by Jack Batten
“You want a drink, Crang?” Jackie said.
“Vodka on the rocks would be nice.”
“In this house, we drink scotch,” Jackie said. “Or my wife can fix you a coffee.”
“Or tea,” Irene said, sounding disgruntled. “Which is what you especially should be drinking, Jackie.”
“This is a special occasion,” Jackie said.
“That’s always your excuse when you want a drink,” Irene said.
“I’ll have a scotch,” I said.
“Your son possibly going to jail?” Jackie said to his wife. “That ain’t a special occasion?”
“Scotch for me, too,” Maury said.
Irene fired a dirty look at her husband before she left to fetch the drinks.
I turned to Georgie. “What do you think you might be going to jail for?” I asked.
“It’s Pop who figures I’m on the way to the clink,” Georgie said. “That’s somewhere I’ve never been before, and the way I intend things to work out, I’m not gonna spend time in the place in the future either.”
“Crang,” Jackie said, “didn’t I tell you that an outfit like the goddamn church was too big for its own britches? I said it was for sure gonna attract the cops’ interest. And it damn well did.”
“Heaven’s Philosophers wasn’t what got the police up to the place,” Georgie said. “It was this thing with somebody killing Father Al.”
“Where do you see me fitting into the picture?” I asked Jackie.
“Right beside Georgie. I want you for my son’s goddamn lawyer.”
“That’s not possible, Jackie,” I said.
Jackie looked like the stroke, the scotch, and the turndown he got from me were about to come together in one shock wave.
“Relax, Jackie,” I said. “I can explain. Take a deep breath.”
“The hell with the deep breath,” Jackie said. “I’m taking a deep scotch.”
He drained his glass down to the ice cubes. “Your excuse better be good,” Jackie said to me.
I said, “I already have connections to the Reverend that make it improper, if not illegal, for me to represent anybody in the case involving his murder. I might even be called as a witness at the trial if a charge gets laid.”
Irene returned to the living room carrying drinks for Maury and me.
I took a sip from mine, the first scotch I’d had in something like a decade. It tasted alien and thrilling.
“The murder case isn’t what Georgie needs to worry about anyway,” I said, directing my remarks to Jackie. “But I agree he needs a lawyer on call. The cops, as a kind of by-product of the murder investigation, they could decide to take a look at whatever hanky-panky Georgie and the other guys at Heaven’s Philosophers have been up to. The gambling, the stock market manipulations, all the scams they’ve pulled off.”
“So you’ll be Georgie’s mouthpiece on this stuff?” Jackie said.
“I’ll get Georgie representation from a colleague of mine,” I said. “His name is Philip Goldenberg, better known among his admirers as Fox.”
“He’s as good as you?” Jackie said.
“Better,” Maury said.
“Ah, the voice of experience speaks,” I said.
Part of me was kidding. The other part was wondering if Maury was pissed off at me. Was it all about my recent connection to his girlfriend, Sal? If that was the problem, it would mean Sal had revealed her secret porn life to Maury sometime in the last twenty-four hours. I had no way of knowing, though it seemed unlikely Sal had confessed. Damn, learning a deep, dark secret meant I had to carry around the baggage that the secret dragged in with it.
“Good to hear, Maury,” Jackie said. “Very reassuring.”
“You’ll be impressed with Fox, Jackie,” I said. “Both you and Georgie.”
I sipped some more scotch, and directed a question to Georgie.
“Have I got it right, you’re the one who introduced the man you still call Father Al to Heaven’s Philosophers?”
Georgie shifted his shoulders a little. “Father Al deserved a break,” he said. “And I knew he needed a job.”
“Once you set up the Reverend at the place on St. Clair, did he become pals with Squeaky and the rest of them?”
“Not with Squeaky.” Georgie laughed. “Nobody’s an actual pal with Squeaky. Not me anyway.”
“How about the others?”
“Everybody appreciated Father Al being around as kind of the visible guy at the church. You’ve probably heard all this, about him making the whole place look respectable.”
I nodded. “But what I’m wondering, did anybody in particular hang with the Reverend?”
“None of us went to his Sunday services, if that’s what you mean. Mostly what it was, we’d see him around the building and say, hey, Reverend Al, how’s it going?”
“Nobody you know of went for a drink with him? A coffee downstairs maybe?”
“Like who?”
“That’s what I want you to tell me, Georgie,” I said. “Ernie? What about him? Did he in particular get along with the Reverend?”
“Ernie Weyburn?” Georgie said. “Nothing against Ernie, but he’s not Father Al’s type.”
“What’s Ernie’s particular line of activity?”
“He’s in what’s called the protection game. He goes, for instance, to a contractor type of person working on something like a new subdivision up near Concord where there’s a lot of building going on. Ernie tells the contractor he can guarantee there won’t be any damage done at the subdivision on nights or weekends when nobody’s around if the contractor pays a certain fee. The guy usually pays the fee.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Ernie sets a fire and burns down a couple of the half-built houses.”
“Then the subdivision man comes up with the fee?”
“Probably has to add in a penalty for late payment.”
“That was what Ernie has been doing on behalf of Heaven’s Philosophers?”
“Plus,” Georgie said, “he might handle muscle work for other people in our group if they need to straighten out somebody that’s giving us any kind of trouble.”
“Ernie’s an enforcer?”
“Nobody at Heaven’s Philosophers ever uses that word. But enforcer is probably accurate when you’re talking about what Ernie does.”
“Are there any other enforcers at Heaven’s Philosophers?” I asked. “Maybe, for example, Frederic Chamblis? Also known as Freddie the Champ?”
Georgie let out a loud laugh. “Freddie the Champ. What a joke. The only guy who ever calls him that is Freddie himself.”
“But he’s an enforcer too?”
“I know a couple people in our group, they’ve used Freddie for muscle. He can be as mean as they come, and he’s got the punch to back it up. But mostly he makes porn movies. He’s always inviting the rest of us up to his house to watch the movies.…”
Georgie stopped and looked across at his mother in the chair near the door. “Sorry, Ma,” he said. “I only went to Freddie’s movie nights the one time.”
“That’s not something your friend Father Al would have approved of,” Irene said. “God rest his soul.”
“Did the Reverend have any special connection to Freddie that you noticed?” I said to Georgie.
“Like, you mean did they have some special deal on the go?”
“Since I may not know what I’m talking about, your interpretation of my question sounds good enough.”
“Then the answer’s no,” Georgie said. “Reverend Al probably felt about Freddie what a lot of us feel who are supposed to be his friends.”
“Which is what?”
“That he’s an asshole?”
“Georgie!” his mother said sharply.
“Sorry, Ma.”
I wasn’t going to tell Jackie or anyone else in the room that I thought I had moved an inch or two forward in my informal investigation into the Reverend’s murder. My chat with Georgie had placed someone with a penchant for violence, namely Freddie the Champ, on the outer fringes of the Reverend’s life. Was that worth following up? Maybe, but for now, I’d place my investigation into Freddie’s career further down on my to-do list.
In the meantime, sitting in the Gabriel living room, I needed to wind things up with Jackie and his family, preferably on a friendly note. I owed Jackie that.
“Let’s talk about what might lie ahead for Georgie and the other guys in Heaven’s Philosophers,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jackie said. “But first, how come you call Georgie’s lawyer Fox? He ain’t Philip Goldenberg?”
“He’s both, Jackie,” I said. “But before I explain, why don’t we get fresh beverages in front of us.” I turned to Irene and gave her one of my most winning smiles. “I know I could use a nice cup of tea.”
Irene beamed back at me.
“How about you, Jackie?” I said. “Herbal tea’s great for the blood pressure.”
“So I keep getting told,” Jackie said.
“It could also be a good mood setter for what I can tell you about Fox, the guy who’s going to take good care of Georgie.”
“Tea for everyone?” Irene said, once again the gracious hostess.
It was the Gabriel family I wanted to get on side. The tea order seemed to be doing the job, and it didn’t really matter for the moment that Maury was the only holdout.
He wanted another scotch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Next morning at the office, I told Gloria about the smashing of the coffee maker and the death of the Reverend.
“Our Reverend? Alton Douglas?”
“The very same.”
“He’s dead?
“As a doornail.”
“I hope it was natural causes.”
I shook my head. “Blunt force smack to the head.”
“Definitely unnatural,” Gloria said. “I wish it had been a heart attack or anything else that wouldn’t bring some after-effects on you.”
“On me?”
“Whoever killed him, they probably did it because they knew he was talking to you. So now …”
Gloria let the rest of the sentence trail off.
“Aren’t you just spreading the good cheer,” I said.
Gloria got the iPad and cellphone out of her bag and placed them on her side of the desk.
“Let’s go at these things in order,” she said.
“Good thinking,” I said. “What have you got on this guy by the name of Frederic Chamblis?”
“If we’re going at things in order, he isn’t what comes first.”
“Something’s ahead of Freddie?”
“Coffee,” Gloria said. “Be right back.”
While Gloria went on the coffee run, I walked over to the window and studied the Matt Cohen Park. I checked up and down the park’s length, short as it was, but there was no sign of the two girls with the great legs. Probably too early in the day. The food wagon on the sidewalk at the Bloor end was open for business. I forgot what it sold. Falafels? Foot-long hot dogs? Anything healthy? Rice and beans? I couldn’t remember, and thinking about possible menus was making me unnaturally hungry for that time of day.
Gloria came back holding two cardboard cups of coffee from the Second Cup on Bloor. She handed me the smaller of the two, smaller but bigger than a cup I’d normally pour for myself. Gloria’s was extra large.
She sat at the desk, sipped from her humungous coffee, and opened up her iPad. While she tapped keys and checked through new files, she asked me about Annie’s adventures in New York.
“She just got asked to go on the Ellen DeGeneres Show next week,” I said. “I was talking to her this morning. Out of the blue, Ellen invited her on.”
“Wowie, first the Charlie Rose Show. Now Ellen DeGeneres.”
“The girl is scaling the show-biz heights.”
“You realize something, Crang,” Gloria said. “Ellen broadcasts from Los Angeles?”
“Annie flies out there Sunday, does the show Tuesday, fits in some interviews on the coast and heads home.”
“She’ll sell a gazillion books.”
“That’s the possibility.”
“Frederic Chamblis, right?” Gloria said getting back to her iPad screen. “I put together files for all the guys in the eleven.”
“At the moment, I’m hot for Chamblis.”
“Sometimes identified as Freddie the Champ.”
“The identification is mostly by Freddie himself.”
Gloria stopped typing and gave me a look that had a big question mark in it.
“Who might you have been talking to?” she asked.
“Georgie Gabriel.”
“You’re on to one of the other eleven even before you get my research? Are you trying to make me redundant?”
“Never,” I said. “Tell me about Chamblis.”
“He’s got a record. One for assault sixteen years ago. Didn’t do any time on it, but two years later, he went to the slammer for an aggravated assault. Since then, he’s avoided the courts and presumably the cops.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s given up the rough stuff.”
“Means he’s just got smarter.”
“What about associations?” I said. “Any idea who Chamblis runs with?”
“You mean apart from the Squeaky Fallis people?”
“Apart from them, yeah.”
“A bunch of hookers.”
“Pardon?”
“Freddie’s in the management end of show biz,” Gloria said, a big smile on her face, pleased she’d surprised me. “But as far as I can make out, all his clients are girls who specialize in taking their clothes off.”
“Requires a special talent on the girls’ part.”
“This is really interesting, and it’s also gross and offensive in the extreme,” Gloria said. The screen on her iPad filled with a video not unlike the one Sal Crosby showed me a few days earlier. Two pretty girls in white underwear on a white sofa, part of a set where everything else was likewise white, the curtains, the rugs, the whole works.
“Take a look at the girl on the right,” Gloria said.
“Piles of black hair.” I said. “Doesn’t look like a wig. Brown eyes. Breasts not especially large but gorgeously shaped.”
“I’d say you’ve got her fixed in your mind.”
“It appears she’s getting ready to remove her bra and thong.”
“We don’t need to hang around for that,” Gloria said. “Just remember what she looks like. The name she goes by is Sissy Diamond. The producer of the movie happens to be the one and only Freddie the Champ.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Gloria tapped some more keys, and the images of Sissy’s porn video gave way to a series of Internet advertisements placed by women offering their bodies for hire in a variety of sexual activities, all described in lascivious detail. All the ads came with photographs of the women — wearing miniscule thongs in some cases, absolutely nothing in others.
“See these ads?” Gloria said.
“Prostitution in the digital age?”
“Exactly,” Gloria said. “You’ll notice the women look attractive enough but definitely a little used up.”
“I can understand why,” I said. “The services they’re offering, that’ll wear down any woman.”
“Take for example the girl in the upper left corner.”
I leaned closer to the screen. “Hey, it’s Sissy Diamond. Or maybe h
er older sister.”
“It’s Sissy, but the photo was taken five years after the video.”
“Sissy’s had a breast job. Those things look like weapons.”
“She’s also got a lot of miles on her.”
“The face, lordy” I said. “Woman’s gone all gaunt. Maybe from drugs. Definitely, I’d say, from drugs.”
“Poor thing.”
Both of us took a moment to worry over Sissy’s downward cycle.
“How did you do that?” I said to Gloria. “Trace Sissy’s career curve this way?”
“Girls who want to work on the videos need to join the performers’ union,” she said. “ACTRA. Alliance of Canadian Cinema, Television and Radio Artists. I phoned the people at ACTRA and got the dope on Sissy. I found out that Freddie Chamblis came into the picture at every turn in the girl’s performing life. He was the producer on her movies, her manager for everything she’s ever done.”
“Including the part where Sissy’s a prostitute?” I said. “Bet you didn’t get information on that from ACTRA.”
Gloria shook her head. “But I phoned the number listed in Sissy’s ad. Asked a few questions. Got passed along to a guy with a deep voice. I’m pretty sure the deep voice belonged to our man Freddie.”
“The guy’s a major league pimp?”
“My theory about Freddie,” Gloria said, “he employs the fresh young girls for his high-end porn videos, and then when the girls age a little, begin to show signs of too many hours frolicking with guys under the camera’s lights, he gives them a cosmetic fix-up and shuttles them into the call girl side of his operation. Fiendish, don’t you think?”
“You got more examples than just Sissy?”
“I quit when I reached five girls total,” Gloria said. “By then, it was getting too easy to mix and match. And too depressing.”
“Fantastic work, Gloria.”
“I also got Freddie with the deep voice on the line in some of my further explorations.”
“You think he caught on to what you were up to?”
“I doubt it. He just seemed pissed off in general.”