The Evil That Men Do

by Michael Blair

  On my way out, I stopped by Nina’s desk to give her my new cellphone number, but she wasn’t there. I left a note. When I got down to the street, dark clouds obscured the sun. Despite the stink of car exhaust and the aroma of Asian cooking from a restaurant exhaust, I could smell the threat of rain in the air. I hoped it would hold off until I got to my mother’s house, but I emerged from the Villa-Maria metro station into a downpour. Rather than wait for a bus, I dug my hiking shell out of my book bag, put it on, flipped up the hood, and set out westward.

  When I got to my mother’s house, I shed the dripping shell and my soaked shoes in the vestibule and went into the kitchen, leaving wet sock-prints on the worn hardwood floors. I was expecting a call from the real estate agent, but when I checked the notepad by the phone, there were no messages. The phone did not have call display, of course, or an incoming call log. Nor did my mother or Rocky have an answering machine or subscribe to voicemail. I took out the agent’s business card and was about to call her to give her my new cellphone number when the iPhone began to buzz in my hand. I peered at the screen. Nina.

  “Sorry I missed you,” she said. “How’d it go with Louise?”

  “Good,” I said. I plucked at the wet fabric of my slacks. “She didn’t have anything for me now, but was sure something would turn up.”

  “Counting paper clips maybe.”

  “For which I’m eminently qualified.”

  “I told her you knew Terry, by the way. Was that okay?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s not a secret. She seemed to think it might even be helpful.”

  We chatted about how my hunt for a care facility was going and what I thought about her adding a dedicated bass player to her band. I told her it wasn’t a bad idea, but if Led Zeppelin could get by without one, so could she. Maybe so, she agreed, but while Danny LaRose, her keyboard player, was a fair hand on the bass, he was no John Paul Jones.

  “Listen,” she said. “Are you doing anything later?”

  “Nothing in particular,” I said. “Do you have

  something in mind?”

  “There’s this very dull guy who fancies himself a promoter. One of his clients is giving an organ recital tonight, and he asked me to go with him to lend moral support. How’d you like to come along?”

  “Sure. It’s been a while since I’ve been to an organ

  recital.”

  “I bet. The show starts at seven thirty. At Redpath Hall. Do you want to get something to eat first?”

  “All right. What time should I pick you up? Oops, wait a sec.” Carrying the phone, I went out to the garage. The Volvo was not there. “Maybe you’ll have to pick me up. Rocky’s using the car.”

  “Who’s looking after Gracie?” Nina said, as I went back into the house.

  “I don’t know,” I said, taking the stairs two steps at a time. The door to my mother’s bedroom was open and she wasn’t in her bed. Her walker was also missing. “It looks like she’s out with Rocky.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour or so. I’ll call as I’m leaving the office.”

  “See you later,” I said, hanging up and going into my bedroom to change into dry socks and jeans.

  A few minutes before 5 p.m., the Volvo pulled up in front of the house and reversed into the driveway, stopping at the bottom of the drive with the front bumper projecting over the sidewalk. Rocky got out, opened the rear hatch, and removed my mother’s walker. Unfolding it, she opened the passenger door and helped Grace out. Grace shuffled to the bottom of the porch steps and waited, expression uncertain, while Rocky got back into the car and backed farther up the driveway.

  I went down the porch steps. “Hi, Mum. How was your day?”

  She looked up at me, blinking in confusion, and did not answer.

  I helped Rocky get Grace and her walker up the steps and into the house, then up the stairs to her bedroom. If we somehow managed to hang on to the house, we were going to have to put in a ramp, most likely to the side door, given the small size of the front yard, and a chairlift to the second floor. If we managed to hang on to the house. I wasn’t hopeful.

  “I can take it from here,” Rocky said, as Grace sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Lloyd,” my mother said, looking at me. “What are you doing here? Is Atticus home from school?” She looked up at Rocky and stiffened, her eyes widening with panic. “Who—who are you?”

  “Rocky, Gracie. Shirley-Jean.”

  Christ, I thought, as my throat clenched and tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I was practically falling to pieces, seeing my mother like that, and I’d only been home five days. What must it be like for Rocky, who had to cope with her sister’s deterioration every day, day in and day out, with no end in sight? I was beginning to wonder if Rocky wasn’t a lot stronger and more resilient than I was.

  “She’s tired,” Rocky said. “It’s always worse when she’s tired.”

  “Atticus?” my mother said.

  “Yes, Mum,” I said, my voice a croak. I coughed and cleared my throat.

  “Are you getting a cold, dear?”

  “No, Mum. I’m fine.”

  “Was that you I heard practising today?”

  “No,” I said. The piano on which Nina and I had learned to play had been sold years before. “It must have been Nina.”

  “Who’s Nina?” she said.

  By five thirty Nina still hadn’t called. I was in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking reheated coffee, when Rocky came into the room.

  “She’ll be better after she’s rested,” she said, washing her hands at the sink.

  “If you’d told me you were taking your sculptures to the gallery today, I’d’ve stayed home so you wouldn’t have had to take her with you.”

  With a sigh, Rocky leaned over the sink, back bent. “Jesus, Ace,” she said, without turning. “Is that what you think I was doing?”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “No,” she said. She turned. “When I have to go out I get Mrs. Sorenson next door to keep an eye on her. Or Lucinda. Gracie had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Frankly, I didn’t think you’d care.” She blinked. “Sorry, Ace. I didn’t mean that. I haven’t had a great day.”

  “I get it,” I said. “What did the doctor have to say?”

  She sat down. There were tears in her eyes.

  “What is it?” I said, afraid I knew.

  “She’s doing okay,” Rocky said. “All things considered. But he thinks it’s time we started looking for a care facility.” She wiped tears from her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. “I guess you were right, Ace.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “But it doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.”

  Nina and I were in her Mini Cooper, jouncing east along Sherbrooke Street toward the McGill University campus. Some of the potholes seemed deep enough to swallow the car whole. I had the passenger seat run all the way back, which provided me with just barely enough leg room; Nina drove with her seat all the way forward. It was a little past 7 p.m.

  “She didn’t remember me,” Nina said. “God, Riley.”

  I tilted my head back against the headrest. “Yeah.”

  At a stop, Nina took a pack of gum from her purse, removed a piece from its little bubble and popped it into her mouth. “Man, I love sushi,” she said, crunching the gum between her molars. “But it makes my teeth feel like they’ve grown scales. Do you want some?”

  “Thanks,” I said, accepting the pack.

  Nina’s promoter friend was indeed dull. He talked a blue streak and dropped a dozen names, half of which I didn’t recognize, while we waited for the recital to begin. He settled down, though, when his young protégée mounted the stage and took her place at the keyboard of the pipe organ. She was pretty good, I thought, although
I’m no great judge of organ music. She played everything from J. S. Bach’s “Fugue and Toccata in D Minor” to a piece which, according to the programme, was from an opera called Ça Ira, composed by Roger Waters of Pink Floyd fame. She closed with an original composition that had elements of jazz, blues, and country. These days, I supposed, organists needed to be flexible.

  In the car on the way back to my mother’s house, I said, “Do you think Gil might be right?”

  “Not a chance,” Nina said. With perfect comedic timing she then asked, “About what?”

  “That Terry was aware of Brandt’s Ponzi scheme.”

  “I wondered why you were so quiet,” Nina said. “No, of course I don’t think he’s right.”

  “Are you saying that because you believe it or because you work for her lawyer?”

  “C’mon, Riley. You don’t really believe she knew what Chaz was up to, do you?”

  “I guess I’m having some doubts,” I said. “I find it hard to get my head around the fact that she lived with him for five years without knowing—or at least suspecting—that his business was a fraud. As Frank Gendron said, she’s not stupid.”

  “Chaz fooled a lot of people,” Nina said. “For a lot longer than Terry was married to him, too. His first wife Adele had no idea he was a crook, either. She was married to him for nearly ten years before she ran off with a restaurateur from Toronto. Too bad she didn’t take her money with her. She lost everything she had, too, when the wheels fell off Brandt’s scam and he scrammed.”

  “What happened to make it come apart for him?”

  “How did it come apart for Bernie Madoff or that Earl Jones guy? Eventually, every Ponzi scheme collapses of its own weight, I think. Too many plates to keep spinning. I don’t know about Madoff, but Earl Jones and Brandt weren’t rocket scientists. I don’t know how they managed to keep their schemes going as long as they did. Smarmy charm works only so far.”

  “Speaking of smarmy charm,” I said. I told her about my encounter with Lawrence Thomason outside the care facility that morning.

  “You’re kidding,” Nina said. “He actually threatened to beat you up.”

  “A ‘good thrashing’ is how he put it. Is there anything more you can tell me about the background check you ran on him?”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  “You didn’t speak to any of his former employers?”

  “No.”

  “Did you run the plates on his car?”

  “I had no grounds to make an official police request. And Louise probably wouldn’t have gone for it. She’d’ve had to bill Terry for my time, and Terry’s having enough trouble paying her legal fees. If it was up to her, Louise would represent her pro bono, but the budget for pro bono work’s been used up.”

  She pulled up in front of the house, but did not turn off the engine.

  “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or a beer?” I said. It was not quite 10 p.m.

  “Thanks,” Nina said. “But it’s a school night, and I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Louise is going to be in court all afternoon and I have to help her get ready. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “G’night.” I leaned across the car, intending to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned toward me and my kiss landed on her lips.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday morning I visited two more of the care facilities on my list, but neither was as promising as the one in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue that Terry had recommended. So, before heading home, I stopped by a Société des alcools du Québec outlet and picked up a bottle of Chardonnay, which had been Terry’s favourite wine, plus a three-dollar gift bag: the SAQ no longer provided paper or plastic bags, even if you were willing to pay a nickel for one. When I got to Terry’s house, there were two cars in the driveway, Terry’s beige Ford Focus and an aging green Mazda. Thomason’s car didn’t appear to be anywhere nearby, which was okay with me. I’d had quite enough of Lawrence Thomason.

  There was parking only on one side of the street, and I was forced to backtrack and park a few doors down from her house, behind a rusting bronze-coloured Nissan Pathfinder, windows tinted almost black. My feelings about Terry were conflicted. Although I’d come away from lunch on Sunday certain it had been a mistake, after sleeping on it I felt somewhat more positive. I wasn’t sure what my intentions were, whether I could be the kind of friend Louise Desjardins thought Terry needed, but I wanted to be sure she was okay.

  I hadn’t yet decided whether or not to tell Terry about my encounter with Lawrence Thomason. Despite my reservations, Terry’s relationship with Thomason, whatever it was, was her business, not mine, and I didn’t want to alienate her. And perhaps Louise was right, I kept telling myself, that his concern for Terry was genuine. I just wasn’t buying it.

  I rang the doorbell. A long moment later Terry called, “Riley, over here.” I turned. She was standing by the corner of the garage.

  “Hi,” I said as I walked around to the side door to the garage. “I hope this isn’t a bad time. I just wanted to thank you for the referral to the nursing home in Sainte-Anne.” I held out the gift bag. “You still like Chardonnay, I hope.” She did not take it. “Perhaps I should have called ahead.”

  “No, it’s all right,” she said. “Sorry if I seem distracted. Lionel and I were just having a little disagreement about a book. He thinks it’s absolute rubbish and that we shouldn’t bother with it, but we can use the money.” She took the bag. “Yes, I still like Chardonnay, but this really isn’t necessary.” She paused, then added, “Please, come in.”

  I went into the garage and she shut the door behind me. The garage had been converted to an office. It was spacious and bright and smelled of warm plastic and ozone from the three computers humming quietly on long work tables. A plump, thirty-something man with thinning brown hair sat in front of one of the computers, frowning at the display.

  “Lionel,” Terry said. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. Riley, Lionel Keynes. Lionel, Riley.”

  Lionel Keynes and I shook hands, then he went back to work while Terry took me through the house into the kitchen. She removed the wine from the gift bag and slid it into a tall wine rack beside the refrigerator.

  “Do you want this back?” she said, holding up the gift bag.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  She folded the bag and put it into a drawer. “Would you like a cup of coffee? It’s reasonably fresh.”

  “I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” I said.

  “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” she said.

  “All right. I’ll have some coffee, then.”

  She filled two mismatched mugs, adding milk and sugar to hers, while I tasted the coffee before adding a little sugar.

  “I—I guess I really just wanted to apologize for Sunday,” she said.

  “You have nothing to apologize for,” I said.

  “I think I do. It wasn’t fair of me to get upset with you for being concerned about, well, my relationship with Lawrence.”

  “It’s none of my business,” I said. “I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

  “Let’s agree to disagree then,” she said.

  “Okay by me,” I said, and drank some coffee.

  “Mom,” Rebecca called from somewhere in the house.

  Terry put down her coffee mug and hurried to the garage. I followed. Lionel Keynes was helping Rebecca hang her bike on hooks on the false wall behind the garage doors. He was not much taller than she was.

  Rebecca took off her bike helmet and said, “Hi, Riley.”

  “Hi, Rebecca.”

  “Why aren’t you in school?” Terry said. “Did something happen?”

  “No, nothing happened, Mom. It’s a ped day, remember?”

  “That’s right,” Terry said.
“I forgot. So what’s the matter?”

  “I saw that car again.”

  Terry’s jaw clenched. “Where?”

  “In front of Mrs. Ouellette’s house.”

  “Are you sure it’s the same car?”

  “I think so,” Rebecca said.

  “Stay here,” Terry said to her daughter. “Keep her here,” she added to Lionel Keynes.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, following Terry out of the garage.

  She walked to the end of the driveway and looked toward the rusting Pathfinder behind which I was parked. “The man in that truck is a former Montreal police fraud squad investigator called Marc Lefebvre. He was fired two years ago for, among other things, harassment. He’s convinced I’m still in contact with Chaz. According to Louise Desjardins, he also has alcohol and gambling problems. He’s currently working as a private investigator for a lawyer representing a group of Chaz’s victims.”

  Squaring her shoulders, Terry strode toward the Pathfinder. As I followed, a man climbed out of the truck.

  “Ms. Jardine,” he said, with a smile that was the definition of shit-eating. His teeth were stained and crooked, and he was missing his top left premolar. “How are you? You’re looking well. But you always do, eh?” His English was colloquial, unaccented. His breath would strip paint.

  “Leave us alone,” Terry said.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Lefebvre said, feigning innocence. “You came over to talk to me.”

  He looked me over, sizing me up. I did likewise. Marc Lefebvre was in his mid-fifties, I guessed, with small, dark eyes and a belly that sagged over his belt buckle. He needed a shave and smelled of beer and cigarettes. Was he armed? I wondered, looking for a bulge in his sport coat. His girth and the shapelessness of the garment made it impossible to tell.

  “Leave us alone,” Terry said again. “Or I’ll have my lawyer file another harassment charge and get a restraining order against you.”

  “You’re way out of line, Ms. Jardine. I’m not harassing you. I’m just doing my job. I have a perfectly legal right to be here.”