Barrington Street Blues

by Anne Emery

  “And they’re forever asking after you.”

  “I’d love to but I just can’t. I’m behind the eight ball here, and I made a couple of promises to the kids. Say hello to everyone for me. And don’t forget blues night at the Flying Stag when you get back on Monday. It’s a fundraiser for some people whose apartment building caught fire out in Sackville. Remember: never dress up for the Flying Shag. Wear something disposable, just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case of wear and tear happening all of a sudden. Blood spatter, bodily fluids, beer bottles flying across the room, that kind of thing.”

  “Ah. See you there.” On the way out he lifted a couple of CDS from my bookcase.

  “What did you take?”

  “Manon Lescaut and T-Bone Walker.”

  Opera and blues, the two poles of my musical world.

  †

  Monday rolled around, and I was at the Flying Shag with the other members of my blues band, Functus.

  “Where’s Burke?” Ed Johnson was in a state of agitation as we set up our equipment. The place was nearly full, and we were due to go on in half an hour. We had been lifting a few in anticipation, and were starting to feel the effects.

  “He said he’d be here, Ed.”

  “I hope he didn’t get so wasted in New York that he forgot about this.”

  “He’s celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood; I don’t imagine it was a lost weekend.”

  “Never know.”

  “Why are you so worked up about it? You said you’re performing a special number for him. If he’s late, do it later.”

  “Can’t. It’s all set up.”

  Johnson continued to fret until our attention was distracted by a couple sitting a few tables from the stage. The woman had a lined, pug-nosed face and a mass of dyed black curls; she was sobbing and clutching a bright pink teddy bear. A large, sloppy-looking man leaned across the table towards her.

  “Whatsa matter with you?”

  “The children, the children,” she wailed. “I can’t stop thinking about those poor little children.”

  “What children? What are you blubberin’ about?”

  “Those poor little children what died in that apartment fire. I can still see their little faces.”

  “Nobody died in that fire, you dipshit. They’re burned out of their apartments, they lost some stolen goods. This deal tonight is raising money to buy them stuff and put them up for a couple of weeks. So stop that moaning, and get off the sauce.”

  “You fuck off!” the woman roared, and brought her draft glass down on the man’s head. He shot out of his seat and grabbed her by the throat. Johnson and I stepped in to help the waiters break it up. A typical night at the Flying Shag.

  “Here he is!” Johnson announced. “How was N’Yawk, Padre?”

  “It was brilliant. Did I come at a bad time?”

  “Nah, business as usual here. Excuse me for a minute. I have to go out and make some calls.”

  The priest had followed the dress code. He wore an ancient black leather jacket over a T-shirt that said something in Irish.

  “How was it, Brennan?”

  “Lovely. We had the Mass at St. Kieran’s and a reception. Saw a lot of my old cronies, priests I worked with and guys from the sem. They all showed up at the family party that night. Lots of laughs. You’d have enjoyed it. Terry and Patrick patched together a video of my priestly career. Everyone says hello. Bridey said to give you the kiss of peace for her. I’m not going to.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it. Are they lonesome for you?”

  “Who wouldn’t be? But I won’t be moving back there any time soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I have plans here in Halifax.”

  “Plans?”

  “You’ll be hearing a lot more about this later, since you’ll be doing the legal work. But, for now, I can tell you I intend to set up a college, or an institution, for the study of the traditional music of the church. To counteract the schlock that’s being heard in churches today. A counter-reformation, you might say. I tried for years to get a decision on this idea from the archbishop in New York. Now I have the blessing of the archbishop here. I won’t start harping on it tonight. Let’s have a pint of porter and listen to some blues.”

  We did our first set without Johnson. The crowd was into the music so I indulged myself in a longer than usual harp solo on “Blues With A Feeling.” I did the vocals on my favourite Muddy Waters tune, “You Can’t Lose What You Ain’t Never Had,” which closed the set. I sat with Burke and the other band members during the break. Then we heard a commotion at the back door, near the stage. The lights went out, but we could dimly see people garbed in black, stumbling around and uttering the occasional curse. There was silence, then Johnson was centre stage with a spotlight on his face.

  “This isn’t just a regular down and dirty blues night piss-up,” he announced. “This is a special occasion for a very special friend of the band and, if I may say so, friend of the Flying Shag. Let’s all join in congratulating Father Brennan Burke on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination as a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Father Burke, take a bow!” The spotlight lurched around until it found Burke, who half stood and gave a wary nod of his head. “And now, please welcome the Flying Shag ‘Oh Jesus Yes Yes!’ Tabernacle Choir as they join me in a rousing number dedicated to Father Burke. Hit it, sisters!”

  The lights went on, and we saw Johnson backed up by a dozen women in what appeared to be barristers’ black gowns. Half the faces were black; half were white. Some looked vaguely familiar. In true gospel style, he and the women went back and forth, over and over:

  Tell me who’s that writing? John the Revelator!

  Tell me who’s that writing? John the Revelator!

  Tell me who’s that writing? John the Revelator wrote the book of the seven seals!

  The crowd got into the handclapping and swaying and, by about the sixth “who’s that writing,” we were all on our feet. It was an uptempo number with lots of Jesus-shouting at the end, and only someone who was stone deaf could have stayed still for it. One of the women had a spectacular voice, which soared and sparred with Johnson’s throughout. When it was over, the crowd went wild. Burke was stupefied. When he finally snapped out of it he sprinted to the stage to pump Johnson’s hand, and ended up clasping him in a bear hug. Some of the women high-fived the priest and blew him kisses. The crowd demanded an encore; Johnson and his choir were ready with “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.” Burke stayed up with them, clapped and sang along. When it was over and the crowd got back to drinking, the women lined up on stage. In a choreographed move, they tore off their gowns, revealing their street clothes, which ranged from the garish to the barely-there.

  “They’re all yours, Padre, for another —” Johnson checked his watch “— thirty-five minutes. Extra time negotiable, no doubt.”

  All I could think was: how much did it cost Johnson to pay a dozen hookers for an hour off the streets, plus rehearsal time? The women descended on our table, and the waiter came over with a complimentary tray of draft.

  “Brennan! You think we all sinners and we all be goin’ to hell?”

  “Brennan, baby! What happened to that eye? Somebody punk you? Did you try to cop a feel off a nun? Man, don’t mess with those nuns!”

  “Probably a jealous husband, eh, Brennan?”

  “You gonna try and get us off the streets and into church? There was this preacher goin’ around and tryin’ that. But he didn’t look nuthin’ like you.”

  “That wasn’t no preacher, that was a cop! I can give you a half and half outside, Brennan. Special price.”

  “You come outside with me and you’ll be singing Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!”

  “I was Catholic, did you know that, Brennan? Maybe that’s why I’m so good at kneeling at the rail!”

  He took it all in good grace; in fact, he was hav
ing the time of his life. He spent most of his thirty-five minutes talking to the woman with the fabulous voice. I heard her say she had spent ten years singing in the choir of a Baptist church in Preston, an area outside the city. He urged her to take it up again; everybody needs a day off no matter what kind of work they do. But the euphoria couldn’t last. Old rivalries surfaced, and two of the women got into a shouting match. One attacked the other over some real or imagined slight, or maybe an old territorial grievance, and three others joined in. Faces were scratched, shins were kicked, foul imprecations were muttered. Burke, Johnson, and I waded in to break it up.

  I gave the skirmish only half my attention because I had heard the name Wanda in a whispered conversation between two of the women who were hanging back, sharing a smoke. Tuning out all the other confusion, I listened in.

  “So why’s she not back by now?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, think about it. How long do these things go on, these conferences or conventions or whatever the fuck it was? Don’t they only last a weekend or a few days, then everybody goes home and gets the evil eye from their wife and a shot of penicillin?”

  “She didn’t say how long she was going to be up there. Just said she was flying up to Montreal, and he would pay her back for the plane ticket when she got there. Guy told her he’d spring for some new clothes too.”

  “And you’re telling me she knew this guy? Was he a regular or what?”

  “I don’t know. She just said she knew him, or maybe she knew his voice on the phone. Something like that.”

  “You never heard from her again?”

  “No, I never.”

  “How come you didn’t tell anyone?”

  “She didn’t want nobody to know.”

  “Come on, girls, drink up,” Johnson announced. “I got cabs coming for you.”

  They all left eventually, some of them kissing Burke goodbye. I saw him deftly avoid one with an incipient cold sore on her lip. When they were gone, he sat down, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and expelled the smoke towards the ceiling.

  I took Johnson aside: “How the hell did you get them all working together in one room?”

  “Diplomacy, Collins. I’m a people person.”

  “You have abilities I never guessed at. And that’s not even counting your talent for gospel music. But what I really want to know is: how did you pay for it all?”

  “Well, a bunch of them owed me. Free legal services. I called them on it. I got them all together and did some collective bargaining. It wouldn’t do to have one of them find out another one got paid more. Yeah, it cost me a few bucks, but I pulled it off. Can’t quite believe it.”

  I hadn’t even sent Burke a card. I wondered whether Maura might have — then brought myself up short. I no longer had a wife to rely on for the things I was too thoughtless to remember on my own.

  Ed was the undisputed alpha male after his triumph, and rightly so. Burke was all smiles. “I have to call my brother and tell him this. Even if I do wake him up.”

  “Which brother are we talking about? Pat?”

  “Not the shrink. The barfly. Couldn’t you just picture Terry in the middle of this? He’ll be destroyed entirely for missing it.”

  I had met Terry, an airline pilot and raconteur who loved nothing more than sitting on a bar stool telling whopping tales just for the hell of it.

  “Say hello for me, and tell him I can’t take credit for any of it.”

  “I’ll be telling him every one of those girls knew your name.”

  “It’s your name that’s on their lips tonight, Burke.”

  “So be it.”

  †

  I had heard two things of interest at the anniversary celebration and I congratulated myself on staying semi-sober and alert enough to process the information. One, Wanda Pollard was among the missing. Two, it was confirmed that a preacher-cop was trying to get — or lure — people off the streets. I wanted to know more about the circumstances of Warren Tulk’s departure from the police force, so I picked up the phone the next morning and called Phil Riley at HPD. But he was off for the day. I relayed the rumours about Wanda Pollard to the cop on the phone, and left a message for Phil to call me when he got back. Thinking of Phil, and Wanda, brought me back to the first time I had asked about her. I had been talking to Phil somewhere. A charity event, months ago. Kenneth Fanshaw was running it, and I remembered him chatting with Phil. Had Fanshaw overheard me talking about Wanda? There was no way to be sure.

  I picked up the phone again, to call Brennan. But he was out at the Correctional Centre, ministering to the inmates. I settled down to some long-overdue legal work. At the top of the pile was a surveillance report on the plaintiff in a personal injury case. It seemed all the man did after his injury was hang out at one Tim Hortons or another. I was unable to determine whether he was capable of lifting anything heavier than a large double double. Brennan called me back just as I finished reading.

  “Any of your new girlfriends arrested overnight, Brennan?”

  “I didn’t see anyone I recognized.”

  “Get in your car and take a drive around tonight. You’ll see them.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “I’m wondering if you ever got around to looking through the phone book for Warren Tulk’s friend, Sarah Mac-Something, whatever it was.”

  “Yes, I did. I meant to fill you in. I thumbed through the directory and found a couple of Sarahs with surnames beginning with MacL, a considerable number of listings for ‘S. MacL,’ and scads of names in which S was one of the initials. Anyway, disguising my voice and my purpose in ways you would no doubt find amusing, I think I’ve narrowed it down. But there’s a problem.”

  “And that is?”

  “The woman I think we’re after is Sarah MacLeod. She lives in a place called Barss Corner, but there is no street address given in the phone book. It simply gives her name and Barss Corner.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. This place, wherever it is, must be so small they don’t use street addresses. This was the Halifax phone book?”

  “No, it’s in Lunenburg County.”

  “Well! You went beyond the call of duty, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not just a nine-to-fiver, Collins. So, do you know the place?”

  “No, but I can read a map. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get a lead on her once we arrive. Did you call her number?”

  “I did, but she wouldn’t speak to me. I took that as a sign.”

  “What? All the other women you reached talked your ear off? Confessed to you?”

  “No, but none was quite as terse — I like to think mysterious — as Sarah of Barss Corner.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Did you have enough conversation on the phone, or did you hear enough from her that time in Tulk’s shop, to notice whether she had an accent of any kind?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I can’t place it though. I’d say German, but no, that’s not quite it.”

  “Right. A Lunenburg accent. I think we can conclude that her name is not really MacLeod. If her origins are in Lunenburg County, chances are she’s an Ernst or a Kaulbach or some other German name. She may be married to a MacLeod of course. Anyway, we’ll see what we can find out. What time should I pick you up?”

  “Seven?”

  “Good. And bring some Bibles.”

  “Bibles?”

  “The Word of the Lord will be our cover story.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “I’ll explain later. Oh, and wear a suit.”

  It was a spectacular July evening as we headed out along Highway 103 to the south shore. Brennan had several maps on his knees. The first map we tried did not show Barss Corner at all; we had more luck with the second. We turned off at Exit 11 and traversed the countryside on winding roads that often ran along crystalline lakes. I filled Burke in on my plan. Following signs for Barss Corner, we arrived at a service station and pulled in. We straigh
tened our ties and made sure we didn’t have a hair out of place, then went inside to ask directions to Sarah’s place.

  “Well now, I don’t know,” the proprietor said in the German-tinged speech of Lunenburg. The elderly man looked out the window and gave the matter some thought. “If you don’t know Sarah well enough to find her on your own, I wonder why you’re coming to see her at all. I don’t want to be the man to set strangers onto her.”

  “I understand, Mr. . . .” Brennan paused, and the man gave his name as Kaiser.

  Brennan went on in what he no doubt conceived as a rural twang. “We’re from the Bible Society and we just want to present Mrs. MacLeod with what we believe is the most faithful, most accurate translation of the Holy Word yet published in the English language. We could show you if you like. Do you have a few minutes? Brother Montague, open the trunk please!” I did my brother’s bidding. “This will only take up a few minutes of your time, Mr.Kaiser. Starting with Genesis, you will see the amazing clarity the translators used in —”

  “No, no, that’s okay,” Kaiser said quickly. “You gentlemen go on up to Sarah’s. If she wants your Bibles, she’ll say so. If she doesn’t, she’ll say that too.” He looked at me standing there with a Bible in each hand and a smarmy smile on my face. “I sure hope you’ve got more Bibles than that if you’re going to Sarah’s place.”

  “Oh, does she still have a crowd of people around?” Brennan asked.

  “Far as I know. Nobody ever sees them, but everybody knows they’re there.” He gave us directions to the house.

  “Thank you, sir, and may God bless you.”

  Brennan’s right hand moved upwards out of the habit of a lifetime, and I grabbed it. “Come on, Brother. Let’s get on with the Lord’s work, and let this gentleman get on with his own appointed task.”

  We packed our Bibles in the trunk, and got into the car.

  “You nearly blew it there, you old Roman heretic,” I admonished Burke, as I turned on the ignition.

  “Amen, Brother. So, could you understand his dialect enough to find this place of Sarah’s?”

  “I think so.”

  As we were pulling out, I looked over and saw Father Burke making a sign of the cross in the direction of the unseeing Mr. Kaiser. Maybe when you start to bless someone you have to follow through. We made a few wrong turns and nearly lost sight of the road in the dust at one point, but we eventually found ourselves on a narrow rutted track lined with overgrown wild rose bushes, which scratched the car as we rumbled along. We came to a padlocked gate with an ancient intercom system mounted on a post. Fifty metres inside, partly obscured by trees, was a white farmhouse distinguished by the large front dormer known as the “Lunenburg bump.” It looked to me as if there was bullet-proof glass over the windows.