Barrington Street Blues (15 page)

“Settle yourself down, young Monty,” Brennan said, as he bent under the counter and gathered up the pages. “It was this one.” He handed me a page.

“How do you know?”

“Because this woman's name caught my eye when Vernon was looking at it. Maude Gunn. I noticed it because of Maud Gonne, a well-known figure in Irish history.”

I looked at the page he'd given me. “Maude Gunn. She must be seventy. Gilbert Fraser. He was a judge on the Court of Appeal. Dead fifteen years. Rabbi Abraham Greenberg. Abe Greenberg? I'd suspect you before I suspected him.”

“I wasn't even in town.”

“You'd still be guiltier than Abe. That leaves us with only one suspect, real estate mogul and man about town Kenneth Fanshaw. Well! Are you sure this was the page that set him off?”

“This was it.”

†

I knew my fellow barrister Al MacDonald had lunch at the Lower Deck every day he could manage it. I was hoping Al would be useful in two ways. He knew everyone in the city, and he might tell me something about Kenneth Fanshaw. He might also do a bit of boasting about his involvement in the Bromley Point project. On Monday I found him in the pub, sitting with a young lawyer named Bruce Ferguson at one of the long lacquered tables.

“Al! How's it going?”

“Hey, Collins. Just coming in for lunch? Have a seat.”

“Hi, Bruce.”

“How're you doing, Monty?”

We gave our orders and made small talk for a few minutes. It was not long before Bromley Point was on the table for discussion: Bruce asked Al whether he had any cases on next door in the Law Courts that afternoon.

“Nope. I'm taking a drive out Highway 103 to hear the music of jackhammers and piledrivers. Going out to view the scene.”

“Ogle the scene, he means, Monty. Al eats, sleeps, and dreams — I don't even want to think about what else he does — the Bromley Point development.”

“Yeah, I've seen a lot of smiling faces around here lately, yours among them, Al. You finally got the green light, eh? How long was that thing on hold, anyway?”

“Six years, Monty.” He began speaking in a heavy Scottish accent, rubbing his hands together in a parody of the happy miser. “Interest rates have been close to ten percent on average over the past few years, and when you compound it . . . A lot of lawyers are owed a lot of money in back pay, and a happier few invested money of our own. It's the future profits that have us in thrall.”

“Who was in on that? Lawyers, I mean?”

He rattled off a dozen names.

“I heard Dice Campbell was representing one of the contractors,” I prompted.

“Oh, yeah, big time. Not one of the contractors, one of the developers. Poor old Dice. If only he'd hung on, he'd be sitting in clover today.”

“Well, somebody must be. His partners?” Bruce asked.

“Dice didn't have any partners. This was all before your time, Bruce. Dice was a solo act. Looks like widow takes all. Good time to buy stock in Glenfiddich Company Limited. Ever see that woman drink? Man, can she slam it back! You weren't there for any of the chugging contests, were you, Monty?”

“If I was, I don't remember.”

“A bunch of them used to go to the Bulb and get blitzed. They had these chugging contests — you'd think they were a bunch of frat boys — and Mavis would be the last one standing every time. She even drank Ed Johnson under the table. Literally. The way I heard it, he just slid down in his chair and under the table, out cold. Women obviously have even more biological advantages than the ones we know about. Well, now she's got a financial advantage — she'll never draw another sober breath. Which, strange to say, may be good news for those who know her. You've heard of mean drunks? Not Mavis. But she's damn nasty when she isn't oiled up.”

“Was Dice his real name?” Bruce asked.

“Nope — it was Darren. Got the nickname in high school. Even then he was a black-belt gambler. Poor bastard. I heard gambling debts were the reason he took a leap out his window. One way to cancel your debts to the kind of people who can't legally enforce them. When you think of it, a big chunk of the Bromley Point windfall would have gone straight into the pockets of some very unsavoury people if Dice had lived.”

But he hadn't. “Will these people try to collect from his widow, do you think?”

“I doubt it. If they were going to go after her, they would have already. It's not as if she's been penniless. She's got money, and no troglodytes have come down from Montreal to break her legs in all this time. So I'd say Mavis will be doing the Merry Widow Waltz from here on in.”

The waiter brought our plates, and we turned our attention to lunch. After a few minutes, I eased into the subject that had brought me to the pub.

“Somebody told me Kenneth Fanshaw has a big piece of the Bromley Point action,” I remarked. I had no idea whether he did, but
the odds were in my favour.

“Oh, yeah, he's all over it,” MacDonald confirmed.

“I don't really know the guy. What's he like?”

“He's excellent!” Bruce exclaimed. Al took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, rolled it up, and pretended to snort a line of cocaine. Bruce was oblivious of Al's pantomime. “Mr. Fanshaw has done so much for this city. And the business community. Three new businesses —”

“Did somebody say ‘biz'?” Al interrupted. “Know what he called his first boat?”

“No.”

“The
Biz-Mark
. There was a lot of Johnny Horton karaoke happening around the yacht club scene in those years.”

“Who's Johnny Horton?” Bruce asked.

“You're a child in a man's clothing, Bruce. Johnny Horton was a famous historian.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he made history accessible to the common folk by singing about it. One of his songs was ‘Sink the Bismarck.' Fanshaw was too proud to change the name, so he got rid of the boat. Time to trade up anyway.”

“As I was saying,” Bruce resumed, “three businesses in as many months have decided to relocate here on the strength of Mr. Fanshaw's powers of persuasion.”

“He's your client, Brucie. What else are you going to say?”

“My firm's client, not mine. But seriously, he's a great guy. And Mrs. Fanshaw is one of Halifax's brightest stars when it comes to charity.”

“You're starting to believe your own press, there, Bruce. Are you guys their publicists? ‘Metro's Hottest Couple,' ‘Halifax's Rising Hostess,' ‘This Year's Must-Have Invitation.'”

“Where are you getting all this bullshit, MacDonald?” “I guess you don't read the social pages, Collins. You probably tune it all out.”

“You got that right.”

“I, on the other hand, read every word of our local papers even if I have to choke on some of it. It's entertaining. And sometimes it points to new opportunities in the form of billable hours.”

“Speaking of Fanshaw
et al
, I have to get back to the office and do some work on the public hearing about the homeless shelter,” Bruce announced. “There's always somebody bitching whenever somebody tries to do good.” He pushed his chair back and dropped some bills on the table. “See you gentlemen later.”

“Enthusiastic young lad,” I commented after he was gone.

“Ah, for the days when we believed in our clients, eh, Monty?” We shared a laugh.

“So, is Fanshaw everything Bruce cracks him up to be?” I probed.

“He's probably no worse than any other self-made tycoon. Though I know there's a wrongful dismissal suit against him. Saw the papers in the prothonotary's office. And he's not too popular with the contractor who built his house. That wound up in court too, from what I hear. You've seen the house, I take it?”

“No.”

“Do a drive-by. Or, better still, a sail-by. Best view is from the water. Mad Ludwig's Castle, the neighbours call it. But don't blame the builder! It wasn't his idea. Ken probably drafted the plans himself when he was all coked up. Well, I gotta go and view my retirement property.”

“Pick Me Up On Your Way Down”

— Harlan Howard

The next morning, I was working on a malpractice case and losing track of time when the receptionist buzzed my office. “Monty, Mrs. Carter is here for her appointment.”

“Thanks, Darlene.” I put the phone down and wondered who Mrs. Carter was. I hadn't recognized the name when I checked my list of appointments. I went out to the reception area where I found a short, heavy woman in light green sweatpants and a matching top. A black nylon windbreaker sought in vain for closure in the front. A patch on her left arm displayed a bowling pin and the name Vonda. Her dark curly hair gave off a metallic glint. I put her age at fifty or a hard-luck forty-five.

“Mrs. Carter?”

“You Collins?”

“I am. Come into my office.” She followed me, wheezing. She was nearly out of breath when we completed the short walk to my door. “Have a seat. What can I do for you, Mrs. Carter?”

“Nothing,” she said, and pulled an inhaler from her jacket pocket. She took a couple of puffs, then spoke again. “There's nothing you can do.”

“I don't understand.”

“There's nothing anybody can do to bring my boy back. All the money in the world can't bring him back.”

“Your boy would be . . .”

“My Corey.” She dropped her head, and I heard the sounds of sobbing.

“I'm sorry. This would be Corey . . .” I run across a lot of Coreys in my work.

“My son, Corey Leaman.” She looked up at me, dry-eyed.

“You're Corey's mother?”

“Who'd ya think I am, the tooth fairy?”

“No, I just didn't make the connection. I'm very sorry about your son, Mrs. Carter.” Where had she been all this time? Was she really Corey's mother? “I'm glad you've come in. You'll be an enormous help in presenting his case. I'd like to see Corey's school records, find out what sports and activities he was in, that sort of thing. Get a picture of his life before his troubles began.”
And you'd better be able to produce something if you want to jump on this bandwagon
.

“I don't have nuthin' like that.”

“No?”

“I ain't been into his stuff for years.”

“His stuff is where?”

“At my place.”

“Have you been away?”

“You might say that.”

“How long?”

“Four years.”

“P4W?”

“That dump. I wouldn't put animals in there.”

The Kingston Prison for Women. What had she done to get sent up there?

“I haven't had a minute's peace since I heard about Corey. Can't sleep, can't eat. It's a shame, a goddamn shame.” She looked away from me and bit down on her lower lip.

“Is Corey's father still alive?”

She shrugged.

“Would that have been Mr. Leaman?”

“No, Leaman was my husband. That piece a shit.”

“I just wondered. No one has come forward to make a claim, except for Corey's common-law wife and his —”

“Who? First I heard of it.”

“Why don't you give me a few details, Mrs. Carter? Your full name, address, phone number, and then gather up whatever you can find at your place relating to your son.”

She gave me the details, but her mind was on other things. “Who's this here girlfriend?”

“Oh, that can wait for another time. We'll get everyone together in the office once we have more information from you. When did you first hear of your son's death?”

“A while back.”

“What was your reaction?”

“I freaked. They had to hold me down!”

“Did you ever think Corey was someone who would take his own life?”

A cagey look came into her eyes. “What're you drivin' at?” What she meant was: Is there money in it if it's not a suicide?

“Did you believe it when you heard it? That it was a suicide?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” she equivocated.

“And that he would shoot another man first, then turn the gun on himself?”

“Who was this other guy?” And was his family going to split the winnings?

“His name was Graham Scott. Had Corey ever mentioned him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“I understand your son had a long history of drug use and other problems.”

“He got in with a bad crowd. But nuthin' woulda happened to him if that detox centre didn't throw him out on the street.”

“Had you been in touch with Corey during the years you were in Kingston?”

“Sometimes.”

Never, I was willing to bet.

“Why don't you go home, see what you can find relating to Corey, papers or whatever you have, and call back for another appointment.”

She pushed herself up from the chair and got stabilized before
commencing the walk to reception. At my office door she turned to face me.

“These guys have gotta pay for what they done to my boy. So, like, let's make them pay up front.”

“There's not much chance of that, Mrs. Carter.”

“Why not? I sprained my back a few years ago. Got rear-ended. It still hurts somethin' terrible. And they paid in advance.”

“The insurance company made an interim payment.”

“Yeah.”

“That's not going to happen here.”

She gave me a disgusted look. “Maybe if you were doin' your job, it would.”

“No. It wouldn't. But we'll discuss the case more fully next time. Bye for now.”

She lumbered out to the elevator, and I scribbled some notes, then shoved them in the file. I included a reminder to call if I didn't hear from her in the next couple of days.

†

It was Tuesday night, and Ed and I were choirboys again.

“How's your hopeless case this week?” he asked, as the young boys clomped up the stairs to take their places in the choir loft.