Street Legal

by William Deverell

  “How much is this going to cost me, Mr. Robinovitch?”

  “A great deal.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail. I know what they do to you there.”

  Leon took a few notes: the man’s address, his place of work, some background on him. A bachelor — for obvious reasons — orphaned, a foster home, he’d managed to get as far as grade nine.

  At the end of this, as Orff wobbled from the office, he seemed to be muttering to himself. Almost a kind of one-person argument. Having his name in the paper beside Orff’s — what would Leon’s mother and the members of her anti-defamation league think?

  What the heck, he needed clients, anyone. One arbitration set for the next month, General and Commercial Trust sending its business down the street. A retinue of non-paying clients like Cool Aid. If Ted could act for Royce Boggs, Leon could act for a retarded Nazi.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon with Victor Two Feathers, trying to sort out a complex aboriginal claim, then, weary, set off for home, pedalling his ten-speed to the ferry which took him to the string of islands that enclosed Toronto’s inner harbour.

  The air hadn’t cooled, Toronto was still an oven, even on Ward’s Island. After a few stretches and twenty minutes of tai chi, Leon set out his lounger on the porch of his small frame house, and he sat and stared over the choppy waters of the harbour at the city spires. It was lonely here, lonely since Margaret moved out. Two hurting years since his former female partner left him for another man. Two years of not figuring out how to make another relationship happen. Maybe he was boring, probably that’s what Margaret had decided.

  But maybe it was his mother, the non-stop leftist. She had scared Margaret off.

  He waited for his mom’s call. It came at six p.m., as he was putting his salad together.

  “You got a minute, Leon?”

  “Sure.”

  After a few preliminaries, she spent half an hour on his case: Where was he getting his protein from, you’ve got to have it to live a normal life, only cows survive on grass, and they have two stomachs. Why does he never come over, what does he do at home all the time by himself? What are you, a hermit, Leon? There’s a world out there, lights, action, camera: join it for a couple of seconds. Meet a nice woman, a companion, a partner, someone to share the tribulations of life. Who cares if she’s Jewish? A Buddhist will do, an Arab, a Black Panther. As long as she’s progressive.

  His mother was Old Left, a marcher for peace, equality, workers’ rights. Pete Seeger, Paul Robeson, Joe Hill were her heroes of song. She never wanted her son to be a lawyer. A union organizer, a social worker, okay, but not a leech on society.

  “I want you to admit to me, Leon, if you think you have a problem. If you’re gay it doesn’t bother me, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Mom, for God’s sake.”

  “Brenda Knopf’s son is gay, he carries on a normal life otherwise. Sees people.”

  “Mother, I’m not gay.”

  “Well, you’re acting very odd.”

  Maybe, he thought, his problem was that he couldn’t get interested in just any member of the opposite sex. Thoughts of Carrington Barr always got in the way. Hopelessly impossible thoughts.

  His life seemed stalled by this deep infatuation. She and Ted were obviously going through a rough time of it — maybe, he thought evilly, there was hope. But of course he felt terribly guilty for thinking that.

  9

  Carrie was in the depths of The Main, lower Boul Saint-Laurent. The area was seamy: cheap bars and hot-dog joints. Right next to a topless bar was Lavanderie Woznick. She saw the sign, hastily repainted. It had once read WOZNICK INDUSTRIAL LAUNDRY — you could still read the words in English, illegal now under Quebec’s language-shelter laws.

  The sky was overcast here in Montreal, a dark, threatening hue. Carrie thought: maybe the weather is breaking at last.

  Through a large plate window Carrie could see men and women working, throwing uniforms into huge industrial washers. A quite elaborate front, if that’s what it was.

  Where was Mr. Woznick? In some back office likely. Big Leonard, yet another monster — sometimes Carrie felt she was surrounded by oversized men, big cops, big clients. She thought of the rape-

  murderer who was still on the loose somewhere, and shivered. But she was far from Toronto, and the time wasn’t close to midnight.

  She was beginning to regret her decision not to stay the night with Ted at the Bonaventure. It always felt creepy being at home alone. The price, though, would be Royce Boggs during dinner, and she had bluntly informed Ted she didn’t want to pay it. She had three hours to do her thing here, then back on an early evening flight.

  They had driven from the airport in a limousine and separated in downtown Montreal, Ted rushing off to meet Boggs to debate strategy for the takeover of Ace Electronics — an asset-stripping job most likely.

  As she stood by the door of Woznick’s, working out her opening lines for him, a man came from the topless bar next door. He wore a long raincoat, the kind that advertises something ugly about to be offered for display. He smiled at her. His eyes were animated, somehow familiar.

  Carrie quickly escaped inside. A clerk was at a counter near the door, a skinny, pimpled man. He was on the phone.

  “Yeah, I got twenty-five for you on seven in the eighth, and I can’t take you on five, it’s a scratch.”

  This didn’t sound like industrial-laundry talk. He made a note and hung up.

  “I’m looking for a man named Big Leonard Woznick.”

  “He’s in the back but he don’t want to be bothered right now.”

  The back presumably meant behind the door marked PRIVATE.

  Carrie gave the young man her card. “Please tell him I’m here. I don’t have an enormous amount of time.”

  “For Big Leonard, you’re gonna wait. This is his do-not-disturb time.”

  “That’s why you’re taking his calls.”

  “As a matter a fact.”

  “Twenty-five hundred on the seventh horse in the eighth race.”

  “Twenty-five uniforms comin’ in on August seventh, due out on the eighth.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “Have a seat. Big Leonard is a guy you do not interrupt in his favourite pastime.”

  Carrie walked toward the back door and the clerk moved quickly from his chair, ran and flattened his back against the door.

  “Big Leonard don’t want to be bothered.”

  “This is about André Cristal. I’m his lawyer.”

  She heard a lion’s roar from the back room, raspy, angry.

  The clerk opened the door a crack. Cigar smoke poured out. Carrie could hear the same booming voice, Big Leonard she assumed: “What’s this? What’s this? You moronic putz, with this you put me in six no trump? You got no spades!”

  The door opened wider. Carrie could see three men. One was obviously Big Leonard’s partner, cowed, a little guy with a big cigar. His cards were laid on the table — he was dummy.

  “I t’ought you had the spades.”

  Telephones all over the place. A huge chalkboard, horses’ names and various numbers written on it. A big block of cheese on the table, a jar of pickles.

  “That was a cue bid, jerk. I got a single ace.” The voice descended to a grumble. “Now we’re gonna be down eight grand for the afternoon. You couldn’t get a pass mark in stupid school. Whadda ya want, Zoot? It better be important.”

  “André’s tongue is here.” Zoot opened the door wider, and Carrie finally saw Big Leonard. She smiled, a big, astonished smile that caught everyone off guard, including herself. Big Leonard was about five-five in his socks, shorter than his bridge partner but with a taller cigar. Wiry, in his fifties.

  Big Leonard, in turn, surveyed her: prim, white blouse, a light cotton pant suit.

&nb
sp; “Lady, you got twenty points and a fit in three suits but a void in spades. Would you leave me in six no trump?”

  “I think I’d go in your first suit.”

  “The lady knows something about bridge. Take over from this schmoe, will ya? Diamonds! Six diamonds! It’s a laydown!”

  Carrie walked in. “You’re Big Leonard?”

  “I am.”

  “You guys ever heard of air-conditioning?” She waved at the heavy, smelly air.

  Woznick put his cards face-down on the table. “So, how’s André?”

  “Can we find some place to talk?”

  Woznick got up from his chair.

  “Sorry to interrupt your bridge.”

  “What you are interrupting is not bridge.” He turned to the others. “Take a beer break, we ain’t through.”

  Woznick took her outside, to the back, and they sat in one of the vans, away from ears.

  “I seen you on the TV news,” Woznick said. “You got him bail.”

  “Three hundred thousand.” She almost said G’s.

  “I don’t know no one who can post that.”

  “I hope you do. You and whoever else got him into this business had better get him out.”

  The hint was not too veiled.

  “Listen, he’s my favourite guy, he’s indispensable with me, I love him.”

  “Indispensable in what way?”

  “Everything. Odd jobs.”

  “He helps run the book? And your heroin? That’s an odd job.”

  “André tell you that? It’s a . . . minor sideline, lady.”

  “Everyone knows, Mr. Woznick. The cops know you wash Billy Sweet’s money.”

  Woznick’s voice lowered, as if he feared being overhead. “I don’t like to hear that name too loud. Billy is a very paranoid guy.”

  This gentleman was being a little too shy. Her plan wasn’t to threaten him, but she couldn’t help it, a little. “Trafficking in heroin, that’s a grand slam. Twenty years. I’m just giving you fair warning, you could be at risk here.”

  “André will protect me.” He sounded confident.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea. He likes you, Mr. Woznick. Very fond of you.”

  “He’s my boy.”

  “Here’s the problem: if he’s forced to go to court he may have to say he was up there only to pick up some heroin.”

  “That’s the defence? That’s what he’ll say?” He looked worried now.

  “In cross-examination he could be asked who he was doing this for. So we’re in a kind of dilemma. I’m hoping we can avoid it. Maybe he won’t have to take the stand.”

  “You mean maybe they got no case?”

  “It’s weak. So far. Could get stronger. A possible witness is wandering around offering his services. I think he was in that loft, an addict — Normie, he was the tester. His services may go to the highest bidder.”

  “You want I should ask Billy Sweet for the bail money? You think I’m crazy? He’s a blowtop, Mrs. Barr. I made it to fifty-three good years, I wanna hold out for fifty-four.”

  Carrie decided to turn things up a notch. “After a man sits in a cell, six months, eight months, waiting for his trial, he starts to wonder where his friends are.”

  “André wouldn’t rat.” Woznick licked his lips, sat silent, and said, finally, “I’ll pass word up the line.”

  “You have my number. We don’t have any time to waste.”

  “Yeah.” He shook his head, a wry smile. “Maybe you got my number.”

  They left the van, went back into the building. Woznick went to the phone.

  “This ain’t a neighbourhood for a lady. I’ll call you a taxi.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he did so, he said, “I don’t even allow my own daughter down here. Nights, it’s dicey.”

  “I’ll let you get back to your game.”

  But he wanted to talk. “She’s gonna be a lawyer. Lemme show you.”

  He produced a snapshot. A high-school grad photograph of his smiling daughter. “Lenore. She’s in first-year arts at Concordia.” He paused, reflective. “André’s goin’ out with her.”

  Carrie looked more carefully at the photo. So this was Cristal’s taste: sweet, petite, and very young.

  Woznick showed her more photographs, unfolding a string of them in plastic. His daughter with her father. Lenore with Cristal — they were waving at the camera from the front seat of a sports car.

  “Here, you keep that graduation picture, I got lots,” Woznick said. “Maybe she’ll ask you for a job some day.”

  “Yes, well, thank you.”

  “Like, I figure they’re gonna get married soon. She’s really in love with the cluck.”

  Something was distressing Carrie, she wasn’t sure what. Cristal hadn’t mentioned any Lenore.

  ***

  As Carrie neared the airport in the taxi, she noticed the sky growing darker, and she could hear a low grumbling of thunder. The storm broke just as she got out at the departures level, a sudden flurry of rain.

  Air Ontario advised her that her flight might be delayed an hour. That, she assumed, meant two. Ted’s offer was looking better. Hell, she could skip the dinner with Boggs, and just stay in Ted’s room and watch a pay movie over a bottle of wine.

  She phoned his hotel and learned he was out. Five o’clock and a little — he was probably still at his meeting. The hotel receptionist asked if she cared to leave a message.

  “Okay, tell him it’s his wife —”

  “Oh, Mrs. Barr, I have a message for you. When you come in, you’re to meet him at half past eight in Le Castillon bar.”

  Carrie took a long while to respond. Ted’s message wasn’t computing. Had Ted checked with the airline, found out about the delays, assumed she’d changed her mind?”

  “When I come in from where?”

  “From Toronto.”

  Another long silence.

  “Okay, I won’t bother leaving a message.”

  ***

  At six-thirty, Carrie’s flight was announced. She didn’t get up from her table at the noisy bar at Dorval. She ordered another glass of red wine.

  At eight-thirty, when Mrs. Barr was supposed to be meeting Mr. Barr in Le Castillon Bar, Carrie was still sitting in the airport bar, unable to move. A man took the next table and tried to make conversation. Carrie couldn’t hear anything he said, his words drowned by the screaming inside her head. He offered her a cigarette, coming on.

  She took it. He extended his lighter. She closed her hand upon the cigarette, mashing it. Soon afterwards, the man finished his drink and left.

  Three hours later, Carrie clambered awkwardly from a taxi and into the pelting rain. She dashed, a little unsteadily, to the hotel door. Six and a half glasses of wine — her head was spinning with it, and with the turmoil of her thoughts.

  At the Bonaventure, the doorman greeted her with a worried expression.

  “Bags?”

  “No.” Carrie walked stiffly in, affecting absolute sobriety, her bearing erect, a lock of russet hair wet-plastered to her face. She’d worn the same clothes all day, all night. She was rumpled; she felt unclean.

  The young woman at the desk pretended not to notice her dishevelment, her signs of slight impairment.

  “May I help you?”

  “The spare key to our room, please.”

  A hesitation. “Of course, and . . . you are registered here?”

  “Would I be asking for the spare key?” Too curt. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to wake my husband.” An explanation was in order. “He’ll be exhausted.”

  “And your room number is . . . ?”

  “I really don’t remember. Barr. Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Barr. Toronto.” She managed a smile. “Oh dear, I could be anyone, I suppose. Anyone o
ff the street.” She showed her driver’s licence, credit cards, and, prominently, a card showing she was a member of the Law Society of Upper Canada.

  The clerk looked under “Barr,” found a registration card, and consulted with the night manager. He gave her a spare key to room 1408 and wished her a pleasant night. She thanked him.

  Waiting for the elevator, Carrie looked at her watch. Midnight, when the Strangler comes.

  Hanging from the doorknob of 1408 were a plastic bag containing two brown oxfords and a do-not-disturb sign. There was no deadbolt inside the door and it slid open silently.

  She heard a long, low, terrible groan, as if from a man in pain. The room was dark, the curtain drawn, but she could make out motion on the bed, the sheets moving. She heard him groan again and heard other human sounds from the area of his groin, unintelligible. Grunts, like something a sow would make rooting in her pen.

  “Oh, God,” Ted cried. “I’m coming!”

  “No, Ted,” Carrie said, “you’re going.”

  She could hear Melissa choking on it.

  ***

  The storm front had avoided Toronto so far, but the night was close and sultry. Though it was midnight, light shone from a filling moon, which dappled the maple trees and silvered the little lawn in front of the residence of Carrie and Ted Barr.

  Between it and the building to the left, a flagstone walk led to the back yard, to a tiled barbecue patio surrounded by thick clumps of rosebushes. In these rosebushes, Edwin Moodie stood, peering in through one of the windows.

  He tried sliding some of the windows up, but they wouldn’t move. Retreating from the wall, he accidentally broke a branch of one of the bushes and it snapped audibly. He froze. After a few moments he moved again, stepping back, looking up to the second floor, where the main bedroom was.

  He was sweating, though he hadn’t much exerted himself. A teardrop of perspiration rolled down his cheek, dripped off the end of his little moustache.