by Howard Engel
“What’s all this?” he said with another look at me. His voice had a slight Mersey twang in it. Were the Beatles still a major influence today? “Dad, is it your birthday or something?”
“It’s a friend of Jack Dowden, Rory. This here is Mr. Cooperman. We’ll be finished in a minute.”
“Glad to meet you, Rory,” I said, holding out my hand, half-getting out of my seat. Rory didn’t see it.
“It’s getting on time for ‘People’s Court,’ Dad.”
“You got a set upstairs.”
“Ah, come on! I like it in colour. Give us a break!” I moved from half-way out of the chair to fully upright. Rory was bigger than me by three inches. I thought, maybe he’ll have back trouble in middle age. I made my way to the front door, thanking O’Mara for his help. Dora came to see me off the property too. Rory turned the TV set on and I heard the familiar theme music.
“Mr. Cooperman,” O’Mara called after me, “don’t get me in shit with the company, you hear? I got responsibilities?”
“You didn’t tell me anything. You never said a word.”
I heard the door close behind me, and I made my way along the sidewalk to the driveway and down to the car. I wondered what it was that Rory was practising. I couldn’t come up with an image that was foul enough.
NINE
The information I’d just heard from Brian O’Mara had nearly knocked me over onto the checkerboard coffee-table, scattering the artificial flowers. I had built a career on staying well away from City Hall. City Hall was nothing but bad news to me ever since the time I found the deputy mayor in the undignified position of filling his pockets from the public purse. You can bet that the city was full of thanks to Benny Cooperman for pointing out the guilty party. City council never did get around to voting the money for a monument to be erected to my memory, although there were a few aldermen who wished the occasion for a wreath at least would come quick. They say that the ancient Greeks used to kill the messenger who brought bad news. The elected officials of Grantham were still in favour of that treatment where I was concerned. My mother says I’m just sensitive to criticism.
The idea of walking into City Hall asking questions of the appropriate party about the disposal of the city’s waste and the politics that guided the designated contractor, namely Kinross Disposals, filled me with cowardice. I just wanted to go back to Irma Dowden and tell her to forget the whole thing. Maybe I should have done that, but I didn’t. I called Martha Tracy instead.
“M’yes? Who is this?”
“Martha, it’s me.”
“Cooperman, is that you?”
“At your service.”
“Listen, Cooperman, whenever you say you’re at my service, you are trying to get some service out of me. Don’t argue, I know you too well.”
“Martha—”
“I’ve billeted friends of yours—friends who up and leave without saying thanks or even goodbye. You spent a few nights here when the posse was out looking for you and I’ve been called at all hours of the day and night to get you out of trouble. What is it this time?”
“Martha, you are my one true friend in all the world?”
“Sounds serious. You want me to put up a whole hockey team this time? Benny, one day you’ll go too far!”
“Martha! Please!”
“Oh, God, I hate to hear you whine, Cooperman. You are one of the great whiners. You should get a medal.”
“I only want information tonight. Honest, Martha. No billets, no meetings with distinguished forwards or defencemen. Just my undying gratitude.”
“Cooperman, your gratitude will last the night. Your needs will die when you do and your habits don’t lead me to think you’re going to outlive the flower of your generation.”
“I’ll take my thanks beyond the grave, Martha. There’s a crown on high with your name on it.”
“In pawn, I’ll bet and you’ve got the ticket. What is it this time?” She was beginning to unwind. Martha really knew how to use the telephone. With her, it was an art.
“Who is it down at City Hall,” I asked, “who is in charge of handling the city’s waste? You know, garbage, stuff like that?”
“Cooperman, you’re transparent and manipulative. Why don’t you pick up some beer and a pizza—hold the anchovies—and get your little bottom over here? We can settle all this under one roof,” she said, and added archly, “unless the girlfriend has a prior claim.”
“Anna’s not the girlfriend, Martha. Wishes still aren’t horses. I’m on the prowl on my own.”
“Whoopee for us! See you in half an hour. For you, I’ll even put some clothes on.”
“Don’t break the habit of a lifetime for an old pal.”
“Maybe I was in the mood anyway. Bring some real beer, not that play-beer they sell on television.”
“I’ll see what I can find. See you.”
“M’yeah, I guess.” And she was gone.
* * *
An hour later three pieces of uneaten pizza lay congealing in their carton and four of the bottles of ale had been returned empty to their case. Martha had put on slacks and a pink sweater topped off with a round medallion on a chain. She’d even done something new to her hair since I saw her last, but I couldn’t figure out what. Part of the effect of the transformation was spoiled by the fact that she was still wearing bedroom slippers that had probably been around when William Lyon Mackenzie roused the province to rebellion in 1837. With her Churchillian chin, Martha could have outfaced a battalion of rebels or the same number of Tories if it suited her.
I’d met Martha Tracy about ten years ago when I did that investigation into wrongdoing at City Hall. Martha worked in a real-estate firm that was mixed up in the story. She’d been keeping her eyes open around the powers that moved and shook Grantham for many years. Nobody knew Grantham like Martha. She once hinted that the firm she worked for, Scarp Enterprises, kept her on because they couldn’t afford to let what she knew fall into other hands. She didn’t do much around the office any more, but she answered the phone and watered the plants in a way that gave peace of mind to the partners. Her telephone manner was gruff; she tended to discourage triflers.
There’s nothing more burnt-out looking than a cold pizza, is there?”
“Reminds me of lonely birthdays in strange towns. Not mine, but I get that feeling. Another beer?”
“Moved and seconded. Why do you want to know about what the city does with its garbage, Benny?”
“I’m not sure I know yet myself. But if the city’s up to some funny business, I won’t find out by asking questions without knowing the background. If I’m going to stir up a local bees’ nest, I want to know when I’m doing it. It’s easier to stick handle the traffic that way and stay alive. I’m not interested in all of the garbage, just the toxic stuff: PCBs, dioxins and heavy-metal waste.”
“Hey, Benny, you’re pretty good! You must have been reading up on the stuff.”
“Bedtime reading since I got involved,” I said. Martha shook her head in sympathy. But she was right, I was getting better at talking about toxic garbage. But it was still more abstract than real to me. I couldn’t really imagine that stuff leaking from a truck could send me to hospital. In fact, I was dreading my encounter with reality. What form was it going to take? For Martha I tried to look innocent. Maybe I achieved the look of a kid caught cramming before an easy exam.
I opened a beer for Martha, and she poured most of it into the glass in front of her. My own glass was still full. What with my visit to the O’Maras’, I was seeing a lot of beer suddenly. I got back to questioning Martha. First, though, I decided not to light a new cigarette. It was a peculiar feeling.
“Who is in charge of the toxic waste that comes out of the city, Martha?”
“The head man is Paul Renner, director of sanitation.”
“Is he elected?”
“Not on your life. It’s a paying job and Paul’s been in it for four or five years. As director he sits as a co
mmissioner along with other non-elected heads of standing departments: roads, parks, finance.”
“Does the city deal with its own waste?”
“No, it does what you and I do: it passes it on to somebody else. In this case it’s a contractor. Kinross, I think. Why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat? You know I can’t stand secrets. Benny!”
“Okay. Okay. Kinross has been doing a lot of dumping, legal and illegal. Some of that is for the city. How much does Paul Renner know about what Kinross does with the toxic stuff it collects?”
“How come you give a damn? What’s in it for you?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, expenses and maybe a broken kneecap if I make the wrong moves. So far I haven’t been moving at all, just asking fool questions. Who controls the money and the hiring of an outfit like Kinross, Martha?”
“The purse-strings of city council are held by the inner circle called the executive committee. The committee picks the contractors to do all sorts of jobs. It’s the old tender process. You know, justice must not only be done but be seen to be done. The director of sanitation has a job to do, he gets a description of the job circulated and contractors put in their bids. The winning bid is often, but not always, the lowest bidder. That’s the way business is done by governments. Doesn’t matter whether you’re a hamlet out in the township or a big outfit like Toronto or the province. Everything has to be seen while the deals are being made. No secret deals.”
“Really?”
“We’re talking theory here, Cooperman. Sure there are small jobs that are below the tender minimum. Sometimes big jobs get chopped up into smaller bites so that they’ll avoid the whole process. But in the case of Kinross …”
“Uh-huh? What’s the scoop on Kinross?”
“As far as the city’s concerned, there isn’t another outfit big enough to take on the city business. Whenever the contract comes up for renewal, there’s not a competent rival putting in a bid. Kinross has Grantham’s business sewn up.”
“What responsibility does Renner take for what Kinross does with its toxic waste? We’ll assume that the sweet-smelling stuff goes into land-fills and regular dumps. What about checking up on Kinross? Is there an inspection setup?”
“As far as I know, the only inspection system is what we get from the media and that Environment Front outfit. Anybody can lodge a complaint.”
“Can you find out when Kinross is coming up for renewal?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard. I do have friends in high places, you know.”
“You’re an amazing woman, Martha.”
“Keep it coming, Cooperman. You know I eat it up.”
“All I want to know is what you left out. What’s the keystone to what you’ve told me?”
“Oh, that’s easy. You know Paul Renner I was telling you about?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s married to the former Adelaide Grier.”
“Give that man a chocolate mouse.”
“You haven’t been doing your research. You’re slacking, Cooperman. Not up to the mark. Adelaide is the older sister of one Caroline Grier Forbes. She’s Ross Forbes sister-in-law!”
I knew I lived in a small town. I knew that in the nature of things there were lots of shortcuts. I knew Pete Staziak from school. Now Pete’s a staff sergeant at Niagara Regional. I never walk up St. Andrew Street without seeing dozens of people I go way back with. So, why was I getting so excited? The Griers, Forbeses and Renners moved in the same exalted circles, that’s all. I couldn’t bring Renner and Forbes to book because of a little nepotism. And which came first, anyway? I’d have to get better information than just a family connection. I can’t remember ever reading about a local story dealing with a conflict of interests. Conflicts of interest were items for national or provincial stories. We all loved them but, of course, nothing like that ever happens around home. We keep our integrity all locked up in a blind trust. That way it won’t spring out and shoot you between the eyes. Nepotism, like charity and incest, begins at home.
I gave her a warm hug before I left and she saw me out onto the porch in her slippers. I looked back along the street and returned her wave.
Before calling it a day, I dropped by my office to see whether anybody was looking for me. The answering service disappointed me as usual. I consoled myself by going through the box of papers I’d borrowed from Irma. It was an old shoebox, held together with three elastic bands. Two of them snapped as I tried to wiggle them free. What is the life-expectancy of a rubber band? About fifteen months, I guess.
Whoever did Jack Dowden’s last tax return had forgotten about or never knew about this box of credit-card receipts. Most of them were from oil companies. Following a paper trail was like old times again. I must have followed hundreds of them when I was in the divorce business. I started putting the flimsies in piles according to oil companies and locations to see what kind of pattern would show through. There were a few fill-ups in distant places like Tarrytown, New York, and Springfield, Massachusetts. There were a couple from as far west as Dryden and Kenora, Ontario. I inspected the bunch from places in Grantham. Nothing odd about them. I used some of the same service stations myself. What surprised me were the receipts from Niagara-on-the-Lake. Niagaraon-the-Lake isn’t on the road to anywhere except Niagara-on-the-Lake. Unless Dowden was meeting a boat, and I doubted that, Niagara was the end of the line. What was the attraction, I wondered.
I was still dreaming over Jack Dowden’s shoebox, when the phone rang. It was too late for business, so I answered hoping for personal. It was Anna, the particular personal caller I was hoping to hear from.
“Hi, Benny. You really work for your money in your racket. It’s late!”
“I’ve been busier. I just got back from Martha Tracy’s.” I filled Anna in on the beer, pizza and conversation. I added: “Martha’s a fan of yours. She thinks I could learn about fish forks from you. What’s to know about fish forks?”
“She still looks out for you, doesn’t she?” Anna said. “As for fish forks, I’m sure Martha knows as much about them as I do. I eat mussels with my fingers,” she said, making slurping sounds. “Hey, Benny, when do you let your operatives make their reports?”
“What do you have, H21? I’ll take it down in invisible ink. No, I’ll have to settle for invisible crayon.”
“I found out that the person looking into the history of Kinross Disposals is the guy who writes about the environment in the Beacon, Alexander Pastor. He’s with Environment Front.”
“I should have guessed.”
“Thanks a lot! Next time you can do your own digging.”
“Sorry, Anna. It’s just that I saw him today for a few minutes. It makes sense that it should have been Alex.”
“What’s my next assignment?”
“Get some sleep. That’s what I’m going to do. All play and no work, you know. We should go to the movies again soon, okay?”
“There’s the weekend.”
“You’ve got that wedding.”
“That’s next weekend! Benny, you never listen. How do you stay in business?”
“That’s part of the secret. Good-night, Anna.”
I hung up and reached for my map of the area. Unfolding it over the desk blotter, I found the village. There was Niagara-on-the-Lake on the way to nowhere for a truck loaded with dioxins and PCBs. No bridge over the mouth of the Niagara River. Was the truck headed up the Niagara Parkway to a favourite dumping place? Was O’Mara going to speed up or retard the time on the floral clock with a watering of choice poisons? The map wasn’t passing on any answers so I pulled out the dictionary instead. I flipped through to the end where the abbreviations were kept. I was worried about the term Alex Pásztory had used on me: AV it was. What was an AV anyway? The dictionary let me down like the map. Unless Alex was talking about paying a visit to the Authorized Version or the Artillery Volunteers. There were some Latin things too but they didn’t fit either. I tried to recapture my form
er line of thought, but Anna’s voice kept running through my head. After another minute, I put the still unlighted cigarette I’d been holding in my mouth back in the package again and turned out the lights.
On my way through the door, the light from the hall hit something white in my mail slot. Another handbill? I reached for it. It was a folded sheet of letter-size paper with a photocopied piece of fancy calligraphy. It was a familiar quotation, I’d seen it a dozen times. It may have been a final examination that calligraphers have to write in order to get their masters’ papers. It began:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence …
The quotation went on and on. The part I’ve quoted had been underlined with red ballpoint. What was going on here? Was this somebody’s idea of a warning for me to keep my mouth shut? Whatever happened to notes made out of letters clipped from newspapers and magazines? If I wasn’t giving way to a persecution mania, I was standing in the way of a very classy type of goon. I shut the door behind me and reflected upon the virtues of silence as I went down the stairs.
TEN
I got up late. I’d been dreaming about Anna, Irma Dowden, Brian O’Mara and me going for a picnic to Niagara-on-the-Lake. We were being followed by an empty picnic hamper. In the end all we could find to eat was fudge. I tried to finish off the dream in the shower, give it a happy ending, but after the first minute of sweet-toothed joy, the dream became a glucose nightmare. The ringing of the telephone, as usual, ended the shower.
“Cooperman. Hello?”
“Benny! I only half-thought I’d find you there. But there was no answer at your office.” It was Teddie Forbes.
“’Morning, Teddie. What time is it?”
