The Cooperman Variations (32 page)

“Well, Mr. C., how do you think that went?” It was Barry Bosco.

“I’m no judge, you know. I’m off my turf. But if appearances are anything to go by—”

“Mr. C., in television appearances are
everything
to go by.”

“Mr. Cooperman! Good to see you!” It was Ray Devlin. “Still guarding Vanessa’s lovely backside, are you? Think we have assassins among us?”

“You never can tell, Mr. Devlin. You looked mighty fine up there,” I said, inclining my head in the direction of the microphone-bedecked podium.

“I’ll have to get used to doing this sort of thing, won’t I, Barry? Not much like talking to a jury, I can tell you.”

“Will you be personally supervising the building of the hall, Mr. Devlin?”

“Please call me Raymond. I’d like that. And you’re …” Here Barry helped out with a full reintroduction. This time Devlin took it all in. “So, it’s Ben, is that right?” I nodded. “And as to the building of the hall, I intend to keep my distance from the builder’s people— give them a free hand once we are all agreed on the direction of the project. You know the local architect’s a direct descendant of one of the architects of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. I didn’t know that until today. No, I will keep my distance this summer. I can be reached on my boat in Toronto harbour or up on Lake Muskoka if I’m needed. And heaven help anybody who bothers me unnecessarily.”

“You’re quite a sailor, I hear.”

“Oh, I like to knock about in boats, you know. Are you a sailor at all, Ben?”

“Only in a small way.” I quickly reviewed my knowledge of canoes and rowboats at Camp Northern Pine. And wasn’t the phrase “mess about in boats”? I was losing confidence in Devlin’s abilities as a sailor before I’d even seen him in his commodore’s cap.

“Well, you must come out with us one day, when your duties here will allow it.”

“I’d like that,” I said, grinning broadly, I suspect.

“Do you know Muskoka?”

“I was there over the weekend. I went to pay a visit to an old colleague of yours in hospital in Bracebridge.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You might have run into Ed Patel on the lake. Unfortunately, he’s in a bad way just now. He loves talking about Lawrence of Arabia and about Dermot Keogh. We had a very interesting chat. Even now he’s a mine of information.”

“Bit of a bore on Lawrence.”

“Maybe, but illuminating on Keogh. He seems to think that Mr. Keogh left his motorcycles to a British collector. But I could find no reference to that in Keogh’s will. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Ed must be far gone at this stage. I wouldn’t credit too much of what he says from now on.”

“He also spoke of a palliative care unit that Keogh was going to have set up. Did you ever hear about that?”

“You didn’t know Dermot, did you, Ben? Well, Dermot had a new scheme every ten minutes. He had a wonderfully fertile mind. He took a lot of time from the people closest to him. He was a great one for delegating jobs. Right and left. Tote that barge. Lift that bale! That was Dermot.”

“I see, you think Ed Patel’s reference to a palliative care unit was just one of those flights of fancy?”

“Wonderful idea, great scheme, but he just didn’t have time enough to bring it off. We often talked about it.”

“You were a great friend of his right to the last?”

“May I be bold enough to say that I felt like a brother towards the man? He often asked my advice in areas well beyond my capacity as his legal counsel.”

“Ed Patel was his lawyer too, wasn’t he? I’m not at all clear about that.”

“Ed was a small-town country lawyer. He did small local favours for Dermot. Things where a local knowledge is an advantage. For instance, there was an easement for a road crossing Dermot’s property on the lake. Ran right through the house! Ed took care of it. No man better. I’d have tried to make a federal case of it and made a mess, I’m sure. Ed’s well liked up there, Ben.”

Vanessa hove into view. I could see her taking in the conversation between me and Devlin. She weighed it and fixed it somewhere in her memory for later use. It was part of her system. I was beginning to understand her more and more.

Meanwhile the conversations of other NTC people and reporters raged around us:

“… He can get Leo any time he wants. Day or night …”

“… I’m going on his boat this weekend. Then it’s off to Thailand …”

“… Power goes to my head like fast food. It’s not good for me …”

“… Everybody in town’s playing up this murder thing. Our News isn’t on top of it. Trebitsch is sitting on his hands. It’s like that Palango thing last year.”

“Yes, that was an unnecessary scandal. Less said about it the better.”

“Save us from necessary ones too, old boy.”

“Say, isn’t that Hy Newman over there?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Where?
My God!
Yes, it is.
Hy Newman!”

I followed the direction of their gaze and recognized Hy Newman, the burned-out producer that Vanessa had banned from the building. He’d got in somehow and was cleaning up one side of the buffet with efficient ease. Next to him stood a little man with fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair exploding out of an impressive dome. He looked as though he was wearing a pair of party glasses, the kind that come with large plastic noses attached. On closer inspection, I could see that the nose was his. He was working hard on the smoked salmon.

I was nearly derailed on my way to the buffet by a tall woman in a black suit making her way to another woman. I skipped out of the way.

“Trish Jackson, how are you?”

“How are you, Bev? Tell me, how did the date go?” Trish looked like a lawyer. She was beautifully turned out in a cool grey suit in which she could reargue Magna Carta and have it come out any way she wanted.

“I told you I was taking a chance dating somebody who said ‘very unique.’ It compromised my standards. He knew that if he said ‘between you and I,’ he’d never get laid.”

“You came down equally hard on ‘good’ and ‘well,’ I remember.”

“That’s right, but he split all his infinitives, which is very with it at the moment.”

“How does he stand on ‘hopefully’?”

“Trish, I led him down that path, but he wouldn’t bite. He confuses ‘loan’ and ‘lend’ and ‘lay’ and ‘lie’ too, but that’s cute and he’s putting it on. But I think he’s on to me. He’s starting to sound like Henry James. I’d better watch my step.”

Devlin allowed his eyes to farm the crowd. In the end, I was left to my own devices as Devlin and Bosco began talking about a case I’d never heard of. Bosco saw my distress at being excluded, but did nothing about it. He wasn’t much better than his colleague Cavanaugh, the one who gave him his alibi for the night of the murder. They both knew where the money was coming from.

Vanessa was over by the buffet, three reporters away from Newman. I joined her. “Benny, are you carrying any aspirin?” I had a secure vial in my pocket and handed it over. She swallowed two with the aid of some white wine. “What do you think of all this?”

“It reminds me of the part of
Alice in Wonderland
where Alice shouts ‘You’re nothing but a pack of cards!’ Remember that?”

“No. Beatrix Potter was never my thing.” I decided not to correct her. She
was
, after all, still paying the bills. What works for Bosco and Cavanaugh rubs off on me. But does it stop me criticizing? Not a bit. Corruption, thy name is pay-day.

“You know, Vanessa, the cops want to talk to you again.”

“Benny, now that
this
is over, I don’t give a damn. Today was a special sort of hell, but I weathered it. And look! Everybody’s still
talking!
Who’d have guessed?”

A tap between my shoulder blades proved not to be the tip of a silenced Walther, but the knuckles of Ken Trebitsch’s right hand. I turned and saw what he was wearing as his public face for the occasion. “Look, Cooperman—”

“I got your message. I don’t need it repeated.”

“I deserved that. Look, is there a way for us to try this again? If I admit to being a horse’s ass for a start? I’ve called off the hounds, by the way. You may move about the city as you please without my knowing all your moves.”

“Why the change of strategy?”

“Practical reasons. The other wasn’t working. When you leave here, can I tempt you to a glass of beer somewhere? You name the place, just to put off my execution squads.”

“What do you want to tell me? Why not tell me now?”

“You can’t have a conversation at a press reception: too many interruptions. Besides, what I have to tell you is for your ears only.” Trebitsch frowned meaningfully. What a flim-flam artist he was!

“You know that I’m on Her Majesty’s Secret Service. She has first call on my time,” I said, cocking my head in Vanessa’s direction.

“I suspect that you can get around that. Give me twenty, twenty-five minutes. Choose the place.” I tried to think.

“There’s an Irish pub up on Bloor Street, near Walmer Road, called the James Joyce.”

“I know it well.”

“Say in an hour? And come alone. Acolytes and disciples make me nervous.” He paused a moment, as though decoding a message, then nodded assent.

“That’s a promise.” Having said that, he shook my hand, which I didn’t remember holding out, looked at his watch and vanished into another conversation it was impossible to have at a crowded press reception. I went back to the refreshments to rescue some salmon. The little man with the fuzzy hair was still there.

“What do you do in television?” he asked, licking the length of a finger.

“Nothing,” I said. “What about you?”

“I write detective stories. I’m Sheldon Zatz.”

“I’ve always admired the authenticity of your police work,” I said. “You must do a lot of research.”

“I’m tireless when it comes to the details,” he said, taking the last piece of smoked salmon in the room.

Philip Rankin swam towards me through the smiles and metallic chatter, already well supplied with a fistful of salmon. With his fish-like features, he and the salmon looked like an illustration of the food chain. “Ah, dear boy, still with us, I see. Ken hasn’t mewed you up in one of his oubliettes?”

“Sorry, I don’t recognize the word.”

“Dungeon. It’s rumoured that he has places where he hides things and people.”

“He’s just offered to buy me a beer. Shouldn’t I trust him?”

“Far be it from me to inform on a colleague, but you might ask him about the files on a certain Tory backbencher. They just disappeared. Quite amazing.”

“But just the files?”

“Yes. Of course. As far as we know. I think news people are still essentially children, don’t you? They take no responsibility.”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” I said as another thought crossed my mind. “Mr. Rankin, while I have you on the phone, so to speak, may I ask you one last question?”

“Granted. You see what hard liquor does to me in the early afternoon? What is it, dear boy?”

“Dermot called Renata—I’m almost sure it was Renata—bowmaker, his little bowmaker. Did you ever hear him say that?”

“Oh, goodness me, yes. It was his nickname for her.”

“Could you explain it?”

“Mr. Cooperman, I wouldn’t expect you to know this—hardly anyone does—but Renata bore the last name of one of the very great bowmakers in Italy. Just as great cellos are remembered by the men who made them, so are fine bows. Sartori was one of the finest bowmakers the world has ever seen. Dermot used the word enchantingly to, and of, Renata. It made her blush in company. That’s why he did it, of course. He had the devil’s own mischief about him. Any more questions?”

“No, but thanks for the answer to that one. I’m sorry, I don’t know whether it’s important or not. Maybe I’ll know later on.”

“You seem to have developed an insatiable appetite for information about my friend Dermot Keogh. Any special reason?” I’m not sure, but Rankin’s brow looked moist from this angle. Was he beginning to feel the pressure?

“No. It’s just that I’ve been told that you’re the authority. Being in charge of all of his unreleased recordings is a grave responsibility.”

“Ha! How I wish I could hear those words from my boss, Ted Thornhill! You’re a man of fine sensibilities, Mr. Cooperman. I wonder, would you like to see where Dermot’s tapes are prepared and mastered before their release to the public?”

“You mean at Sony’s studios in New York?”

“Oh no, no, no. Much closer than that. In fact not very far from where we’re standing. Dermot’s studio is at 18 Clarence Square, just below King Street at Spadina.”

“I heard that he had a glory hole somewhere in the city.”

“Glory hole
indeed! Yes, I spent many spellbinding hours with him as he worked with his editor, looking for just the right take on a particular piece of music. Dermot never thought in terms of union rates. He scarcely knew what ‘overtime’ or ‘time and a half’ meant. But it was all worth it. If you’d ever care to have a guided tour of the studio, I’d be glad to show you around.”

“That would be a treat.”

“As a matter of fact, I have to go over there later this afternoon, say around 4:30. If you happen to be in the neighbourhood, just bang on the door. I’ll hear you. Now that I think of it, there’s something most particular I’d like to discuss with you in the privacy of that place. Nobody can talk at cocktail parties, can they?”

“I might be free about then. I’ll bang on the door, as you say.”

“Excellent! I must confess that I never tire of giving a tour of Dermot’s inner sanctum. It’s a hobby horse of mine, I fear. Shall we say around 4:30, then?”

The press reception had been going on for a good hour. The place was beginning to look like the lettuce on the edge of most of the trays on the buffet: a little wilted. I began scouting to see whether Vanessa was getting ready to leave. She wasn’t. Not quite, anyway. She was standing forehead to forehead with Ted Thornhill and arguing the future of Entertainment, with an increased budget, I’m sure. Hy Newman was passing behind her when she grabbed him by the arm and brought him into the charmed circle. Thornhill turned quite red in the face when he saw him. Vanessa clapped him on the back and everybody shook hands as if they’d never held a dagger in them.