Booking In Read online

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Annie’s up in Collingwood with Meg Grantham.”

  Maury stopped at the curb across Bathurst from the Hemingway. “See if you can avoid screwing up, Crang,” he said.

  I stepped out, watched Maury pull away, and walked into the Hemingway’s lobby. Charlie’s apartment was on the fourth floor. I pressed her buzzer.

  “What’s up, Fletcher?” Charlie’s tinny voice came through the intercom. “You forget your key?”

  “This may be a major disappointment, Charlie,” I said. “It’s me, Crang.”

  “Oh, shoot!”

  “Does that mean I’m even worse than a major disappointment?”

  The buzzer rang to open the lobby door.

  “Get up here fast, Crang,” the tinny voice said. “You could put me in a ton of trouble.”

  On the fourth floor, Charlie was waiting at her door, waving me to hurry up.

  “Who would I get you in trouble with, Charlie?” I said.

  She didn’t answer immediately, just kept waving and glancing down the corridor in the direction of the elevator. I walked into her apartment. It was compact inside, the main door from the corridor leading directly into a combination living room and dining room, the two still adding up to a less than medium-sized space. A kitchenette was off to the right, and on the left there was a closed door, which no doubt opened into the bedroom. Straight ahead, beyond a sliding glass door, there was a balcony big enough to accommodate a pair of deck chairs and not much more.

  “Who else would the trouble be with except Fletcher?” Charlie said, turning the door’s inside lock. “Be sensible, Crang. You’re not Fletcher’s favourite person. He would just absolutely freak if he found you here.”

  “You and Fletcher are dating? You invite him to spend the nights here?”

  “No to both of those. The man just shows up at my door. I can’t predict when he’ll drop by. I mean, it’s not as if we’re having regular sex or anything. Not even irregular sex.”

  “Can’t you tell him to just cool it?”

  “Crang, come on, this is my boss we’re talking about. The guy wants to talk about his troubles, which is what these visits are all about. My role, as far as Fletcher is concerned, is I sit and listen and sympathize. He gets very personal about himself.”

  We were standing in the middle of the living-dining room. Beyond the door to the balcony, I could see the view east to the lights of the Forest Hill mansions.

  “You mind if we sit down, Charlie?” I said.

  “This isn’t going to take long, is it, whatever you’ve come for? I’ll be petrified every second you’re here.”

  “I can make it fast.”

  We sat side by side on a chesterfield covered in a pretty floral pattern. The chesterfield faced the sliding glass door, and between it and the door there was an uncomfortable looking straight-backed chair with no arms and an uncushioned seat.

  “You mentioned something to me a few days ago I’m wondering about,” I said. “It was about you and Fletcher working nights at the store.”

  “Midnight manoeuvres, Fletcher’s name for general organizing work we do late at night every couple of months,” Charlie said, nodding. “What put that in your head?”

  “A little earlier tonight, I was chatting with a woman who described pulling all-nighters for the businessman she’s working for.”

  “That’s a Brent Grantham expression. ‘Pulling an all-nighter.’”

  “Really?”

  “Are you saying Brent’s already got another woman to replace me in his house?” Charlie said, a small sound of jealousy in her voice.

  “Charlie, we’re moving way off subject here.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “On the plain side, Charlie. Shay reminds me of Hillary Clinton. Nice in a pantsuit, but not the good-looker you are.”

  “‘Shay?’ What kind of name is that?”

  “Old-fashioned,” I said. “Can I get back to my questions? You said Fletcher’s a threat to show up any time. Let’s keep talking.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “A week ago tonight, did you and Fletcher do a midnight manoeuvre?”

  Charlie got up, walked over to the kitchenette, removed a calendar pinned to the refrigerator with magnets, and carried it back to the chesterfield.

  “That Tuesday night,” she said, “Fletcher and I went to the Kalburn Poetry Prizes. It’s an annual thing we’re always invited to. Not much money to the winners because the Kalburn family are cheapskates that way, but a lot of prestige comes with the prize. Big shots have won it, Dennis Lee, Margaret Atwood, that crowd, but young people you’ve never heard of too.”

  “Who won it this year?”

  “I never heard of her.”

  “It’s a dressup affair?”

  “Held at the University of Toronto’s Faculty Club. Not black-tie, but everybody wears nice outfits. I had this gorgeous black dress, very clingy, shows some cleavage. I got a lot of compliments.”

  “Fletcher had on a blue suit, light-green shirt, purple tie?”

  “If you say so. The colours sound hideous, but it’s typical Fletcher.”

  “These were his best duds he had on?”

  “Crang, I’m mostly interested in what the other girls wear, but yeah, I’m sure Fletcher put some thought into his wardrobe.”

  “What came after?”

  “After the prizes were handed out?” Charlie said. “The Kalburn always runs late. There’s a lot of sitting around deconstructing which poet won which award. Poetry people always disagree on who deserves recognition and who’s an outright fraud.”

  “Then Fletcher drove you home?”

  “He came up here and had a coffee, hung around later than I really wanted him to. It was a typical moan-and-groan session from Fletcher. He finally took the hint I was feeling the need to hit the sack, and he left around one in the morning.”

  “Here’s an important question, Charlie. Did Fletcher suggest the two of you do a midnight manoeuvre that night?”

  “You asked me that before.”

  “I’m still waiting for the answer.”

  “He didn’t,” Charlie said. “Even if I don’t remember him specifically not mentioning it, I know he didn’t.”

  “How so?”

  “Because our arrangement has been the same for years. He tells me two or three days in advance when he wants to do another bloody midnight manoeuvre. I’ve got a social life to arrange, for pete’s sake, so I want the courtesy of a notice beforehand. That way I know the social life’s only going to be screwed up on a certain night.”

  “Does Fletcher ever do midnight manoeuvres on his own?”

  Charlie paused and thought about her answer. “Rarely, but it’s been known to happen.”

  “Did you get any indication it was going to happen last Tuesday?”

  Charlie paused again. “I’d have to say no. No indication.”

  “Besides,” I said, “I would think Fletcher dressed in his multi­coloured good clothes would made it unlikely he might mess around with dusty books at the store.”

  “Oh, clothes don’t matter.”

  “Why not? The store pays the dry cleaning bills after you’ve got your clothes all dirty during the manoeuvres?”

  “Of course not,” Charlie said, a little indignant. “I keep an extra pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt at the store specially for the nights we go back there. I change into them from whatever I’m wearing.”

  “Fletcher does too? Keeps spare clothes on hand?”

  “Not jeans. He thinks jeans are so déclassé. But he has an ancient pair of grey flannels and a choice of frayed old dress shirts he always puts on those nights.”

  “The flannels and the frayed shirts are always available at the store,
same as yours?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, he keeps that stuff in his car. In the trunk, I seem to remember. That’s because he drops them off at the dry cleaners now and then.”

  “Isn’t this all too convenient,” I said, more to myself than to Charlie, though she picked up on the remark.

  “I know what you’re getting at, Crang, and I sincerely doubt you’re on the right track. Fletcher didn’t go back to the store that night, change his clothes, and kill that guy. Number one, it’s highly unlikely Fletcher dropped by the store in the first place. Number two, he would never actually kill anyone. He may be going through a lot of troubles these days, but doing a murder, jeez, I really don’t think so.”

  Charlie and I stared at one another for a few moments. We were sitting close together on the chesterfield, each pondering dark thoughts. We might have gone on that way for a while longer, but a rap on the door broke into our silence.

  Both of our heads whipped around in the door’s direction.

  “Is it Fletcher?” I whispered. “How come he’s got keys?”

  “From a long time ago,” Charlie whispered back. “Same key works upstairs and down. Fletcher refuses to give it back. It’s your fault he’s got all nervy that way, being aggressive with girls and everything, hanging on to my keys.”

  “My fault?”

  “Giving him all that stuff for his breath.”

  “It was your idea, may I remind you, Charlie.”

  Our whispers were rising in intensity, though not in volume.

  “It was more of a suggestion,” Charlie said. “You didn’t have to take me up on it.”

  “Listen, Charlie,” I said. “Answer the goddamn knock.”

  Charlie walked over to the door.

  “Is that you, Fletcher?” she said.

  “You were expecting someone else at this hour?” Fletcher’s voice had its familiar caustic overtone. “Open up, Charlie. Unlock the door, please.”

  “Just a minute,” Charlie called back. “I need to make myself presentable.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether you’re presentable,” Fletcher said. The caustic ring was gone; now he had a more pleading sound, something that was uncharacteristic of the guy. “I need to talk. Desperately.”

  Charlie turned to me. “Get out on the balcony,” she whispered.

  “The balcony? It’s practically minuscule out there. Fletcher’ll spot me the first time he glances out the window.”

  “He’s got a serious affliction of acrophobia. It’s so bad he never goes close to the balcony.”

  Charlie slid the balcony door open. It was soundless. I slipped around the deck chair on the left side and squeezed up against the railing, which came up to my thighs. Charlie slid the door shut. My position on the balcony was cramped, but it kept me out of sight of anybody sitting on the chesterfield inside. I could probably bear the awkward posture for a half hour without collapsing or giving away my presence in some other way.

  But not a whole lot longer.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  With the balcony door closed behind me, conversation inside between Charlie and Fletcher didn’t reach me. I was isolated on the balcony, alone, out of reach.

  After twenty minutes of standing there, straight up and getting stiff, I tried a peek inside Charlie’s living-dining room. I leaned forward at an angle that gave me a look at most of the interior. Charlie was lounging on the chesterfield, probably deliberately taking up its entire length, a strategy that confined Fletcher to the uncomfortable chair with his back to the balcony. From the look of things, Fletcher was doing all the talking. Nothing new about that, except it probably indicated Fletcher wasn’t figuring on hitting the road any time soon.

  I got back in my old position on the balcony and thought about my prospects for escaping the immediate predicament. To my left, the balcony to the next apartment wasn’t more than seven or eight feet away. It hadn’t a single piece of furniture on it, and it was illuminated by only a faint light from inside. Whoever lived there may have turned in for the night.

  Between the two balconies, two horizontal lines of brick jutted out by a couple of inches from the rest of the building’s brick surface. One line jutted at the level of the two balconies’ floors, and the other was positioned about six feet above the first line. If I was daring or just plain desperate, I might be able to place my front foot on the lower line of bricks, balance myself with my fingers gripping the upper line, and propel myself far enough to grab the railing of the neighbouring balcony. I’ve never been a naturally daring guy, but I was feeling desperate, or maybe what I was experiencing was more like a whole lot of impatience. Either way, I wasn’t keen to linger on Charlie’s balcony a minute longer.

  Taking precautions not to disturb the nearest deck chair or otherwise make a noise that might catch Fletcher’s ears, I put my left leg over the balcony’s railing onto the outer edge, then the right leg, all the while holding on tight to the railing with both hands. For a moment, looking down and studying my shoes, I reconsidered my escape plan. I was wearing a pair of loafers. They might not be the ideal footwear for what I had in mind. On the other hand, they felt snug enough on my feet. I balanced my chances and decided to push ahead with the scheme.

  I anchored my right leg on the balcony’s edge, at the same time reaching my left hand on to the upper line of jutting brick. Now that I was launched into the windup for my leap to the next balcony, I had no choice except to get everything in motion without any hesitation. I squeezed my left hand on the brick line, balanced my left leg on the lower line of brick, and threw my right leg off Charlie’s balcony, aiming to reach the neighbouring balcony, getting a little impetus from the left leg’s push off the lower ridge of brick.

  Every part of me was thrusting forward. For a very brief moment I was airborne, aiming to fly as far as the railing of the other balcony. I felt a flash of freedom, a man in flight, my hands reaching out for the top of the neighbour’s railing. It felt good, unleashed, beyond restraint, soaring open and unburdened. Crang, the superhero. But only temporarily because the sensation of triumph vanished as swiftly as it had arrived.

  In the next second or two, my reaching hands slipped off the railing, and the loafer on my right foot, which wasn’t as snug as I’d thought, dropped to the parking lot below. The subdued thunk of the loafer hitting the roof of a car was the most forlorn sound I had ever heard.

  Still, all was far from lost. My hands, sliding off the railing, grabbed tight on the eavestrough along the edge of the balcony’s floor. The eavestrough felt amazingly sturdy. Adrenalin pumped through my system. I moved frenetically, like a man possessed, acting to save myself from a four-storey fall and possibly permanent maiming. I tightened my grip on the eavestrough and swung upward until my right leg flattened out along the edge of the balcony’s floor. My right hand grabbed a bar in the railing and lifted the rest of me until both legs were upright. I took a moment to test my balance, standing on the outer edge of the balcony. Then I stepped over the railing, a little dizzy and minus one loafer, but my escape from Charlie’s balcony and from Fletcher’s possible scrutiny was complete.

  The sliding glass door on this apartment was just like the one on Charlie’s place. I took a cautious look through the door’s window and made note of two essential facts. A muted television set was on, and a man was asleep on a sofa facing the TV screen. I tested the sliding glass door. It slid silently. I stepped inside, feeling a little off kilter operating in only one shoe but otherwise together and confident.

  Some quick reconnoitering told me the TV was showing baseball updates, and the man on the sofa was elderly, probably in his late eighties, maybe early nineties, and looking like he might be better off in a nursing room. The man’s sleeping face, examined in the dim light of a table lamp next to the sofa, wore an expression that suggested he was just a little on the demented side. But then what did I know about
such medical matters, me a sprightly fifty-year-old who had just completed a broad jump from one balcony to the next?

  I leaned over and brushed at my pants, tidying away any debris I might have picked up in the course of the great leap. That done, I walked as quietly as I could in the direction of the elderly gent’s front door.

  “Are you Andy?” a voice behind me said.

  As soon as my heart stopped hammering, I turned and looked at the old man. His voice had sounded like Peter Sellers playing Chance the gardener in Being There. The blank expression on my old guy’s face was a lot like Chance’s.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m Andy.”

  “They told me a new care person named Andy would fix my breakfast today.”

  “Yes sir,” I said. “Andy the breakfast fixer.”

  The man on the sofa looked out the window.

  “You’re very early, Andy,” he said.

  “I like to get a good start on the day.”

  “So do I,” the old man said, straightening up from his sleeping slump.

  “What’s your favourite thing for breakfast?” I asked.

  The old man was silent for a moment. Then he got a foxy look.

  “I like Froot Loops, Andy,” he said.

  “Then Froot Loops it shall be.”

  I walked over to the kitchenette. The entire layout of the apartment was exactly like Charlie’s. I didn’t see any Foot Loops on the counter. I opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator. No Froot Loops in there either.

  “What are you doing in the kitchen, Andy?” the old man called in his Chance voice.

  “Looking for the Froot Loops.”

  “Oh, they don’t let me have Froot Loops.”

  I went back to the living room. The old guy had the saddest look I’d seen on a human face in a long time.

  “Who are ‘they?’” I said. “‘They’ who won’t let you have Froot Loops?”

  “Gabriel and Alfred and Tony,” he said. “All my other minders. Louis and Gabriel.”

  “You mentioned Gabriel already.”

  “There are two Gabriels.”