Children in the Morning (24 page)

“Thank you.”

“You’re more than welcome. I’ll leave you alone now. You’ll be needing your sleep if you’re going to sing well at choir school tomorrow and put Father Burke in a good mood!”

I laughed again. He knows what his brother can be like, that some people might find him a little scary, but that’s mostly shy people; he doesn’t bother me.

So he gave me his card. I decided I would ask for a new wallet just for people’s cards. This was the only one I had so far but I would collect others.

(Monty)

“Get your diving gear on.”

“What?”

“Strip yourself of your priestly vestments, put on jeans and an old T-shirt, and meet me in your parking lot. We’re going to a dive.”

“What dive would that be now?”

“The Miller’s Tale in Dartmouth. Stand by.”

The fog bank had moved in and it was chilly. Burke was in his church parking lot in jeans and a battered leather jacket when I arrived.

He raised his left eyebrow at me when he got in the car. I responded:

“A client of mine was an associate of the Hells Angels in the not-so-distant past, and he may be able to help us with our inquiries. He recently started work at the Tale as a bartender after being out of the workforce for an extended period of time. He owes me.”

“Would he have been a guest of Her Majesty for a couple of years 146

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perhaps?”

“Two years less a day in one of her institutions, yes.”

“Sounds to me as if he doesn’t owe you a thing.”

“He should have gone away for ten years, and he’s enough of a pro to know it. I worked out a deal for him, he did his time like a man, he’s out, and he appreciates it. So I’m going to call in a marker. Try for some information.”

“Is he a member of the motoring club?”

“He was an associate. There was a falling out years ago. Somehow he managed to make reparations for whatever offence he committed against them, and there are no hard feelings. I’m sure he’s careful not to tread on their turf. As far as I know he’s just a regular working stiff now. Like you and me.”

The stench of greasy fried chicken assailed our nostrils when we got out of the car at the Miller’s Tale. The chicken emporium was two doors down; the club’s immediate neighbours were an X-rated video shop and a tattoo parlour. We went into the bar and stood still for a few seconds, letting our eyes get used to the dark. I didn’t recognize the bartender. A wasted trip, or the chance for a beer and a game of pool?

“Let’s get a drink and I’ll see if I can find out when my old friend comes on shift.”

We claimed two bar stools and we each ordered a draft. Seeing Burke with a beer glass in his hand reminded me that I hadn’t seen him take a drink in weeks.

“Did you fall off the wagon? Were you on it?”

“I took a little break from the stuff for a while.”

“How long a while?”

“Would I be counting?”

“How long?”

“Just over three weeks, I believe it is.”

“Why’d you do that?”

He shrugged, then said: “Maybe I just wanted to see whether I missed it.”

“Did you?”

“I didn’t go through the dts or anything, so . . .”

“Well, did you crave it? Did you have to fight the temptation to get into it?”

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“No. I’d reach for a drink out of habit, but I didn’t suffer unduly when I reminded myself I was on the wagon.”

“So? What did that tell you?”

“That there’s no harm in taking it up again!”

“I see. That worked out well for you, then.”

“I don’t need to drink; therefore, I drink.”

“Your Cartesian logic puts me in mind of the Monty Python sketch about the drunken philosophers.”

“I love that. It’s brilliant. We’ll have the choir perform it some day.”

Burke was obviously one of those guys who have a considerable capacity for alcohol, but never became an alcoholic. A lot of people thought they were in that category, but were sadly mistaken. He, however, seemed to have it under control.

He drank down a third of his beer, put his glass on the table, said

“Ah,” and lit up a smoke.

I was just about to make a casual inquiry about Bradley Dwyer when he appeared carrying two large trays of fresh glasses. He was well able to handle the load. Over six feet in height, he was two hundred fifty pounds of pumped-up muscle. Prison tats covered his arms, and his dull brown hair was buzzed on the top, straggly in the back. He saw me right away and looked a bit leery, but recovered quickly and offered me a friendly greeting.

“Monty!” He turned to the other man behind the bar. “Don’t take this guy’s money, Al. He and his buddy drink free.”

“Thanks, Bradley. We won’t drink the place dry. This is Brennan Burke. Bradley Dwyer.” They nodded to each other.

“How are you doing, Brad?”

“Not too bad.”

Two hard-looking women came in, and Bradley served them.

They took their drinks to a table, then picked up pool cues and got into a game. When the other barman went out back, I took the opportunity to question my old client.

“Brad, do you remember a guy named Bullard, got killed last spring?”

Warily, he answered: “Yeah, I remember hearing about that.” He looked at my companion. “What do you do, Brennan?”

I laughed. “He’s not a cop. We’re not involved in an investigation 148

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of Bullard’s death. It may have a connection with something else, or it may not. I heard it was a Hells Angels hit.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“Bullard was taken to a remote location and shot. And he was known to associate with guys with leather wings.”

“He was a hanger-on, a loser! The HAs didn’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“Why not?”

“He was a fuckin’ psycho, that’s why.”

“How do you know he was a psycho?”

“Because the HAs sent him to do a little intimidation job on a guy who owed them four thousand bucks in a drug deal. All Bullard was supposed to do was scare the guy, threaten to break his legs, just to motivate him, you know? Guy wasn’t home, so Bullard goes nuts on the guy’s woman. Rapes her, cuts her up. Unfuckinbelievable. And he did it in front of her son. Kid was seven years old. He freaked out, screaming and crying and trying to get Bullard off his mother.

Bullard turns on the kid, beats him up.”

I looked at Brennan. He was staring at Brad, horrified.

“So,” I said, “from the bikers’ point of view, eliminating this guy would be damage control.”

“No fucking way. Angels didn’t go within a mile of this clown after that. Damage control was ‘never heard of the guy.’ But somebody took him out.”

“How about the man whose wife and child were attacked?”

Brad shook his head. “Airtight alibi. Cops had picked him up for selling coke the night before.”

We reverted to small talk after that, then finished our drinks, thanked Brad, and left.

“So, where does that leave us?” Brennan asked in the car on the way back to Halifax.

“The Hells Angels apparently weren’t after Beau’s client. And they wouldn’t have been after Beau. That wouldn’t make any sense.”

“Sounds as if the most dangerous element in this whole thing was Beau’s client.”

“And he’d already been eliminated before Peggy died, so if she was concerned about the Hells Angels at some point, this guy wasn’t the problem.”

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Chapter 11

(Monty)

My client, Beau Delaney, was the architect, or the beneficiary at least, of a major grandstanding event three days before his trial got underway. Jack Hartt, the actor who played Delaney in the movie about the Gary’s General Store case, was well known at the time of the film, but he had enjoyed even greater success in the years since, including two Oscar nominations. He made his home in Los Angeles, and had married his long-time love, Angie Bonner, lead vocalist and guitarist with the all-woman rock band Pink Curlers. The band had been at the top of the charts in the late seventies and early eighties; they still cut the occasional record and played the odd stadium gig. They had a huge following.

Now the Jack and Angie show was coming to Halifax. All in aid of Beau Delaney. Angie had offered to perform on the Commons, rain or shine. This was not the Beau Delaney Legal Defence Fund, but a charity concert to raise money for disadvantaged children.

There was no charge for admission, but people were invited to make donations to the charity. When my blues band, Functus, was asked 150

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to be the opening act for the concert, I did not jump to the conclusion that our fame had spread to southern California. Or even to the south shore of Nova Scotia. Beau had a hand in that, obviously. But we were delighted to do the gig and add “opened for Angie Bonner”

to our résumés, which would probably be done up on beer coasters if anything.

The night was foggy but mild. There were misty halos around the lights, which added a bit of atmosphere — local colour — to the set-up. The stage was at the northeast corner of the Commons, with a great red sandstone castle looming behind it, that is, the Halifax Armouries, which Queen Victoria ordered built at the end of the nineteenth century. There was a huge crowd on hand for the show, and a large media presence. Big, tough-looking guys circulated through the crowd passing the hat for the children’s charity. I didn’t know who the men were, but I knew nobody would even think of stealing the collection plate. The crowd gave my band a fine hometown welcome when we walked on stage. We did a few blues favourites and closed with Normie’s most cherished song, “Stray Cat Strut.” I brought her up with me to contribute the “meows.” She earned a great round of applause, and loved every minute of it.

The applause went up a few hundred decibels when Angie Bonner and Jack Hartt walked onto the stage, in a blaze of lights from the television cameras and news photographers. Hartt had a mane of light brown hair, not all that different from Delaney’s, minus the grey; he was tall and handsome in an athletic way. Angie was smaller than I expected, maybe a couple of inches over five feet and very slim; she had high cheekbones and long blond hair that streamed down over her shoulders. Some in the audience sang the Rolling Stones song “Angie” to welcome her. Others waved large Jack of Hearts cards to honour him. Angie was gracious enough to say a few kind words about Functus. Then Jack took centre stage.

“Hello, Halifax!”

That met with cheers. When they died down, Jack said: “I’d like to say a few words about why Angie and I are in Halifax. I’ll start with two words: Beau Delaney. As some of you may know, I played the part of Beau Delaney in a movie shot here a few years back. I played the role, but Beau was the real-life hero, who had taken on a 151

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very unpopular case in a town near here and made
himself
very unpopular as a result. In fact he received death threats for acting in the case. But that didn’t stop him from going back to that town, investigating a murder on his own time, finding the real killer, and freeing an innocent man who was wrongfully convicted of the killing. And if you want to know more, rent the video! Help pay for my trip!” Everybody laughed at that. “It’s called
Righteous Defender
.

“So that was inspiring enough, you’d think. Right?” Cheers from the crowd. “But there’s even more to Beau Delaney than that. When I met him, he did not have ten kids the way he has today. But he had a houseful even then. He had a few kids who were permanent parts of the family, of course, but he and his wife Peggy also took in foster children from time to time, on a temporary basis. So the Delaney house was always bursting at the seams with children. And with love!

“I was a Hollywood asshole. I still am, of course.” The audience howled with laughter. “But in one way I’ve tried to be a better person than I was then. I was a single guy, but Angie and I were an item; we’d been together on and off for years. I was so impressed with Beau and Peggy and the life they had made for their children that when I got home, I said to Angie: ‘Let’s tone down the partying, let’s grow up, get married, and start a family. And let’s not wait nine months. There are children out there who need love — no child should have to live without love; isn’t that the greatest tragedy in the world? — there are children out there who need a home. Angie, let’s do something about it.’ So we got married that week, and three months later we had two foster children living with us.” He was interrupted by heartfelt cheers.

“They’re still with us, and there are five more now.” Cheers again.

“Wouldn’t trade them for all the Oscars in the world! Beau, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for showing me what life is all about!”

He tried to continue but his words were drowned out by the applause.

When it finally subsided, he said: “Angie, over to you.”

The crowd roared and whistled, but she signalled for quiet, and the people obeyed. “If Jack was a Hollywood asshole, I was your stereotypical rock singer fuelling my performances with coke and booze. I gave it all up the night before our first appointment with social services to meet our first two foster children. Of course, we dropped the word ‘foster’ a long time ago. Anyway, I didn’t turn into 152

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a perfect human being overnight either. I’m not even close. But I sure as hell am trying my very best because Jack and our children mean the whole world to me. And it all started when Jack got home and talked my ear off about Beau Delaney and his wife Peggy and all the adorable children who made up their family. And I always wanted to meet them. Well, that could be arranged. Jack brought them down to L.A., where we all partied — in a good way, a wholesome family-type way, before you start to think anything else — and I got to know Peggy and Beau. Thank God for that, because Peggy’s not with us now. I am so blessed to have known her. Anyway, for those of you who don’t know the family, I can tell you they’re everything they’re cracked up to be. So let me join Jack in thanking you, Beau, for being the guiding light in our family life.” Roars of approval again. She turned around and picked up her guitar, checked her sound, and said: “Beau, this one’s for you!”