Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  “I think Stan’s out of his ever-loving mind. It’s like praying for bad luck.”

  I didn’t care for his smirk. “Speaking of bad luck, you better keep your eye peeled for black cats, Leonard.”

  Very restrained of me, considering the company.

  Half an hour later, I tucked the Buick safely in the garage of my apartment building and looked forward to a tranquil morning. Most people would take the day off in lieu of the Canada Day holiday, which had fallen on Sunday, but I had planned a pleasant stroll to work in my empty office at Justice for Victims. No relatives. No appointments. No Alvin.

  It doesn’t get any better. I was in an excellent mood, even though I had to change my blouse. It was a sunny twenty degrees, amazingly fresh for July in Ottawa. I had no need to rush. That meant I could linger over my coffee. I slipped into Bermudas and a tee, then joined Mrs. Parnell’s little calico cat on my balcony. I enjoyed my jumbo mug of French roast. Mrs. Parnell’s cat enjoyed a bowl of milk.

  From the sixteenth floor, I get the long view down the Ottawa River. The green roof of the Parliament buildings are just visible to the East. To the West I can see the white sails at the Britannia Yacht Club.

  I got a glimpse of tents popping up for Bluesfest. After five years as a widow, it was time for me to get a life. I hadn’t quite got the hang of it, but this year I’d kept the Bluesfest program. I’d read it cover to cover. Twice. The blue booklet lay open on the table, waiting to be read for the third time. The pages were dog-eared. I picked it up and stuck it in my backpack.

  My phone rang the minute the apartment door closed behind me and the lock clicked in. It rang on and on as I headed down the hall. I figured it could wait. All my clients had my cellphone number.

  The door to apartment 1608 creaked open as I strode by. “Good morning, Ms. MacPhee.” Mrs. Parnell leaned on her walker in the doorway, getting ready for a busy day spying on the occupants of the sixteenth floor. “You’ve had an active morning.”

  I nodded and tried to keep walking.

  “Do you have time for a visit?” Behind her, the lovebirds, Lester and Pierre, squawked.

  I had a fifty-five minute walk ahead of me to get to the office. On the other hand, I owe a lot to Mrs. Parnell.

  “Afraid not. I’ve got some catching up to do. How about tonight?”

  She blew out a splendid stream of Benson and Hedges smoke. “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Something wrong?”

  She sniffed. “Young Ferguson’s gone on to greater adventure and glory.”

  “We both know Alvin’s gone on to work in the Gadzooks Gallery. Avant garde, I admit, but definitely not glorious.”

  The tip of her Benson and Hedges turned red. “They could have an armed robbery. A heist.”

  “I don’t think Alvin is hoping for a heist and, even if he is, I feel confident his new employers are not.”

  She leaned forward, bony and angular. A long convalescence will do that to a person. I might have gained ten pounds after my injuries last winter, when we had taken on a murderer, but she’d lost at least that. She looked every one of her seventy-nine years.

  “You are correct, of course, Ms. MacPhee. Pay no attention. I’m finding myself yearning for excitement. Aren’t you?”

  Our last bit of excitement had almost killed us. “No. I’m not. I’m really looking forward to a quiet summer with no trouble.”

  I was humming “I Got My Mojo Working” as I hit the elevator button.

  • • •

  Usually the best part of my walk is along the river. It’s cool and silvery in the mornings, no matter how scorching the day ahead. The bike path I followed downtown meandered through Lebreton Flats, and I slowed a bit to catch a look at the set-up for the Bluesfest.

  Five days to go, and the staging was already partly erected. I spotted a fleet of flatbed trucks near the acoustic stage up on the hill and more trucks by what looked like the Main Stage.

  A trailer with a long line of porta-potties was pulling in.

  I figured the rectangular tent off to the Northwest was probably the gospel tent.

  It was the first time in years I had let myself get close to the festival grounds. The Bluesfest was the last special place I’d been with Paul. Back when it was much smaller, a cosy, sexy, schmoozefest over in Major’s Hill Park.

  The sight of the tents brought back Paul’s memory. I couldn’t imagine what the sounds and smells would do to me when I actually went.

  But if I was going to get a life, I couldn’t think of a better place to find it.

  Three

  By the time I got downtown, my T-shirt was stuck to my back. The Bermudas chafed my thighs. My feet smelled, and my head hurt. I clutched my iced latte from the Second Cup and finally pushed open the door of Justice for Victims. A rivulet of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. But I was alone, gloriously, wondrously alone.

  I decided to get in the mood for the funding proposal by whipping the in-basket into shape. I started with the stack of bills. Quite a few of them had a telltale red strip on the return envelope. Apparently Alvin had been distracted during the previous three months. Half an hour later I confirmed it. JVF was in great shape, if you didn’t count the hydro, the business tax, the photocopier rental and the insurance. Our phone bill, now two months late, had an entire sheet detailing collect calls from Alvin’s mother in Sydney.

  Then I found the note from the landlord outlining what to expect if we didn’t ante up the rent, pronto.

  To offset the bills, I had practically no income and, unless I was wrong, I had missed our deadline to file for several key grants that keep organizations like Justice for Victims from going down for the third time.

  Never mind. I was alone and loving it. With a song in my heart, I answered the phone. The song faded when the automated voice asked if I would accept the charges for a long distance call from someone called Ferguson. I had a damn good reason to press one for yes.

  “Mrs. Ferguson,” I said, before she could say a word, “Alvin, as you should be aware, does not work here any more. I suggest you direct your calls to his new place of business. I will be happy to provide you with that number.”

  “Hello? Allie?”

  I rubbed my temple.

  “Who is this?” the voice said.

  “Let me make my point again. Alvin does not work here. Not that he ever really did. You can find him at Gadzooks Gallery. Goodbye.”

  “I need to speak to Allie.” You couldn’t mistake the hysteria in that crazy woman’s voice. No wonder Alvin was always so distracted.

  “Sorry. Alvin doesn’t work here any more.” I enjoyed hanging up.

  When the phone rang again, I was ready to press two for no, nay, never. But this time it wasn’t a collect call. It wasn’t Alvin’s mother either.

  “Miss MacPhee?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tracy Ferguson. Alvin’s sister? We are so sorry to bother you, but we don’t know what to do. We know Allie has a new job, but we need your help.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I think it was because Tracy Ferguson was someone’s sister, and yet, she sounded gentle, nervous and utterly inept. My sisters are more like the offensive line for the Argos. Jump out of their way, or you’ll get grass up your nose.

  Unless I was wrong, Tracy was the sister who taught elementary school. I could hear her speaking urgently to someone in the background. “It’s all right, Ma, you lie down now. I’ll talk to her. Okay?”

  I tried being reasonable. “As you know, Tracy, Alvin started his new job this morning. Let me get the number for you.” I flipped through my desk for the Gadzooks Gallery cards that Alvin had thoughtfully deposited around Justice for Victims during the final three weeks of his employment.

  “But that’s it, Miss MacPhee. Alvin isn’t at the gallery.”

  “Well, he isn’t here. He should be at Gadzooks.”

  “But he isn’t.”

  “It’s an art gallery. They d
on’t answer their phones before ten.”

  “But they did answer the phone, and they said Alvin wasn’t in.”

  I found myself massaging my temple again. “Well, I don’t think you have much to worry about. He’ll drift in to work in his own sweet time. Trust me.”

  “Miss MacPhee?”

  “Look, um...”

  “Tracy.”

  “Why don’t you try him at home?”

  “He doesn’t answer his phone.”

  “Well, he is probably on his way to Gadzooks.” How could an entire family be so stunningly irritating?

  “But he wasn’t at his apartment. We started calling last night. We left about ten messages.”

  Okay. Tracy might sound like she was ten years old, but we all had to grow up sometime. “Perhaps Alvin spent the night with a friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s urgent. Because of my little brother, Jimmy. We can’t find him anywhere.”

  Unless I was wrong, Alvin’s little brother was twenty-one.

  “My mother is really upset. We need to find Jimmy soon.”

  “News flash, Tracy. Sometimes young men get distracted and forget about their mothers. He’ll be able to look after himself.”

  “But that’s just it. Jimmy couldn’t.”

  Not my problem. I thought someone should tell Mrs. Ferguson to let her baby boy grow up. “Everything will work out.”

  “It won’t!” Tracy’s voice rose. “He can’t look after himself.” She said something else, but I missed the rest in an explosion of nose blowing.

  “Biss BacPhee?”

  “Maybe Jimmy felt like a bit of a break.” And no wonder. “He left his medication.

  He needs that, or his seizures will start again. He doesn’t have his puffer. And he left Gussie on the road. He’d never do that.”

  “Who?”

  “Gussie. He loves that dog. He’d never leave her to fend for herself downtown in the traffic. Jimmy has disappeared. He’s absolutely vanished. Now we can’t find Allie, and we need to tell him.”

  She had me. Whatever Alvin’s flaws, ignoring his large family wasn’t one of them.

  I couldn’t concentrate with incessant calls from the Fergusons. I had no clients scheduled because of the quasi-holiday. Plus the inside of Justice for Victims by this time was one hell of a lot hotter than the Ottawa streets.

  “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you. You know Allie thinks the world of you, Miss MacPhee.”

  Ah, shit.

  • • •

  The phone rang as I reached the door. On the off chance it was Tracy calling to say Jimmy had shown up or Alvin calling to apologize for the inconvenience, I shot across the desk and grabbed the receiver.

  “I know I am breathtaking, and it’s time you realized it, Tiger.”

  My friend P. J. Lynch sounded too cheerful for a reporter who’d been yanked back from a big-time assignment in Charlottetown to deal with his mother’s heart attack.

  “How’s your mom?” I asked.

  “False alarm. They boosted her meds, she’s home again, ready to rumble.”

  “That’s a relief. I’ll send her flowers.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Listen, I have terrific news.”

  “It is terrific news, P. J. But I’ve got to tear off and find Alvin.”

  “Find him? I thought you were ecstatic to lose him. Sorry I missed that party, by the way.”

  “I’m out the door. Call you later.”

  “Okay. But here’s the good news.”

  I knew what made P. J. a first-rate reporter. He didn’t understand any part of no.

  “Later,” I said.

  “I have a chance to do a restaurant review this week. Hot new spot. Friday night. Want to come with me?”

  “Aren’t you covering Nicholas Southern’s Right to be Wrong, Let’s Bore the Country Senseless from Coast to Coast to Coast Campaign?”

  “Very funny. The Right to be Right is a serious movement.”

  “Sure. Serious bowel movement.”

  “I won’t dignify that. Anyway, he’s got some private function that night. Oh, quit laughing, Tiger, it’s not that hilarious. Come with me to the restaurant. It’ll be like undercover work. You can be part of my disguise.”

  “Not that I haven’t always wanted to be part of a disguise, but no can do. I’ll be at Bluesfest. Blue Rodeo opens. I am there.”

  “But Bluesfest isn’t twenty-four hours a day. You have to eat.”

  “No dice, P. J. I’ll eat on the site. Any other time would be great.”

  “You don’t understand, Tiger. I’m stretched to the max with this assignment.”

  “I hope you’re not complaining. This Nicholas Southern thang is supposed to haul you out of crime reporting and onto the national scene. Make you or break you, I believe you said. Or was that the restaurant reviews?”

  “Come on, I’ve the weekend off, at last. You’re supposed to be my buddy. Don’t let me down.”

  “Gotta go, P. J.”

  I knew the longer we talked, the more persuasive he would become. It takes more than rudeness to shake P. J. Lynch. I hung up.

  • • •

  I set off to Gadzooks to find Alvin and hold him in a headlock until he called his family. Twentysome minutes later, I hit the far side of the market and strolled up to the small, upscale gallery. Through the plate glass window, I spotted René Janveau, the owner, surrounded by vast, gleaming crystal sculptures.

  René knew my name, since I had provided Alvin with an extraordinarily glowing recommendation. I plan to work that off in Purgatory. He kept running his hands through his hip hairdo and spewing anxiety.

  I got to the point. “I need to speak with Alvin Ferguson.”

  “I am afraid that’s not possible.”

  “Well, it’s an emergency.”

  “It certainly is. I have to leave for Montreal, and Alvin is not here yet. Where do you think he is?”

  I felt a little throb in my temple. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

  “How ridiculous. I am his employer, and I have no idea.”

  “Well, I’m his former employer, and I have even less.” I tried to imagine Alvin keeping the sparkling half-acre of glass free of fingerprint smudges and dust. I failed.

  “But I must leave immediately. A major show could fall through if I miss these negotiations.”

  I shrugged. I had a lot of problems, but this wasn’t one of them.

  He brightened and gave me a crafty glance. “You look more or less presentable. Would you consider filling in here until he shows up?”

  • • •

  Hull, Quebec, may be another political world from Ottawa, but it’s a short walk from the market. I always love walking over the Alexandria Bridge. The breeze blowing up the Ottawa River was the best thing that had happened to me so far that day. But the cooling effects were quickly lost pounding the pavement on the other side.

  It was a hot half-hour before I panted up to Alvin’s rickety eight-unit building on Boulevard St. Joseph and staggered through the front door. As usual, the faint memory of marijuana hung in the corridor.

  I thumped on Alvin’s door. Legally, that was better than thumping Alvin himself, which had crossed my mind. I almost hoped he wouldn’t answer so I could continue to get rid of my frustrations.

  A small child emerged from the next apartment and watched me with great interest. I provided a bad example by giving the door a kick. It swung inward. I hated to venture into Alvin’s apartment unassisted. I never knew what I’d find, but I always knew I wouldn’t be prepared.

  Inside the apartment, the floor had been painted black, the walls an elegant shade of dove. The lighting was museum quality, but the temperature hovered slightly below boiling. I managed to maintain my cool as I came nose-to-nose with a pretty fair papier mâché replica of The Thinker, sitting in the middle of the floor. A series of question marks hung, suspended by inv
isible wires, over his lovely puzzled head.

  Alvin’s retro fridge had been redone in a bracing shade of fuschia, and labelled The Pinker. The toilet which he uses as a planter had a cabbage rose growing in it and a little plaque on the wall behind that said The Stinker.

  A floor-to-ceiling rectangle consisting of three broad vertical stripes caught my eye. Alvin had thoughtfully added a blinking artificial flame at the base of the painting and a talk bubble that said, “Ouch, that’s hot,” at the top. It got the label,The Blinker.

  On the next wall, a Picasso from the blue period. The large eye winked at me, and two seconds later the small one did. The label said, naturally,The Winker.

  That boy gets me every time.

  I did have to ask myself: if Alvin was ingenious enough to create and maintain this display, why, in his time at Justice for Victims, had he never once answered the goddam phone properly?

  • • •

  I found Alvin in the bedroom. I almost didn’t spot him under the tangle of sheets. He was curled into the fetal position. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see any movement. His ponytail spread over the crisp white pillowcase, and five of his visible earrings glinted in the pale glow filtering in from the living room.

  Alvin didn’t even appear to be breathing. I almost stopped breathing myself. I reached out and touched him. Warm. And better yet, that small rise of his chest indicated that he was alive.

  Now that I knew he was alive, I really felt like killing him.

  I shook him vigorously. “Are you out of your mind, sleeping in on the first day of your new job?”

  Alvin didn’t respond. I gave his grey, bony cheek a gentle slap.

  I sat back and looked around. Had he accidentally overdosed? I saw nothing in the small bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was simple and neat. Double bed. No clothes strewn. No museum knock-offs. His all-season leather jacket hung on a wooden hanger in the closet, next to his Mickey Mouse scarf.

  I checked the bathroom. It was spotless. White towels with the monogram AF were displayed neatly on the towel rack, fresh soap sat in the soap dish, and the bathmat was clean and fluffy. Aside from the Magritte panel reproduced on the inside of the shower stall, it could have been anyone’s bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet.