by Jack Batten
My drink was a third of the way down the glass when Catalano returned with Wansborough. He had on another three-piece suit, chocolate brown this time. It was without a crease and his cordovans had a high shine. I’d be willing to wager his undershorts were pressed.
“You know Crang of course, Matthew,” Catalano said.
Wansborough tilted his head in my direction but didn’t offer his hand.
“I’m keen to have your report, Mr. Crang,” he said.
Catalano said, “Something from the bar before we start, Matthew?”
Wansborough asked for a Scotch and soda. His eyes didn’t leave my face as he spoke. It was my day for being stared at.
“Something’s not right at Ace,” I said, “but I can’t tell you what it is.”
I described Charles Grimaldi’s bloodlines, my discoveries at the Metro dump sites, and the recent visit from Sol Nash. I added the punch-up on Bathurst Street for flavour.
“I didn’t expect violence,” Wansborough said. The remark was addressed to Catalano. He put Wansborough’s drink in front of him.
Catalano said, “I’m sure Crang knows what he’s doing. He usually does.”
“To hit a man as Mr. Crang did,” Wansborough said to Catalano, “I don’t wish the family to be associated with such behaviour.”
“Let’s call it self-defence in this case, Matthew,” Catalano said.
“Yoo-hoo, fellas,” I said. “Why not discuss my talents after I’ve left. There are a couple of other points I have for the agenda.”
Wansborough turned his attention back to me. His face was a mix of worry and distaste.
He said, “I would like a guarantee there won’t be any further hooliganism.”
“Mr. Wansborough,” I said, “my scuffle with the driver ranks near the bottom of your concerned list.”
Wansborough did an elaborate throat-clearing.
“You say Charles Grimaldi is connected to the, ah, underworld,” he said.
“Intimately,” I said. “Through his dad.”
Wansborough said, “Well, simply because Charles’ antecedents are involved in criminal pursuits doesn’t establish that Charles himself is party to anything improper. Not as it relates to Ace Disposal at any rate.”
Wansborough didn’t sound as though he were convinced of his own logic.
“Let’s go with what we’re reasonably certain of, Mr. Wansborough,” I said. “There’s something at Ace that Sol Nash and by extension his boss Grimaldi are wary about me uncovering.”
“Which is what?” Tom Catalano asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I’d like to talk to Alice Brackley.”
Wansborough hadn’t touched his Scotch.
He said, “What makes you think my cousin would be of any assistance in this deplorable affair?”
“She works at Ace,” I said. “That gives her a head start in the information department. Whatever isn’t on the square at the office, she might provide me with leads. It’s a cinch nobody else is going to dish out secrets.”
Wansborough took his first taste of Scotch and looked at Catalano. His expression wore a question mark.
“I see no harm in Crang talking to your cousin, Matthew,” Catalano said. “He may not always seem it but he can be discreet.”
Wansborough didn’t speak. I held my glass up to Catalano. It was almost empty. He pointed a finger in the direction of the liquor cabinet, and I made another vodka and soda. Catalano was drinking straight tonic water. The non-conversation stretched out in the room. Wansborough brooded. Catalano and I waited. Catalano decided to prime Wansborough’s pump.
He said to me, “Have you got a guess about what’s going on at these dumps? Why the extra time in handling the Ace trucks? And the visits of this Nash character to the weigh people, what do they mean?”
“Ace has something happening under the table with the weigh-masters,” I said. “That’s how it looks to me. But that is, in your word, a guess. I’d like to try out the guess on Alice Brackley.”
“Very well.” Wansborough had done with the brooding. “Go ahead and have your discussion with Alice, Mr. Crang, but I wish confidentiality observed.”
“You mean,” I said, “you don’t want me to tell Ms. Brackley I’m acting for you.”
“Exactly,” Wansborough said. The take-charge tone was back in his voice. “There are good and sufficient reasons for secrecy.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Very privately, gentlemen,” Wansborough said, taking in both Catalano and me, “I’ve had cause to question the nature of the relationship between my cousin and Charles Grimaldi.”
“Oh-oh,” I said, “they playing footsy around the office?”
“Don’t be vulgar, Mr. Crang,” Wansborough said. “It’s simply that they may be spending more time together socially than is strictly necessary in business. Or so I’m informed by my wife’s friends.”
“What are we talking about here?” I said. “Something more than working lunches? That kind of thing?”
My questions were making Wansborough uncomfortable.
“I concede it’s hearsay, Mr. Crang,” he said. “But twice, different friends of my wife have reported seeing the two of them, Alice and Grimaldi, dining out around town.”
“Twice isn’t much.”
“Alice was observed holding his hand.”
“Well, well, handsy can definitely lead to footsy.”
“Whatever it is,” Wansborough said, “it wouldn’t do for you to create an upset within the family by revealing too much to Alice.”
“There might be an upset down the line.”
“Not if all of us handle our tasks with due precaution.”
I swallowed the rest of my drink and ripped the doodle off the small white pad in front of me. As I left, Tom Catalano was talking soothing words to Wansborough. I walked down the hushed corridor and out of the building.
An affair between Alice Brackley and Charles Grimaldi? This was more like it. Not just the suspicion of crime at Ace but the chance of romance, passion, seething emotions.
14
ALICE BRACKLEY was one of those women who have a tremor in their voices. She sounded like Loretta Young on the other end of the line. I called her at the Ace offices on Wednesday afternoon. After I’d introduced myself, and told her I was a lawyer and wanted to speak to her on a matter that concerned a client of mine, she added a note of defensiveness to the tremor.
“What is it in relation to?” she asked.
“I’d rather discuss that when we meet.”
“I see,” she said. “I don’t know you.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m as cute as the dickens and I promise to be charming, Ms. Brackley.”
“I haven’t the time to waste on frivolous conversation.”
“Meet with me and you won’t find it unrewarding.”
There was a blank from her end of the line.
“Crang?” she said. “Your name was Crang?”
This time it was a question.
“It’s still Crang,” I said.
“Yes, all right.” She seemed to want me off her phone. “But it won’t be here at the offices. I’ll meet you in the bar on the first floor of the Four Seasons Hotel at six o’clock this evening. Do you know it?”
“The bar’s called La Serre.” I wasn’t what you could call a regular.
She put down the phone without saying goodbye.
I dressed to match the tasteful opulence of the meeting place. Charcoal-grey trousers, a cream-coloured double-breasted summer jacket, a blue buttoned-down Brooks Brothers shirt that I bought the year I took Annie to the Kools Jazz Festival in New York City, navy blue tie with red polka dots, and shiny black unadorned loafers. I looked in the full-length mirror on the hall door outside my bathroom and whistled. Too much elegance to waste on Alice Brackley. I phoned Annie and got her answering machine. I told it that if its owner wanted to be swept off her feet she should sho
w up in the Four Seasons bar at seven o’clock that evening.
A pianist plays Rodgers and Hart after nine in La Serre. Until then, patrons make do with the decor. It runs to the kind of look that makes me feel comfortable in a bar—dark wood, exposed brick, dim lighting. A forest of ficus benjamina grows out of the planters scattered among the tables. Martinis cost five dollars.
I arrived fifteen minutes early. The hostess perked up when I dropped Alice Brackley’s name and showed me to a table in a private corner beside the windows that overlook Yorkville Avenue and a posh antiques store. The hostess had auburn hair and carried herself like a runway model. I ordered one of the five-dollar vodka martinis. It came cold and very dry. The hostess put it down on a square paper coaster done in white and gold. She brought a dish of mixed nuts. I picked out the almonds.
Alice Brackley came fifteen minutes late. She was wearing an avocado-green jacket and skirt and a lot of gold. She had a gold chain made of thick links around her neck, gold earrings shaped like tiny seashells, a clunky gold bracelet on her right wrist, and a small gold Rolex on her left wrist. She had no rings on her fingers, gold or otherwise. She knew where to draw the line.
The hostess pulled out Alice Brackley’s chair and Ms. Brackley thanked her. She called the hostess Miriam. Miriam went away without inquiring after Ms. Brackley’s preference in beverage.
“You come here often?” I said. It was my customary snappy opener with strange women in bars.
“I live near by, Mr. Crang,” Ms. Brackley said. Her voice had the tremor.
Miriam returned with a drink that looked like a Rob Roy. It came with a cherry. Miriam replaced the dish of mixed nuts with a fresh supply. Terrific, more almonds.
Alice Brackley was about forty. She had long dark hair and a face that received plenty of pampering. Her lips were thin, and there were the beginnings of fine lines on her cheeks. I felt a faint breeze of tension coming from her side of the table.
“What is this about, Mr. Crang?” she asked.
“Don’t you want to wait for the greetings and preliminary remarks from the chair?”
“What I’d prefer is that you not be oblique.”
“Right to the point,” I said. “I have reason to deduce that things at Ace Disposal are not entirely aboveboard.”
Alice Brackley opened her handbag. It was white leather. She took out a package of Vantages and tapped a cigarette from the package. I picked up the book of Four Seasons matches from the ashtray and suavely snapped one into flame on my first try, but I wasn’t fast enough. Alice Brackley had already lit the cigarette from her lighter. It was a Hermès and gold.
“Nonsense,” she said.
“Granted,” I said, “but somebody’s probably making a dishonest buck from the nonsense.”
“Are you being deliberately offensive, Mr. Crang?” Alice Brackley said. She blew cigarette smoke through her nostrils and did her best to look stern. “If that’s the case, you’re succeeding admirably. I’m developing a severe antagonism to you.”
“I’m not the enemy, Ms. Brackley.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a war.”
“Could be I’m expressing myself badly.”
“Clearly you are.”
I fingered around in the dish of nuts until I came up with an almond.
“Let me build my case,” I said. “Sol Nash and his chum in the straw hat are not what I’d call businessmen with MBAs from the University of Western Ontario.”
“Their duties hardly require that sort of background,” Ms. Brackley said. “Sol and Tony are very effective at their assignments.”
“No doubt,” I said, “as long as we’re agreed that the assignments include shaking down the weigh-masters at the Metro dumps.”
“We’re agreed on no such thing,” Ms. Brackley said. Her eyes had narrowed. I couldn’t tell whether it was the cigarette smoke or part of the stern look.
I said, “Mighty peculiar how that little old pink Cadillac makes its rounds to the dumps.”
Ms. Brackley stubbed out her Vantage. It was only half smoked. Miriam the hostess arrived to replace the ashtray.
“And what about your boss?” I said. “Charles Grimaldi is no stranger to shady stuff.”
“You’ve gone way too far, Mr. Crang,” Alice Brackley said. Her eyes became very wide. “Charles Grimaldi is a respected businessman and I’m not going to tolerate another word of your insinuation and slander.”
“Charlie knows how to turn a profit,” I said. “I’ll give him that.”
Ms. Brackley took another cigarette from her package. Before she raised it to her lips, I had a match lit. She looked at me and blew out the match. So much for gracious gestures. She snicked a light from the gold Hermès.
“Let me ask the questions, Mr. Crang,” she said. “Who retained you to approach me with these insults?”
“That’s confidential,” I said, “but it’s not someone who wishes you harm.”
Alice Brackley gave her first smile since she sat down in the bar. It wasn’t bad even with the thin lips.
“You know, Mr. Crang,” she said, “I could make a few educated guesses about your client and his motivations.”
“I’d be delighted to hear them.”
“And you’re not entirely unknown to me yourself.”
“I didn’t imagine I was.”
Ms. Brackley dropped the smile.
She said, “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing special,” I said. “Just that it wasn’t difficult for me to make an appointment with you.”
“Perhaps I was curious.”
“Perhaps you heard my name around the office.”
Alice Brackley’s head lifted. Her expression flashed surprise and a touch of alarm before she got her composure back in order. She was looking over my shoulder. I turned in my chair.
“Why, Charles,” she said. “How nice.”
The man approaching our table was all teeth and suit. Both were white and gleaming. He was handsome, if your taste is for Latin lounge lizards. The suit was linen and double-breasted and came with white shirt, tie, and shoes. The teeth were all his and blinded everything in their path. His skin was naturally bronzed and he had hair as sleek as Remington Steele’s.
“I’m Charles Grimaldi,” he said. He stuck his hand out and grabbed mine in the forthright manner that my grandfather used to call a good Presbyterian handshake. Miriam appeared behind Grimaldi and moved a chair into place. Grimaldi ordered a gin and bitter lemon. Alice Brackley fussed.
“I thought you’d gone home from the office, Charles,” she said to Grimaldi. To me she said, “Charles has a wonderful house out in the Kingsway, one of the old Gooderham places.”
Grimaldi paid no attention to Alice Brackley’s chatter. He focused on me.
“And you’re the busy Mr. Crang,” he said.
“You mean I don’t have to introduce myself?” I said.
Alice Brackley spoke quickly. “I’m forgetting my manners. Charles, Mr. Crang is a lawyer.”
“A criminal lawyer,” Grimaldi said.
“You recognized my style,” I said. “Very flattering.”
Grimaldi said, “You’ve been calling on my associates, Mr. Crang.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Some of them initiated the get-togethers.”
“Alice didn’t,” Grimaldi said. He turned his smile and all those radiant choppers on Ms. Brackley. She put out her cigarette and went into the Vantage package for another. Grimaldi picked up the Hermès and flicked it into action. Alice accepted the light with a smile. Wansborough might have been right about Alice’s feelings for Grimaldi passing beyond a business connection, but I couldn’t tell much from what was going on in front of me. Miriam arrived with Grimaldi’s drink. I asked for another martini mixed just like the first. Sometimes there was virtue in vermouth.
“You’re right,” I said to Grimaldi. “I invited Ms. Brackley for a drink. We have mutual interests.”
“I can’t imagine
what,” Alice Brackley said. She sounded shocked.
“Correction,” I said. “It’s Ms. Brackley and my client who have mutual interests.”
“Who’s your client?” Grimaldi asked. He had a voice without a hint of thug. Must have practised since his days in his dad’s grocery store.
“Isn’t that funny,” I said. “You’re the second person who’s wondered about that in the past half-hour.”
“What was the answer the first time?” Grimaldi said.
Attentive Miriam arrived with two drinks, my martini and the Rob Roy that Alice Brackley didn’t need to order.
“Somebody’s got to give that girl a large tip,” I said.
Grimaldi said, “Never mind her, Mr. Crang. Tell me who you’re representing. It’s my company you been hired to nose around in.”
“You’ve heard of solicitor-client privilege, Chuck,” I said. “I’m invoking it.”
“Mr. Crang is a very exasperating man,” Alice Brackley said to Grimaldi.
“Just attentive to the people who pay my bills,” I said.
“You got an unhealthy attitude, Crang,” Grimaldi said. His voice seemed to have dropped an octave.
“You know us lawyers, Chuck,” I said. “We’re taught two ways of talking, devious and blunt.”
Alice Brackley busied herself with the Rob Roy and a cigarette. Grimaldi looked like he was blowing steam out his ears. He asked me about my client and the client’s interest in Ace Disposal in four different ways. He didn’t get straight answers. On the other hand, neither did I, and I was the smarty who’d arranged the meeting with Alice Brackley in my single-minded quest for information about Ace. As a sleuth, I wasn’t stacking up. I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. I peeked through the ficus benjamina beside my chair, and, right on cue, Annie B. Cooke made her entrance.
She had on cotton jersey leggings and a backless rayon turtleneck. Both were black. Her shoes were light green leather and had sling backs. Annie had cinched her hair with a white beret. She walked up to the table and smiled. Grimaldi liked what he saw. He motioned aside Miriam and held out a chair for Annie. I performed the introductions all round.