Booking In Page 16

  “Talk about Sir Galahad,” Annie said, “you’re going all out to rescue the damsels in distress.”

  “That’s me,” I said, giving a little bow of my head.

  Annie executed a kind of sitting-down curtsy in reply to the bow.

  “So,” I said, “we’re settled that I’ll go cautiously with Meg?”

  “For now?”

  “At the session tomorrow anyway.”

  “Maybe, with a little time, you can somehow straighten out the whole godawful set of situations without letting Meg know her older son has behaved like a first-class rat. I mean, you could get the Hickey letters back to Acey somehow, and the issue of telling all to Meg vanishes like a cloud of mist blowing by.”

  “How poetically you describe the process.” “Is it all a pipe dream?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll vamp with Meg and see how things break.”

  “Done,” Annie said.

  She had a tarte au citron for dessert. I worked on my last half glass of wine. When we were done, I paid the bill, and Annie and I stepped out of the restaurant. I held my right arm around her shoulders, and she kept her left around my waist. We walked in that comfortable arrangement of limbs all the way home.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I got up next morning, I decided to adjust my approach to the Fletcher Marshall circumstances. Maybe, I thought, I should give Fletcher a chance to personally come clean with Meg Grantham. As far as I knew, the guy had been a reasonably law-abiding citizen and probably an honest man for his entire career until the current financial squeeze hit him. Chris Thorne-Wainwright didn’t have anything swell to say about Fletcher, but he didn’t call him an outright crook either. All the women who knew him had an objection to Fletcher, but in every case, the objection was strictly olfactory. They didn’t carp about his brain or personality or even his morals, even if they found his idea of smooching to be annoying. The only person who had little use for Fletcher on those grounds was me. Still, whatever way I felt about him, maybe I should allow Fletcher one last opportunity to tidy up on his own the network of falsehood, subterfuge, and deceit he presently sat in the middle of.

  I told Annie the approach I planned to adopt before I set off from the house on the way to Fletcher’s store.

  “Don’t forget to take the parcel of breath cleansers with you,” she said.

  “As a gift, they might just confuse Fletcher.”

  “Not if you tell him all the women you know go mad for men who use the goods in the bag.”

  “He’ll assume I’m referring to you.”

  “I rest my case,” Annie said.

  She kissed me on the lips, patted my rear end, and sent me on my way. It took twenty minutes to walk down to College. When I arrived at the store, Fletcher was in his office talking to a short, round, thirtyish guy who was holding a flat-screen TV set.

  The office was just beyond the room with the safe and the books that were going out by mail to customers who made purchases on the phone or by computer. Charlie was at work in there. She looked up as I passed and gave me an expression of surprise followed by a winning little smile.

  My visit caught Fletcher off guard too, but he kept himself together and introduced me to the guy with the TV.

  “Crang, meet my upstairs tenant, Ham Carruthers,” Fletcher said.

  “Ah, the architect,” I said.

  “And sometime sleepover guest,” Carruthers said, grinning. He had a nice grin.

  I nodded at the TV. “Which way are you headed at the minute, Ham? Moving in or out?”

  “In, but I’m looking for an apartment if you happen to know of anything. Preferably in the neighbourhood.”

  “Prices are stiff from the Annex on down south all the way to Kensington Market,” I said.

  “Don’t I just know it,” Ham said.

  A couple of minutes later, Carruthers excused himself and lugged his flat-screen out the front door and up the stairs to his office.

  “Ham’s marriage is back on the rocks?” I said to Fletcher.

  “Irreparably broken this time,” Fletcher said.

  “Too bad.”

  “Never mind him. Are you here to bring me good news? Bad news? Any news at all?”

  I held up my Shoppers Drug Mart bag of potions and brushes.

  “Fletcher,” I said, “these babies are going to set your romantic life on fire.”

  Fletcher spread the contents of the bag on his desk and sorted slowly through the pile. I watched as he inspected each article, both of us standing over his desk.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Crang,” he said. “You’re suggesting I should change my brands of bathroom goods to what is in the bag? The toothpaste, for instance?”

  “That, and you should also start making use of the implements from the bag you have previously ignored.”

  “This is all your idea?”

  “I claim credit only as the delivery person.”

  Fletcher looked at me the way a man does when a pleasing realization is dawning on him. “These are Annie’s tips for men to whom women are attracted?”

  “You might put it that way,” I said. “Give the stuff a trial run, and you’ll probably need a magic wand to keep the women away.”

  “Well, convey my thanks to Annie,” Fletcher said, smiling at one-hundred-watt power. “And thanks to you, of course, for the delivery.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, still standing at the desk. “But Fletcher, old boy, this is likely to be the last time you thank me today.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Do you mind if we sit down?”

  We sat on either side of Fletcher’s desk, him clutching the Shoppers bag in his lap.

  “About Meg Grantham’s copy of the Reading Sonnets …” I began.

  “All it requires,” Fletcher broke in, “is an appraisal by myself, and the deal will be completed.”

  “I’ve already had an appraisal done,” I said. “My appraiser says the manuscript’s not bad if a person doesn’t object to two-hundred-year old sonnets being written partially with a BIC Cristal ballpoint pen, invented in 1949.”

  “Don’t try to bluff me, Crang. You’ve never held the Reading Sonnets in your hands. You don’t have anything close to the knowledge it takes to evaluate a document like it.”

  “But I have the word of the man who wrote the document.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “Good old Chris Thorne-Wainwright. Not a bad guy.”

  For the first time, Fletcher showed a tiny piece of doubt, but he still had plenty of spark in him.

  “Thorne-Wainwright is a fraud of long standing,” Fletcher said. “You can ask anyone about that.”

  “I asked Doris Draper at the Fisher,” I said. “She thinks Thorne-Wainwright is as honest as they come in the antiquarian book business.”

  The mention of somebody from the Fisher getting into the act appeared to fuel Fletcher with a fresh burst of indignation.

  “What in the world have you been up to, Crang? You’re supposed to be my lawyer.”

  “And you’re supposed to be the client who plays square with his lawyer.”

  “I’ve held back nothing that properly belongs to your brief.”

  “My knowing that you owe big money to Hughie Grantham would have been helpful in putting together a legal strategy.”

  “That’s a personal business matter beyond your purview.”

  “Baloney, Fletcher. You need the money from your sale of the phony Reading Sonnets to Meg Grantham in order to pay off the loan from her son.”

  “Preposterous,” Fletcher said. He seemed to be trying for more outrage, but his voice faltered over the second syllable in “preposterous.”

  “Give it a rest, Fletcher,” I said. “If you want me to really rub it in, I’ll tell you about the exper
t in inks who looked at your copy of the Reading Sonnets. His call? The thing’s bogus.”

  “An ink expert? How did it come about that such a person got his hands on my document?”

  “I took it to him.”

  “That’s impossible, Crang,” Fletcher said. “Unless you’re somehow deceiving me on a monumental scale, you and the Reading Sonnets have never been in the same room together.”

  “Fletcher, pay attention to what I’m about to say. This is the reason I’ve come here this morning, apart my mission to bring you the love potions.”

  “Based on what you’ve said in the last ten minutes, I’m not sure I should retain you as my solicitor any longer.”

  “Believe me, Fletcher, I’m your last best chance.”

  Fletcher placed his bag of goodies on his desk, pushed back his chair, and folded his hands over his stomach. “Proceed,” he said.

  “You and I can agree that both Meg Grantham and young Hughie are nice people with a lot of money who can be generous with it.”

  “Pardon me on one point, Crang, but as far as I know, you haven’t even met Meg Grantham.”

  “I’m taking Annie’s word for it,” I said. “She says Meg’s a good person.”

  Fletcher paused a moment, then said, “Go on with your proposal, if that’s what it is.”

  “I’m proposing you take your problems to both of them,” I said. “Tell Hughie you need more time to pay off your debt. As for Meg, you let her know that, in your learned view, the alleged Reading Sonnets are not the real article.”

  “How in the world can I do such a far-fetched thing?” Fletcher broke in, once again affecting his disdainful look.

  “Throw yourself on her mercy,” I said, “doing it in your own civilized style. Ask if she might advance funds that will aid you in pinched times. Promise your personal dedication in searching out a genuinely authentic copy of the Reading Sonnets or something equivalent to it in antiquarian book terms.”

  Fletcher went silent, and I shut up too. Had I really scored with the guy? Was he actually thinking about winding up the stupid charade with the Sonnets? Coming clean at last?

  “You seem to be leaving out one crucial factor from your fantastical exposition, Crang.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I haven’t yet carried out my study of the copy of the Reading Sonnets that is at the centre of our discussion. Until that task is complete, I can make no final decision.”

  I had to hand it to Fletcher, the guy was insisting on not going down without a fight.

  “How long will you need to do the job?” I asked.

  “Given the technical requirements in such an undertaking, I’d say one week, and that would be rushing it.”

  “And at this minute, where is the document you’ll be examining? Where’s the alleged copy of the Reading Sonnets?”

  “Where indeed? In my safe, for heaven’s sake.”

  Fletcher kept a straight face as he spoke. The man must have known the document he was talking about wasn’t anywhere near the safe. It had last turned up in the safe when Charlie Watson returned it but disappeared again shortly after that when Maury and Biscuit did their reswipe job. Now the damn thing was secure in my locked bureau drawer at home on Major Street.

  “I beg your pardon, Crang,” Fletcher said. “Did I fail to tell you the document was mysteriously returned to the safe last Monday? Yes, I believe I did. My apologies.”

  Jesus, I thought, what a phenomenal bluffer the guy was. Fletcher had to be a world champ at stalling and covering the stall with a steady stream of fabrications. Now he was pretending he had the phony Reading Sonnets in his possession. He wanted a week? Okay, I’d give it to him.

  “Take the week, Fletcher,” I said. “Then no more delays. You and I will have it out with Meg.”

  “By then, Crang, I’ll most likely need your services no longer.”

  “Fire me, Fletcher, and you’ll be dooming yourself.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Threats? Me? Don’t be ridiculous, my man. I deal only in facts.”

  “So long as we understand one another,” Fletcher said. “I expect to emerge from all recent pieces of unpleasantness wholly intact.”

  “Either way, Fletcher, good result for you or poor result, in a week you’ll have one thing for sure to celebrate.”

  “What’s that?”

  I pointed at the bag on his desk.

  “You’ll be smelling great.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I sat in my office, drinking a cup of coffee and arriving at a decision. The decision needed Maury’s co-operation. I phoned him.

  “I hope you’re not looking for me to do a rash number,” Maury said.

  “Rash?”

  “I kind of like the word.”

  “Give me an example of what qualifies as rash in your opinion.”

  “Before I do that,” Maury said, “tell me why you phoned.”

  “Fletcher’s dragging his ass about owning up to the fraud he’s trying to pull with the Reading Sonnets,” I said. “In the interests of hurrying him along, I want you to help me put the phony documents he calls the Reading Sonnets back in the safe at his store. We’ll do it on a run tomorrow night.”

  “That’s rash.”

  “In your opinion?”

  “In Sal’s,” Maury said. “She don’t want a man my age fooling around on break-and-enters no more.”

  “Tell her she’s scuttling an important part of a plan I’ve put together. It’s going to rescue the case I got that may be going down the tube.”

  “Crang, tomorrow’s the third Tuesday of the month, which means I can’t go with you anyway. This is the night Sal’s book club meets. She thinks it’s good for my education to go with her.”

  “You actually read the books?”

  “Halfway. Sal briefs me on the rest.”

  “Maury, you’re leaving me hanging loose on what I planned.”

  “Never mind,” Maury said. “I’ll get Biscuit to fill in. He hasn’t got a girlfriend busting his chops on what he does late at night.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Tell Biscuit I’ll be his wheelman. Drive him to the store, wait for him while he goes in, make the getaway.”

  “Crang, the point about a wheelman is he has wheels.”

  “Right,” I said. “You mind if I borrow your Buick?”

  “No way, man, but I’ll lend you Sal’s car.”

  “Won’t Sal object?”

  “She’ll be so glad I’m taking her seriously about laying off the night jobs, she’ll do a loaner for you, no problem.”

  “Is Sal’s vehicle flashy to any degree, the kind of car people remember after they’ve seen it once?”

  “Rich girl like her, she drives a Miata.”

  “Aren’t they kind of unforgettable?”

  “Don’t be such an old lady, Crang. You don’t need to worry about some civilian spotting you. Biscuit’ll be in and out of Fletcher’s store in ten minutes. You can wait around the corner. Take no time at all and, zoom, you’re away, home and dried out.”

  “I bow to your superior experience.”

  “Stop by Sal’s condo any time tonight. The Miata’s key’ll be with the concierge.”

  “What’s Biscuit’s cell number?” I said. “I’ll make sure he’s going to be free.”

  “Only two people in the world have Biscuit’s number. It’s a rule of his for keeping a low profile.”

  “You’re one of the two?”

  “Me and Biscuit go back a long way.”

  “I’m in your hands, Maury.”

  “He’ll be waiting outside your house, 2:00 a.m. tonight.”

  “Just one thing I’m curious about.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s the other person wi
th Biscuit’s number?”

  “His son,” Maury said.

  “That’s an answer I didn’t expect.”

  “A normal-sized son.”

  “Is this normal-sized fellow in the same line of endeavour as his dad?”

  “The son’s a senior chartered accountant with a big firm out in Vancouver.”

  “Does he sort of disown his father in any way?”

  “The two are very close, except geographically.”

  “A chartered accountant named Biscuit. Hmm.”

  “The son’s John Carter,” Maury said. “When he was a kid, Biscuit and the boy’s mother changed his name to her last name. That was just in case the cops caught Biscuit in the act, nobody’d see a distinctive name like Biscuit in the newspapers and attach it to the son.”

  “Very thoughtful of Biscuit.”

  “Typical of him,” Maury said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I arrived a half hour ahead of time for my appointment with Meg Grantham. The extra thirty minutes was to check out the building Meg had erected three or four years earlier as her corporate headquarters. I’d seen the place in passing now and then but hadn’t ever crossed its threshold.

  Around town, the building had become known semi-derisively as “Meg’s Hacienda.” Ms. Grantham had chosen a nice piece of property for the building’s location, just off the lakefront near the foot of Bathurst. It was only five storeys high, but every inch was designed in a style that brought to mind more a Bolivian resort than a Toronto business HQ. The colours ran to vibrant pinks, pale greens, and all kinds of neon-flavoured shades. Everywhere I looked, the exterior mixed up futuristic forms with what were dead ringers for ancient Aztec figures. A lot of Torontonians, maybe most, thought of the building as a folly. But Toronto citizens had once said the same brand of insulting things about Casa Loma, the huge gothic revival home that an eccentric fellow named Sir Henry Pellatt built for himself at the top of Spadina hill in the early twentieth century. More than a hundred years later, Casa Loma was still standing, a source of risibility to some citizens but beloved by many more. Probably a future like that was in store for Meg’s Hacienda.