Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  “What was he like then? Tell me.”

  “What was he like, or what did I think he was like?” Burke didn’t answer, and, after a while, she deigned to speak of the old Monty she once knew. “He was in third-year law, while I was a lowly first-year student; he was nice-looking; and he played in a band. Therefore, I concluded he was one of the cool people, which, to me, meant he must be an arsehole. And I would hate him if I got to know him. But lo and behold, he wasn’t one of the cool people. He tended to go his own way. He seemed to be sweet and funny and considerate. I dared hope — for years! — that he wasn’t, indeed, an arsehole.”

  “And you were right.”

  “You may think so, Brennan, but that’s because you were never married to him and never had to see him, in a public place, being pulled by another woman by the front of his pants —”

  “That again!” I remonstrated.

  “I know it’s a minor everyday occurrence in your life, Collins. But I try to live my life on a higher plane than that, if I can. So such an event, to me, is emblematic of everything that went wrong, and remains wrong, between us.”

  “No. It isn’t. I never looked at another woman the whole time you and I lived together. You’re the one who decided I had to go, when I got stuck working nights and weekends and had to miss that vacation we planned when the kids were small. I was out working my tail off —”

  “I didn’t split up from you because of work. There were other problems.”

  “— working, not picking up women. In fact, even now when guys like Al MacDonald head out to the Twa Corbies for ‘Scotch and Skirts Night,’ as they put it, I don’t go along because I don’t want to be a middle-aged jerk cruising for girls in a bar. All I have to do is think of Normie being in bars a few short years from now. I really am tired of this posturing of yours, whereby you paint me as some kind of woman chaser like these other guys.”

  “Oh, so when this broad came up to you at the Metro Centre and grabbed you by the belt, if indeed it was your belt and not something else, it was a case of mistaken identity, was it? Maybe she doesn’t recognize any of her male acquaintances face to face. Maybe you guys all look alike to her from the waist up.”

  “She was an occasional date. There have been very few women in my life, contrary to what you claim.”

  “Date! Now there’s a euphemism if I ever heard one. That’s like calling Al Capone a tax evader.”

  “He was a tax evader.”

  “And you are trying to evade, or should I say weasel out of, the fact that you and this . . . this tawdry —”

  I was about to counter with Maura’s relationship, whatever it was, with a much younger male companion called Giacomo, but I remembered my earlier resolve: to be conciliatory. And forgiving. I veered on to another topic, without any of the finesse of a law school debater.

  “How about that first trip to Cape Breton?”

  “Are you brain-damaged, Collins? How could you leap to Cape Breton from where our conversation was going?”

  “I don’t blame him,” Burke interrupted. “Let’s hear about Cape Breton.”

  “It must have been after that dinner,” I said.

  “Very soon after.”

  “Right. The dinner went well so I was emboldened to offer her a ride to Cape Breton to see her family. I figured if I could get on their good side it would give me an in with the daughter, who, despite her efforts on my behalf in the kitchen, was playing hard to get. I had told her I loved her but she would not so much as acknowledge that she found me tolerable. So I would go along, impress the family, and then she’d see what a great catch I was.”

  “Went like clockwork, did it?”

  “How did you know? I had just bought a car and I wanted to take it on a road trip. This was going to be ideal. I got it all tuned up the day before. I went for a haircut. Bought some treats for the drive. I was to pick her up at nine in the morning. I went home for an early night, to get lots of sleep so I’d be sharp next day. But then some guys called to say they were having a midnight hockey game; they’d rented ice time at the Forum. Did I want to play? Well . . . maybe just the first period. So I went to play hockey. There was alcohol involved. Near the end of the second period I got checked into the boards and broke my left tibia and thought I was going to lose one of my front teeth. I ended up in emergency at the Victoria General, and had to wait for hours to get my leg set. I was in agony and half-corked. The tooth was loose. The hours ticked away. I begged them to get it done, and to get somebody to save my tooth.

  “I won’t get into it all. It was nine-thirty in the morning before I got out of the hospital. I needed a shower and a shave. but if I went home for that, I’d be even later. I was nearly crying by the time I got into my car. Then I realized I couldn’t use the clutch with my leg in the cast. I lurched along in the car and somehow made it to her place. Got out and hobbled to her door. She looked at me as if I were a bug that had just crawled out of her salad. I tried to smile at her but I kept my tongue over my loose tooth and, well, it just went downhill from there. She lit into me for being late, for being hungover, unreliable, and irresponsible. I told her I had to go home first to clean up, and she said we either got going right then or forget it. I insisted on shaving at her place, with her rusty razor, so I had cuts all over my face along with everything else. Then I had a shower with the cast on, and fell in the tub. I feel as if I’m living through it again. When we finally got going, she had to drive, but she wasn’t used to a standard shift, so she kept stalling the car. I was afraid she’d strip the gears. I barked at her about it, and she barked back. It took eight fucking hours to get to Cape Breton. Since I hadn’t eaten, I was feeling increasingly sick and at one point had to ask her to pull over so I could throw up at the side of the road. At least I still had my tooth. Anyway that’s how I presented myself to her family.”

  “My relatives were damned impressed. ‘Oh, you’ve done well for yourself there, Maura. You went all the way to Halifax for the likes of that? You could have got something like that over in Reserve Mines, saved yourself the time and expense.’”

  “And yet, you ended up at the altar.”

  “Yeah,” she said, not without a spark of humour. “I wonder if we can sue the priest. Have you ever been named a defendant in a sacrament-gone-wrong lawsuit, Father Burke?”

  “But, when you look at it,” I suggested, “if we made it through that day, surely we can —”

  “Go home, Collins, I’m tired.”

  “Oh. Uh, you don’t happen to know where I can score a box of Ganong’s dark chocolates at this time of night, do you, sweetheart?”

  “Go! Do I have to scream it into the side of your head? Go home. Normie! Come down and say good-night to your dad. He’s leaving.”

  Burke and I stood in the front hall waiting for Normie to say goodbye.

  “So, Brennan, the bachelor life must be looking pretty good tonight, eh?”

  “It has its blessings. What’s this?” He picked up a postcard of the Roman Colosseum from the little table in the hall. “Someone you know is visiting the Eternal City?”

  “I don’t know who it’s from. It arrived in the mail at the office this morning. Take a look at the message — the sender says ‘Ask.’ Took the trouble to use a calligraphy pen by the look of it, but just wrote the one word.”

  “Ask what?”

  “I can only assume it’s from the plaintiffs in a lawsuit over the shoddy construction of their condominium. We’re defending the contractor who built it. But why send it to me? Maybe they think their lawyer’s pleadings weren’t eloquent enough. They’re either saying: ‘It should have been built to last two thousand years,’ or: ‘It’s a ruin.’ I don’t know. ‘Ask’? I don’t have to. I’ve seen the place. If we can’t pin it on somebody else, we’d better cut our losses and settle. Anyway, I brought it over for Normie; she’s studying Rome in school. I forgot to give it to her.”

  Brennan stared at the postcard. “Next time I go to Rome you’ll
have to come with me. Ever been there?”

  “I had a short visit there. Too short. You lived there for what, three or four years?”

  “Four, when I was studying at the Greg and the Angelicum.”

  “Those are the Pontifical something or other?”

  “Pontifical Gregorian University, Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas. Thomas is called the Angelic Doctor; hence, the Angelicum.”

  “Sounds lofty.”

  “We’ll go over some time, and I’ll show you around.” He replaced the postcard on the hall table. “Is there a club called the Colosseum here in Halifax?”

  “No.”

  “Was there ever such a place?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Or a sports stadium?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m thinking of a fellow I know who sleeps rough. Have you ever run across the Gladiator in court circles?”

  “The Gladiator?”

  “This homeless fellow. He sleeps in the park across from the Hotel Nova Scotian. Comes to the rectory once in a while for a bite to eat. Calls himself the Gladiator.”

  “No — I’ve had guys who think they’re being monitored by aliens, or the KGB, or the CIA, but I’ve never had anyone from Roman times.”

  “There but for the grace of God go you and I. Anyway, he performed or fought — it’s never the same story — at the Colosseum. Says he can take me there but then he gives me a sly look and says I wouldn’t like it. I got the impression he was talking about a place here in the city.”

  “Nope. It may be real to him but not to the rest of us. Here’s the little chef. Good night, angel. See you soon.”

  Brennan and I took our leave and went our separate ways.

  †

  I finished a chambers application at the Supreme Court building the next morning, then stood in front of the windows chatting with one of the other lawyers on the case, Glen Crocker. I peered through the gloom and saw what looked like a fellow barrister leaping about the plaza in front of the Law Courts. “Is that Al MacDonald doing a step dance out there on the pavement?”

  Glen joined me at the window.

  “Probably.”

  Another lawyer became visible in the fog. He machine-gunned MacDonald in the manner of a hot-dog hockey player who had just scored the winning goal against the Russians; then they high-fived each other and made “We’re number one” gestures to a non-existent TV camera.

  “What’s that all about?” I asked.

  “Big bucks, that’s what it’s about. Remember the humongous development project that was halted out there on Highway 103? Well, it’s on again. Shopping centre, office tower, condos.”

  “But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Weren’t they practically building a small city?”

  “Right. The consortium designed an entire community, not just a strip mall with some shoddy housing nearby. They were making a genuine effort to do it right. The part closest to the water, out on the point and along the ocean, would be residential. The commercial stuff would be closer to the highway. It was all supposed to blend in.”

  “Yeah, I heard they were ambitious. They wanted houses, shops, parks, trees, a school, doctors, dentists, a city square, everything within walking distance. The people would live and work in the neighbourhood. They wouldn’t have to commute to the city to work.”

  “Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But it used to be the norm.”

  “Thought I might move out there myself,” Glen said. “Where you’ve got people and businesses, you need lawyers! The biggest thing was that a couple of federal and provincial departments were going to relocate there. A government building. Jobs leaving downtown and going out to Bromley Point.”

  “That was the name — I’d forgotten. But did it ever got off the drafting table?”

  “Oh, it got a lot farther than that. Then it came to a screeching halt. And I do remember the screeching. They were crying in their Corona at Wigginstaff’s. The project was halted because of environmental concerns, land-use problems — there was probably an old Indian burial ground to top it all off. Anyway, as I’m sure you know, it’s been on hold for six years while a whole tangle of legal issues wound their way through the courts. Supreme Court of Canada heard it, sent it back here. Our court just gave it the go-ahead with some modifications.”

  “So we’ve got a big development that’s going ahead, after years of delay. You’re right: big bucks for somebody,” I remarked.

  “Yep. MacDonald and company, and a few other firms, stand to make a pile. Some lawyers worked on it and never saw a cent; now they will. Money that’s been held in trust, earning interest, is about to be released. It’s been a long wait for some of them. You’re obviously not in on it, so don’t go near Wigginstaff’s tonight. I hear there’s a big party planned. Poor old Albert Farris never lived to see it; guess his partners will reap the benefits.”

  “I never knew Albert.”

  “You must have known Dice Campbell. His ghost will be hovering over the gathering tonight. Old Dice loved a party!”

  “Dice was involved?”

  “Oh, yeah. Big winnings for him if he’d stuck around. Poor bastard.”

  “Is that right. Who took over Dice’s files when he died, do you know?”

  “Jamie McVicar.”

  †

  Jamie McVicar and I had gone to law school together. When I returned to the office I gave him a call and asked him whether I could go through Dice Campbell’s files. I told McVicar about the Luger P-08, which suggested a connection between the Campbell suicide and the putative murder-suicide of Leaman and Scott. I didn’t mention what I had just heard about Campbell and the Bromley Point development. McVicar told me to come right over.

  As I was leaving, though, I saw someone wheeling our television and VCR into the boardroom, and that reminded me I had not yet retrieved the Netherlands Liberation video I had lent to Bill Groves. So I took a detour over to Camp Hill to pick it up. I didn’t recognize the man in Bill’s room. When I tracked down a nurse, she told me Bill had died early in the week.

  “I’m sorry. You didn’t know? Are you a relative?”

  “No. I just met Bill a few days ago.” But I felt the loss all the same. The nurse found the video for me, and I decided the least I could do in memory of Bill was watch the film about Canadian soldiers in Holland. I put it on my dashboard to take home that night, and continued on to McVicar’s law office.

  Jamie led me to a boardroom, where he had stacked the dusty boxes containing Dice’s files. A cup of coffee, a pen and a notepad were in place on the table. I thanked him, and got to work. With even a cursory review of the files, in chronological order, you could plot the rise and fall of Dice Campbell on a graph. He started with the usual storefront practice: low-end property transactions, wills, divorces, a bit of commercial work. And he was obviously well-regarded in the profession. Rowan Stratton had sent some work his way. Even the lordly John Trevelyan had selected Campbell for a little job, namely to amend a lease, write to the Canada Pension office, and prepare a will, all for a woman named Matilda Lonergan. If Mrs. Lonergan had been in a nursing home, Trevelyan’s hourly rate for the trip out to see her would have been three times the fee he could decently charge her for the work. No wonder he handed it off to a younger, cheaper lawyer. I flipped to the last page of the will, which was a list enumerating every teacup, china poodle, and knickknack the old lady owned. The lease was for a duplex she owned in a rundown area of central Halifax. But it was not long before things began looking up for Dice. I saw that one of the largest insurance companies in the city had directed a healthy portion of its defence work his way. He began to get more and more criminal work as the years went by. I found the correspondence file relating to a large and complicated drug trafficking trial he and Ed Johnson had worked on for over a year; they represented two of the five accused men. Ed told me he and Dice had done some cases together. I didn’t recall hear
ing anything in particular about this one, but no doubt there was a story; Dice’s performances in the courtroom were still the subject of boozy reminiscences in the legal fraternity.

  I moved on to duller things. Agreements of purchase and sale, mortgages, minute books for small companies, file folders with sheets of handwritten notes attached. One caught my eye because I recognized the name Debbie Schwartz, a highly regarded psychologist I called upon from time to time to assist my clients. Had Dice used Debbie’s services too? I didn’t learn much from his note: “Asked Debbie Schwartz re: fruitcake from DT; yukked about house call, says don’t pay him time & 1/2 or might come back! Name familiar but doesn’t know him; suggests try again, call Drug Dependency.” Aside from the drug reference, the note was obscure, and I put it back in the file.

  Dice kept a file of press clippings. Some were about his courtroom triumphs. Others seemed to be cases Dice found interesting. One stood out because of the unusual weapon involved, a food blender. The kid, whose identity was protected by the Young Offenders Act, had been sentenced to three months in jail for assaulting one of the workers at the group home where he was residing at the time. I imagined sharp blades whirling, and I pushed the thought from my mind. It was a Legal Aid case, and I noted that even the kid’s mother did not show up to support him. The judge gave her a blast in absentia.

  The deterioration in Dice Campbell’s law practice seemed to coincide with his increasing involvement in criminal work. But there was nothing in his files to suggest this was anything more than coincidence. The papers showed unreturned phone calls, missed appointments and even court dates, and escalating harassment from clients, fellow lawyers, and courthouse staff.

  Among the papers Jamie McVicar had given me were Campbell’s account books. I dug them out and took a quick look at the books reflecting the latter years of his practice. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except declining revenues. Nothing to suggest improper dealings with his trust accounts, which can lead to a lawyer being disbarred. But I couldn’t be sure. I was not an accountant.