Blood Count Page 3

  There was a black box beside the phone. It was a memory machine — an electronic gizmo that automatically recorded the number of anyone who dialed Alex’s place. I fiddled around until I located the button that lit up the machine’s screen. It showed three numbers.

  I dialed the first.

  “You have reached the Ontario Ministry of Education,” a recorded female voice said. “The offices are closed today, but if you call Monday after eight thirty in morning, we will be happy to assist you.”

  It was Alex’s business number. He’d been provincial deputy minister of education for as long as he and Ian had lived in the house.

  I dialed the second number on the memory screen.

  No answer. I let the phone ring a dozen times. Definitely no answer.

  I dialed the third number.

  “Purple Zinnia,” a pleasant male voice said. “Good afternoon.”

  “Have I got a flower shop?”

  “No, we’re still a restaurant.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve heard the flower shop line?”

  “Twice before,” the voice said, still pleasant, “and that’s just today.”

  “I’ll call back later when I think of something more original.”

  “If you want a reservation, we don’t take them. But tonight, get here before, oh, seven fifteen, and you should be okey-doke.”

  “Thanks.”

  I spent another half hour in the apartment. Genet kept me company, silent and observing. The closest I came to a clue was a ceramic bowl that held a collection of matchbooks. Maybe one from a place where Ian had met the bad guy? Where Alex had traced the same bad guy? Most of the matchbooks advertised upscale restaurants. Cibo. Centro. Bistro 990. No particular leads there. When it came to dining out, Ian and Alex had always treated themselves. I opened each matchbook, about twenty-five or thirty of them, and checked for anything jotted in handwriting on the inside. All were clean.

  I ended up at the Biedermeier desk. So did Genet. I dialed the second number on the memory screen. Still no answer. I used the weighty gold pen on the desk to jot the number on the top sheet of Alex’s memo pad. I tore off the sheet, folded it into my wallet, and phoned Annie at her office.

  “Flicks.” It was Annie’s voice.

  “I’m striking out so far.”

  “Oh, hi.” Annie sounded pumped up. “I just put down the phone from calling your place.”

  “I’m busy ransacking Alex’s apartment.”

  “What does Alex say about that?”

  “Not much. He’s winging his way to Key West.”

  “Fantastic.” Annie’s adrenaline seemed to be running on high. “Gives you more time for the project. Sorry, gives us more time.”

  “Things nifty at your end?” I asked. “I feel something like sparks emanating from the receiver.”

  “God, Crang, you wouldn’t believe what a marvel Tavernier is, so intelligent and so articulate and so French.”

  “You got the interview taped?” I said. Bertrand Tavernier was in Toronto from Paris on a North American tour to hype the latest movie he’d directed.

  “Two interviews already. Twelve minutes each, two different topics. And he enjoyed the interviews so much he agreed to come back tonight for a third after he’s had dinner with his Canadian distributor.”

  “Sounds like you made an impression.”

  “What we’ll do, we’ll drop the interviews into the next three shows, starting this coming Tuesday.”

  Annie has a TV program about movies. She landed it after some television guys with good taste caught her in her former job, reviewing movies on the local CBC morning show, Metro Morning, and made her an offer. Annie’s the host and the program’s a syndicated deal, carried on twelve sta­tions across the country, channel eleven out of Hamilton in the Toronto area at seven every Tuesday night. The budget is minuscule, enough to pay Annie, a producer, and a part-time researcher. The syndicate guys inflicted the frivolous title on Annie, Flicks, but by general consensus, the show is smart and lively, a nifty balance of reviews, interviews, and panel discussion stuff.

  “You talk to Tavernier about Round Midnight? I asked.

  “Not till the last interview.”

  “Best jazz movie ever made.”

  “I’ll tell him you think so,” Annie said. “Listen, sweetie, I only have two minutes. What’s this about striking out?”

  “Alex didn’t exactly leave his apartment strewn with leads, and Genet isn’t saying a thing.”

  I gave Annie a precis of events during my prowl through Alex’s drawers and ceramic bowls.

  “Bingo,” Annie said.

  “Which bingo?”

  “The Purple Zinnia’s a well-known gay restaurant. There you go, a place to start.”

  “It’s not a well-known gay restaurant to me.”

  “It’s the local for some CBC people. That’s how I’ve heard about the Purple Zinnia.”

  I was silent.

  “Does it make you nervous?” Annie asked. “The thought of going to a gay place by yourself?”

  “I was considering the ramifications. For numbers of gay bars and bathhouses and hair salons and so forth, I gather it goes San Francisco, Greenwich Village, Fire Island, and then probably Toronto. I could disappear into the subculture for weeks.”

  “But you’ve got something firm that this one particular restaurant might supply some answers.”

  “What qualifies a restaurant as gay, anyway?” I said. “The food?”

  “No, silly, the clientele and usually the ownership.”

  “Apart from me, the clientele.”

  “Don’t be insecure,” Annie said. “Just have a nice dinner and ask if anyone there knows Ian in a special way.”

  “I’m not insecure.”

  “Then you’re going?”

  “Yeah, but I won’t wear my most fetching getup.”

  Chapter Five

  The Purple Zinnia was in a large grey-brick house on the block of Carlton before you get to Parliament Street. From the outside, it didn’t look like much, just the grey brick, the largeness, and a discreet wooden sign that announced the restaurant’s name. But inside, past the front door and the small foyer, I had the feeling I’d been whisked by magic carpet to the shores of Malibu.

  The walls were stark white, and the curtains, tablecloths, and napkins were blues, greens, and tans. The visuals spoke of sky and water and beach. Airy paintings of flowers hung on the walls. Some of the flowers were purple. Some of them may have been zinnias. Horticulture isn’t my long suit. Blossom Dearie was singing on the sound system.

  “Just for one?” a waiter asked me.

  “I’ll probably miss the Saturday dance, too,” I said. “Don’t get around much anymore.”

  The waiter was too young for Duke Ellington lyrics, but he chuckled politely. He showed me to a table against the back wall.

  “Something from the bar?” the waiter asked. He was a trim guy with a tidy moustache and short hair, and he had on a summery outfit consisting of a white button-down shirt and beige pleated trousers.

  “Vodka on the rocks. Wyborowa if you have it.”

  “Will Stolichnaya do?”

  “In a pinch it will.”

  The drink came fast, along with a menu. The waiter recited the specials.

  “Ian Argyll?” I asked when he finished. “Does that name ring any bells? Any chance you served him the last year?”

  “This is only my second week here. Sorry.”

  “Just wondering.”

  I ordered an avocado salad, blackened catfish, and a half bottle of Chablis.

  “I’ll hold the wine till you finish your cocktail,” the waiter said. His manners were wonderful.

  “Do that.”

  The place was two-thirds full, almost all men. Th
ere were no boy-girl couples, and I was the only patron alone at a table.

  Three waiters did the serving. One of the other two passed my table. I stopped him and tried out Ian Argyll’s name.

  “This isn’t my station,” he said.

  “That means you can’t answer a question?”

  “I am busy, sir.” He had short hair and a moustache, too, and the same cheery shirt and pants. But he was taller and heftier than the first waiter, and his grumpiness needed working on.

  “How about Ian Argyll?” I asked. “Has he come in here?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the waiter answered in a tone close to a snap.

  The catfish was just right, firm and moist. I made it and the Chablis last almost thirty minutes. The room filled up, and people were waiting at the door.

  I had a cherry cobbler for dessert, and while I was eating it, the third waiter came by my table.

  “Ian Argyll,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Word is spreading.”

  “Ask at the bar,” the waiter said. He had café au lait skin and the clean good looks of the young Harry Belafonte. His speaking style was matter-of-fact.

  “There’s a bar?” I said.

  “Downstairs.”

  I drank an espresso and paid the bill with my American Express card. The first waiter, the polite one, showed me the route to the downstairs bar.

  Whatever serene soul designed the dining room had turned the bar over to someone more hard edged. It looked like the interior of a Star Wars spaceship, all chrome and glass and black leather. It had room for six or seven tables, and there was a bar along one side with a dozen high stools standing in a row. Some silver-framed David Hockney posters supplied the room’s one dash of colour.

  I climbed onto the stool at the near end of the bar. The bartender was right with me. I didn’t have much competition for his services, three men at one table and another guy, solo, halfway down the bar.

  “Quiet night,” I said to the bartender.

  He looked at his watch. “Give it another hour, and the place’ll be abuzz.”

  “Abuzz?”

  “We get the latish crowd,” the bartender said. He was working hard on his smile. “But I bet you don’t want to wait that long.”

  “Maybe something to sit gently on a full stomach?” I said, trying for a match to the bartender’s joviality.

  “An eau de vie?”

  “I can almost taste a Poire Williams.”

  “In a snifter?”

  “You read my mind.”

  The bartender reached up and slid a glass out of a horizontal metal rack over his head. He had on a long-sleeved purple shirt. His face was handsome in a squared-off way. The only trouble was his eyes. They were too close together and gave his face a faintly wily cast.

  “One Poire Williams,” he said, setting the snifter on a plain white coaster. “Love the flavour, myself.”

  “Any rule against you joining me?”

  “No rules, maybe some fuddy-duddy law.” The bartender gave me one of his practised smiles. “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  The bartender reached for another snifter and poured from the Poire Williams bottle. He took a sip and made a yum sound. When he put the glass down, he kept it on the silver counter below the bar.

  “My name’s Malcolm,” he said.

  “Crang.”

  We shook hands.

  “Nice place,” I said. I leaned my forearms on the bar and did my imitation of a regular fella out on the town.

  “We get a fun crowd in here,” Malcolm said.

  “A friend recommended the food upstairs.” I gave Malcolm a grin that was as aw-shucks as his own. “And the drinks down here.”

  “A regular? I probably know him.”

  “Stocky little guy, barrel of laughs. Ian Argyll.”

  Malcolm took the name in stride. “Sure. Ian’s famous.”

  “How does a guy who sells real estate get famous, apart maybe from selling one hell of a lot of real estate?”

  “Famous around here. Anybody who dies of AIDS is famous around here.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Wait till Lesbian and Gay Pride Day next month. Ian Argyll’s name’ll be on the memorial they put up in the park on Church Street. Cawthra Square, y’know?”

  Malcolm left to pour another drink for the customer further along the bar. He put a silver dish of nuts in front of the man and came back to me and his eau de vie.

  “You in real estate, too?” he asked.

  “Ian lived in a house I own.”

  “Really.”

  “He came here often? Was I right about that?”

  “He used to drop by two or three times a week. Around ten thirty, eleven, for a nightcap.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone, yeah.” Malcolm had eliminated the smile. Without it, he looked as devious as Snidely Whiplash.

  “He meet anybody here?”

  “Might’ve.”

  “Hang out with a particular crowd?”

  “Possible.”

  I reached into my pants pocket. In a money clip, there were five tens and four twenties. Malcolm didn’t strike me as a ten-dollar kind of guy. I fanned the four twenties on the bar beside my glass.

  “The person or persons Ian had drinks with,” I said to Malcolm, “you happen to catch a name or names?”

  “Two of them’re famous.”

  “Jeez, not so famous their names might be on the memorial next month at Cawthra Square?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Famous, famous, in the world at large.”

  I put a finger on one of the twenties and moved it to a spot halfway across the bar.

  “Daryl Snelgrove,” Malcolm said.

  I hesitated. “Let me work on that one a second.”

  “Snellie.”

  “Ah, baseball. The Blue Jays. A major league ball player hung out in here?”

  Malcolm nodded. “For a while.” At the same time, Malcolm took the twenty off the bar. His hand wasn’t as fast as a mongoose’s, but it might rate a close second.

  “That brings us to famous person number two,” I said. I slid another twenty into position.

  “Bart.”

  “First name or last?”

  “That’s all. Everybody calls him just Bart.”

  “Not I, Malcolm old pal.”

  “He’s in the movies.”

  “Give me a title.”

  “Porno movies,” Malcolm said. “Bart the Bulge.”

  “You wouldn’t make something like that up, would you Malcolm?”

  “Hardly.” He scooped away the second twenty, and waited. None of the other customers in the room needed his attentions.

  “Two more twenties,” I said.

  “I noticed.”

  “You got two more names?”

  “David.”

  I positioned a third bill in the middle of the bar.

  “Okay, the guy isn’t famous or anything that I know of, ” Malcolm said. He was talking faster. “I never heard his last name. But this David, Ian Argyll had drinks with him a lot of times last summer and fall, enough that I remember them together. A tall, skinny guy, weird build on him, kind of nothing as far as looks go. Very good dresser, though, always sharp suits and silk ties and shoes that somebody’s put some polish on.”

  “David?”

  “How do you like my powers of description?”

  “Impressive.”

  Malcolm picked up the third twenty.

  “I got something else,” he said.

  “Another name?”

  “Not of somebody Ian had drinks with,” Malcolm said. “I don’t know anybody else Ian had drinks with, not
regularly, anyway.”

  “Who’s the somebody?”

  “A guy that came in and asked me the same questions you’re asking.”

  “If you say anything except Alex, you’re either a liar or you’ve got a real scoop.”

  “Alex Corcoran.”

  “Congratulations on your honesty, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm pasted the boyish smile on his face.

  “Did Alex recognize the third guy from your description?” I asked. “The thin, nothing-looking guy?”

  “David? I forgot about him when Alex was in here.”

  “So you didn’t try David’s name on him?”

  “Sure I did. When I remembered, I phoned Alex and described the guy. Last night, I phoned late from right here.”

  “And?”

  “You mean, did he know David?” Malcolm thought it over. “I’d say he probably did.”

  “Good of you to phone Alex, Malcolm. All heart.”

  “Why not?” Malcolm’s smile widened. “He was paying me fifty a name.”

  I shoved my last twenty in Malcolm’s direction. “For the two Poire Williams.”

  Malcolm carried the twenty to a cash register at the far end of the bar. The cash register was silver and miniature and resembled something from the NASA program. Malcolm laid my change on the bar, a two-dollar bill, a loonie, and some loose coins.

  “I’m not gay, you know,” he said to me.

  “I didn’t know.” I picked up the two-dollar bill. “Or care.”

  “I just happen to work here.”

  “And a splendid job you do of it, Malcolm.”

  Chapter Six

  The back page of the sports section of the Sunday Star carried a full-length colour photograph of Daryl Snelgrove. It showed a guy whose eyes were wide, whose cheeks swelled like they had cotton stuffing in them, whose smile was ingenuous and lopsided. Daryl was gripping a baseball bat so tightly his biceps popped out of the short sleeves of his Toronto Blue Jays uniform. His chest had the proportions of a silo, and his thighs could have stood in for a pair of sturdy oaks. If this guy had AIDS, I was Ty Cobb.

  A box of type in the corner supplied Daryl’s stats. Twenty-six years old. Born in Emporia, Kansas. Six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty pounds. Second season with the Blue Jays, but first as the starting left fielder. Threw right-handed, swung the bat the same way. Hitting .302 through Friday, six home runs, eighteen RBIs, nine stolen bases.