The Devil and the Detective (10 page)

21

H
ôtel Athènes – le Charon. Tailing Bouvert and Adamson. Sitting near them. One's fat, one's thin. I'm assuming the fat one's Bouvert and conversely the thin one's Adamson. They've just sat down. The third man hasn't shown up yet. A waiter approaches them and takes their orders.

–
Bonsoir, messieurs
.

– Good evening.

– Would you care for some drinks?

– Yes, I'll have a vodka martini – on the rocks, in a rocks glass.

– Olives or a twist?

– Olives.

– Very good. And for you, sir?

– A
CC
and ginger.

–
Merci beaucoup
. I'll be right back with your drinks.

They sit silently eating nuts, esp. the fat one, Bouvert, the one who ordered the martini. They don't say a single word the whole time the waiter's off getting their drinks – and the waiter takes a while. The waiter returns and sets the drinks down on coasters in front of them, and more nuts …

–
Voilà, messieurs
.

Bouvert lifts his martini and says …

– Cheers …

– Cheers.

And they clink glasses. Then, Adamson, the skinny one, says …

– If he takes any longer I say we leave. We don't need him at all. He was incidental and ultimately inconsequential. Might be better to sever ties now.

– We'll hear him out. No need making enemies for no good reason.

– Even if he were our
enemy
– it wouldn't matter.

– Don't get so distressed. Really, we'll have a drink and hear him out and we won't deal with him for a long time to come.

– I can't believe he's late. The nerve of this fucking guy.

A few more minutes pass and they barely utter a word. They both, however, frequently glance at their respective wristwatches. Adamson seems pissed. Bouvert seems calm, drinking and snacking, unflappable. (I'm, by the way, drinking a beer, but it's in a glass and probably a rip-off. I hope to be reimbursed for incidentals!!)

They stir. A man in a dark blue suit with a raincoat folded over his arm approaches their table.

– Sorry I'm late.

– Why was that … ?

– Detective.

– What?

– Why were you late?

– Al, we don't need to worry about that.

– No it's okay.

– So …

– A case, of course.

– And …

– Some junky
OD
'ed.

– Why does that concern you?

– The boyfriend lived. They want to pin it on him.

– And the Andrews case?

– Yes.

– Any developments?

– Since she's gone
AWOL
?

– Yes.

– No, not really. It's quiet. I believe she's successfully made her getaway.

– Right.

– So what did you want to see us about?

– Well, business.

– Okay.

– I figure I'm owed a little more than I've received.

– Oh.

– Yeah, and –

– Let me stop you right there –

– Al, please let the detective continue. Go ahead …

– Well, I believe I've been helpful and feel I should be properly remunerated. Simple.

– It's not simple.

– I think Al means that we've already shown our appreciation; our mutual friend has shown appreciation for all your help.

– I don't want to know anything, still.

– And you won't. You don't.

– Without knowing, why do you think you deserve more?

– I know enough.

– I suppose you do.

– Yes.

– You realize you could be implicated?

– Yes. But no one will –

– No, you'd just be disposed –

– Al, please!

– Listen, I'm a police detective with Robbery-Homicide – you can't make those sorts of threats to me. Do you understand?

– You're not above anything, O'Meara.

– Do you understand? Do not threaten me. I can make your lives hell.

– He's sorry, detective. We've been under a lot of pressure.

– Tell me about it.

The waiter approaches the table and Bouvert and Adamson order another round and O'Meara orders a double Jameson on the rocks.

– Ballpark?

– We're not negotiating.

– I am, Al. Ballpark – what are we talking?

– A hundred.

– No way!

– Al.

– It's not that much.

– No?

– Considering …

– Considering what?

– How's about twenty. We could do that
ASAP
.

– It's a lot less.

– Yes, but as we said, we've shown our appreciation. This is extra, a bonus.

– Right, but I'm asking for a hundred.

– If it were up to me you'd get nothing.

– You'll get something, detective.

– Well, it's low.

– But you've already gotten an awful lot.

– Okay. Eighty.

– Eighty! You ungrateful motherfucker –

– Al, please.

– Eighty.

– Sixty, today, but then you don't ask for anything more – ever – and we forget we ever knew each other.

– That seems harsh.

– Those are the terms. It's the right thing to do.

– I can live with that.

The waiter returns with their fresh drinks and they say nothing while he places them on the table and collects the finished drinks.

– Okay. Let's have a drink to your newfound wealth, detective.

– Where do I pick up my package?

– Same place. Old Port. By the pier. Ten o'clock.

– Near that restaurant?

– Yes, I'll meet you myself with a briefcase, from the ­restaurant.

–
Eccellente! Salute!

Bouvert and O'Meara clink glasses; Adamson doesn't.

– By the way, your friend, the
PI
, Mr. Robert James – Bob – he stopped by our offices an hour or so ago …

– Aw gawd.

– Yes.

– It's a problem.

– Nah. Don't worry, I'll take care of him. He meddles but he knows nothing, less than nothing, so he's not a threat.

– It's a problem.

– He's harmless – doesn't even carry a handgun!

– Detective, we –

– He's stuck in his own head. Really …

– It's a problem.

– I know he doesn't have a clue but I'll get rid of him. Don't worry.

– That's included in the bonus, right?

They all laugh evil-sounding laughs. O'Meara slams back his drink.

– Gotta run, fellas. But I'll be seeing you later.

– Don't be late.

– Ten o'clock.

– Good evening, detective.

– Okay, gentlemen –
merci et à bientôt!

They watch O'Meara leave. Adamson says …

– He could've offered to pay for the drinks, considering how much he's milking us for.

– It's not your money.

– Nonetheless, he shouldn't get paid.

– Well it's only sixty more.

– Today. He should be eighty-sixed.

– So what do you propose we do?

– Well …

Adamson leans in and whispers something into Bouvert's ear for what seems to be an unnaturally long period of time and eventually Bouvert chuckles. He leans back …

– It's worth considering.

The waiter approaches and Bouvert hands him a black Amex. They leave shortly thereafter. I pay in cash. My beer, with tip, came to thirteen dollars!!

FIN

22

I
sat reading and rereading Darren's transcript in the passenger seat of the hatchback in a state of disbelief. How could O'Meara be working for Bouvert and Adamson? I wondered, or rather: How could O'Meara be working for a client of Bouvert and Adamson? – a client who was more than likely Elaine Andrews, I thought, sitting in the car, a few blocks away from Hôtel Athènes, where Darren had followed the two lawyers into the bar, sat close and surreptitiously taken the minutes of their meeting with Detective Michael O'Meara of all people, a fucking fraud! In all the years I've known O'Meara I never had him pegged for being on the take, I thought, not to this extent at least. Sure, all cops are sort of dirty, I thought, enjoying the
perks
of the job – but this was different. This was aiding and abetting a murderer – or worse. I felt stupid for not having seen this coming, never suspecting O'Meara of
play this foul
. How much does he know? I wondered. Does he know Elaine's whereabouts?

‘What the hell did he do?' I said and Darren said he wasn't sure.

‘Well you did a good job, Darren.'

‘Thanks. But we gotta figure out where this restaurant is, so we're there for the handoff.'

Darren bounced in his seat, jacked up on adrenalin. ‘Get the drop on the drop.'

‘Well, Old Port, not far from the pier.'

‘There're a bunch of restaurants around there.'

‘We'll ask Michelle if Bouvert has a favourite.'

‘Good idea,' said Darren and pulled out his cell and her card and called her.

While Darren sat, cell in hand, waiting for Michelle to pick up, I sat stunned. I felt amazingly stupid. I'd been deceived by essentially everyone, I thought, for the
n
th time, save Darren. But then I cast a sidelong glance at him, wondering if somehow, in some way, Darren was tied up in this conspiracy, in this web of lies, this hell I now inhabit, a hell I was dragged into with a late-night phone call while I was minding my own damn business and reading and drinking on my couch in relative peace. Could Darren be working for these goddamn lawyers and these rich assholes, these assholes who chew through people, masticating them, in service of their tawdry dramas and the further accumulation of vast wealth? Anything was possible, I thought, though I hated myself for having to always be so paranoid, though still never paranoid enough. I wondered what to do about O'Meara. Should I confront him before the handoff, or after the handoff, or at the handoff, at the pier, with Bouvert and perhaps Adamson, too? Also, I wondered, what was O'Meara going to do about me?

It seemed like an eternity as we sat there waiting for Michelle to pick up her cell. Darren had his cell up to his ear but I could hear it ringing, over and over again, while I sat there mildly suspecting Darren of being in on this strange conspiracy, one I didn't understand. The ringing was loud and I found it odd that a machine hadn't picked up yet, and the phone rang and rang
ad infinitum
. I didn't really suspect Darren, I thought, while listening to the abyssal ringing of the phone. But then I didn't really suspect O'Meara, either, and he was involved somehow, involved enough to be paid off to keep his yap shut. Clearly O'Meara was only partially involved, I thought, from what I could deduce from Darren's notes, since it was clear that he didn't know
everything
, and was ultimately
incidental
to the overall conspiracy, et cetera. That is, if Darren's notes were an accurate transcript of the conversation overheard at Le Charon. Perhaps, I thought, Darren's notes were entirely fabricated and scripted by O'Meara, Bouvert, Adamson and (I hated to think it) Darren so as to set me on the wrong path. I kept giving Darren sidelong glances as he held the loudly ringing phone to his ear. It was clear that Darren didn't suspect me of suspecting him, I thought, as he sat waiting for Michelle to pick up. No, Darren wasn't involved, he wasn't working for Bouvert and Adamson, I decided, and I desperately wanted to believe right then and there that Darren wasn't working for Bouvert and Adamson (or their client, rather, or
clients
, plural) and that he was in fact on my side, assisting me with the case, acting as my sidekick, a partner I could trust. Then, the loud ringing stopped and for a second there was complete silence.

‘Hello … '

‘Hey, Michelle, I'm sitting here with Bob and need to ask you a question … '

‘Um, another time would work better.'

‘I just need to know what restaurant Bouvert likes in the Old Port.'

‘Okay, so later sounds good. Thank you.'

‘Michelle, just think – does he have some place there he goes to often?'

‘All right. Sounds good. Talk to you soon.' And she hung up.

Darren looked perplexed but I said, ‘Somebody's with her. She can't talk.'

‘Right,' said Darren. ‘So what do we do?'

‘We wait and call her back.' I rocked in my seat. I blurted out, ‘When you call her back, though, don't ask questions – just give her a location to meet us at.'

‘Right. Where?'

‘A bar?'

‘Okay, but what bar?'

‘Shit, I wish I knew the name of the railway-car-like bar … '

‘Where is it?'

‘About twenty minutes east of the Andrewses' but I don't really remember.'

‘Along the highway?'

‘Elaine took a back-roads route. She drove for about twenty minutes and there it was alongside the road with the bare trees with the black branches.'

‘Well, you're going to have to be more specific than that.'

‘I know.'

‘I know a place. A place we drink at after classes sometimes and I go there after work, too. It's a quiet dive. I'll tell her to meet us there in half an hour.'

Darren and I sat at a table in the bar by a large sliding window looking out on the street, waiting for Michelle. The plan worked, in theory; Darren called and told Michelle to meet us in thirty minutes at his bar, Chez Carlos, and all she had to say was
yes
or
no
and she said
yes
. Nevertheless, we'd been waiting for about thirty extra minutes and she still hadn't shown. For the first fifteen, I refrained from drinking beer with Darren and had a club soda with lime, but after fifteen I cracked and ordered a beer when Darren asked for his second. We sat there silently drinking our bottles of beer and staring off into nowhere, like the three or four other patrons. The bar was exactly as Darren had described it, a quiet dive. Punk rock music played softly and there was a pool table but no one playing and only men sat at the bar but the bartender was a woman, a thin pretty redhead, who looked tough, though, not to be fucked with, and the server was the only other woman in the barroom, a stout Québécoise waitress in her mid-forties, I'd guess, but I'm bad at guessing. Darren peeled the label off his second beer and used it as a coaster. He yawned, then rubbed at his eyes. I felt tired, too, but when was I ever going to sleep well again? This case, these people, they were devouring me, I thought, and I'd never rest well again. I stared out on to the street and it had started to rain.

I spotted Michelle walking in the rain with a black umbrella before Darren because she was walking north and I was facing south. She saw me and waved a small wave. Darren jerked around fast when he saw me wave back. She smiled.

Closing her umbrella and shaking off the raindrops, Michelle entered the bar and came over to our table. ‘Hey, guys.'

‘Have a seat,' said Darren and she sat down beside him, across the table from me. ‘How're you?'

‘Good, fine. Sorry about before, on the phone, but I was with Bouvert. He came back to the office after the hotel.'

‘Do you know why?' I said.

‘No, but it wasn't unusual.'

‘Well the question remains,' said Darren. ‘Do you know of a restaurant Bouvert frequents in the Old Port?'

‘Yeah, of course. Diavolo Cucina, or its full name's something like La Diavolo del Cucina, but Diavolo Cucina, yeah … Italian … Bouvert goes there all the time – sometimes with Adamson but it's where he goes. I think he might even be a part owner or something, but I'm not sure.'

‘That's helpful, Michelle. Thanks.'

She nodded.

‘Have you ever been there with him?' asked Darren.

‘Yes, a few times. It's not very big, sort of dark inside, very, very good. And Bouvert clearly knows everyone who works there.'

‘Did you know he's going there tonight?' I said.

‘No, but that doesn't surprise me. It's one of the few places that he won't ask me to make him a reservation at. I don't think I've ever called the restaurant for him. He just goes.'

‘Did you know the Andrewses at all?' I asked. ‘Did you see them ever come into the office or anything?'

‘Yes, of course. Both mister and missus.'

‘Would they come in often?'

‘Not often, I wouldn't say, but they were important clients and treated as such. Bouvert would golf with Gerald Andrews from time to time or they'd go for dinner. Elaine Andrews and Bouvert would dine together once in a while, too.'

‘Not Adamson?'

‘He's not as social.'

‘What else can you tell us about the nature of Gerald and Elaine Andrews' relationship with Bouvert and Adamson?'

Michelle shrugged. ‘Not much. Like I said, they were important clients – they spent a lot of money at the firm.'

‘Right.'

‘Did you talk to the Andrewses much?' Darren said.

‘Not really, no. They said hello when they came in and I booked their appointments sometimes but they'd often bypass me and call Bouvert directly on his cell, especially Gerald Andrews.'

‘What's your general impression of Elaine Andrews?' said Darren.

‘I'm not sure. She's beautiful, of course, and seems intelligent, but we don't talk much. She's hard to read, I guess.'

‘And Gerald?'

‘Rich and powerful.' She laughed. ‘I don't know. Intimidating. He was handsome and nice enough to me but again I didn't have much contact with him.'

‘We appreciate your help,' I said. ‘Now let's get you a drink.'

Darren and Michelle and me sat drinking but Michelle didn't have much more to tell us. Darren looked tired, rough, but seemed happy to be around Michelle. He had gold sparkles underneath his eyes, embedded in the dark circles, from rubbing at his tired eyes after picking at his beer's green and gold label. I stared out on to the rainy street, thinking about the case, while Darren flirted with Michelle. The puddles were undulating and spitting in the wind and rain and changing colour with the traffic lights. A detective attempts to make sense of both what's presented to him or her and what's hidden from plain sight, modestly trying to parse things out, not accept received opinions, while maintaining one's own dignity; this is why those of us, those of us without power, are detectives, that is to say, we wake up to a world every day that has all sorts of plans for us and we spend our time figuring out said plans, battling the day, till we're too tired and need drink and/or love to put us to sleep again. This is what a detective does, I thought. Michelle had one vodka-cranberry and then left. Darren and I needed to come up with a plan.

‘So what should we do?' said Darren.

‘I was just thinking the same thing,' I said.

‘And … ?'

‘Well, we'll get there first. Stake it out.'

‘We should probably pick up your gun.'

‘I don't own a gun.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you have a camera?'

‘Yes.'

‘We should get photos of the payoff.'

‘Right.'

‘Also, man, we need some sort of weapon. They'll all be packing, for sure.'

‘What do you suggest?'

‘I don't know. What do you have?'

‘A Louisville Slugger. A block of kitchen knives. You?'

‘Some old golf clubs, I guess, and a baseball bat, too. We have a nail gun in the back of the boutique.'

‘Great. Let's collect our gear.'

‘Okay,' said Darren.

We went to my place first, since it was on the way to chez Darren and Chez Marine. Darren waited in the car out front while I ran in to get the baseball bat and camera and anything else I could find. I ran up the three small flights of stairs and dug around in my pockets for my keys. I was fumbling and flustered. While inserting my key into the lock I was greeted from behind with an
X26
Taser buried in my side. I was down on the ground in a second,
neuromuscularly sedated
with 50,000 volts, and once again in cuffs. The cops had me in the back of a squad car before I knew what was happening; for a moment I thought I'd had a heart attack and/or a stroke.