Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  “Ah, for the days when we believed in our clients, eh, Monty?” We shared a laugh.

  “So, is Fanshaw everything Bruce cracks him up to be?” I probed.

  “He’s probably no worse than any other self-made tycoon. Though I know there’s a wrongful dismissal suit against him. Saw the papers in the prothonotary’s office. And he’s not too popular with the contractor who built his house. That wound up in court too, from what I hear. You’ve seen the house, I take it?”

  “No.”

  “Do a drive-by. Or, better still, a sail-by. Best view is from the water. Mad Ludwig’s Castle, the neighbours call it. But don’t blame the builder! It wasn’t his idea. Ken probably drafted the plans himself when he was all coked up. Well, I gotta go and view my retirement property.”

  Chapter 5

  “Pick Me Up On Your Way Down”

  — Harlan Howard

  The next morning, I was working on a malpractice case and losing track of time when the receptionist buzzed my office. “Monty, Mrs. Carter is here for her appointment.”

  “Thanks, Darlene.” I put the phone down and wondered who Mrs. Carter was. I hadn’t recognized the name when I checked my list of appointments. I went out to the reception area where I found a short, heavy woman in light green sweatpants and a matching top. A black nylon windbreaker sought in vain for closure in the front. A patch on her left arm displayed a bowling pin and the name Vonda. Her dark curly hair gave off a metallic glint. I put her age at fifty or a hard-luck forty-five.

  “Mrs. Carter?”

  “You Collins?”

  “I am. Come into my office.” She followed me, wheezing. She was nearly out of breath when we completed the short walk to my door. “Have a seat. What can I do for you, Mrs. Carter?”

  “Nothing,” she said, and pulled an inhaler from her jacket pocket. She took a couple of puffs, then spoke again. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s nothing anybody can do to bring my boy back. All the money in the world can’t bring him back.”

  “Your boy would be . . .”

  “My Corey.” She dropped her head, and I heard the sounds of sobbing.

  “I’m sorry. This would be Corey . . .” I run across a lot of Coreys in my work.

  “My son, Corey Leaman.” She looked up at me, dry-eyed.

  “You’re Corey’s mother?”

  “Who’d ya think I am, the tooth fairy?”

  “No, I just didn’t make the connection. I’m very sorry about your son, Mrs. Carter.” Where had she been all this time? Was she really Corey’s mother? “I’m glad you’ve come in. You’ll be an enormous help in presenting his case. I’d like to see Corey’s school records, find out what sports and activities he was in, that sort of thing. Get a picture of his life before his troubles began.” And you’d better be able to produce something if you want to jump on this bandwagon.

  “I don’t have nuthin’ like that.”

  “No?”

  “I ain’t been into his stuff for years.”

  “His stuff is where?”

  “At my place.”

  “Have you been away?”

  “You might say that.”

  “How long?”

  “Four years.”

  “P4W?”

  “That dump. I wouldn’t put animals in there.”

  The Kingston Prison for Women. What had she done to get sent up there?

  “I haven’t had a minute’s peace since I heard about Corey. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. It’s a shame, a goddamn shame.” She looked away from me and bit down on her lower lip.

  “Is Corey’s father still alive?”

  She shrugged.

  “Would that have been Mr. Leaman?”

  “No, Leaman was my husband. That piece a shit.”

  “I just wondered. No one has come forward to make a claim, except for Corey’s common-law wife and his —”

  “Who? First I heard of it.”

  “Why don’t you give me a few details, Mrs. Carter? Your full name, address, phone number, and then gather up whatever you can find at your place relating to your son.”

  She gave me the details, but her mind was on other things. “Who’s this here girlfriend?”

  “Oh, that can wait for another time. We’ll get everyone together in the office once we have more information from you. When did you first hear of your son’s death?”

  “A while back.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  “I freaked. They had to hold me down!”

  “Did you ever think Corey was someone who would take his own life?”

  A cagey look came into her eyes. “What’re you drivin’ at?” What she meant was: Is there money in it if it’s not a suicide?

  “Did you believe it when you heard it? That it was a suicide?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she equivocated.

  “And that he would shoot another man first, then turn the gun on himself?”

  “Who was this other guy?” And was his family going to split the winnings?

  “His name was Graham Scott. Had Corey ever mentioned him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I understand your son had a long history of drug use and other problems.”

  “He got in with a bad crowd. But nuthin’ woulda happened to him if that detox centre didn’t throw him out on the street.”

  “Had you been in touch with Corey during the years you were in Kingston?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Never, I was willing to bet.

  “Why don’t you go home, see what you can find relating to Corey, papers or whatever you have, and call back for another appointment.”

  She pushed herself up from the chair and got stabilized before commencing the walk to reception. At my office door she turned to face me.

  “These guys have gotta pay for what they done to my boy. So, like, let’s make them pay up front.”

  “There’s not much chance of that, Mrs. Carter.”

  “Why not? I sprained my back a few years ago. Got rear-ended. It still hurts somethin’ terrible. And they paid in advance.”

  “The insurance company made an interim payment.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not going to happen here.”

  She gave me a disgusted look. “Maybe if you were doin’ your job, it would.”

  “No. It wouldn’t. But we’ll discuss the case more fully next time. Bye for now.”

  She lumbered out to the elevator, and I scribbled some notes, then shoved them in the file. I included a reminder to call if I didn’t hear from her in the next couple of days.

  †

  It was Tuesday night, and Ed and I were choirboys again.

  “How’s your hopeless case this week?” he asked, as the young boys clomped up the stairs to take their places in the choir loft.

  “Which one?”

  “Death at the Foreign Ass.”

  “We have a new plaintiff.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Somebody turned up claiming to be Leaman’s mother.”

  “Really. You think she’s on the level?”

  “Could be. Nobody else has come in claiming Corey as a son.”

  “Are we on for the Midtown after this?”

  “Tradition demands it, I should think.”

  Our attention was directed to one of the boy sopranos, who had risen to stand at the railing of the choir loft. Left hand on his heart, right hand flung out to an unseen congregation, he embarked on an oration for the amusement of his fellows. “I, Rrricharrrdd Rrroberrrtson, was rrrecently instrrructed by the Rrreverrrend Brrrennan O’Burrrke to make morrre of an efforrrt to rrroll my Rrrs when singing in the choirrr.” Richard’s performance was greeted by giggles from his fellow students; encouraged, he went on: “To prrrove that I am rrright and Brrrennan is wrrrong, I shall rrrecite Rrrudolph the Rrrednosed Rrrein —” Richard’s voice halted as suddenly as if he h
ad been garrotted. Burke, footsteps unheard on the stairs, stood before us. Poor Richard stood gaping, white-faced, at the choirmaster, who affected to take no notice.

  “Let us pray. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  Richard slipped into his seat, stared down at his clasped hands, and prayed with deathbed fervour.

  “We are going to give a concert. The music will reflect the entire liturgical year and the entire range of music we do, from Gregorian chant to Renaissance to Baroque and Mozart. Over the next couple of weeks I want to see what voices we have for parts of Handel’s Messiah.”

  “Father? Is that the orange book?”

  “You should be assigned the task of writing the concert program, I’m thinking, Kevin. Where was the Messiah first performed, Kevin?”

  “Dublin, Father.”

  “Consider yourself redeemed. Now, I intend to find a balance between the slow, majestic interpretations of the past and the trendy, chirpy ones being produced these days, as if they’re trying to zip through it and get to the bar for last call. As I’m sure you know if you’ve listened to various recordings of this, there are some parts that sound ridiculous — to the point where they lose their meaning — if they’re sung too fast. We’ll try to avoid that, without sounding too ponderous at the other extreme. So. The choruses will be ‘And the Glory of the Lord,’ ‘All We Like Sheep,’ and ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ David and Emmet, I’d like you to try ‘He Shall Feed His Flock.’ I prefer a bass to an alto for ‘Who May Abide.’ Tony?”

  “I’m going to be missing a lot of time, Father. My son’s in hockey.”

  “Ah. How about you, Ed? Would you like to make your solo debut?”

  “I’m not sure what to tell you, Brennan. I’m probably the only guy here who doesn’t know any more of the Messiah than the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’”

  “That’s why Mr. Handel provided us with a score, Edward. Some would say a number of scores but we won’t get into that. So, Johnson, all that will be required of you is to read the notes and sing them to the best of your ability. With my gentle guidance, of course. Rrrichard Rrroberrrtson!” he barked suddenly, causing the little boy to jerk spastically in his seat. “Something tells me you are now ready for ‘I Know That My Rrredeemerrrr Liveth.’ Does that suggestion meet with your approval?”

  “Y-yes, sir. Father.”

  “Good. Make it your own. Now, gentlemen . . .”

  The rehearsal began, and I enjoyed losing myself in the music. It had the power to make me forget the aggravations of the workday. Apparently I was not the only one.

  “I’ve had a hoor of a day,” Burke remarked as we followed the last of the boys down the stairs from the loft. “A pint would go down like liquid gold.”

  “Are you Reverend Burke?” The voice came from the semi-darkness of the nave. Burke didn’t challenge the improper form of address.

  “I am.”

  The woman had a pugnacious face and black hair cut in a severely geometric style. “I’d like a word with you, please. And I warn you, it won’t be pleasant.”

  “Ah. In that case we’d better take it outside.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean: let’s not have any unpleasantness in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.” He nodded towards the altar.

  “I don’t hold with all that.”

  “I do.”

  “Very well.” She turned on her heel and marched from the church, looking back once to make sure Burke was behind her.

  The four of us stood in the parking lot. The woman cast her eye from me to Ed, but we were not about to budge before the scene had played itself out.

  “You don’t seem to recognize me, Reverend.”

  He looked at her intently, then he had it. “Good evening, Mrs. Robertson.”

  “I’ll get right to the point. My son tells me you subjected him to an ethnic slur.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Richard.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what Richard said.”

  “He said you told him that for a Scotchman — the correct term is Scot or Scotsman, by the way — for a Scotchman, he certainly was tongue-tied when it came to the letter R.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the slur?”

  “You engaged in a stereotype based on his ethnic background. As if all Scots speak in the same kind of brogue!”

  “I fail to see what’s got you so vexed, Mrs. Robertson.”

  “Then you are a most insensitive man.”

  “Was Richard upset about this?”

  “He’s too young to understand. He thinks it’s all a big joke. But I don’t. And I have to wonder whether that is why he was not given a solo at last month’s school recital.”

  “Well, he has a solo now.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Reverend. Don’t stand there and say my boy has a solo just to placate me, because I am not that easily placated.”

  “I can see that. I assigned Richard a solo part earlier this evening, after he gave us a lovely recitation of one of the standard works of the secular repertoire. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. Where is he, by the way?”

  “I asked Richard to wait for me in the car.” Burke looked around, trying to spot him. Mrs. Robertson spoke again. “It’s over there, behind the police cruiser and the paddy wagon. Really, this neighbourhood —”

  “The what wagon, Mrs. Robertson?”

  “The paddy wagon. They pulled in just before I —”

  “You mean the wagon they throw all the drunken Paddies in?” She looked at him in growing consternation. He leaned towards her with a confiding manner, and said in a brogue straight from the quays of Dublin: “Sure, we prefer to call it the Patrick wagon.”

  The woman moved uncertainly towards her car. Inside we could see Richard staring out, mortified. The priest gave him a friendly salute. Brennan was nearly grinning as he made his way to the car for our weekly jaunt to the Midtown.

  †

  I decided to make a detour to pick up a Tomaso pizza on my way home from the tavern, so I drove to Young Street and chatted with the guy while he made up my order. On the way down Gottingen Street, the pizza filling the car with the scent of a great feast to come, I had to swerve suddenly to avoid a group of people out in the road. I pulled over and looked back. It was a brawl that had spilled out from Cuzzin Lucy’s, a greasy dive that sought in vain to recreate the days of Cousin Brucie’s, a strip club that had its heyday back when I was in law school. Lucy’s promised “Girls, Girls, Girls!” and “Topless Waitresses!!!” I recalled a cartoon someone had pasted on the bullet-proof window, showing a body without a head or a torso; the lower half of the body was dressed in black with a frilly white apron; a tray of draft was perched on its truncated upper surface. I spotted one of the topless waitresses at the fringe of the mob; she was all there except for the contents of her stomach, which were being violently ejected on the sidewalk. Two police cars came roaring up the street, sirens wailing.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw somebody dart between two buildings across the street from the club. I squinted and saw a woman smoking a cigarette and watching the scene with dead eyes. I thought I recognized her but I hoped not. Candace McCrea had left home at fifteen to live with a boyfriend who — same old story — turned out to be a pimp. She developed a crack habit, went out to work for him, and came to me when she was charged with shoplifting. Her criminal activity expanded along with her drug habit. Finally, when she was arrested for armed robbery committed against a couple of high school girls on their way home from band practice, she was ready to be helped. A co-ordinated effort by her parents, social workers, probation officers, and others in the system culminated in her admission to a residential treatment centre in Ontario. She came out and began studying for a psychology degree at Dalhousie. Everything was fine. Or so I thought. But there she was, loitering across from a strip join
t on Gottingen Street, dressed in a pair of tight white pants and a lowcut black tank top. She looked wasted.

  I pulled up at the curb, leaned over, opened the passenger door. She sauntered over and began her spiel: “You looking for a good —”

  “Get in, Candace.”

  “Mr. Collins!”

  She reluctantly got into the car with me.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Candy?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “It looks as if you’re right back where you started five years ago. You should be sitting in the Dal SUB, eating bad food and moaning about how tough your psych exams were. What happened?”

  “I’m going to start again next year.”

  “How did you end up out here again?” She shrugged. “Where are you staying?”

  “With a friend.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with another boyfriend like the last one.”

  “Just a friend, okay?”

  “You look worn out.”

  “I need a hit.”

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  “I’m all grown up now. Not their problem.”

  “How about something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Not even a slice of pizza?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Timbits and a coffee.” A shrug. I turned right on Cornwallis Street and headed in the direction of the Tim Hortons outlet at Young and Robie, known to aficionados as Headquarters. My companion ordered a large double double and two Boston cream doughnuts. I asked for a small black coffee. I drove up to Needham Park so we could look over the harbour while she ate. I took the opportunity to ask a few questions.

  “Did you ever hear of something, say a club, known as the Colosseum here in the city?”

  She shook her head. “I never heard of it. And if it has a cover charge, I can’t afford it.”

  “I’ve heard that some of the street kids were lured, or enticed, to go to this place.”

  “Okay, so no cover charge.”

  “It wasn’t a nightclub; it was really a group of adults who picked up some of the homeless people and brought them to —”

  “You mean that cop?”

  “What cop?”

  “A guy who used to come around acting religious. He even brought this lady with him — she looked like she ate too much of her homemade bread. Or she worked slinging buns in a bakery all day. I remember she smelled like bread. She must’ve weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, easy. I forgot all about that till now. I used to think of her as the gingerbread lady. You know, that kid’s book, I forget the name of it now. But the girls all knew he was a cop. The street bums probably didn’t know the difference.”