Old Scores

by Scott Mackay

  He scanned through the many inches of column. He learned that in the 1990s, Boyd had expanded his business beyond the rock and pop arena to include classical and jazz acts, and also things as diverse as monster-truck rallies and bikini contests. The feature mainly focused on his rock and pop days, though. Several photos accompanied the article.

  Here was a picture of Boyd standing outside Maple Leaf Gardens with rockers Steve Tyler and Joe Perry of the Boston mega-band Aerosmith. Here was another from the 1970s with members of the Diodes, Canada’s top New Wave band, outside the legendary El Mocombo rock club. Another showed Boyd with reggae god Bob Marley. Standing with them was Daniel Lynn, Bob Marley’s countryman and Boyd’s lawyer. A final photograph showed Boyd as the quintessential hippy standing onstage at Woodstock in 1969—he could have been that freak who had warned all those flower children about the bad brown acid that had been floating around.

  Sidebarred to the left was Ronald Roffey’s follow-up: INVESTIGATION STALLED AS POLICE CONTINUE TO SUSPECT FOUL PLAY.

  “For the love of…” He gave the paper a whack with the back of his hand.

  Regina turned from the stove. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Roffey’s screwing us again,” he told her.

  She came over and had a look at all the photographs of Glen Boyd. She grew still. She raised her hand to her mouth, then returned to the stove.

  He stared at her.

  “Reggie?” he said.

  She flipped a pancake. She did not, would not, turn to him. He put the paper down, got up, and went over. He put his hands on her shoulders and peered around her hair. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He tried to live it down. It was okay. He was in his kitchen. He was with his wife. And Boyd was now dead.

  “I’m sorry about Boyd,” he said.

  She nodded, but still took a few moments to get herself together. “This is so damn silly,” she said.

  She grabbed a paper towel from the vertical dispenser on the counter, dabbed her eyes, and wiped her nose.

  “You loved the guy,” he said.

  “I know…I know…but I love you now.” She poked one of the pancakes with the spatula. “It’s just…such a waste. Why would anybody want to kill him?” Gilbert wasn’t about to make matters worse by going into the details of his investigation, how Boyd had a lot of enemies. “He was too young,” she said. “And…he…he should have married someone… someone who would have knocked some common sense into him.”

  “He had his chance with you,” he said. “He should have recognized it as a golden opportunity.”

  She turned to him swiftly and put her hand on his cheek. “Barry…he never had a chance. Never. Never.”

  She kissed him on the lips. He slipped his arms around her. It quickly turned into a movie kiss, the big romantic kind, and just as he was thinking they were going to have to go “read in bed” while the girls watched TV, Jennifer walked in.

  “Do you guys have to do that in the kitchen?” she asked. “It’s not pretty, you know. People over fifty should be arrested for stuff like that.”

  Gilbert frowned. “You won’t feel that way when you’re fifty,” he said.

  “Mom, are you crying?”

  “Allergies,” said Regina. “They’re driving me nuts. I have to get Dr. MacPherson to give me something stronger than Allegra.”

  The telephone rang. Gilbert picked it up, and, speak of the devil, who should it be but Dr. MacPherson himself.

  “We got the results back from Nina’s first test,” said the doctor.

  Gilbert’s hand tightened like a vise around the receiver. “And?” he said.

  “They’re negative,” said the doctor.

  “Negative?” said Gilbert, the word leaping from his mouth.

  He covered the receiver with his hand. “Nina’s first test is negative.”

  Regina dropped the spatula, raised her hand to her mouth yet again, and sat down in the nearest chair, her eyes once more filling with tears. Jennifer jumped up and down, bouncing, bouncing, and bouncing in silent glee.

  “So that’s the first hurdle then,” Gilbert said to Dr. MacPherson.

  “Yes. Let’s not get too excited yet, though. It’s definitely good news. But as I told you before, the rate at which people develop the HIV antibodies varies. Maybe she just doesn’t have enough of them in her system yet to trigger the test. We’ll get her tested…when did you say you were going to the cottage?”

  “Actually, that’s changed,” said Gilbert. “We’re now going up the second week of July instead of the first week.”

  “Then let’s get her tested the first week of July. That’s…Tuesday the third. The lab is open till seven o’clock on Tuesday nights. It should be convenient for you if you’re working that day.”

  When Gilbert hung up, he put his hand on Regina’s shoulder. “I guess we should go tell her,” he said.

  “Maybe she’s still sleeping,” said Regina.

  “No, she’s lying in bed listening to her Discman,” Jennifer informed them.

  Father, mother, and daughter climbed the stairs. Nina’s door was partially closed. Gilbert pushed it open with a gentle shove.

  Nina was sitting in bed, knees up, listening to her Discman—Shakira, it sounded like—and flipping through the most recent issue of Cosmopolitan magazine, a magazine she now subscribed to. She looked up and grew still. She took off her earphones.

  “What?” she said.

  “Dr. MacPherson called,” he said.

  She tensed. “So what’s the verdict?” she said.

  “You’re negative,” he said.

  She flopped back in bed, overcome with relief. He hated to see this. He felt like crying, that’s how much he hated to see it, that his daughter should have to live through this much fear, the greatest fear of all, the fear of death, at such a young age. Regina came in behind him. Nina got out of bed, went straight to her mother, and grabbed her as if for dear life.

  “We’ll beat this thing, honey,” said Regina. “You just watch.”

  Nina then turned to Gilbert with wide eyes. She went to him. She put her arms around him and pressed her face tightly to his chest.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  “Hi, Nina.”

  They would sail through the next test with flying colors. And if he didn’t find out about Vashti or Mike Topalovich’s other partners before the third test, they would sail through that one, too.

  And all this would be just a brief horror show that Nina would someday forget.

  That same evening, he watched MuchMusic with Nina. Phil Thompson was on, live from the Hard Rock Café in New York City, a release party for Phil’s new solo CD, Phil Thompson Unplugged, a lavish affair sprung for by, yes, Geffen Records.

  “Can you tell me a little about your new CD?” asked the veejay. “What makes it so different from Livin’ with Her Mama, your first solo effort, or any other Mother Courage record?”

  Phil shrugged. “It’s unplugged,” he said.

  “Yes, right, but the actual music.”

  Phil thought about it. His long hair, parted in the middle, framed his narrow face.

  “This is material I’ve been working on for the last ten years,” he finally said. “I’ve taken some chances with this stuff. It’s not the old Mother Courage stadium rock. I’ve been working on my vocals, trying to expand my range, and to individualize my stylings. I’ve been training with a vocal coach for the past five years. I feel confident about my own singing on this album. Much more than I did on Livin’ with Her Mama. And the musicians I worked with on this album are second to none. They contributed a lot.”

  “So what’s up next for you?” asked the veejay. “Any plans for a tour?”

  “Yes,” said Phil. “I’ll be flying back to Toronto on Monday for more rehearsals. Then we’ll be taking it on the road for a twelve-city tour. If ticket sales are strong we’ll add another ten dates.”

  A little more blah, blah, blah, and the veejay let Phil go.

>   “Party on,” the veejay told Phil.

  Phil grinned, but it was a perplexed grin, as if he wondered why the veejay wasn’t giving him more airtime.

  “Thank you,” he said, and turned away, narrowly dodging a tray of drinks a waiter carried by.

  At least Gilbert now knew why Phil hadn’t returned his calls. He’d been in New York all week.

  The church, a small one, stood half-hidden behind three blue spruce trees on a tiny street in Moore Park. Phil Thompson lived in this church. The church was now renovated and converted into his residence.

  Gilbert sat in his unmarked car on Monday afternoon outside Phil’s unusual domicile. He waited for Phil to come home from the airport. Phil’s home still looked like a church, despite the renovation, and had probably served a small parish back in the 1880s before the city had encroached this far north.

  Even though Gilbert had the air-conditioning in his car on full, it wasn’t doing much good—he felt the heat right through the car’s metal body. He also felt tired. These days, it got to be two or three o’clock in the afternoon—like it was now—and he felt like having a nap. He closed his eyes. That was better. He knew he was slowly turning into an old man.

  He woke with a start fifteen minutes later as he heard a car door slam outside. He opened his eyes and saw an airport limousine parked in front of the converted church.

  The driver, in a chauffeur’s uniform, opened the trunk and lifted a suitcase out for Phil Thompson. Phil Thompson stood at the curb fishing money out of his wallet.

  Here was yet another famous person, perhaps the most famous Mother Courage band member of all. He was tall, six-and-a-half feet, as skinny as a lamppost, and still wore his dark hair long, down to his shoulders, and parted in the middle. He had a Jesus-like beard and wore expensive Ray-Bans. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, a white shirt, and a Western-style string tie.

  Phil paid the driver, lifted his suitcase, and headed up the walkway, disappearing behind the trio of blue spruces. The airport limousine drove off, swirling the dried maple fruit all over the road. Gilbert waited a few minutes, then got out of his car and approached the church.

  He followed the walkway up through the spruce trees and around to the side of the church, where he found an oaken door, lancet shaped. He climbed the broad stone steps and rang the doorbell.

  A moment later Phil Thompson peered through the long narrow window next to the door. The guitarist opened the door. Gilbert pulled out his badge and ID.

  “Philip Thompson?” he said.

  “Yes?” said the musician.

  “I’m Detective-Sergeant Barry Gilbert of Metro Homicide. I’m investigating the death of Glen Boyd. Could you answer a few questions for me?”

  Phil paused, not long, only a second, but Gilbert’s feelers automatically went up. Then, in an instant, Phil turned into a perfect gentleman, and a solicitous grin came to his face. He swept his arm in greeting toward the interior of the church.

  “Sure,” he said. “Come on in. It’s hot out here. Come into the cool.”

  Gilbert followed Phil inside. Obviously Phil didn’t remember him at all from the many backstage passes Michelle Morrison had given Gilbert and Regina way back when, and, as with Ted Aver, that was just as well.

  They went into the sanctuary, now a huge rehearsal space. The peaked ceiling rose thirty feet in the air, was paneled with cedar, and had three ceiling fans spaced evenly along its length. Two guitars, drums, a bass, keyboards, a double bass, a mandolin, a banjo, a steel guitar, and a saxophone lay scattered about on various stands amid numerous amplifiers, mixers, and other recording equipment. The legendary brand names asserted themselves: Fender, Marshall, Zildjian, Ludwig, Gibson, and Selmer.

  “Have a seat,” said Phil. “‘I’ll get you a cold drink. On a day like this, you could probably use one.”

  “A Coke would be great,” said Gilbert. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  Phil retreated through what had once been the transept door, now just an open archway drywalled over, painted pale olive.

  Gilbert glanced around as he waited.

  Like Glen Boyd, Phil Thompson also had a vanity wall. The wall was filled with photographs, gold records, and platinum records, all in neat black frames. He walked over to the wall and had a look at the photographs.

  One showed Phil with his arm around Stacy Todd somewhere up in the French Alps. Another showed a teenaged Phil Thompson in a Vancouver record store having Jimi Hendrix sign a copy of Electric Lady Land for him. One captured Phil jamming with Jeff Beck at Guitar Summit ’99. Another shot had Phil walking hand in hand with Stacy Todd along a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, possibly Jamaica, his long hair in dreadlocks. Did Phil have a thing for Stacy Todd then? Or were they just friends?

  Phil came back to the sanctuary with a couple of canned Cokes.

  “That’s my ‘History at a Glance’ wall,” he said, giving a Coke to Gilbert.

  “I didn’t realize you had so many gold and platinum records.”

  “All our albums made it to gold. Two actually made it to double platinum.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Thanks. You were a fan?”

  Gilbert grinned. “I still am.”

  Phil nodded. “It’s appreciated.” He sat in a rattan chair and opened his own Coke. “Now…about Glen Boyd. I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m totally bagged. I’ve really got to get some sleep.”

  “Okay, sure.” Gilbert glanced at some sheets of paper on the table, scrawled with writing, all of it illegible, but looking as if it were in verse form. Lyrics? “We’ve been digging around.” The faint breeze from the ceiling fans cooled his forehead. “We’ve been talking to a few people.” He now looked at the stained-glass window at the end of the sanctuary—a blue, white, and green Lady-of-the-Lake affair, with a young woman in a flowing gown stepping off a small boat into some reeds. “Shaking loose whatever there is to shake loose.” He took a sip of his Coke, put it on the table, and arched his back, easing the ache from his long sit in the car. “And we’ve learned that you and Glen Boyd…over the past number of years…well, ever since Palo Alto, as a matter of fact…that you haven’t exactly been on the best possible terms with each other. We also have a restraining order on file.”

  Again, the hesitation. But there was nothing suspicious about the hesitation this time. He could tell Phil was tired. Answering a cop’s questions at this point was more of a chore, something he had to get through before he could carry himself off to bed.

  “Let me put it this way, Detective Gilbert,” he said, his voice quiet, polite. “Glen wrecked my band, the only thing I ever loved. Then he gypped me out of my life savings by blowing it all on high-risk stock. Under those circumstances, no, we’re not on the best terms. As for that restraining order, yes, I uttered threats, I lost my temper, I blew up. When people lose their tempers, they say things they don’t mean. I’m generally a civilized man. I don’t lose my temper often. But that time I did. And I regret it. I apologized profusely to Glen. But Glen got dramatic about it, like he does about everything, and had Danny Lynn file that restraining order for him. It was more to make a point. That’s fine. Glen’s allowed his tantrum. As to the instructions of that restraining order, I’ve obeyed them to the letter. I haven’t been anywhere near GBIA since February.” Phil glanced at a scythe leaning against the grand piano, an odd implement to have hanging about the rehearsal space. “If you ask me, Glen needs hundreds of restraining orders. Not just one. He should sandbag GBIA with them. He should entrench himself like the Kaiser’s army with them.”

  “And why’s that?” asked Gilbert.

  “Because he’s got hundreds of enemies,” said Phil. “I’m not the only one.”

  The guitarist leaned back in his rattan chair. He looked to one side, his face slack, his eyes narrowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing a time or two.

  “I rather suspected it wasn’t just you,” said Gilbert.

  “No,”
said Phil. “Let me tell you the way it works. Glen makes money out of people’s dreams. That’s his business. He takes the dreams of young musicians and turns them into money. He looks for a kill, and gleans the best scraps for himself. I blame myself for trusting Glen with my dreams. But he was trendy at the time. He had a high profile. If you were on Glen’s list, at least back in those days, you were a name. Not anymore. Now it’s dog shows and circus acts for Glen.”

  “The article in the paper this weekend mentioned that,” said Gilbert.

  “I know,” said Phil. “I read that article. Back in the seventies it was just bands. Talk to Ian Mackay of the Diodes. Or John Fleck of The Zap. Some of these bands were so badly gypped by Glen, they had to fold, just like Mother Courage did. Bye-bye to all their dreams. He gypped the Kyoto String Quartet. He gypped the Lights of Italy Bikini Contest. He even gypped the St. Vladimir Ukrainian Boys’ Choir. He nickeled and dimed them to death. He circles and circles, like a vulture, waiting for the best rip-off he can find. And the dreams of his clients be damned.”

  Gilbert took down the names of these other bands and organizations.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” he said. “I understand he wasn’t a particularly ethical businessman. I suspected as much. But I have to narrow things down. That’s why I’m here. To eliminate possibilities. In particular, the possibility of Phil Thompson as a suspect.”

  “I understand,” said Phil. “The minute I heard he got killed, I knew someone would knock on my door. The restraining order more or less guaranteed that.”

  “I have to check it out,” said Gilbert. “Sorry.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “So on to the usual questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll start with alibi,” said Gilbert. “In fact, we’ll finish with alibi, too. I can see you’re tired, and alibi is all I’m really interested in right now.”

  A line came to Phil’s forehead. “So…when was it? Last Saturday?” He nodded. “Right. Last Saturday I was on a plane to New York.”