I called Cobb and got his message. I told him I was meeting O’Callaghan and to feel free to join us if he had time and was in the area.
The drive to 16th Avenue was uneventful; the traffic was relatively manageable at that time of day. I stepped outside my comfort zone, abandoning my CDs in favour of sports talk radio. I lasted ten minutes; the American broadcaster, who was clearly very fond of himself, drove me back to the refuge of Prism, then the Sam Roberts Band. I was four cuts into Roberts’s Collider when I pulled into the parking lot of the Starbucks on 16th.
I looked around the place, didn’t see anyone who I thought could be Darby O’Callaghan, and decided to stick with my determination to think outside the box. I ordered a green tea — about as outside the box as a coffee lover like me can get.
There was a trio of easy chairs available, so I threw my jacket on one and sat in another. I waited for O’Callaghan, checked messages on my phone … and drank tea.
Five minutes into my ordeal, a short sixty-something guy came in the front door. He was wearing a faded ball cap with a capital C that had been red once, but was now the pink of medium-rare meat. Could have been a Cubs cap, but I couldn’t rule out Cleveland or Cincinnati, either. Decided not to ask and spoil the mystery.
He was also wearing thick glasses, and he squinted through them as he walked tentatively into the Starbucks and looked around. If I wanted a single word to describe Darby O’Callaghan — if this was, in fact, him — that word would be moist.
He spotted me, nodded, and made his way to the table and chairs I was guarding.
“Mr. Cullen?”
I stood up. We shook hands, and I pointed to the vacant chair. “What can I get you to drink?”
He looked down at my cup. “What are you having?” The adolescent-sounding voice that had fooled me earlier.
“Green tea,” I said, as quietly as possible.
“Pretty much anything but that,” he said.
I headed for the counter, unsettled in the knowledge that even moist guys drank coffee. I ordered him a Pike, almost made it two, but decided reluctantly to stay the course. When I got back to where we were sitting, O’Callaghan had removed the ball cap to reveal the unsurprising news that he was mostly bald.
Moist and bald.
I sat, and we sipped in silence for a minute, maybe more.
“I appreciate your taking the time to meet me,” I said. “You were quite definite on the phone that we wouldn’t find Ellie. Mind telling me what makes you so certain of that?”
Everyone I’d talked to had an opinion, it seemed, as to the likelihood of our finding Ellie, dead or alive. I suppose I had an opinion of my own, but so far I’d kept myself from admitting it … at least out loud.
O’Callaghan ran a finger around the rim of his cup and nodded. “I mean, I wish you could. I wish it was possible, you know? But I don’t believe it is.”
“And why is that, Darby? Is it all right if I call you Darby?”
He nodded again. “Two guys kill two people in cold blood and grab the only person who saw them do it. You think they took her for a spin in the countryside and then dropped her off? Or maybe she was the reason they drove down that alley in the first place. And the two guys they shot were just unlucky witnesses. Either way, it wasn’t going to end well for her. It just makes no sense that she’d be alive after all this time.”
“Well, you’ve pretty well summarized the two possibilities as to what happened that night. But her granddaughter is hoping that your conclusion about what happened to her after that night is wrong. I suspect most people who’ve thought about it at all share your conclusion, but until we have absolute proof of that fact, we’ll keep on believing and we’ll keep on looking.”
O’Callaghan shrugged. “And I wish you very good luck.”
He had a face that looked like it wasn’t used to smiling. And it wasn’t smiling now.
“I’m told you were around The Depression quite a lot.”
“Yeah, I was. I loved the music, and I loved the feel of the place. Interesting people, terrific acts. The conversation was sometimes funny, sometimes energetic. It was a great place to be.”
“Energetic?”
“Yeah, you know — humour, rumour, people arguing, debating, laughing, yelling. It was a big-energy place, and I couldn’t get enough of it.”
“Sounds more like Studio 54.”
He shook his head vigorously. “Don’t get me wrong. When Ellie or Joni was singing a ballad, there wasn’t a sound except what came from that stage. The energy I was talking about didn’t always manifest itself in noise. But even the quietest moments … they were special, too.”
“The discussion you mentioned — much of it focused on politics?”
“Sure, some.”
“You remember any of the other topics?’
He shook his head. “That was a long time ago. I just remember politics — global, local, all of it, I guess. I’m pretty sure there was a fair amount of establishment bashing — both in the conversation and in the music. But to be more specific than that after what? Fifty-some years? Yeah, I’m afraid I can’t make that happen.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “So how did things unfold that night?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you remember it all happening?”
“It happened in the alley, and I was inside. I don’t know how it came down except from what other people told me and what I read in the papers, heard on the news.”
“What were you doing about the time Ellie was taken?”
He thought about that.
“Well, Ellie was on a break, and when the acts were taking a break, that’s when things tended to get noisy. A lot of fairly loud talking. I was up at the counter helping to serve coffee and snacks to people. Then that guy, the one who hid behind the garbage cans, he came running in, yelling. And he — oh shit, I made a mistake.”
“What do you mean, Darby?”
“I got it wrong. I said before there was only one person, Ellie, who saw those guys shoot the two people in the alley, but there was also the guy who was hiding. I forgot about him.”
“Right. Go on.”
“Well, with all the noise, we didn’t hear him, at least not right away. I guess that’s why we didn’t hear the shots either — the noise, I mean. The guy ran over to where we were, and three or four of us went out into the alley to take a look. I hadn’t heard him say that Ellie had been kidnapped — I’d only heard him say some guys got shot. It wasn’t until we were outside that he pointed and said, ‘Right over there, that’s where she was when they grabbed her.’ That’s when I found out … that … she was …”
O’Callaghan didn’t finish the sentence, and when he stopped talking he was looking down.
“Everybody went back inside to phone the cops and shit, but I ran down the alley, thinking maybe I’d see the car. Of course, I didn’t.”
“Who were the people who ran into the alley with you?’
“Hell, I have no idea. Couple of customers, maybe. I wasn’t looking at them. I was looking for Ellie. I remember — it was like if I just looked hard enough and ran fast enough, she’d be there. Dumb, huh?”
His voice had grown fainter and fainter, fading to almost a whisper. I felt sorry for the guy and was working on what to say to him when Cobb stepped through the entrance to the place. He got a drink of something from a barista and strode over to where we were. I moved my jacket and he sat down, looking at O’Callaghan, who hadn’t lifted his head.
“Darby O’Callaghan, this is Mike Cobb.”
At that O’Callaghan looked up, then slowly leaned forward and shook the hand Cobb had offered.
“Mr. O’Callaghan was just taking me through his recollection of what happened the night Ellie Foster disappeared.”
Mike nodded but didn’t say anyth
ing, clearly not wanting to interrupt O’Callaghan’s narrative.
“You were just at the point where you ran down the alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of the car Ellie had been forced into.”
O’Callaghan nodded. “I didn’t see anything,” he said again, “so I went back to the club, and we waited for the cops to get there, spent most of the night there. They wanted to talk to everyone … it took a long time.”
“Did Ellie take her break at about the same time every night?” I asked him.
O’Callaghan looked at Cobb, then at me. “I’m not sure I can remember that, but my guess would be no. She might have taken a break at roughly the same place in the set, but that could be at different times, because she would have started at different times. Things were a little casual that way, not just with Ellie, but with all the performers. If they were supposed to start at eight, they might not actually start their set until ten or fifteen minutes after eight.”
I looked at Cobb to see if he wanted to take over, but he shook his head slightly, leaving it to me.
“What we’re wondering, Darby, is how the kidnappers knew she’d be out there at exactly that time. We’re thinking there had to be someone in the club that night, maybe even one or both of the guys who took her, or maybe someone to let them know that Ellie had gone into the alley.”
O’Callaghan nodded his head slowly. “I guess you could be right about that.”
“Do you remember anyone leaving the club about the same time as Ellie went out to the alley for a smoke?”
He shook his head. “I mean, people came and went, especially during the set breaks. So it’s more than likely that some people might have gone outside or left altogether. I wouldn’t have paid much attention to it.”
He closed his eyes as if trying to visualize the scene inside the club that night, then shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said.
“You were in love with Ellie, weren’t you?” I said.
He looked at me for a long time before shaking his head. “No, but only because being in love implies a mutual thing. I loved her. Will always love her. But I was … I was going to say I was nothing to her, but that’s not true. We were friends. She was always decent, even kind to me, but that was all she felt. And I knew that.”
“Some people have said she was different in terms of her personality during that last gig.”
“Different how?”
“Different from the person she’d been when she’d played The Depression the previous time. What would you say to that?”
No hesitation this time.
“She was different, yes. I guess if I can use a cliché, I’d say she went from glass half-full to glass half-empty.”
“Negative,” I said.
“Yeah, and that wasn’t Ellie.”
“You ever ask her what was bothering her?”
He nodded. “I asked, but she didn’t answer. At least, not with real answers. It was more like, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ or ‘I guess I’m just tired.’ Stuff like that.”
“You ever hear of a place called The Tumbling Mustard?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Coffee house, maybe. I’m not sure where or how I heard about it, but I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name before.”
“Ellie ever mention it?”
O’Callaghan sipped his coffee, then scratched his chin as he thought. “I don’t think it was Ellie I heard about it from. But don’t hold me to that.… I’m just not sure.”
“Ever hear anything about the place, what kind of place it was?”
“Nothing that stands out in my mind. Why? What about it?”
“You’re right. It was a coffee house in Ottawa. Ellie played there. We’re just trying to find out more about the place.”
I looked again at Cobb. I’d exhausted my list of questions for O’Callaghan. At least for the moment.
Cobb set his cup down. “Mr. O’Callaghan, you said Ellie wasn’t in love with you. Were there other men she was interested in?”
O’Callaghan didn’t like the question. He wriggled around in the easy chair and looked unhappy. Finally, he shrugged. “I guess so. We didn’t talk about that.”
“But you would have seen other guys in The Depression who seemed interested in her.”
“Sure, lots of them.” O’Callaghan answered, still grumpy. “But I don’t know how interested she was in them.”
“That ever bother you, all those guys buzzing around someone you cared about?”
O’Callaghan shrugged. “Not really. It wasn’t like I had any claim on her.”
He suddenly sat up straight, made leaving motions. “I hope I’ve been able to help, but I’ve got some things to do, so if that’s everything …” He stood up.
Cobb and I stood up as well. “Thanks for your time, Darby,” I said. “It is appreciated.”
“Good to meet you,” Cobb said, extending a hand again.
When O’Callaghan was gone, Cobb and I sat back down. “You sure know how to make new friends.” I grinned at him.
“It’s a gift,” he answered. “Definitely struck a nerve though, didn’t I?”
“Jealous, maybe?”
“Maybe.” Cobb nodded. “And there have been a hell of a lot of nasty crimes motivated by that particular emotion.”
I drank more tea, then set my cup down.
“What is that?” Cobb pointed accusingly.
“Green tea.”
“They out of coffee when you went up there?”
“I’m trying something new. You should give it a whirl sometime.”
“I don’t know if we can continue to work together. Coffee has been our bond. I’m shaken.”
I laughed, then turned serious. “O’Callaghan just about wraps up the people I had to talk to. I’m not sure where we go from here … or at least where I go.”
“I saw the story in the Herald. How’s that going for you?”
“Just kill me now.”
Cobb smiled. “We knew it was a long shot … and I did warn you.”
“I know, I know. But I had no idea how many crackpots there are in the world. Point is, I have no one else to talk to except maybe the guy who conducted Ellie’s business and arranged her bookings. And I have no idea where to start looking for him.”
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.”
“Hold it,” I said, holding up my hands. “I can’t stand it.” I stood up, crossed to the counter, and ordered a grande Pike. When I got back to where Cobb was sitting, he was grinning at me.
“Attaboy,” he said.
“Yeah.” I sat down, pushed what was left of the tea out of the way. “You were saying?”
“I think it’s too soon to throw in the towel,” Cobb said. “I get that it doesn’t look all that promising, but there are at least a couple of things we have to take a closer look at.”
“And they are?”
“First, The Tumbling Mustard. We’ve heard from a few sources now that Ellie was a changed person in the last weeks leading up to her disappearance. And at least one person has connected the attitude change to The Tumbling Mustard. I still think we need to find out more about that place.”
“Easier said than done,” I reminded him. “The place was around for only a year and a half or so, and it was never a big player in the coffee house scene. I’m not sure it’s going to be easy to find people who can give us much.”
“Agreed, but I still think it’s our best lead, and we have to do all we can to follow it up. Secondly, there are the lyrics. I’m still convinced that song doesn’t just show up in Monica Brill’s car, a car that somebody had to break in to, fifty years after the song was written, without it being significant. We have to take another look at those lyrics.”
“Okay, here’s an idea: Kennedy gets back tomorrow. Let’s all of us — y
our family and mine — put our heads together, see if we can’t come up with something.”
“A lyrics bee. I like it.” Cobb smiled. “How’s the coffee?”
“Shut up.”
Third time’s a charm.
I was sitting in a booth near the back of the Kane’s Harley Diner. It was the third nocturnal visit I had paid to the place. I’d just finished a chili burger and salad and was starting to think I’d be 0 for 3 in terms of what I’d gone there for.
While I loved the food and the atmosphere — diner plus Harley-Davidson kitsch, what could be better? — neither was the reason I was there watching the front door. I’d brought along the most recent Ian Rankin, perhaps hoping that reading about Rebus would give me the courage I wasn’t sure I had to do what I’d intended.
I had just begun to plan other strategies for meeting the man I wanted to meet when the door opened and he strode in, accompanied by two people, both of whom I’d met before. Seeing them in person reminded me that what I was planning was both foolish and possibly suicidal. I picked up my book and the bill and started to slide out of the booth.
“Well, I’ll be go to hell, it’s the scribe.” The speaker was Rock Scubberd, the leader of the MFs, a motorcycle gang slash organized crime syndicate that I had written about during my time at the Herald. More recently, Cobb and I had crossed paths with them while we were trying to find a drug-addicted teenage runaway. It had been … interesting.
Scubberd was wearing a T-shirt — the better to show off the buff body he had sculpted during what I guessed was hundreds of hours in a gym. Cobb had told me that much about him before our first meeting with the man a couple of years before. I was fairly certain some credit for the physique needed to be given to Scubberd’s dedication to performance-enhancing drugs. He had a new tattoo as well — a dragon-looking thing that emerged from the top of his T-shirt to cover his upper chest and the front of his neck. Same almost-shaved head, same narrow, vivid blue eyes that felt like they were reading your soul as he looked at you.
I glanced around the diner and noted that, as had been the case the last time we’d met here, the place had magically emptied when Scubberd and company entered.
Last Song Sung Page 15