Little Boy Blues (3 page)

“But he isn’t.”

“It’s an art gallery. They don’t answer their phones before ten.”

“But they did answer the phone, and they said Alvin wasn’t in.”

I found myself massaging my temple again. “Well, I don’t think you have much to worry about. He’ll drift in to work in his own sweet time. Trust me.”

“Miss MacPhee?”

“Look, um...”

“Tracy.”

“Why don’t you try him at home?”

“He doesn’t answer his phone.”

“Well, he is probably on his way to Gadzooks.” How could an entire family be so stunningly irritating?

“But he wasn’t at his apartment. We started calling last night. We left about ten messages.”

Okay. Tracy might sound like she was ten years old, but we all had to grow up sometime. “Perhaps Alvin spent the night with a
friend
.”

“Oh.”

“Right.”

“It’s urgent. Because of my little brother, Jimmy. We can’t find him anywhere.”

Unless I was wrong, Alvin’s little brother was twenty-one.

“My mother is really upset. We need to find Jimmy soon.”

“News flash, Tracy. Sometimes young men get distracted and forget about their mothers. He’ll be able to look after himself.”

“But that’s just it. Jimmy couldn’t.”

Not my problem. I thought someone should tell Mrs. Ferguson to let her baby boy grow up. “Everything will work out.”

“It won’t!” Tracy’s voice rose. “He can’t look after himself.” She said something else, but I missed the rest in an explosion of nose blowing.

“Biss BacPhee?”

“Maybe Jimmy felt like a bit of a break.” And no wonder. “He left his medication.

He needs that, or his seizures will start again. He doesn’t have his puffer. And he left Gussie on the road. He’d never do that.”

“Who?”

“Gussie. He loves that dog. He’d never leave her to fend for herself downtown in the traffic. Jimmy has disappeared. He’s absolutely vanished. Now we can’t find Allie, and we need to tell him.”

She had me. Whatever Alvin’s flaws, ignoring his large family wasn’t one of them.

I couldn’t concentrate with incessant calls from the Fergusons. I had no clients scheduled because of the quasi-holiday. Plus the inside of Justice for Victims by this time was one hell of a lot hotter than the Ottawa streets.

“Okay. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you. You know Allie thinks the world of you, Miss MacPhee.”

Ah, shit.

• • •

The phone rang as I reached the door. On the off chance it was Tracy calling to say Jimmy had shown up or Alvin calling to apologize for the inconvenience, I shot across the desk and grabbed the receiver.

“I know I am breathtaking, and it’s time you realized it, Tiger.”

My friend P. J. Lynch sounded too cheerful for a reporter who’d been yanked back from a big-time assignment in Charlottetown to deal with his mother’s heart attack.

“How’s your mom?” I asked.

“False alarm. They boosted her meds, she’s home again, ready to rumble.”

“That’s a relief. I’ll send her flowers.”

“Don’t worry about it. Listen, I have terrific news.”

“It is terrific news, P. J. But I’ve got to tear off and find Alvin.”

“Find him? I thought you were ecstatic to lose him. Sorry I missed that party, by the way.”

“I’m out the door. Call you later.”

“Okay. But here’s the good news.”

I knew what made P. J. a first-rate reporter. He didn’t understand any part of no.

“Later,” I said.

“I have a chance to do a restaurant review this week. Hot new spot. Friday night. Want to come with me?”

“Aren’t you covering Nicholas Southern’s Right to be Wrong, Let’s Bore the Country Senseless from Coast to Coast to Coast Campaign?”

“Very funny. The Right to be Right is a serious movement.”

“Sure. Serious bowel movement.”

“I won’t dignify that. Anyway, he’s got some private function
that night. Oh, quit laughing, Tiger, it’s not that hilarious. Come with me to the restaurant. It’ll be like undercover work. You can be part of my disguise.”

“Not that I haven’t always wanted to be part of a disguise, but no can do. I’ll be at Bluesfest. Blue Rodeo opens. I am
there
.”

“But Bluesfest isn’t twenty-four hours a day. You have to eat.”

“No dice, P. J. I’ll eat on the site. Any other time would be great.”

“You don’t understand, Tiger. I’m stretched to the max with this assignment.”

“I hope you’re not complaining. This Nicholas Southern thang is supposed to haul you out of crime reporting and onto the national scene. Make you or break you, I believe you said. Or was that the restaurant reviews?”

“Come on, I’ve the weekend off, at last. You’re supposed to be my buddy. Don’t let me down.”

“Gotta go, P. J.”

I knew the longer we talked, the more persuasive he would become. It takes more than rudeness to shake P. J. Lynch. I hung up.

• • •

I set off to Gadzooks to find Alvin and hold him in a headlock until he called his family. Twentysome minutes later, I hit the far side of the market and strolled up to the small, upscale gallery. Through the plate glass window, I spotted René Janveau, the owner, surrounded by vast, gleaming crystal sculptures.

René knew my name, since I had provided Alvin with an extraordinarily glowing recommendation. I plan to work that off in Purgatory. He kept running his hands through his hip
hairdo and spewing anxiety.

I got to the point. “I need to speak with Alvin Ferguson.”

“I am afraid that’s not possible.”

“Well, it’s an emergency.”

“It certainly is. I have to leave for Montreal, and Alvin is not here yet. Where do you think he is?”

I felt a little throb in my temple. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

“How ridiculous. I am his employer, and I have no idea.”

“Well, I’m his former employer, and I have even less.” I tried to imagine Alvin keeping the sparkling half-acre of glass free of fingerprint smudges and dust. I failed.

“But I must leave immediately. A major show could fall through if I miss these negotiations.”

I shrugged. I had a lot of problems, but this wasn’t one of them.

He brightened and gave me a crafty glance. “You look more or less presentable. Would you consider filling in here until he shows up?”

• • •

Hull, Quebec, may be another political world from Ottawa, but it’s a short walk from the market. I always love walking over the Alexandria Bridge. The breeze blowing up the Ottawa River was the best thing that had happened to me so far that day. But the cooling effects were quickly lost pounding the pavement on the other side.

It was a hot half-hour before I panted up to Alvin’s rickety eight-unit building on Boulevard St. Joseph and staggered through the front door. As usual, the faint memory of marijuana hung in the corridor.

I thumped on Alvin’s door. Legally, that was better than thumping Alvin himself, which had crossed my mind. I
almost hoped he wouldn’t answer so I could continue to get rid of my frustrations.

A small child emerged from the next apartment and watched me with great interest. I provided a bad example by giving the door a kick. It swung inward. I hated to venture into Alvin’s apartment unassisted. I never knew what I’d find, but I always knew I wouldn’t be prepared.

Inside the apartment, the floor had been painted black, the walls an elegant shade of dove. The lighting was museum quality, but the temperature hovered slightly below boiling. I managed to maintain my cool as I came nose-to-nose with a pretty fair papier mâché replica of
The Thinker
, sitting in the middle of the floor. A series of question marks hung, suspended by invisible wires, over his lovely puzzled head.

Alvin’s retro fridge had been redone in a bracing shade of fuschia, and labelled
The Pinker
. The toilet which he uses as a planter had a cabbage rose growing in it and a little plaque on the wall behind that said
The Stinker
.

A floor-to-ceiling rectangle consisting of three broad vertical stripes caught my eye. Alvin had thoughtfully added a blinking artificial flame at the base of the painting and a talk bubble that said, “Ouch, that’s hot,” at the top. It got the label,
The Blinker
.

On the next wall, a Picasso from the blue period. The large eye winked at me, and two seconds later the small one did. The label said, naturally,
The Winker
.

That boy gets me every time.

I did have to ask myself: if Alvin was ingenious enough to create and maintain this display, why, in his time at Justice for Victims, had he never once answered the goddam phone properly?

• • •

I found Alvin in the bedroom. I almost didn’t spot him under the tangle of sheets. He was curled into the fetal position. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see any movement. His ponytail spread over the crisp white pillowcase, and five of his visible earrings glinted in the pale glow filtering in from the living room.

Alvin didn’t even appear to be breathing. I almost stopped breathing myself. I reached out and touched him. Warm. And better yet, that small rise of his chest indicated that he was alive.

Now that I knew he was alive, I really felt like killing him.

I shook him vigorously. “Are you out of your mind, sleeping in on the first day of your new job?”

Alvin didn’t respond. I gave his grey, bony cheek a gentle slap.

I sat back and looked around. Had he accidentally overdosed? I saw nothing in the small bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was simple and neat. Double bed. No clothes strewn. No museum knock-offs. His all-season leather jacket hung on a wooden hanger in the closet, next to his Mickey Mouse scarf.

I checked the bathroom. It was spotless. White towels with the monogram AF were displayed neatly on the towel rack, fresh soap sat in the soap dish, and the bathmat was clean and fluffy. Aside from the Magritte panel reproduced on the inside of the shower stall, it could have been anyone’s bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet.

It contained a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.

I rushed back to the bedroom and stuck my head under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.

Alvin hadn’t budged. My cellphone decided this was a dead zone. I was pretty wobbly as I hightailed it to the living room
to call for help. Too bad Alvin had painted his telephone black to match the floor. I was about to race into the hallway yelling for help when I stubbed my toe on the missing phone.

911. I stammered out the address. And admitted he was breathing. Yes, I was calm, I insisted. No, I didn’t know of any medical conditions. No, I didn’t think he had been sick recently. No, I’d found no sign of any drugs. No, I didn’t know for sure if he might have ingested anything. No, no pill bottles in the apartment. Yes, I already said I
was
calm.

Extremely goddam calm, in fact.

It didn’t take long for the paramedics to arrive. Eight minutes by my watch. Eight hours by my emotional state.

Long enough to notice no light flashing on Alvin’s answering machine. Looked like he’d picked up his messages.

• • •

As the paramedics were peering under Alvin’s eyelids with little lights, he popped his eyes open and sat up.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“You tell me,” I said, perhaps too forcefully, because the paramedics asked me to step out of the room. “Not a chance,” I said.

I found myself being propelled by the female paramedic. She could have bench-pressed some serious numbers. I relied on the Cape Breton solution and made tea in Alvin’s grandmother’s pink and white china teapot. The tea had reached the bracing black stage when the bedroom door opened and the paramedics emerged. Lines of sweat ran down their faces. “Looks like he’s all right, Madame,” the male said. “He’s making sense. It’s probably the heat, but you should check with his doctor.”

“He had a bit of a shock. I think he got a phone message
that a family member has gone missing.”

“That may be. But it is dangerously hot in here.”

“Is that tea?” the female attendant said.

“Would you like some?”

She shook her head. I heard her mutter something like
anglaise, tête carrée
.

I had no idea who Alvin’s doctor was.

“You should get him someplace cool and make sure someone stays with him for the next twenty-four hours.”

I’d already figured that one out myself.

“And no tea.”

When the door clicked behind them, I turned to face Alvin. He clutched a silver-framed photo.

“What happened, Alvin?”

Alvin emitted a low keening sound, raising goosebumps on my arms. He slumped to the floor.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

“Alvin.
Alvin
.”

“He’s dead,” he whispered.

“What?”

Tears streaked his cheeks and dripped onto the black floor. “Our Jimmy’s dead.”

“Alvin, he’s not dead. Nobody said he was dead. He’s missing, and they’re worried because he left his medication and what’s-its-name, the dog. I just spoke to your family no more than an hour ago, and they are out searching for him.”

“I know Jimmy’s
dead
. And it’s my fault.”

Warmth and sympathy don’t come naturally to me. But after this tragic news, even I knew Alvin needed a cool spot and someone to look after him.

I arranged for a cab. I called Gadzooks and explained there’d been a death in Alvin’s family. I alerted Mrs. Parnell and told her to expect company. Finally, I took a deep breath and tried the Fergusons. Busy.

Forty minutes later, Alvin was settled on Mrs. Parnell’s black leather sofa. His breathing was deep and ragged. Vivaldi played soothingly in the background. Every now and then, the lovebirds Lester or Pierre gave a war cry.

The Fergusons’ line continued to be busy.

I filled Mrs. P. in on the background. I figured she’d be baffled too. She surprised me. “Poor boy. He’s lost his favourite earrings.”

“That’s the least of his problems.”

“Perhaps, Ms. MacPhee. My point is, young Ferguson is meticulous about his appearance. He must be terribly disturbed to have left home like that. Of course, that’s one of the symptoms.”