Street Legal

by William Deverell

  “Professional people.”

  “Of course.”

  “You still have the loan to pay, Mr. Robinovitch. We’ve called it, as you know. One hundred and fifty thousand Canadian dollars.”

  Several minutes later Leon met Robert Barnsworth at the reception desk with a smile that promised not only a truce but hopes for a permanent peace. He led the landlord to his office with his arm in friendly embrace over his shoulder.

  “I have the three signing officers in here now, Robert,” Leon said. “I’ve made you an extra copy of the lease assignment. They’re taking the place over for the balance, three and a half years, and for the whole renewal period.”

  “What kind of profession do these new tenants represent, Mr. Robinovitch?” Barnsworth was still holding himself in stiff reserve, hadn’t returned to a first-name basis.

  “The caring profession.”

  Barnsworth might have been hoping they’d be medical people, but in the doorway to Leon’s office he stopped short: sprawled comfortably within various chairs were the three leading officers of the Cool Aid Society: lanky, long-haired Roy; fat, hairy Elmo; and mop-topped Parjanya.

  Roy, wearing a FUCK THE CONTRAS T-shirt, had his long legs up on a corner of Leon’s desk. Elmo kept sneezing and wiping his nose, looking vaguely like a man with a bad cocaine habit. He was also scratching his crotch, as if he had crabs. Parjanya was wearing an extremely transparent top, her breasts and nipples showing in prominent outline.

  He had told them to be as bad as they could be, but they were overdoing it. “The new tenants,” said Leon, introducing Barnsworth.

  Barnsworth didn’t move, just his eyes, flicking, jumping from Parjanya’s bosom to the Friar Tuckish hippie with his incessant scratching.

  “The Metro Toronto Cool Aid Society,” Leon said. “They help kids with drug problems.”

  He urged Barnsworth in, led him to the little sofa, to the space beside Parjanya, who was reeking of various Indian essences. When she gave Barnsworth a little palms-pressed Hindu bow, he crossed his legs and sat like a man coiled.

  “We’re thinking of a kind of drop-in centre,” Roy said.

  “Yes,” said Barnsworth, finally able to speak, “but the lease wouldn’t permit any, ah, clinic or a . . . treatment facility.”

  “Nothin’ like that. Some counselling, drug therapy. A lot of these kids are on the needle, they’re pretty fucked up.”

  “Hey, man,” said Elmo, “sometimes the courts refer them to us, like when they’re really at the end of the road, and the straight social workers can’t handle ’em. They’re robots, most of them social workers, bureaucrats with initials behind their names, most of ’em couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.” Elmo picked up what might have been a tiny flea between his fingernails and squeezed it. “Gotcha.” A belch.

  Leon was becoming annoyed, they were being too obnoxious. But Barnsworth was a person lacking as much in subtlety as in sense of humour, and maybe he didn’t get it.

  Roy said, “Elmo, he does stress therapy. Massage.”

  “Ever need any help with your body,” Elmo said, “I know where some good spots are.”

  “I see,” said Barnsworth, and he turned back to Parjanya. “And what do you do?”

  “Oh, this and that. Kind of, you know, keep everyone happy.” Her voice went husky. “And I do the books, so I’ll be down in the bank a lot.”

  “Yes, well . . . I’m sure you do important work, but I suspect there are better areas in the city —”

  “Nope,” said Roy, “this is perfect. Building with a little class, it’ll help raise the kids’ self-esteem. Besides, where we are now, we’re always getting raided by narcs.”

  Leon handed Barnsworth the lease-assignment form, duly executed by himself for the firm and by Roy, Elmo, and Parjanya. “They’ll be taking over end of the month when we have our new place ready.”

  Barnsworth leafed through it. “Isn’t there a clause . . . I take it the landlord does not have to consent?”

  “Nope. Of course I realize we have to make up any deficit if they fail to pay the rent, but we’ll take that chance.”

  “Well, frankly, I doubt if they can afford —”

  “No problem,” said Roy, “we have some grant money coming from the boys downtown.” He unfolded a couple of newspaper clippings. “Here, from this morning’s rag. ‘Metro Grants Cool Aid $12,000 for Centre.’ That picture’s from when we got an award from the provincial government.” He showed Barnsworth the society’s incorporation papers. “We’re for real,” he said with a menacing grin.

  “Of course you are.” Barnsworth’s small pink smile, which had long ago deserted him, now clicked back into place. He gave Leon a look that said he knew his game. “Perhaps we could have a session in private.”

  Parjanya’s hand reached for his before he could rise. “You seem a little uptight,” she said. “You should open yourself up. The Lord Siddhartha says one must be constantly loving.”

  Barnsworth freed himself from her, stood.

  “And we love you, Mr. Barnsworth,” she said. “We really love you.”

  “Er, thank you. I, ah, well, Leon, just a few technical matters to iron out.”

  Leon took him to the library, and sat him before the table on which the obscene books were haphazardly piled.

  “I take it you’d simply be prepared to cancel the lease.”

  “Oh, no, it’s too late. We’ve signed that subtenancy agreement.”

  “General and Commercial Trust will not be held to ransom.”

  “Well, Robert, we borrowed a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from you to refurbish the space, and if we cancel the lease a lot of that goes down the drain. Of course, if you wanted to buy all the creature comforts we put in . . .”

  Barnsworth paled. “How much?”

  “Well, at least half of what we spent we’ll never recover, it’s gone into fixtures. We have a coffee room set up in there, carpets, partitions . . . So, half. Seventy-five thousand.”

  Barnsworth stared bleakly at a whips-and-chains book titled Pain Through the Ages. “That’s far too much.”

  The negotiations continued until mid-afternoon, interrupted only once, when Roy wandered in with a tape measure and had to be shooed out. Afterwards, the Cool Aid officers stood outside the open library door, looking betrayed and grim.

  Just after lunch hour, Barnsworth brought in a lawyer, and Leon reinforced himself with Carrie. The lawyer looked at everything, looked over Roy, Elmo, and Parjanya, and with his help ultimately a deal memo was signed: the lease cancelled, the fixtures sold to G & C Trust for sixty-five thousand dollars, the interest rate on the loan lowered by three points.

  After the Cool Aid people left, Barnsworth mustered his remaining dignity and shook hands with the three lawyers, and said without cracking a smile: “We’ll miss you.”

  Leon had to like him for that. Definitely sounded like a sense of humour.

  Leon and Carrie celebrated in the lounge with a bottle of champagne they’d been saving should an occasion arise.

  “Good on you, Leon,” Carrie said. “You deserved a big win like this.”

  She gave him a hug and a big smack on the cheek. It sent Leon reeling. He had to struggle to keep from telling her he was hopelessly in love with her, but might have done so had Chuck not popped in.

  Chuck was sweaty, in shorts and tennis shoes. “I, uh, I’ve been with Ted. I have a message from him for you, Carrie.”

  “Ted who?”

  “He’s coming over for dinner with Lisa and me. I’m going to spend some more time with him tomorrow. But . . . well, he wants to talk to you. Everything exploded in his face, Carrie. Melissa’s gone back to Dr. Cartwright. They’ve reconciled.”

  “Yes,” She gave him an impassive, wide-eyed stare and got up to go. “Well, I’ve been neglecting some fi
les.”

  “Carrie, for God’s sake, he’s in pain.”

  She sighed. “What does he want?”

  “To talk. To apologize. All he asks is a chance to give confession. Give him that much, for Christ’s sake. The guy’s been in fantasy land, it’s like somebody drugged him. Now he’s coming to. Carrie, you may hate his guts but he’s a human being in agony. Worse now, I beat him two out of three sets, he kept smashing balls into the net.”

  “Is he suicidal?”

  “I wouldn’t say exactly.”

  “Call me when he jumps. I’ll come running.”

  ***

  Carrie strode quickly through the midtown streets, thirty-seven minutes from office to home, that was her record. The forecast again called for rain tonight. The hot rain of summer that never really cools things off, rain by night and sweat by day.

  She hoped Ted had enjoyed his tennis game with Chuck. Wham, ace, forty-love. In tennis love means zero. We both scored zero, didn’t we, Ted? How deeply love wounds, my darling. How callously it betrays. How like fools we become in its grip.

  How satisfying to see this happen to you.

  Walking through Queen’s Park, alone, finally able to escape from the hurly-burly of this day, she could luxuriate now in pleasant contemplation of the ironic vengeance that God had judged her husband must suffer. Do you and Melissa still laugh at the same jokes? It must have been such a jolly lot of fun enjoying those same movies and everything.

  Don’t you remember, Ted? We used to enjoy the same movies. We used to laugh at the same jokes.

  You blew it, buddy. Don’t come crying.

  At home she found a message from Ted on the machine. “I’m at my hotel now, Carrie, in case you intend to call. Room 401, the York.” The voice monotonic, stripped of emotion.

  She made an omelette. André Cristal in court tomorrow at ten — she must meet with McAnthony beforehand and agree on a prelim date. And keep that deal alive. Sweeten it with vague assurances about what André might know, a counter-offer for his services. How generous might the state be in bartering for the evil prince of heroin?

  After eating and showering she went to her bedroom where she played her cello for an hour, a sonata for her father. She remembered him in his big stuffed chair, a whisky at hand, his eyes closed, his innocent, red-haired, spindly-legged daughter so anxious to entertain him.

  Why, Charlie? You who fought so hard for others, why didn’t you fight for yourself, for your innocence, for your life?

  André Cristal phoned just as she was pulling on her pyjamas. “It’s not too late?”

  “No, you caught me just before going to bed.”

  “Good. I ’ave a new place. Furnish apartment, near downtown, off Davenport Road.” He gave her the address and phone number.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Penthouse suite. They didn’t seem to know who I was, but they liked the money.”

  “Where do you get all this money, André?”

  “I ’ave savings. It is not good to spend money, Carrington? What is it for?”

  “I’ll see you in court tomorrow. Ten-thirty or so, okay?”

  “A bientôt, Carrie. Sweet dreams.”

  That night she dreamed of him again. She was unbuttoning some sort of tunic that he wore and they were on her bed. His voice in her ear: “But I am innocent.” And then she was suddenly running from him, running, running, and he was a large man now with a little moustache and little blue eyes. Mr. Moodie, don’t you understand? You, too, are innocent . . .

  ***

  The midnight show, and from the dancing stage Trixi watched the waiters hustle the google-eyed morons. Last call, a final beer for the road, then they go home and rape their wives. She had just shot up before going on: it was the only way she could stomach showing her crotch to the morons.

  Led Zeppelin, heavy metal, how was she supposed to dance to this? She wanted this over, wanted to get out of here, wanted to go home, to bed, alone, and she was shedding her clothes as fast as good manners would allow. Here comes the bra, guys, it’s the moment you weened-too-early teat freaks have been waiting for. But for a while she couldn’t get the clasp undone, her fingers were all rubbery.

  “Come on, show them,” a moron shouted.

  Her back to them, she peeked over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out. She wiggled her bottom and tugged at her panties and gave them all a moon. This has all got to end, she thought, it’s fucking demeaning. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, she would call on Carrie Barr. Tomorrow begin the process of drying out. Look for a straight job, maybe apply to that computer school.

  Now she was down to a G-string. Maybe she should give it to that big ugly bastard just beneath her — he’d probably like to eat it.

  “Let’s see it, honey.” A voice from the back.

  Up yours with a paddle, moron.

  “You can’t dance worth shit, do something useful.” He wouldn’t let up. “Let’s see the old fruit cup, babe. Gimme the beaver.”

  Trixi stopped dancing and glared in his direction. “Take a douche, pal.” And she gave him the finger and walked off the stage, grabbing her clothes, the guitars still screeching.

  That really did it for her, the asshole in the back, she wasn’t going to put up with any of this crap any more. She slipped her clothes on, not bothering with the underwear, and went straight to her boss at the bar and demanded her pay for the night.

  “You’re through,” said the boss. “That was your last act.”

  “Pay me off.”

  “You get paid piss-all for sassing the customers.”

  “You shit, I’ll get my lawyer.”

  She stormed out into the sticky night, her rage having eaten away the effect of the last hit. She had a little more scag in her purse, and for a second or two she thought about doing it, then decided, no, that’s it. Clean life. Yeah, she’d get her lawyer on the case tomorrow, sue the guy’s face off. Not enough bread on her for a cab ride, she’d spent everything on two caps of junk, the price was going up again.

  She walked down Eastern Avenue — it wasn’t a safe place to hitch-hike so maybe she should get over to a better-lit street.

  A car pulled up at the curb alongside her and the driver leaned out the window.

  “You like a lift?”

  She recognized him. He was that big, bald moron who’d been in the front row, a regular customer, the possible G-string eater.

  “No, thank you.” She walked on.

  He curb-crawled alongside her in his car, an old Mercury. “You sure? I’ll take you anywhere.”

  She didn’t like his tone or his leer. “I have a ride coming.”

  “Suit yourself.” The car drove away, and slowed as it went around a corner. Trixi had a sense it might have stopped there, just out of her view. But the corner was well-lit, and she wasn’t going to change direction just because this buffoon was trying to talk to her.

  She had enough change for a bus, and a bus stop was at the corner.

  Before she reached it, just as she passed an almost-empty lot where a building was in the early stages of construction, she heard what she thought were footsteps behind her, and suddenly she went prickly all over.

  And then she felt hot breath on the back of her neck, and a hand went over her mouth and, flailing, she felt herself being lifted, carried to the construction site, a huge man, obese, she tried to twist, to turn, to see his face, she could hear his grunts, and she was in a state of terror.

  She bit his hand and it was abruptly pulled away from her mouth, and one of her hands came free and she took a swing at him, but before she could take a breath to scream, his hand took her by the throat, then both hands, tight as a vise.

  After the Midnight Strangler choked her to death he made love to her.

  20

  When Carrie showed up at the office Thursday
morning, Pauline had an urgent message for her from Jock Strachan. She called him from the reception desk.

  “I’ll make this blunt and short, Carrie.” Strachan’s burr was prominent — that usually meant trouble. “A woman’s body was found at seven-thirty hours at a construction site on Eastern Avenue. Behind a pile of concrete blocks. Naked, neck broken, dress torn from her. There’s semen. The pathologist estimates time of death about midnight. All the trademarks.”

  Carrie sucked in her breath. “How terrible . . . Jock, why are you calling me about this?”

  “Where’s Edwin Moodie?”

  She was confused, annoyed. Edwin Moodie? So typical of a policeman, the one-track mind . . . Mr. Moodie would probably be on the job at Kelver Cartage, where he toiled a few days a week.

  “I think I can track him down.”

  “I doubt it. He has not been called in for work.”

  “How do you know where he works?”

  “Och, lassie, give us a little more credit than that.”

  “I suppose you know where he lives then.”

  “All we know is he paid his bill last night at the Eagle Hotel and checked out.”

  She felt a distinct unease. “Dear God, Jock, I . . . Eastern Avenue? Has she been identified?”

  “Young woman of ill repute. Patricia Trimble, she called herself Trixi.”

  Carrie felt faint; she clutched the edge of the reception desk for support. Pauline was watching her with concern.

  Strachan’s voice softened. “I believe you knew her.”

  “I was her lawyer.”

  “Aye. Did they ever meet — Moodie and the Trimble woman?”

  Then she remembered Moodie — in this very waiting room — bashfully trying to respond to a flirting Trixi. What had Trixi told her later? He followed me all the way home that day.

  “Jock, I’ll have to talk to you later. Thank you for telling me.” She hung up.

  She turned her ashen face to Pauline. “Trixi . . . she’s dead. She . . . worked near there.” For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, and she had to fight it. “Pauline, they think it’s the Midnight Strangler. Oh, God, I have to find Mr. Moodie before the police do. He’s not very bright, the police could get him to say anything.”