected in the first place.”

“This isn't shop talk, I hope, gents!” Fanshaw had come up behind me. “Phil,” he said to the officer, “I have you down for a little spiel later on. About the police presence downtown, and their support for the project. That okay with you?”

“Sure, Ken. As you know, the chief had hoped to be here.”

“I know. Family crisis. I wished him all the best. Don't tell him I said so, but you're a better after-dinner speaker than he is! Must be all that Irish blarney.”

“Hey, you just let me know how thick you want me to lay it on.”

“Thanks, Phil.” Fanshaw turned away, and was greeted by another guest.

“So, Monty,” Phil said, “Wanda may have seen something at the Fore-And-Aft. I'll get on that first thing tomorrow morning. Appreciate it, especially since —”

“Right. If it's true, it blows my case out of the water.”

“I'll let you know what we come up with.”

“Great. Thanks.”

I made my way around the room, lost a few dollars at the crown and anchor, wrote out a cheque and was given a receipt by Bunnie, then stopped for a slice of pizza from a merchant I recognized from Blowers Street. I spied one of my law partners in rapt conversation with the owner of Wigginstaff's, the trendy, expensive bar and restaurant where I had made my maiden speech as a Q.C. Felicia Morgan laughed up in Chad Heath's face, touching him lightly on the arm with a hand still brown from a recent trip to Cuba. Felicia had a cloud of black hair and wide-set green eyes; she spent a fortune on her clothes. Another woman approached and hailed Heath. Felicia, without turning to acknowledge the newcomer, shifted her body so the other woman would have to make an obvious effort to break in to the conversation. I recalled that our firm had handled Heath's divorce from his second wife. He had managed, with our kind assistance, to hang onto the bulk of his assets. I avoided family law myself, but there were some who thrived on it.

Felicia caught sight of me. “Good evening, Monty! You know Chad, I'm sure.”

I shook hands with him, and Felicia continued the introduction. “As you know, Chad is the proprietor of Wigginstaff's. I suspect
you've spent a few nights there sampling his exquisite selection of wine and spirits.”

“Caused a scene in there one night,” I allowed.

“There are no scenes in Wiggie's, surely. Monty is a partner of mine at Stratton Sommers. He handles some pretty unsavoury characters, Chad. Nobody you know, I'm sure. I concentrate on mergers and acquisitions myself. Then, when I've had enough of that, I peel off the pinstripes, wriggle into my bikini, and jet off to the islands for two weeks of sand, salt and, well, whatever else comes up. Now, Chad, I heard that you —”

I eased myself out of earshot and headed for the door.

†

Bill Groves was out of his oxygen tent and sitting in a wheelchair when I appeared the next morning in his Camp Hill Hospital room. His hair was sparse, his face drawn and grey.

“Mr. Groves? My name is Collins. Monty Collins. I'm a lawyer working on a case, and I'm wondering if you can help me.”

His head, body, and chair turned as one unit. “Eh?”

I repeated my introduction and got on with my question. “I was in the Legion looking for someone who fought in Europe in World War Two, and a Mrs. Dryden suggested I look you up. She asked me to give you these.” I handed him a carton of cigarettes, and his eyes lit up.

“Thanks. How can I help you?”

“I'm hoping to learn something about the Luger P-08.”

“The Luger? I have a few of those myself. What is it you want to know?”

“One of those pistols turned up at a crime scene. We think it was stolen, and we'd like to trace it.”

“Better not be one of mine! Hand me that phone, will you, Colin?” I didn't correct him on the name. I picked up the telephone and set it on his right knee. “My son lives at my place now. Might as well, eh? I can't keep the place up if I'm stuck in here. He never paid any attention to my gun cabinet, but I'll get him to check. Christ knows, he's not doing anything else. Just sitting on his arse,
waiting for his ship to come in. Well, there's no ship coming in to Lower Sackville.”