Keeper of the Flame Page 14

“Don’t phone again,” I said. “You’ve made your case as far as I’m concerned.”

  “So what have we got?” Gloria said. “A violent guy who runs strings of women. In my opinion, he needs to be kicked off the street. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “A source tells me Freddie lives in a mansion in the Beach. Does that square with your research?”

  “The Beach isn’t a mansion type of area,” Gloria said, once more hitting her iPad’s keys. “What does your so-called source say about that?”

  “She says it’s in a hilly neighbourhood with a lot of trees.”

  “What I say,” Gloria stopped typing and directed me to the screen, “is Freddie the creep lives in Scarborough, and the house is nice but no mansion.”

  On her iPad, Gloria was showing me a shot of a three-storey detached house, all brick, a garage wide enough to accommodate three cars, no flowers but the lawn green, smooth, and boring.

  “You find that on Google Maps?” I said.

  Gloria nodded. “It’s definitely Freddie’s abode. But the other house you’re speaking of, this so-called mansion in the Beach, Freddie could own it under a corporate name.”

  “The one in Scarborough, that’s the only house listed in Freddie’s name?”

  “Absolutely,” Gloria said. She paused and looked at me. “You’re not doubting me, whether I got the Freddie residence right?”

  “I’m doubting my other source,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Gloria said. “Is the other source super confidential?”

  “Sal Banfield.”

  “Should I know the name?”

  “Maury’s girlfriend.”

  I told Gloria the entire story of Sal, Maury, Franny, the house in the Beach, porn videos, and Freddie the Champ.

  Gloria put her elbows on the desk and dropped her head into her hands. She peered up at me.

  “Crang, honey,” she said, “you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “Get Sal out of Freddie’s clutches.”

  “And the other girl,” Gloria said. “Franny.”

  I devoted a couple of beats to thinking about Gloria’s suggestion.

  “Yeah, get Franny out, too,” I said finally.

  Gloria gave me a hug. If the hug was one of congratulations, I thought it was a lot premature.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was seven in the evening, and I was lying on top of the duvet on Annie’s and my bed, doing my best not to think about Sal and Franny. Or about the Reverend’s murder. I didn’t have a plan, and if I worried too much about formulating one, I’d never come up with a solution. I needed to relax, and let the ideas flow naturally.

  Annie had left five of the Jane Gardam novels on the floor on her side of the bed. Two were library books; the others were actual purchases. Annie got a big kick out of Gardam. Maybe I would too. I began to read the one titled Old Filth. It was set among a group of English lawyers decades earlier who took their legal talents to the Far East. The Filth in Old Filth was short form for this kind of English lawyer: Failed In London Try Hong Kong. One of the Hong Kong lawyers, a character called Edward Feathers, was known by the nickname Filth. Old Filth in his later years. The book was funny, clever, and beautifully written.

  I read the book for a while then I dozed off.

  My iPhone woke me.

  “Hello,” I said, woozily, not feeling organized enough to look at the screen and check who was calling.

  “That you, man? It’s Jerome.”

  “Nobody’d ever mistake your voice for Mickey Mouse’s, Jerome.”

  “I catch you at a bad time, man?”

  “Just musing over my next line of activity. Musing can be enervating, you know.”

  “Well, man, I can save you from some of that,” Jerome said. “Your services are no longer required in the matter of Flame, who has ceased to be your client, effective forthwith.”

  “I’m fired?”

  “Would you please submit your account.”

  “Forthwith?”

  “Imagine so.”

  “Why do I see the fine hand of Roger Carnale in the language of my dismissal?”

  “No doubt because he’s the only person in the organization who hires and fires.”

  “There’s that.”

  “In one way,” Jerome said, “I can see the point in letting you go.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “the guy I was hired to deal with is now permanently out of the picture.”

  “On the other hand, the picture ain’t none too clear.”

  “Are you preparing to convey a particular message, Jerome?”

  “This is something nobody’s ever gonna authorize me to tell you, but since you and me and Annie are now good friends — don’t you think so? — I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

  “Yeah, Jerome, I’d say the three of us have been through a lot together. A big-time book launch, a riot in a hip hop club. Events that bind a relationship. Not to mention you’re chauffeuring my sweetie all over the Big Apple.”

  “The part about me not being authorized to inform you of something, you know what party I’m talking about who ain’t gonna do the authorizing?”

  “Our mutual superior, Roger Carnale,” I said. “But the natural question that springs to mind: What is it Roger doesn’t wish me to know?”

  “There’s another blackmailer doing the same dodge tried by the late Reverend.”

  I let out a long stream of breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. “This person,” I said, “wants money, and if he doesn’t get it, he’s apparently in possession of a copy of Flame’s nasty song lyrics that he’ll go public with?”

  “That’s what Mr. Carnale say to me.”

  “How much does he want, the alleged new extorter?”

  “Eight million.”

  “Everything’s the same as with the Reverend, dearly departed as he is?”

  “Everything’s the same, except one thing.”

  “I can’t wait, Jerome?”

  “He’s been paid his money.”

  “Roger forked over the eight million?” I said. “Just like that, he caved?” My voice was rising in indignation. “No wonder he’s fired me. He didn’t want anybody stepping in the way.”

  “It’s a confounding development, man,” Jerome said. “That’s why I’m spilling the beans, even though Mr. Carnale told me to go silent on you.”

  “Doesn’t make sense, Jerome. None of this adds up. Where did the third set of song sheets come from? There were only supposed to be two of them. And why did Roger deliver instant payment? He made a major fuss over the Reverend’s blackmail, but gets blown over like a house of cards on this second one.”

  “This is all late-breaking developments, you get that, man?”

  “The Reverend’s not been buried in the ground yet, as far as I know, and already a second extorter has made his move, and gone away with eight million of Flame’s money.”

  “No time wasted, man,” Jerome said. “Mr. Carnale only told me a couple hours ago about how it went down. By then, it was what they call a fait accompli.”

  “Is Flame aware he’s just been suckered out of the eight million?”

  “Mr. Carnale spoke to my boy Flame this afternoon. I don’t believe the word ‘suckered’ came into the conversation, but Flame, you know, he believes whatever Mr. Carnale lays out for his consideration. The boy’s always confident it’s all gonna work out in his favour in the end.”

  “Sounds like you discussed this with Flame pretty thoroughly.”

  “For just long enough, man, a few minutes.” Jerome said. “But let me get back to what Mr. Carnale asked me to tell you.”

  “That I go away quietly?”

  “That’s what it boils down to, man.”

  “My answer, in a nutshell, is I i
ntend to find out who killed the Reverend and who squeezed Carnale for the eight million dollars this second time.”

  “You know I’ll have to deliver the message about your intentions, what you’re telling me, to Mr. Carnale?”

  “If you do that, Jerome, Roger’s going to know you’re the one who revealed all to me.”

  “A lot of times, my big mouth gets me in trouble, man, but I’m gonna live with it this time ’round. Maybe something good’ll come out of it. It’s not fair on Flame, man, him losing eight million.”

  “Stir the pot,” I said. “Go to it, Jerome.”

  When Jerome hung up, I went downstairs and made a martini. I had leftovers in the fridge, some takeout noodles with all the Vietnamese extras from a restaurant on Bloor. I sat at the dining room table, looking out at the darkening garden and thinking about the mess of the entire Flame affair. It seemed to me that a connection of some sort probably existed between the Reverend and the second extorter. The Reverend had tossed in the towel in his shot at taking Flame for the eight million. That cost him his life. Then the second guy assumed ownership of the blackmail operation, and scored a big win right out of the box. Ergo, the second guy carried more heft than the Reverend, the kind of heft that might even lead a man to kill somebody.

  My bet was that the second guy was likely Freddie Chamblis. At the very least Freddie made a believable candidate for the role. He had an insider’s track on events through his connection to Heaven’s Philosophers. And killing, as in whacking the Reverend, wasn’t beyond him. Chamblis had already established himself in my mind as an all-round nasty piece of work. Anybody who ran a porn and prostitution operation wouldn’t draw the line at blackmail. Or at murder either.

  I took the leftover noodles out of the fridge, decided against heating them, got a fork, and began to eat the noodles cold and straight from the container. They tasted delicious, aided by a second martini.

  Freddie Chamblis was my choice for villain of the story. But how was I going to build my case against him?

  Little by little. Piece by piece.

  I’d go at this carefully but swiftly, starting next day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The part of Palmerston Avenue I was pointed toward ran north from Dundas a couple of blocks west of Bathurst. It was a pleasant walk from my house to that part of lower Palmerston on a sweet, late-summer morning. I took a route by way of the back streets, slicing through a corner of Kensington Market. Only a few establishments had opened this early in the market’s business day. A couple of Polish butchers and the Italian restaurant with the big picture windows were in business, but not the vintage clothing stores. Kensington Market had been peddling old clothes since long before anybody thought of labelling them vintage.

  I had phoned Flame’s mother first thing in the morning, and now, getting on for 10:30, I stood on the doorstep of her Palmerston Avenue home. It was semi-detached, and had a small open porch with room for three wicker chairs. The lower half of the two-storey house was made of reddish-brown brick, the upper half of wood, which was painted a merry shade of yellow. The wicker chairs on the porch had cushions covered in fabric with stripes of green, mauve, and deep blue, colours that reminded me of the back garden at home on Major.

  The front door was opened by a slim woman with brown skin and a warm smile. She had an easy, natural beauty, telling me in one glance where Flame got his movie star–ready good looks. The woman was Alice Desmond. She pulled the door back all the way, and invited me in.

  “You’re the man hired to help David,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “First time anybody’s mentioned Flame’s real first name,” I said. Ms. Desmond and I were standing in the front hall as we talked.

  “Flame doesn’t really suit David for a name, Mr. Crang,” Ms. Desmond said. “He never gets burned up about anything.” She paused. ”Well, hardly anything.”

  “As I mentioned on the phone, Ms. Desmond,” I said, still in the hall, “I need to find out how the person blackmailing Flame got his hands on the particular song lyrics. Or should I call him David?”

  “David,” Ms. Desmond said. “And call me Alice.”

  “I’m plain Crang.”

  “You like some coffee, Crang?” Alice said. “It’s just been made.”

  She showed me into the living room while she disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. The living room’s walls were plum-coloured. The sofa I sat in was in an off-green shade. In front of it was a coffee table with a stack of magazines that appeared to deal in rap subjects.

  Alice came into the room carrying a wooden tray large enough to hold two mugs of steaming coffee, a bowl of sugar, and a small jug of milk.

  “How do you take your coffee?” Alice said.

  “As it comes.”

  Alice handed me one mug, put two spoonfuls of sugar and a hit of milk in the other. I took a sip of my coffee, and pronounced it very tasty, which it was.

  “I guess what you want,” Alice said, “is some kind of record of who came through the house and when.”

  “You can provide that?”

  “Not quite, but enough to be helpful, the way I figure it.”

  “You figure it how?”

  Alice swallowed some coffee. She made a face, as if the coffee was still too hot for her taste. She placed the cup on the coffee table, and leaned forward, clasping her hands together.

  “You must understand that David shares most of his life with me,” Alice said. “Tells me what’s up with him, especially the parts where he might be worried.”

  “So you’re aware of the two different attempts at blackmail-ing him?”

  Alice nodded. “I think I’m also aware of how you’re proceeding.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, intending to sound like a wise and interested fellow.

  “You’re hoping you can pin down this second blackmailer by working backwards from the stealing of the song sheets out of this house.”

  “You suppose I’ll get anywhere with the idea?”

  “I’m laying all of this out just so I’m sure you and I are on the same page.”

  “One thing I wonder about before we get any further,” I said. “How do you think David came to write the unpleasant lyrics in the first place?”

  “Unpleasant! That’s rich, Crang!” Alice let out a whooping laugh. “How about deeply disturbing?”

  Alice paused long enough for her words to sink in. “But, sure,” she said, “I got a theory. First of all, remember he had just turned sixteen when he wrote the damn things.”

  I nodded.

  “Two years earlier,” Alice said, “his father walked out the door of our apartment, and never came back. He didn’t say a word before he left, and he’s never said a word to either of us to this day. A few months after he was gone, we learned through the grapevine that the man — I’m talking about my husband and David’s father — he was back where he came from, namely Jamaica. He had ditched us, and it was as if his life with his wife and his son didn’t exist and never had. It probably sounds trite to say so, but that’s the motivation David had to write the lyrics. He was very upset about the abandonment and the lack of communication from his father, and all the upset came tumbling out in this one batch of songs.”

  “He showed the lyrics to you early on?”

  “Soon as he wrote them,” Alice said. “I read the lyrics. Right away I told David this was a brilliant use of words, but unless he intended to commit professional suicide, these songs should never be heard or read anywhere beyond the walls of our apartment. For a day or two, David didn’t let out a peep what he thought about my warning. Then he came back to me, saying he agreed with me all the way. That was the last time the subject of the lyrics was ever brought up that I know of until all this trouble descended on us last week.”

  “But you’ve kept the lyrics in a sort of home museum?
”

  “Them and every other piece of paper or vinyl or tape or whatever that touches on David’s career,” Alice said. “What else would I do with the stuff except save it? I’m a proud mother. Unfortunately, as it turns out, this habit of mine, a mania you might say, took in stuff that I ought to have destroyed. But that’s in hindsight.”

  She stood up. “Bring your coffee, Crang. We’re going on a little tour.”

  Alice’s shape, as I followed her up the stairs, could have belonged to a teenager. She was probably in her early fifties, but from the rear I saw no sign of middle-age spread. Her dark grey slacks fit her just right. She had on a plain white T-shirt and a blue-and-grey scarf tied lightly around her neck.

  The second floor was divided into three rooms. The one at the front, large and bright, was the master bedroom. The middle room, with the door closed, must have been Flame’s bedroom, and at the back, we reached the Flame museum collection.

  The only furniture in the room was a pair of armchairs in brown corduroy covering. There was a light brown carpet on the floor. Everything else in the room had some connection to music; stacks of CDs, a couple of retro LPs, magazine photographs of Flame, mostly in full colour, pinned on bulletin boards, and shelves of magazines. Most of the magazines were hip hop magazines that were unknown to me, but I noticed a Maclean’s in the mix, Rolling Stone, Newsweek, and a bunch of other mainstream magazines.

  Against one wall were shelves in rows, running four levels from the floor up. Each group of shelves had a tab with the year marked over it. As the years went on, the notations were broken down to months and dates. I checked the shelves marked 2011 just to get a representative feel for what I was examining. The notations listed documents for three consecutive dates in January, one date in February, four in March, and so on through the entire year. Adding the numbers up told me that 2011 had a total of forty-four entries.

  “In these shelves,” I said to Alice, “you’ve listed the songs that David composed in each month of each year?”

  “Busy little beaver, isn’t he?” Alice said.