“Any case right now, Fitch?”
“Nothing new. Still working on the disappearance of Mr. Jangles.”
“A missing person case, huh? Well, look at you.”
“He’s in fine form this morning,” I said, nodding towards Benny.
“He always takes it hard when Li’l Abner gets in trouble.”
“Right, Benny and his treasured funnies. It went cold, by the way.”
“Huh?”
“The case. Disappeared a month ago and not a trace since.”
Glenda shook her head. “That’s terrible. His family must be so worried.”
“It’s been tough on them. The kid, especially.”
“And no leads, huh?”
“That briefcase I left here a few weeks ago still around?” Glenda looked underneath the counter. She pulled out the battered briefcase with the broken lock and the car tire marks. The present I’d given myself following my release from the hospital after the Dead Clown affair had seen better days. I sorted through the collection of paper scraps and receipts inside. “It’s not much warmer than that plate of toast that’s been sitting on the pass through for the last hour but here’s what I got. According to a neighbour, the man seen leaving the scene, and likely the last person to see Mr. Jangles alive, was ‘short and squat with a flat face and one hell of a toothy smile’”
Glenda peered inside the briefcase. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And you didn’t crack the case right then?”
“I know, hopeless.”
Glenda frowned at the briefcase contents. “So that’s your filing system, huh?”
“It looks chaotic but I can find anything at the drop of a hat. Try me.”
Glenda grinned, up for the challenge. “Okay, who’re you updating on the disappearance?”
“Billy.”
“Billy’s number, then.”
“Easy peasy,” I said, closing my eyes. Showing off. I did a little “ta da!” as I showed Glenda the scrap, this time a corner of a napkin.
Glenda was impressed. She took the napkin. Then she wasn’t so impressed anymore. “That’s the number for the phone on my floor. And I don’t remember giving this to you, Fitch.”
“Uh…” I said, brain really letting me down.
“We’ve been getting a lot of strange calls on that phone, in the middle of the night. And no one there. Only some heavy breathing.”
“Oh, ah…”
“It’s got some of the other girls really spooked. We might call the cops.”
“Well…”
Glenda gave me a wink and a finger pistol fire. “I’m messin’ with ya, Fitch.”
The flop sweat cooled in my armpits. “Right, yeah.”
“I mean, we have been getting strange calls but I know you wouldn’t do that kind of thing.” She was right, it wasn’t me, but still not good to be under the microscope lens for fear of a terminal diagnosis. Glenda handed me the napkin scrap. “But back to the case: you tried, that’s the important thing, right, Fitch?” Glenda smiled. Her smiles were medicine. Restorative. Lead a man to riches or ruins, but no matter what he’d pick a direction and take it. Straight to the bank or over the side of a cliff, smiling as he went.
“Right,” I said.
The door chimes jingled. Glenda went to take the new arrival’s order.
“Right,” I said again, to myself. And I was even less sure about it this time around. I had tried, but it wasn’t even my case, officially. I hadn’t been hired, in the true sense of the word. More volunteer, pro bono kind of work. In the months following my near-death-by-circus-elephant I’d ditched the office and the detective act, mostly working for Taffy Pook, hiding in the bushes and behind parked cars, snapping candid shots of insurance fraudsters. But the itch had to be scratched. I needed the juice, the action. I’d never felt more alive than during the search for Jim Baxter’s killer and the money he stole from the Dead Clowns. Now, as it turned out, he’d drowned in that lake from crashing his car while drunk and the money had been taken long before I got involved by the building manager, Cleveland Moyer, but still.
And maybe I had no business taking another case, even if it was pro bono. Or maybe it was better than nothing. No one else seemed to care. Regardless, checking in with the family was the right thing to do.
I put a dime in the payphone down the diner hallway and dialed the number from the other paper scrap I dug out of the briefcase. Billy’s mom answered. I asked for Billy. She said he was in the kitchen eating a “pee-bee and jay.” I read from the script I’d been given and said it was about the math homework. She sounded suspicious like probably I was too old to be calling her son about math homework but she didn’t want to be the one to rag on the slow kid who got held back a few years so she said she’d get him.
“Yeah?”
“Billy, it’s Fitch.”
“Who?”
“Carnegie Fitch. I’m looking for Mr. Jangles.”
“Oh. Right. Hold on a sec, will ya?” I heard him mutter to his mom, probably with his hand over the phone. “Okay, I’m back.”
“Just checking in.”
“I didn’t think you’d still be lookin’. I put up those flyers weeks ago.”
“You never know when a case can break wide open.”
“It’s that—”
“I have some good leads.”
“Fitch, I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think he’s coming back.”
“Mr. Jangles?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Billy, no.”
“Yes, Fitch, he’s gone.”
“Oh, Billy, I’m sorry.”
“I think you should stop calling. My mom gets nosy after every time you call and she’s got enough to worry about what with her boyfriend creepin’ out in the middle of the night on us. And now I actually have to do my math homework, so thanks for nothin’.”
“I’ll keep looking, Billy, I promise.”
“For Christ sakes, Fitch, it’s only a cat. I gotta go. Don’t call anymore, okay? Bye.”
Well, Billy may have given up but I wasn’t about to. It’s just a code us non-detectives-working-pro-bono-on-cases-that-aren’t-really-cases have. Plus, the picture Billy used on the “missing” posters he stapled on every tree in the area haunted me. They looked so happy together, best friends. Boy and calico cat.
Still, I felt a little bad about misleading Glenda as to the true nature of the “missing person case” so I tried to be the feline and sneak out of the diner. But she saw me heading for the door.
“Go get ‘em, Fitch,” she said.
3
Three a.m., the phone in the hallway rang. The sound cut through the heavy silence like a chainsaw through an old tree. I popped my head up off the pillow, listening. Like stepping to the imaginary casino table and rolling the dice. One ring. Come on, two, give me a two. The phone rang again. Come on, three, give me a three. The phone rang again. I waited. No more rings. Jackpot. Snake-eyes, craps, double-sixes, pick your poison.
I rolled out of bed, preened in front of the mirror for a moment. Lick of the hand, smooth of the bed hair. The result not perfect but casually messy. Then a swig of mouthwash and spit it out in the sink. Last, I unlocked my front door, flicked on the bedside lamp and got back in bed.
Ten minutes later, the door opened and there she was: Adora Carmichael. She didn’t speak. She dropped her coat where she stood, stepped out of her dress, undid all sorts of complicated latches and clips and an eternity later slid into bed beside me. She was soft in all the right places. Hard where it counted, the head. The gut. We never spoke before. No need.
We did what man and woman had done since time began and we did it pretty good, all things considered. But we both sensed it wasn’t the night to strive for a place in the record books.
After, she lit a cigarette. I fretted about the ash falling on the bed and got up to get her a
coffee mug from the sink. She whistled. I blushed. It was in the script and gave us a few minutes to collect our thoughts. Once I’d settled, she put her head on my chest and parked the mug on my stomach. I breathed. She smoked. We did that for a few minutes.
“So how’s the supper club business?” I asked.
“The club part I understand. Supper’s the tricky part.”
“How so?”
“Well, it seems people see ‘supper’ on a sign and they expect to eat.”
“The nerve.”
“And they want to eat what’s on the menu and have it come out quickly.”
“Who are these people, they’re ridiculous.”
“And so is my kitchen staff. A bunch of hotheads who all think they know best. There was a fight back there last week. Head chef nearly lost a thumb. I fired the whole bunch, brought in a new crew. But they’re still learning the ropes. How’s business for you?”
“Steady. Taffy’s been keeping me if not busy then at least occupied. Still can’t find that damn cat, though.”
“Nothing else going on?”
“Not really. Should there be?”
She wanted to say something but stopped. I didn’t follow up. Then Adora asked if I knew anything about the Disciples of the Sacred Glow. “Some new kooky religion with a preacher-type stirring up a ruckus,” she said. “Him and his followers meet out of a warehouse on Water Street, around Cambie.”
My neck of the woods for sure. But no, I hadn’t heard of them and told her the same. “Any particular reason?”
“Not really. Some things I’m hearing. Keep an eye out, okay?”
“Sure thing.” I looked at the mink coat on the floor, the fancy dress in a pile. “Big night at the bowling alley? Did Fran finally get that 300?”
“Funny. No, a fundraiser. New mayoral candidate. He wants to loosen up the liquor laws.”
“Adora Carmichael, woman about town. From the circus to the ballot box.”
“Carnegie Fitch, man about nothing. From the ditch to the diner.”
“Adora Carmichael, looks like a million bucks, swears like a sailor.”
“Carnegie Fitch, looks gift horses in the mouth.”
“Adora Car—“ Once again, her aim was true and I was the bulls-eye. “The tow truck you gave me last summer that I didn’t ask for, you mean?”
“I mean.”
“Here’s the thing.”
“This ought to be good.”
“I do appreciate the sentiment.”
“But?”
“But it would take a lot of work.”
“God forbid.”
“And I’d have to do it every day.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“Well, it’s a sad story.”
“You got that right. So, better to snap photos from behind bushes, sniff the trail of missing family pets and pine after ditzy diner waitresses, is that it?”
“He’s a sweet kid and I’m a sucker for a calico, what can I say? No luck today, though. Hit up a few more shelters but no dice.”
“The great mystery deepens. My bet would be on car or coyote. Something got him.”
“Could be. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. You know, for the kid’s sake.”
“Right, sure. The kid.”
“Hey, and Glenda’s plenty smart.”
“So, make a move then.”
“That’s just it. Plenty smart.”
“What’s that say about me, then? Here, now.”
“Oh, you’re smarter, no doubt, but you’re also equal parts damaged and vicious. Kind of evened things out.”
Adora ashed out in the mug on my stomach, winked at me and said I sure was a sweet talker for such a sour loner. I said she was pretty sweet herself sometimes when she wasn’t so salty. Then we were silent for a few moments. When that was done, she stubbed out the cigarette, moved the mug onto the bedside table and resettled her head in the crook of my arm. And we slept.
4
I wouldn’t say it was a spring in my step the morning after Adora’s visit but the air up there smelled darn fresh and the sidewalk curbs didn’t seem as high, that’s for sure. And where did all the chirping birds come from? And though it was unnecessary that they follow me all the way from home to the diner, serenading me with every step, it sure was much appreciated. So much so that I decided to extend my morning stroll a little and see what I could see in that area of Gastown Adora told me about last night.
First up, though, was the Carnegie Library at the corner of Main and Hastings. The library and I, we shared history and a name. Story went, my mother and father met there. According to my mother, my father was an illiterate hound who was only there to sniff crotches. According to my father, well, he decided it would be up to my mother to do all the talking. Barely knew the man, except to know he was a rolling stone who’d been very allergic to moss. Oh well. Some stories are better left untold. All history can’t be wrapped up in pretty paper and tied up with a fancy bow.
Next up was a walk down Main to Alexander, where I turned left and went a few blocks, passing the statue of Gassy Jack Deighton, where Water Street sliced west. A few more blocks, past where Cambie Street dead-ended at the railroad tracks, and I couldn’t hear the birds what for the hum of the milling crowd. There was a bit of hubbub on the sidewalk outside a warehouse that I didn’t remember seeing a hubbub outside before. This was warehouse row and usually the domain of vans and trucks and sour-faced working men with sweat-lined brows and four o’clock scowls waiting for the bell to strike five. The faded sign above the door read BRASHER INDUSTRIES but the freshly painted sandwich board on the sidewalk read THE DISCIPLES OF THE SACRED GLOW WELCOME YOU! and NEW SMILE NEW MAN!
The lineup was a skid row hall of fame. Two Teeth, No Teeth, both English Joes, only one of which was actually English, Short Dog Bob and T-bird Tony, to name only a few. I skipped the line and stuck my head inside to see what was what. At the end of the lineup of human fault and failure was a table with row after row of small white cups lined up, each containing a measure of liquid. A nurse with a starched white uniform, a blue-stripe cap and a very prim-and-proper manner handed one cup each to the men in line and then ushered them towards a Fedora-sporting bulldog in a snappy, tailored three-piece suit. There are times when a man looks more like a dog than seems humanly possible. Short, squat and flat-nosed. And hands like hams that gently led the scuffling, shuffling herd of skid row denizens one-by-one and pointed them to a chair. It all seemed very kind and generous and affable until one poor guy didn’t want to sit down after getting his cup of “medicine” and tried to make for the door. Then the bulldog showed why he was there and put a meaty paw on the guy’s shoulder and squeezed hard, making sure he found a seat quick and stayed in it, even taking the time out of his busy schedule to crouch down and growl quietly in the guy’s ear. What a nice doggie.
“Hey, buddy, you in line or what?”
“Not my kind of elixir, friend.”
“Well, whoopety-do for you. Step aside then, why don’t ya?”
I stepped aside and instead of backing out the door like I probably should have, like rare ol’ Smart Fitch, I did good ol’ Dumb Fitch and made my way to the back of the room, near the windows facing the street, grabbing an empty seat at the end of the aisle. I sat down fast before the bulldog could see me. Call me paranoid but I had the idea that I’d gone against company policy by not lining up for the magical elixir and I didn’t really want to learn what this company considered appropriate punishment.
The eight rows of folding chairs faced a makeshift stage where, judging by the lights and manufactured pomp and circumstance, a show was about to begin. Climbing up the steps, emerging from the shadows beside the stage, was a man in a bright white suit, carrying a cane. Completing the look was a well-coiffed mane of white hair and a set of teeth that matched the suit. Watts cranked out of his smile like a deranged monkey was manning the facial control sw
itches.
This was trust. This was faith. This was Father. This was the very picture of a learned gentleman who only had your best interest at heart.
“Gentleman, it is a good morning to be alive,” he said, a tinge of fire-and-brimstone preacher to his voice. “But to you I say it could be a great morning. As some of you may know my name is Quincy Quest and I’m here to tell you about the wonderful world of sobriety and everything it has to offer. About family, about togetherness. About what a new smile can do for you, how it can open doors and set you free. Why, I look around me and see a generation of men lost, a generation of men stumbling through the dark. Well, let me show you the way out, towards the light. Join me and I’ll introduce you to ‘the glow’ and its miraculous powers of healing.”
As he spoke, the nurse rolled a cart around, handing out more “medication.” The bulldog followed. Seeing me empty handed, she offered me the white paper cup. I didn’t want to be impolite, or at the other end of a Bulldog’s bite, so I accepted. On rolled the cart. On lurked the bulldog.
And on went Quest. And on. Quest spun words like a spider spun silk to catch bugs in its web: on the fly and out of its ass. He was well practiced and must’ve had some Old West snake oil salesman in his blood. Until the words lost meaning but because they so pleasantly rolled off the tongue and travelled in mesmerizing little swirls and dipsy-dos on the way to the audience’s ears that they found themselves nodding and agreeing even though there was a good chance they didn’t know what they were nodding and agreeing to. A contract was being written here that they’d inevitably sign though they’d likely walk away not knowing what they were on the hook for or why they’d signed on the dotted line in the first place.
Not that I was completely the one clever sheep among the dimwitted flock. Without knowing what I knew I’m sure the spell would’ve been more successfully cast. But see, I’d realized a few minutes into the performance that a “performance” was exactly what it was. That under all that hair and makeup, under the pomp and circumstance, was the defrocked dentist of Halifax. The ol’ wild card, my campsite nemesis, Copernicus Janssen. The paranoid loon slipping mickeys into his “friends’” coffee for kicks. I’d been on the receiving end of a jolt once-upon-a-time and people said I was around the campfire that weekend but damned if I can remember.
40 Nickels Page 2