Booking In Page 6

  “I’m the guy your employer’s hired to put a finger on the burglar. That would make me a person you might normally be expected to confide in, and yet you don’t want me to know your gentleman host’s identity?”

  “If it gets really necessary, I’ll tell you. Only you.”

  I got up and poured myself another half cup of coffee. I held up the Cuisinart in Charlie’s direction. She shook her head.

  “Before you leave,” I said, “I’ve got a name to try out on you. Christopher Thorne-Wainwright?”

  “What about him?”

  “Who is he?”

  Charlie gave me a look that packed a trace of scorn. “You don’t know much about the antiquarian book business, do you?”

  “My sweetie and I visit Fletcher’s store a dozen or so times a year.”

  “I suppose I should give you marks for that.”

  “So Mr. Thorne-Wainwright’s in your business?”

  “How did the name come up in the first place?”

  “It was mentioned during my inquiries.”

  Charlie waited for me to say more. I kept quiet, and the silence dragged out.

  “Oh, all right,” Charlie said. “What’s the harm? Christopher Thorne-Wainwright is a private dealer in antiquarian books. He and Fletcher are mortal enemies. I can’t tell you much about the rivalry, because it mostly happened before my time in the store, but Fletcher’s told me stories about him and Thorne-Wainwright getting it on over various deals that almost always went right for Fletcher and wrong for Thorne-Wainwright.”

  “He was a competitor in retail operations, this Thorne-Wainwright?”

  “He used to be. Had quite a good antiquarian bookstore, is what I understand. But he wasn’t much of a businessman. For example, when book collectors died, and their heirs got rid of the dead person’s books, nine times out of ten, Fletcher beat old Thorne-Wainwright to the punch.”

  “Pouncing on dead peoples’ collections is an important part of the trade with antiquarian people?”

  “For plenty of reasons. We’re hired to evaluate the collections for different kinds of tax deductions or for sales of the collections to libraries. Or in some cases we buy the collections for ourselves.”

  “Fletcher and other dealers usually outfoxed Thorne-Wainwright?”

  “Especially Fletcher. That’s the way he tells it, anyway.”

  “And Thorne-Wainwright was ultimately driven out of business?”

  “He gave up his store, but he’s stayed active, dealing in books out of his apartment. This has been for the last few years, so I assume he’s keeping afloat.”

  Charlie put her coffee cup down on my desk and gave signals that she was preparing to take her leave.

  “One more question,” I said. “I assume from what you’ve already said that you and Fletcher are on good terms?”

  Charlie smiled for the first time since she’d arrived. “Currently we are,” she said, “and actually I owe that in very large part to your Annie.”

  “This wouldn’t be connected to Fletcher’s curious romancing practices, would it?”

  Charlie nodded vigorously. “I was in the line as Fletcher’s target just in front of Annie.”

  “The line? Does that mean there was somebody else before you?”

  “Three or four before me,” Charlie said. “Fletcher’s been on the prowl ever since the girlfriend he had for decades dropped him about a year ago and moved into a retirement home up on Lake Simcoe. She’s older than Fletcher by maybe ten or twelve years, and she discovered in her advancing age that she was really only interested in one thing.”

  “The one thing wasn’t Fletcher?”

  Charlie shook her head. “Scrabble.”

  “Scrabble’s a senior citizen passion?”

  “When Minnie’s not playing with friends who visit her — Minnie Mueller’s the old girlfriend’s name — she’s playing against people on her computer.”

  “Fletcher’s never been interested in Scrabble?”

  “He tried, but he never won a single game against Minnie.”

  “That could be discouraging.”

  “Drove him bats.”

  “So, to fill the gap left in his life by the departing Minnie, he goes around whispering sweet nothings to the nearest female?”

  “About cheekbones and ears and breasts.”

  “While the women inhale his halitosis?”

  “Yes,” Charlie said, taking time over her words. “His breath problem. That’s a tough one to bear, if you’re the girl. The worst moments — god, this is kind of hilarious when I think about it. I mean, working together, I inhale a lot of his bad breath, but the worst moments are what he calls the Midnight Manoeuvres. This is when he and I go back to the store after dinner, sometimes way after dinner, like beyond midnight, which is where Fletcher gets the name from. We restack books, do a bunch of things we didn’t have time to finish during the day. And the whole time, when we’re working till two or three in the morning, Fletcher’s breath gets stinkier and stinkier.”

  “The breath thing can be easily cured, I understand.”

  “All the girls he approaches have warm feelings about him for different reasons. They may not want him for a boyfriend, but they don’t want to hurt his feelings by telling him about the halitosis, never mind advising him about how he can lick it.”

  “It would take a diplomatic touch, no doubt.”

  “Or a blunt-speaking person.”

  “No women have been up to the job?”

  Charlie shook her head. “Why don’t you do it?” she said, wearing a large smile.

  “Me?” I said. “You think I should tip off Fletcher about his unbearable breath?”

  “God knows you’re blunt.”

  “Fletcher and I already don’t much like one another.”

  “Then you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “True.”

  “In fact,” Charlie said, “him being your client at the moment, it might be useful for you in the long run to help him get rid of a problem he doesn’t know he has. He’ll be grateful and therefore more co-operative or whatever you need him to be.”

  Charlie stood up, all set to depart.

  “‘See Crang for pure breath,’” I said. “I can put that on my business card right after the barrister and solicitor part.”

  “It makes a catchy slogan,” Charlie said, the smile still on her face.

  She shook my hand and went out through the open door and down the hall to the elevator.

  I walked over to the window and looked across Spadina. The cute parkette on the other side was named after Matt Cohen, the deceased novelist who had once lived a couple of blocks farther north on Spadina. A lot of writers had lived in the neighbourhood. Many still did. Margaret Atwood sightings were frequent in and around the Annex.

  Down below, Charlie Watson emerged from the building and turned south. She had a no-nonsense walk, all purposeful. But what had been the reason for her visit to me? The stuff about Fletcher’s sensitivity had the feel of baloney. I got the faint impression she was trying to pry information out of me about the big break-in. Not that our conversation had ended up going in her favour. Maybe she really wanted to enlist me as a halitosis-breaker on behalf of Fletcher.

  Nah, it couldn’t be that.

  Could it?

  But, kind of ridiculous as it sounded, maybe it’d be useful to my own purposes if I tipped Fletcher off about the halitosis thing. I do him a favour, and he reciprocates. Something like that might work to my benefit.

  Chapter Ten

  The sign over aisle number three in the Shoppers Drug Mart on Bloor a half block from my office told me that the aisle offered products that promoted “Mouth Health.” My first walk down the aisle was devoted to reconnaissance. The second time through, I began picking up items for purchase


  I chose two brands of toothpaste. One was marked “Breath Pure” and the other didn’t mention breath but promised “A Refreshed Mouth.” I put both in a shopping basket. Next, after much scrutiny of the dental floss shelves, I settled on two brands. The first came equipped with mint flavouring, while the second described its product as possessing “Nature’s Taste.” Alongside the floss, there were two sections of toothpicks. I ended up with three varieties. One package contained the familiar wooden toothpicks that thoughtful dining establishments offered at every table. The second, way more sophisticated, had a five-inch-long shaft with rubbery knobs at either end in just the right size to flick the gunk out of the tricky spaces among the molars. And the third was the Cadillac version of the second, this one sporting a more metallic-looking knob in place of the rubber, the metal done up in a gold shade. My shopping basket was already two-thirds full.

  In the category of toothbrush, I went for two of the dozens of varieties, both brushes looking bushier than the norm, both guaranteeing to “ferret out disease-causing bacteria.” One bragged about the new whiteness it would bring to the teeth. The other took whiteness for granted.

  I checked through my basket of implements, all of them devoted to the elimination of halitosis, and decided they covered the field.

  I carried the basket to a counter where no one else was lined up to pay. The cashier was a solidly built woman in her forties. She adopted a smirky expression when I plunked down my basket, and she seemed to be applying a lot of thought to the choices I’d made.

  “I see what your problem is,” she said.

  Should I tell her the stuff wasn’t for me? No, I thought, why complicate a simple drugstore transaction?

  “But I think you’ve overlooked something,” the cashier said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A lot of my customers have the same mouth embarrassment as you.”

  Maybe I should just breathe on the woman and let her know I had no reason to feel embarrassed.

  “Mouthwash,” the cashier said.

  She had a point.

  “I’ll hold your items on the counter while you go back for the mouthwash,” she said. “Pick one that advertises ‘breath sweet and clear.’ You’ll see what I mean.”

  Back in the Mouth Health aisle, I found the mouthwash the cashier was talking about. It came in three shades of purple. I got two bottles of the most garish tint.

  “There now,” the cashier said when I showed her the two bottles. “Your mouth’s going to smell so luscious, you’ll love yourself.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “You married?” the cashier asked.

  “Next thing to it.”

  “She’s going to kiss you like you’ve never been kissed before.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I appreciate your advice, but the toothpaste and all the rest of the stuff is for a friend.”

  The cashier stopped packing my purchases and looked up to me. I hadn’t noticed how beady her eyes were.

  “Oh, you guys,” she said, breaking into a laugh. “None of you can admit your own problems.”

  “Lady, I got problems, but not this particular one.”

  “Don’t give me that guff.”

  A small line had formed behind me. People were waiting to pay for their purchases.

  “Just say to yourself,” the cashier said to me, “‘my breath offends, but I can beat the odour trouble.’”

  I looked back at the line. Four people stood in it. Three of them were listening to the cashier but pretending they weren’t. The fourth, the guy at the front of the line, was listening and not bothering to conceal his merriment.

  “Promise me,” the cashier was saying, “you’re going to take ownership of your halitosis.”

  Would this damn woman ever shut up?

  “How much do I owe you?” I said.

  “Looks like it’s $89.52,” she said. “Money well spent.”

  I waved my Visa card at her. She slid the card machine closer to me.

  “If you’re not cured inside a week,” the woman said, “I’ll be very surprised.”

  I finished the payment drill.

  “I tell you what,” the woman said. “If your girlfriend or wife or whatever she is can still detect the halitosis this time next week, send her over to see me.”

  I picked up my bulky bag and started for the door at a swift walking pace.

  “I know some really powerful prescription medicine for bad breath,” the cashier said in a louder voice. “Me and your girlfriend or wife, whatever, can work that out.”

  I took another look behind me. The asshole at the front of the line was flashing a big smile my way and applauding.

  I crossed Bloor at the traffic light and headed south to my office, feeling something between annoyed and humiliated. My iPhone chose this delicate moment to ring. The caller was Maury.

  “You want to meet me and Biscuit at the Daffodil for lunch?” he said.

  “I’m kind of occupied here, Maury,” I said, not much feeling like taking a trip all the way to the east end for my next meal.

  “Crang, that wasn’t a question I just put to you,” Maury said. “That wasn’t even a suggestion.”

  “You got something urgent?”

  “Essential is how I might describe it.”

  “Concerning the job we’re doing for Fletcher?”

  “You’re making me feel exasperated, for chrissakes.”

  “Give me a three quarters of an hour, I’ll take the Bloor subway and then, what, the Coxwell bus south to the Daffodil?”

  “If you’re as serious as you ought to be, you’ll grab a cab.”

  I clicked off my iPhone and hailed a taxi.

  Chapter Eleven

  I spotted Biscuit the minute I stepped into the Daffodil Restaurant. That was tricky, picking out a guy in a crowded diner who was so short his head barely cleared the top of the table he and Maury were sitting at. Biscuit, maybe an inch or two under five feet, belonged to the little people. Not that the height seemed to be a drawback as far as he was concerned. Besides this positive attitude, Biscuit had plenty of other physical qualities that would be rated as attractive in a person of any size: a full head of thick grey hair, a tidy moustache, snappy clothes, and a pleasant all-around demeanour. He was also regarded among his contemporaries in the subculture as the slickest cracker of safes in the business, though, like Maury, he had retired from active cracking a couple of years earlier.

  “What’s the stink you’re bringing in here, Crang?” Maury said. “The place all of a sudden smells like a dentist’s office.”

  I ignored Maury’s hassling and greeted Biscuit. When we shook hands, my hand felt as if it were circling his twice. I sat down on Biscuit’s side of the table, plunking my Shoppers Drug Mart bag on the floor next to my seat.

  “Seriously, Crang,” Maury said, “what’ve you got in the bag, a lifetime supply of Listerine?”

  “If you really need to know,” I said, “it’s a bunch of dental aids for our current employer.”

  “You’re talking about Fletcher’s crappy breath?”

  “You know about that?”

  “The guy lets out some air in my vicinity, it’s the same as an attack of poison gas like the Germans hit the Allies with in the First World War.”

  “How come everybody notices Fletcher’s breath except me?”

  “Yeah,” Maury said, “you’re supposed to be the guy that nothing gets past.”

  “Nice to be together with you again, Crang,” Biscuit broke in. “Especially on an interesting professional engagement.”

  “Maury’s briefed you about the bookstore theft?”

  “Papers taken from the safe that has the digital lock, yes,” Biscuit said. “But I would describe what Maury gave me as more a field trip than a briefing.”

&nbs
p; “Biscuit and I went to Fletcher’s place last night,” Maury said. “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What hour last night? Was the store still open?”

  “At 2:30 a.m,” Maury said. “And the place was empty, which was necessary for our little visit.”

  “You might have given me advance notice about this expedition,” I said. “You guys broke in, right?”

  “Not broke in, like you say,” Maury said. “When Biscuit’s involved in an operation, it’s smooth as silk.”

  “A satisfying bit of work,” Biscuit said.

  “You went in through the back door?” I said.

  “We did,” Biscuit said. “Then I opened the safe.”

  “Using the method where you give the safe a thump with the mallet?”

  “I prefer a challenge, Crang,” Biscuit said. “So I worked the combination.”

  “Under five minutes was all it took for Biscuit to get the right numbers lined up,” Maury said, reaching across the table to bump fists with Biscuit. “My man here’s the champ.”

  The waiter arrived to take our orders. I asked for what I always ate at the Daffodil, a plain omelette and a Coors. The Daffodil was a clean, cheerful place, always busy, reliable with simple dishes but hardly daring in its cuisine. Maury regarded the Daffodil as a location close to sacred. It was here that members of the subculture had gathered in their halcyon days. They drank beer and plotted heists and scams in a bar that had once stood across the street, then retired to the Daffodil for a meal. Now the bar was gone, and so were most members of the old subculture, but the Daffodil lingered on.

  “Reassure me, Maury,” I said. “You didn’t knock over a stack of books getting into or out of Fletcher’s store?”

  “Even if we had, there wasn’t anybody in the architect’s office to wake up.”

  “Nothing else went wrong?”

  “Without a hitch, man,” Maury said, a big grin on his face.

  “A delight in every regard,” Biscuit said. He was grinning too.

  “What are you guys holding out on me?” I said. “You’re like a pair of kids with a secret the adults don’t know about.”