“He will be living dangerously, this Normie.”
Carrie didn’t like that, a heavy sound of threat. “I think I know how to handle him.”
“I ’ave complete faith.”
The smile made her relax, perhaps she had misread. “You’re telling me the truth, M. Cristal, you didn’t see him up there?”
“I tell the trut’. I am not a fool to lie to my lawyer. M. Cristal — it is too formal for me. André.”
“André . . . well, okay. Carrie, for me. Carrington, actually. I was named after the town where I was born in New Brunswick. That’s kind of silly, isn’t it? My father’s idea. I think he’d been drinking.” My God, she was at it again, her tongue running the marathon. “Well, I guess . . . that’s it.”
She gathered her tools. She was suddenly conscious that he was beside her, holding her chair. Courtesy — they must breed it into Gallic men.
She stood with a little graceless wobble.
“I ’ope . . . I hope you will recover from, as you say, your being under the weather.”
“I intend to.” She smoothed down her skirt. She knew his eyes were X-raying her, seeking what was inside.
“And I hope everyt’ing goes well in your life, Carrie. Carrington. I prefer that.” His tone was solicitous, gentle. His receivers had obviously picked up the intricate signals of her unhappiness: the strained face with all the cosmetics, the rigidity of limb, the body language. He didn’t have to be psychic to read her.
Suddenly she wanted to tell him all about it, to pour forth Ted and Melissa and anger and sorrow.
She barely held it in. She wondered if this was like a nervous breakdown — she had never had one, she had no idea what they were like. Get it together.
His hand grasped hers. No sparking, thank God, but for a moment he wouldn’t let her go, and she couldn’t look at him . . .
“Okay, I’m off. I’ll keep in touch.”
“I’ll be here.”
Biting her lip, avoiding his smile, she left the visiting area.
***
Leon looked sadly around Ted’s office, pillaged of its files now, sad and empty. Gone the exorbitant fees the firm had been expecting from Ted’s wealthy adulterers, gone the munificence of Dr. Royce Boggs and Mrs. Melissa Cartwright. Gone forever were the offerings of G & C Trust, too, the conveyances and mortgages that had kept the wolf from the door. Robert Barnsworth, the manager at G & C Trust, the stern, forbidding moneylender their stricken firm was beholden to, had had a fit when he learned of the damage Carrie did to the wall outside their offices.
Ted had turned out to be an asshole. Why was he so successful? Did assholes make better lawyers? They care less, he supposed, they don’t let obstacles like concern for the downtrodden or a yearning for justice get in the way of their greed. Leon was angry at Ted, and perplexed — he had known him for a century, it seemed, had known him better than anyone, better than Carrie. But he had never known him at all. Such a judge of character.
Despite his anger, in some small hiding place deep within him he felt a sense of relief, almost . . . triumph. The light was green, the road was clear. Carrie was a free woman now, and some day, some time, when the proper stars are in conjunction and Buddha is smiling from his throne in heaven, he would utter the unutterable, he would speak to her of matters of the heart.
A heart he feared would be broken if he offered it to her. She would be astonished, then perplexed. She would say, my goodness, I had no idea, and she would stifle a smile, and afterwards she would feel sorry for him and comfort him and tell him she has always loved him dearly. As a friend.
But she was in a fragile state now, vulnerable. It would be enough for now just to be there for her, to help her through it. And she’d survive — she had faced crises before: her mother’s death, her father’s conviction. His suicide. But he grieved for her, felt her pain as his own.
He paced, nervous, hot. It was nearly noon on this Sunday of the long weekend — tomorrow was Civic Day — and the offices were still and stifling. G & C Trust had turned off the air-conditioning.
Leon went into his own office. Books and papers covered his desk. He had been working on a brief for the Herbert Orff case, his thesis being that it should not be against the law to be a racist, just as it is not against the law to be retarded. Maybe a lack of mental competence should be his defence — his client was too simple to be guilty of anything. The little fascist beach ball who mumbles to himself.
Ted had been in most of yesterday cleaning his cupboards bare, and had left a memo listing files he hadn’t taken “in case they are in dispute.” Mostly clients he had brought to the firm and referred to the other lawyers. He’d left a phone number and an address, care of Boggs Industries Ltd. “Royce is lending me a little space,” said his memo.
Chuck and Carrie arrived within a few minutes of each other, and both joined Leon in his office for the first meeting of the reformed partnership. They studied copies of Ted’s memo.
“He has traded his soul for a little space from Mr. Boggs,” said Carrie. “But let’s not get sidetracked. What’s on the agenda, as if I didn’t know? We’re broke, right?”
Leon thought she looked better; she had survived the first few days, now healing had begun.
“Yeah, we’re in the hole,” said Chuck. “Somebody’s got to talk to Barnsworth. We’ve got to throw some numbers around, restructure the loan.”
“Let me talk to him,” Carrie said. “I’ll explain the situation. Maybe I can break down in tears in front of him.”
“I don’t think it’s fair to ask you, Carrie,” Leon said.
“Look, I’ll bloody do it.”
Leon shut up. He was clucking, a mother hen, she didn’t want that.
“I’ll try to hit Harry Squire up for an advance on that thousand a day,” Chuck said. “How about you, Leon, what do you have coming in?”
Leon was embarrassed. A Native land claim with a large fee, but the case would take years to settle. He had some labour arbitrations booked, but they were two, three months away. The rest was Herbert Orff and a little of this and that and a lot of free work. “I’ll call the legal-aid people, get some referrals.” But a few legal-aid billings wouldn’t satisfy the needs of Mr. Barnsworth.
“If I can get bail for André Cristal,” Carrie said, “and land that three hundred thousand dollars . . .”
“Then we’re in hog heaven,” said Chuck. “Have any of Billy Sweet’s minions made contact?”
“No.”
“Then we can’t count on it. Listen, you guys, we’ve got to get out of these expensive digs, set up some place simple and cheap.”
Leon stood staring out his window, fashionable Bloor Street below him, one of Toronto’s high-rent areas — he had never been comfortable here. He turned to his partners. “We’re stuck on a five-year lease.”
“We have the right to sublet,” said Carrie.
“We’ll still take a bath,” Chuck said. “Office rentals are way down.”
“Maybe Barnsworth will take pity,” Carrie said.
They heard someone enter, and Chuck got up. “I asked Harry Squire to drop by. Here’s where I go into action.”
Chuck found Squire in the waiting room, dapper in a navy blazer, looking for all the world like the respectable businessman he felt he was.
“Glad you could make it on a weekend,” Chuck said.
“These are nice offices,” said Squire.
“Yeah, but we’re thinking of moving. This is too uptown for us.”
“That so? I have some space you might be interested in.”
“Yeah? Let’s go into the library.” He would offer mute demonstration as to how hard he’d been working for him, analyzing all those books in terms of literary merit.
Squire looked around at the piles of paperbacks and sat with an unhappy grunt.
“Business is down. I had to replace most of my stock with, ah, softer material, it doesn’t sell too well. I still have pickets outside all three of my Ontario stores.”
“Where are the others?”
“Montreal, Halifax, couple cities out west, and I’m expanding into the States, Buffalo and Syracuse.”
“So you can’t be hurting too bad, Harry.”
“Yes, but business is way down in T.O. I’m having to close one of the stores because I have these damned feminists out in front taking pictures of my clientele. The store’s in an area where a lot of these damned bra-burners hang out, Queen West. Two dozen bookstores down that street, and I’m the one they select to harass. In each one of those stores you can find books with nude photos and sex manuals, far more graphic than anything I offer.”
Chuck couldn’t staunch the flow.
“I pay hundreds of thousands in taxes to this city. They treat me as if I’m in a communist state complete with self-appointed censors and busybodies. What happened to the Bill of Rights? Has it been repealed?”
“This store — is that the space you want to rent?”
“It’s near Spadina, a walk to the Queen Street courts.”
“How much?”
His big eyebrows curled into a frown for a moment. “Okay. The first six months free, and after that . . . let’s say a couple of thousand a month. I feel I owe you.”
This sounded like a hell of a deal, though Chuck thought the area a little unfashionable for a law firm.
“Harry, speaking of monetary matters, I wonder if I can get you to look at a little retainer agreement I drew up.”
Squire glanced down at the paper that was laid in front of him, then crumpled it. “I don’t think we want to leave evidence. No, that’s not the best way to handle it. A thousand dollars every day you’re in court for me, and I’m going to slip it to you each day, cash in hand. What the bureaucrats of Revenue Canada don’t know isn’t going to hurt them. It’s none of their damn business anyway.”
More than a little ignoble this. Could Chuck persuade Carrie and the overly noble Leon to think about it? It wouldn’t be the first time, really: a client slips you a hundred-dollar tip, you don’t bother to run it through the books.
“I’m not afraid of doling out for this case, Chuck. We’re fighting for a principle here, and the principle isn’t money. As far as I’m concerned I’m financing a blow for liberty. I’ll cover your extras, too: for instance if you have to . . . you know, pass a few dollars around.”
Chuck was beginning to realize this man was not exactly a paragon of business virtue.
He’d intended to ask him about an advance on that thousand a day — otherwise he would have some explaining to do to his partners — but he just couldn’t bring himself to hit him up right away. He didn’t want to appear greedy, it might diminish the man’s infinite trust in him.
“Okay, we’re in court Tuesday. We’re going to elect for a jury, and the judge will set a date for the preliminary hearing. Now I’m going to warn you, Harry, the prelim may last some time: the judge has to read all those books, and that’s a thousand a day.”
“No problem.”
Chuck didn’t want to tell him exactly how long this humungous trial would last. “When can we see this place on Queen Street?”
“This afternoon, if you care to run the blockade.”
Chuck was another hour with Squire — the usual rundown of the facts and the law with a new client — and after seeing him to the door, he rejoined his partners in Leon’s office and told them about the storefront for rent and the cash-in-hand money.
“We should pay taxes on what we earn like every other citizen,” Leon said.
“Aw, man, cut with the communist propaganda. We don’t have to receipt it all.”
“It’s dirty money,” said Carrie. “Let’s not get dirty with it. What did you get as a retainer?”
“Yeah, well, I figured instead of a big retainer, I’d ask him for a deal on the rent.”
Carrie looked at him suspiciously.
“Queen West,” said Chuck. “You’re only a walk away from home.”
“It’s funny. I was thinking about having a practice down there. I worried it was a little too . . . Soho.”
“She loves that street,” Leon said. “I do, too.”
“You would,” said Chuck. “The beatnik barrio.”
“It’ll be trendy one of these days,” Carrie said.
“Oh, yeah, and so will Cabbagetown,” said Chuck. “But let’s look at it.”
“I like the idea, storefront lawyers,” Leon said. “Right on the street. Part of the scene.”
“We’ll buy you a beret,” said Chuck.
***
Chuck assumed the Queen Street branch of Squire International had been forced to close early that afternoon — the picketers, satisfied with their work, had departed by the time Carrie and Leon and he arrived. Down the street were a funky diner called Barney’s, a jazz joint called Bourbon Street, and the Horseshoe Tavern — popular with local artists. There were buskers and handicraft stalls near the corner.
Squire’s bookstore was on the lower floor of a two-storey building which was well recessed from the street. A separate entrance leading upstairs bore a sign that said HOGTOWN ACTORS’ WORKSHOP.
The branch manager, a timid-looking fellow with hornrims, unlocked the door for them. “Mr. Squire is waiting for you.” They saw him at the cash register.
“Have a gander around,” Squire said. He scooped a few bills from the till and without counting them put them in his pants pocket.
The partners took a stroll.
The space was narrow and long and high, could easily accommodate about eight lawyers and secretaries. They tried to imagine it without the books and shelves, with typewriters clicking and phones ringing. A lot of work would have to be done.
“It’s going to cost,” said Chuck.
“Three months’ worth of rent at the old place will pay for redoing it,” Carrie said.
“The floor looks good,” said Leon. “Nice, high ceilings. Put in partitions, do a little painting and sanding, move in furniture, and we’re in business.”
“You want this, Carrie?” Chuck said.
“I kind of like it.”
“Then you shall have it.”
Squire advanced on them. “There’s a little place in the back you can use as a lounge. It leads out to a patio, and I even have a couple of trees out there.”
They looked at the back room and the patio. Possibilities.
“I’m prepared to pay half the cost of all improvements,” Squire said.
“We may have a deal,” said Chuck.
13
Speeder Cacciati didn’t like all the veiled hints he had just got from Big Leonard Woznick on the phone. He didn’t like the idea of discussing them with Billy Sweet, neither, who he wished would take a few tranks from time to time. But he went right into Billy’s game room — though a little too quickly, forgetting to knock.
Billy was staring out the window, and he must have caught Speeder from the corner of his eye because he made a surprised, jerky motion.
“I told you not to do that,” he yelled. “If I was carrying, I’d of blown your head off.”
“Hey, Billy, cool, cool.” Speeder whipped a comb through his hair. He wondered if it was the tension around here that was causing all this dandruff. Or something in the wake-ups he’d been taking. “I just got a call from Big Leonard. He asked me how we’re doing on this Cristal thing.”
“We are not doing nothing . . . anything on this Cristal thing. Big Leonard hired him, and Big Leonard can furnish the bail.” Billy motioned Speeder over to the shuffleboard, dusted some sand on it. “You take first shot.”
Speeder figured that whenever Billy was in a bad mood he had to humiliate
someone at one of his games, that someone usually being himself. His first rock was lucky, a leaner to the left.
“Billy, what Leonard was sayin’, I think, is Cristal’s gonna sing if he don’t get out.”
“He said this on the phone? The telephone?”
“He spoke careful, Billy, very careful.”
“Jesus Christ.” Billy swept the counter off, and his rock stuck. “Mr. Normie the Nose — where is he? Why does it take so long for you to locate him?”
“Disappeared offa the face of the map. Maybe the bulls got him. Billy, things may be gettin’ kinda dicey here.”
Billy was quiet for a while, until they changed ends. Then he nodded and went, “Okay. Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We shall spring this canary. There’s only one sure way how one can cure canary fever — I am going to tell Big Leonard to silence Mr. Cristal. Leonard hired a man who isn’t very businesslike, he doesn’t quite fit into the system. Big Leonard hired him, let him terminate him.”
“Big Leonard ain’t gonna want to grease this guy. Big Leonard —”
“Stuff Big Leonard! Flood the market with some of that high-grade Turkey, get the money to the lawyer and get this possible future singing star onto the street, and just tell Big Leonard to stiff him, understand?”
“Yeah, Billy.” Speeder stuck one in a corner behind a guard.
“And if he don’t . . . if he doesn’t wish to do it, we stiff Big Leonard.” Billy blasted the guard off and the counter went with it. “This lady lawyer, what does she know?”
“Sounds like too much.”
“Lawyers have the biggest mouths of all. Lawyers, informers, thieves, and government regulators. You can’t get ahead.”
***
There was no holiday for the lawyers on this holiday Monday. Carrie, Leon, and Chuck were sitting around in Leon’s office, doing the paper on reforming their partnership. They had decided to move down to Queen Street at month’s end. A lease had to be drawn up, decorators and carpenters hired.
The phone rang and Leon answered it.
“You got a Caroline Barr?”
“Carrington Barr. Can I say who’s calling?”
Street Legal Page 14