Barrington Street Blues (33 page)

But it was clear two minutes into the conversation at their South Street flat that they had nothing useful to offer. They had been childhood friends of the victim and had more or less been dragooned by his parents into speaking at the funeral. They had fallen out of touch with Graham and had seen very little of him from about grade ten onwards. Without being explicit, they gave me the impression that Graham had turned away from his old friends and started hanging
around with a rough crowd. Could they give me any names? They exchanged glances and she said: “Maybe Matty Fuller. If he's around.”

“She means if he's not in jail.”

“Where does he live, any idea?”

“The Pubs maybe. I'm not sure.”

The Pubs were a public housing project close to the Halifax Shopping Centre in the city's west end. I would try to track him down as soon as I had time. I thanked them and left.

†

I then had to make a quick appearance in provincial court. When I got there, I found Ed Johnson grasping the banister upstairs and glaring down at nothing in particular.

“You seem a little tense, Edward. What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, if it's nothing, why are you —”

“Some Bar Society shit. Nothing to worry about.”

“What is it?”

“A client made a complaint about me. With the Barristers' Society.”

“So? We all have complaints made about us. They don't come to anything because they're bullshit. Right?”

“Yeah, but —”

“But what?”

“This one may not go away.”

“What happened?”

“I kind of roughed this guy up a bit.”

“You beat up a client?”

“No, of course not. If I was going to do that, I'd have done it years ago. And done a proper job of it. This guy I just grabbed by the collar and, well . . .”

“Well what?”

“I gave him a shove, and he fell off his chair.”

“Was he hurt?”

“No!”

“What brought this on?”

“I had this guy on certificate from Legal Aid because his mother is a long-time Legal Aid client. Family matters, not criminal. Always chasing the kid's father for child support. But the son had a conflict with the mother, so they put him out on certificate and he came to me. Charged with assaulting his mother. He held a knife to her throat and said: ‘You don't tell me what to do, bitch.'”

“Is she all right?”

“She was cut. Superficial wound, fortunately.”

“What brought this on?”

“Who the fuck knows? I lost it when I had this guy in my office. He sat there, slumped in his seat with a smirk on his face. Instead of the usual rational approach like ‘tell me what happened' or ‘what's your story,' I said: ‘What kind of a man would take a knife to his own mother?' The guy says: ‘Bitch deserve it.'

“I just fucking lost it. I grabbed him by his collar and shoved him to the floor. Never touched him again, but I lit into him with words. Was that a manly thing to do? Attacking his mother? Where did he get off, calling his mother a bitch? The woman who gave him life, who changed his shitty diapers, who kept him fed and dressed and took him to school and kissed him when he cried. The only parent who stayed with him. Because the father sure as hell didn't. He fucked off when the kid was two years old and never paid a cent to support him. Why not go after his father, if he was such a tough guy? He's the one who let him down. Fucking dirtbag, I wish I had him here right now. I can't wait to get into that disciplinary hearing! I'll tell them exactly what I just told you.”

“You'll tell them nothing of the kind. You'll let your lawyer do the talking.”

“Fuck it!”

I talked to him for a few more minutes till he calmed down. Then I made my quick appearance in court and left the building.

†

Matty Fuller was a big hulking guy of around twenty-five. Thursday afternoon I stood with him on the front porch of his townhouse in the Pubs. Fuller was as jumpy as a rabbit; he only half emerged from
his door, and his large brown eyes kept darting to the street behind me. I resisted the urge to join him in checking behind my back.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Matt.”

“No prob'm.”

“As I explained, I'm trying to find out something about Graham Scott.”

“Like what?”

“Like did he have any enemies that you knew of, or disagreements with anyone in the time leading up to his death?”

“I thought Leaman took him out behind the bar.”

“He most likely did. I'm just checking around. So, did you know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”

“Coulda been he pissed off a supplier.”

“Do you know whether he did?” Fuller shrugged. “Any other possibilities come to your mind?”

“I gotta go, man.”

“All right. But this is important. If there's anything you can tell me —”

“Mighta been those letters.”

“Letters?”

“Dude say Scott sendin' him letters.”

“What dude?”

Another shrug. “A suit. Seen him on
TV
.”

“Do you know his name?”

He shook his head, stuffed his fists down in his pockets, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Gotta split.”

“How do you know about these letters?”

“Dude show up at Scott's. I was there and seen him.”

“Where was Scott living at the time?”

“Robie Street.”

“What did the man look like?”

“A suit.”

“I know you can do better than that, Matty.” I finally got a description out of him that could have covered Kenneth Fanshaw. Of course it could have covered any number of other businessmen as well, but I liked Fanshaw in this role. There was a connection between the two of them, a connection that upset Graham's mother,
though she may have got it backwards: maybe it wasn't Fanshaw who had been leading Graham astray. Graham was selling street drugs to Fanshaw at inflated prices. Did Fanshaw turn around and use these drugs to coerce addicts to fight and perform sexual acts for the amusement of the Romans at the Colosseum? If so, it wasn't difficult to predict what the letters might have said.

“What did this man say about the letters?”

“He say: ‘If I get any more of this fucking shit in the mail I'll cut your fucking hands off so you can't even deal pencils on the street.'”

“And what did Graham Scott say to that?”

“Graham just laughed and told the guy to suck his dick.”

“When was this?”

“I dunno. Long time.”

“How long?”

He shrugged.

“Was anything said about the contents of the letters?”

“I don't remember him sayin' nuthin' about that. I gotta get outta here.” With that, he pushed past me, jumped down from the porch and disappeared around a corner.

I was left wondering how on earth I could find out more about these letters. Did they constitute blackmail? A motive for murder?

I returned to my office and added my impressions of Matty Fuller to the Scott and Leaman file. Then I skimmed the notes that had been dropped off by Doctor Gareth Swail-Peddle. There wasn't much of interest: a few references to
CL
— that would be Corey Leaman — needing more treatment, and a lot of pages that were blanked out.

“You're sure you don't want a weekend in New York?”

I looked up, startled. Brennan was standing in the doorway to my office. “I'm on my way to the airport. It won't be all church, you know.”

“Don't I know it! I've met your family, after all.”

“And they're forever asking after you.”

“I'd love to but I just can't. I'm behind the eight ball here, and I made a couple of promises to the kids. Say hello to everyone for me. And don't forget blues night at the Flying Stag when you get back on Monday. It's a fundraiser for some people whose apartment building caught fire out in Sackville. Remember: never dress up for the Flying
Shag. Wear something disposable, just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case of wear and tear happening all of a sudden. Blood spatter, bodily fluids, beer bottles flying across the room, that kind of thing.”

“Ah. See you there.” On the way out he lifted a couple of
CDS
from my bookcase.

“What did you take?”

“
Manon Lescaut
and T-Bone Walker.”

Opera and blues, the two poles of my musical world.

†

Monday rolled around, and I was at the Flying Shag with the other members of my blues band, Functus.

“Where's Burke?” Ed Johnson was in a state of agitation as we set up our equipment. The place was nearly full, and we were due to go on in half an hour. We had been lifting a few in anticipation, and were starting to feel the effects.

“He said he'd be here, Ed.”

“I hope he didn't get so wasted in New York that he forgot about this.”

“He's celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood; I don't imagine it was a lost weekend.”

“Never know.”

“Why are you so worked up about it? You said you're performing a special number for him. If he's late, do it later.”

“Can't. It's all set up.”

Johnson continued to fret until our attention was distracted by a couple sitting a few tables from the stage. The woman had a lined, pug-nosed face and a mass of dyed black curls; she was sobbing and clutching a bright pink teddy bear. A large, sloppy-looking man leaned across the table towards her.

“Whatsa matter with you?”

“The children, the children,” she wailed. “I can't stop thinking about those poor little children.”

“What children? What are you blubberin' about?”

“Those poor little children what died in that apartment fire. I can still see their little faces.”

“Nobody died in that fire, you dipshit. They're burned out of their apartments, they lost some stolen goods. This deal tonight is raising money to buy them stuff and put them up for a couple of weeks. So stop that moaning, and get off the sauce.”

“You fuck off!” the woman roared, and brought her draft glass down on the man's head. He shot out of his seat and grabbed her by the throat. Johnson and I stepped in to help the waiters break it up. A typical night at the Flying Shag.

“Here he is!” Johnson announced. “How was N'Yawk, Padre?”

“It was brilliant. Did I come at a bad time?”

“Nah, business as usual here. Excuse me for a minute. I have to go out and make some calls.”

The priest had followed the dress code. He wore an ancient black leather jacket over a T-shirt that said something in Irish.

“How was it, Brennan?”

“Lovely. We had the Mass at St. Kieran's and a reception. Saw a lot of my old cronies, priests I worked with and guys from the sem. They all showed up at the family party that night. Lots of laughs. You'd have enjoyed it. Terry and Patrick patched together a video of my priestly career. Everyone says hello. Bridey said to give you the kiss of peace for her. I'm not going to.”

“I'm sorry I missed it. Are they lonesome for you?”

“Who wouldn't be? But I won't be moving back there any time soon.”

“Oh?”

“No. I have plans here in Halifax.”

“Plans?”

“You'll be hearing a lot more about this later, since you'll be doing the legal work. But, for now, I can tell you I intend to set up a college, or an institution, for the study of the traditional music of the church. To counteract the schlock that's being heard in churches today. A counter-reformation, you might say. I tried for years to get a decision on this idea from the archbishop in New York. Now I have the blessing of the archbishop here. I won't start harping on it tonight. Let's have a pint of porter and listen to some blues.”

We did our first set without Johnson. The crowd was into the music so I indulged myself in a longer than usual harp solo on “Blues With A Feeling.” I did the vocals on my favourite Muddy Waters tune, “You Can't Lose What You Ain't Never Had,” which closed the set. I sat with Burke and the other band members during the break. Then we heard a commotion at the back door, near the stage. The lights went out, but we could dimly see people garbed in black, stumbling around and uttering the occasional curse. There was silence, then Johnson was centre stage with a spotlight on his face.

“This isn't just a regular down and dirty blues night piss-up,” he announced. “This is a special occasion for a very special friend of the band and, if I may say so, friend of the Flying Shag. Let's all join in congratulating Father Brennan Burke on the twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination as a priest of the Roman Catholic Church. Father Burke, take a bow!” The spotlight lurched around until it found Burke, who half stood and gave a wary nod of his head. “And now, please welcome the Flying Shag ‘Oh Jesus Yes Yes!' Tabernacle Choir as they join me in a rousing number dedicated to Father Burke. Hit it, sisters!”

The lights went on, and we saw Johnson backed up by a dozen women in what appeared to be barristers' black gowns. Half the faces were black; half were white. Some looked vaguely familiar. In true gospel style, he and the women went back and forth, over and over:

Tell me who's that writing? John the Revelator!

Tell me who's that writing? John the Revelator!

Tell me who's that writing? John the Revelator wrote the book of the seven seals!

The crowd got into the handclapping and swaying and, by about the sixth “who's that writing,” we were all on our feet. It was an uptempo number with lots of Jesus-shouting at the end, and only someone who was stone deaf could have stayed still for it. One of the women had a spectacular voice, which soared and sparred with Johnson's throughout. When it was over, the crowd went wild. Burke was stupefied. When he finally snapped out of it he sprinted to the stage to pump Johnson's hand, and ended up clasping him in a bear
hug. Some of the women high-fived the priest and blew him kisses. The crowd demanded an encore; Johnson and his choir were ready with “He's Got the Whole World in His Hands.” Burke stayed up with them, clapped and sang along. When it was over and the crowd got back to drinking, the women lined up on stage. In a choreographed move, they tore off their gowns, revealing their street clothes, which ranged from the garish to the barely-there.