Joshua Then and Now (56 page)

“Or maybe my son.”

“And we decide, as neither of us has anything special to do, we will go back to the station and run through the files one more time, just because it’s such a puzzle, and we are genuinely intrigued. We’re sitting there – mulling over the files, bouncing theories around, laughing a lot – when the call comes in. Ring ring. If it hadn’t been pissing. If I had been able to go to the ball game. Shit. There’s a prowler reported in the Seligson house on Edgehill. Eli Seligson, he’s one of your Jewish heavies. Very active in community affairs. Anti-Defamation League. Etc., etc. We bust a Jewish kid peddling pot in the Alexis Nihon Plaza and we hear from Seligson, you bet. The kid lost an uncle eight times removed in the Holocaust. He suffers from allergies. Don’t ruin the pecker’s life. Boo hoo. We catch a
yenta
shoplifting – we get a lot of that now, you’d be surprised – and Seligson’s on the line. Let my people go, blah blah blah. He’s an accountant, the big stuff, and the night the call comes in he’s in Geneva or Liechtenstein, registering kosher companies. The call comes in and I’ve got this gut feeling. My balls are tingling. My mouth is dry. I’ve been a cop for thirty years now, and your balls are tingling, you don’t ignore it.

“Anyhoo, we take off for Edgehill and of course I still have no idea it’s him, and like a horse’s ass I don’t even notice the car down below, on the Boulevard, or I would have recognized it and so help me, we never would’ve gone in with our guns drawn. I mean, I would have known he wasn’t armed. I wouldn’t have been scared. But you take a prowler and you never know what you’re going to run into. Maybe he’s a psycho. Or stoned out of his mind.
Stop smiling at me like that. I didn’t know it was him.”

“You’re an honest cop, Stu. I know that.”

“The rain’s belting down. Some pisser. Henri takes the back door, me the front, and we don’t know there’s another door in the dining room, leading onto a small balcony, and that he could jump from
there. We count to ten, me in front, him in back, and in we charge. Gang-busters. He hears us. He takes off like he was shot out of a cannon. Through the dining room – onto the balcony – into the garden. Down the stone steps to the Boulevard and into his car. Vroom, vroom. We still don’t know it’s him. I swear we don’t. So we run for our own car and take off after him, the siren going, me with my gun ready. We are gaining on him as he turns into Lansdowne, hitting maybe seventy going down that hill, never mind the rain, the damn fool, and as we are approaching Sherbrooke I can see it coming like I’m already watching a replay. He’s going to charge through the red light and cars are already beginning to move across Sherbrooke. Wham. Crash. Bang. Dead bodies everywhere.”

“He tried to slow down, you know, but his brakes weren’t working.”

“He was born with a horseshoe up his ass. I still can’t get over the fact that nobody is killed and that he swerves just in time, avoiding the other cars, but bouncing off a hydrant and piling on right through Steinberg’s window. Holy shit. Plate glass everywhere. Cans. Broken bottles. And the car totaled. We send for the firemen. An ambulance. And it’s only after they’ve cut him out of the car that I get a good look at his face. A bloody pulp. And I’m not so much surprised as kicking myself for not thinking of it before. It had to be him.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“And now he’s bleeding all over the place and you can actually see the bones sticking out. I figure he’s one dead cookie. I still can’t get over the fact it looks like he’s going to make it.”

“What do you want, Stu?”

“I want you to tell him I need help with my memoirs. Look at that Wambaugh joker. We could make a fortune.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“It isn’t much to ask. Like, I’m really sticking my neck out for your son.”

“What about Lupien?”

“He’s all right. He owes me. He won’t say a word about who was responsible for the break-ins. Neither will he say anything about the furniture.”

“What furniture?”

“Most of those antiques in Joshua’s house were stolen. A lot of it is listed with us.”

“No shit?”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Ruby. That would be one big mistake.”

“I can see that.”

“Will you tell him what I asked?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“After we move him out of the hospital, not before. But he won’t do it, Stu.”

“Maybe he’ll do it for your sake,” McMaster said.

“The furniture?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Yeah. Right. Say, Stu, was there any money lying about?”

“Where?”

“Seligson’s desk. Or maybe in Josh’s car.”

“Geez, he wasn’t there to rob the place. That was never his bag.”

“Yeah. Right. But Seligson’s father made bundles on the black market during the war –”

“Figures.”

“– and the story is, Eli still has some of it stashed in the house, and I was just wondering, that’s all.”

“There was no money in the car or lying around the house.”

“Good. That’s a relief to me, Stu. I’d hate to think my son was a crook.”

And now that Reuben was sure McMaster had stolen the money Joshua had strewn about Seligson’s desk, he knew exactly what to do.

“…S
O WE BREAK DOWN THE DOOR
,”
McMASTER
continued as the Sony whirled, “and this little Pepsi runt … Scrub that. This disadvantaged habitant – he’s a holy terror with a gun, but he hasn’t got it now – he’s cowering in the corner. A rat at bay. Trembling from head to foot. And Sweeney, he was my partner in those bygone days, he’s moving in, ready to pistol-whip him. I step right in there, stopping him. I say to Sweeney, quote, We are not vigilantes, but officers of the law. I cannot, in conscience, acquiesce to violence. It does not behoove me. We should endeavor to dig to the roots of this miasmic problem. Social injustice, unquote. And that little punk, he’s still shit-scared, he trips and falls down all the stairs, head first. And how’s this for irony? Afterwards, his lawyer claims it was us who marked him up so badly. Well, I tell ya. That’s when I became cognizant of the veracity to be found in the works of that well-known French writer Albert Camus. Our lives are absurd. Hoo boy, are they ever.”

Reuben came in to say that was it, more than enough for one day, and then he led McMaster into the kitchen.

“I’ve got me a problem, Stu. Maybe you can help.”

“Shoot.”

“Seligson still doesn’t know it was Josh in his house that day. We appreciate that. But the son of a bitch is letting it out in certain circles
that a heap of old banknotes was lifted from one of his desk drawers.”

“If there was any money stolen, why didn’t he register an insurance claim?”

“Because I figure those old banknotes were what was left of his old man’s black market money. It was never legit. He doesn’t dare claim it now.”

“What’s he been doing with the money until now, then?”

“Well, he certainly hasn’t been unloading it at his bank, because they would have to report such notes coming into the mint. Especially if there was a real wad.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“I figure Seligson has been unloading it all these years with a coin dealer in New York. Cassidy’s on Lexington, who isn’t too fussy.”

“Gee, those guys. Fucking clever.”

“Hey, Stu,” Reuben asked, nudging him, “you know why Jews have such big noses?”

“I’ll bite. Why?”

“Because the air is free.”

McMaster didn’t drive out the following morning, but phoned to say he had a more important matter to handle in Montreal. He would resume the tapings on Monday. Meanwhile, he certainly expected Joshua to work on the material.

The senator was relieved for Joshua’s sake, but suspicious. Seated before the fireplace with Reuben that night, he said, “I don’t understand what could be more important to that boor than his odious memoirs.”

“He’s in New York.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Looking up Cassidy’s on Lex. He’s a coin dealer. Hey, Senator, aren’t you something at the Royal Bank?”

“Board of directors, for my sins.”

“Well, there’s, one of your branches that is on the main street in Ste. Agathe, which is in the Laurentian Mountains. It was robbed on
the afternoon of October nineteenth, nineteen thirty-six. Bastards got away with a lot of mint notes, all in sequence.”

“Good grief, Reuben, if you also robbed banks you mustn’t tell me. I don’t want to hear.”

“I never got mixed up in anything like that. But I hear on the street that those notes have been buried in somebody’s garden all these long years. Only now that somebody has dug them up and taken them down to a coin dealer in New York called Cassidy’s which is on Lex.”

“You’re not suggesting McMaster?”

“As a director, it is surely your duty to inform the Royal Bank, and for them to check out what must be a federal offense.”

“You’re incredible, Reuben, you really are. But, much as I detest the man, I can’t be a party to a frame-up.”

“Joshua left the money on Seligson’s desk. His idea of a joke. McMaster swiped it. That makes him a crook. He should be brought to justice.”

The senator got up to poke the fire.

“Cassidy will cooperate. He doesn’t want any trouble.”

H
E LEFT OUT SNARES, LIKE A TRAPPER, LURES FOR HIS
absent gardener. Bales of peat. The rose bushes she had wanted. Flats of leeks and lettuce and green peppers that had to be brought in every night because of frost. A bag of seed potatoes. A bag of onions. Sacks of leaf mold. Her garden tools sharpened. Everything stacked in readiness at the bottom of the hill. But Pauline didn’t come. Instead, Trimble finally turned up.

Jowly Jack Trimble, mooring his Grew 212 at their dock. Strutting a little as he entered the living room. Wearing a fisherman’s sweater and paint-stained chinos and scuffed running shoes. His manner overbearingly masculine, which amused Joshua.

“Well, old son,” he said, accepting a drink, “I can’t pretend that I haven’t been reading about your troubles.”

Aha.

“Anything in it?”

“In what?”

“In what they say,” he replied, smirking.

“And what, exactly, are they saying?”

“Look here, I’m not prejudiced.”

“Do you mean, did I love Sidney Murdoch?”

“Well, O.K.”

“Yes, I did.”

Joshua beamed invitingly and patted
down
a place beside him on the sofa, but Trimble chose to sink into an armchair on the far side of the room, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Big man. Big country.

“But you’re not still … well … like that?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know.”

“What a prick you are, Jack!”

Hard little eyes glittering, he asked, “Is that why poor Pauline took off?”

“I’m awfully good with this cane, Jack. And fast. Now tell me what it is you want here.”

“I came here to show you that, no matter what, you still have friends.”

“I’m touched. Now, tell me, have
you
any friends left?”

“There’s nobody on this lake I give a shit about,” he said, “except for Pauline. Now there’s a real lady.”

“What about your wife?”

“You heard me right the first time.”

“Does she realize that you were born right here, and that all that tiresome British bit of yours is just a pathetic act?”

“Well now, let me ask
you
a question. Does Pauline know that while she was in the hospital, you entertained Jane at home?”

“Hey, you’re a real sweetie.”

Trimble reached for the Scotch bottle. “You fucked my wife, you bastard.”

“Did I now?”

“I’m not the only one who knows, either. She also told the Abbotts.”

Now Joshua reached for the Scotch.

“I’m willing to keep quiet about your humping my wife – after all, it’s not the most exclusive club in town, is it? – if you drop all that codswallop about my not being British.”

“Did you happen to notice the old man in the straw hat sitting out on the balcony?”

“Your father. I saw him. Yes.”

“Well, he’s very well connected in surprising places. You were born right here, Jack. In the Point. My father dug up your birth certificate. Do you want to see the photostat?”

“So the two of you are into blackmail as well now?”

“You know, I could call that old man in right now and he could break your fingers. Just like that.”

“How much do you want?”

“You really don’t understand. I don’t want anything. I won’t even say anything. I just don’t understand why you give a shit. Why you ever bothered. You never had to come on with that lot, Jack.”

“Tell me,” Trimble asked, reaching for the bottle of Scotch again, “did you ever read the society pages when you were a kid in the ghetto?”

“We only read the financial pages there.”

“Well, I read them. I kept a scrapbook, I still have it somewhere. ‘Mrs. Angus Mitchell of Westmount and Georgeville entertained the chief justice of piddly little P.E.I, at home yesterday.’ ‘Mrs. Angus fucking Mitchell’s daughter Jane was among the twats presented at St. Andrew’s Ball last night. She wore a gown of white chiffon, but no panties, I’ll bet.’ All they used to go in for in those days was finger-fucking.”

A contagion seemed to fill the living room. Pestilence. But there was no stopping Trimble.

“You should have known Angus. Her chinless wonder of a father. Staggering about in his kilts on New Year’s Eve. Went through the family fortune easy as shit through a goose. And you’re looking at the yahoo who stepped in and salvaged what was left of his holdings and built on it. If not for me, it would have been goodbye fake Tudor manse with the coat of arms in the entry hall. So long golfing hols in Bermuda. Ta ta Murray Bay. I saved that old drunk’s ass. Then one
day I walk into his study – it’s only eleven a.m. and he’s already stewed to the eyeballs – and I ask him for his daughter Jane’s hand in marriage. And do you know what? He looks me in the eye and says, ‘And who might your father be, Mr. Trimble?’

“Yes, I was born in the Point and my little mouse of a father was a barber. Shave and a haircut, two bits. ‘Hey, Jack, do you know who I got to shave today? McAndrew of the Bank of Montreal.’ ‘Hey, son, this morning I shampooed the president of Dominion Steel. He told me to buy Algoma Mines right now.’
Yeah, with what? His cheesy little tips?
Then the war came. World War I. Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag and smile, smile, smile. My father is one of the first to enlist and they take one look at that skinny groveler and of course they make him a batman. Jimmy Trimble now not only gives shaves and haircuts, but he also shines the shoes of his betters. Only he comes marching home minus a lung, the other one filled with stringy green slime. Back to the barbershop on St. James Street. ‘Welcome home, Jimmy. I told you your job would be waiting.’ ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Selby.’ The big brokers and bank presidents who come in there, they tell my father how glad they are to see him back, but the truth is, they’re not happy for long. Mr. Selby takes my father aside. ‘Jimmy,’ he says, ‘I’ve got to let you go.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Well, you’re always hawking your lungs out in the sink, and it makes my customers feel bad. They’re big men, under constant pressure. Some of them didn’t fight. They feel guilty here, and they go get their hair cut somewhere else.’ My father not only understands, he apologizes for himself. But all he knows is cutting hair. So he begins to cut hair for sick people at home, and he learns to swallow his slime rather than hawk it. He comes home and he races for the toilet and he’s in there for an hour, retching. Only one fine day the little groveler goes too far. He swallows too much on the job. My father, far too polite to upset a rich customer, finally drowns in his own snot. That’s it. That’s how he went. Drowning in his slime.