I was accosted by Felicia Morgan, who was tarted up in a black outfit that put me in mind of a spiderweb. “Monty! I'm so glad you could make it.”
Was this her event? “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“I know. It's such a cliché to say it's a worthwhile cause, but that's an understatement in this case. Our young people are our greatest resource, and one young life wasted is one too many. That's what Ken believes, and he's backing up his beliefs with action. And money. This isn't well known, and Ken doesn't want it known, but this shelter is going to be much more costly than the public figures indicate. And the extra funds are coming straight out of Ken's personal savings. That's how strongly he feels.”
Her little speech told me two things: one, Felicia would never be convincing in an altruistic role and, two, there had been a sea change in the kind of confidences she saw fit to share about her friend Fanshaw since I saw her Saturday night. What accounted for that? Had she been snooping in my notes on Leaman? Had she heard I was wondering about Fanshaw? Or had he heard about it himself, and commissioned her to do some public relations on his behalf?
When I disentangled myself from her I ran into Murdoch Rankin, my wife's date for the evening, on his way to the bar.
“Monty,
ciamar a tha thu?
”
“
Glé mhath
, Murdoch.”
“This is a bit of a queer situation, me here with your wife and you on the opposite side of the room.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged.
“I'd better get her the juice she ordered. And the Captain for me.”
“See you later.”
I got a beer for myself and a glass of red wine for Monique, and headed to my table. I saw one of the lawyers from Ed Johnson's firm and remembered that Ed and Donna were supposed to attend. No sign of them. There was a Trevelyan family table, with the judge presiding. Ross stood a few paces away from it, in conversation with a rough-looking character who must have been one of the people the event was designed to help. I had to laugh at the expression on John Trevelyan's face as he glowered at Ross and the person he was talking to. Not the sort of company the judge had in mind for his son. I remembered that Ross used to practise criminal law, before joining his father's corporate law firm. Maybe the younger Trevelyan should have stayed with his criminal practice, for no reason other than to stick it to the old man. I noticed that Canon Alastair Scott and Muriel were in attendance, but they didn't see me. Alastair was talking to a man who looked vaguely familiar, and she was staring intently at someone across the room. I followed her gaze and saw Ken Fanshaw holding court near the head table. Muriel Scott grabbed her handbag from the back of her chair and took a step forward, but her husband saw her and caught her arm. He seemed to give her a warning shake of the head. Fanshaw turned to the crowd, stepped up to the microphone, and asked for everyone's indulgence while he said a few words on behalf of his project. I listened with half an ear and kept my attention focused on Muriel Scott, whose eyes never left Fanshaw the whole time he was speaking. Her husband did not so much as glance at the keynote speaker.
Then it was time for speeches by some of the young people who had benefited from the ad hoc programs Fanshaw had helped fund for homeless kids. First up was a commerce student at St. Mary's University; he would never forget what Ken had done for him, and he promised to sign up as a volunteer as soon as the shelter opened. Next came a young woman dressed in a skimpy black shift and a pair of four-inch heels. Her thanks to Fanshaw included a number of anecdotes about how he had kept her on the straight and narrow for the past five years. Her tales, delivered in a voice that seemed unnaturally loud, were interspersed with flirtatious comments, sexy posturing, and attempts at witty bon mots that fell embarrassingly flat. The performance ended with her going up to Ken as if to kiss him, then taking his hand in both of hers and shaking it in the manner of a
politician at a meet-and-greet. Fanshaw attempted a grin and a remark about how they do grow up! But he was clearly uncomfortable. I formed a picture of what this girl must have been like five years before, at age fifteen.
There were a few more testimonials, then the band started up again, prompting some desultory dancing by a few determined couples. I saw Muriel Scott make a beeline for Fanshaw. They both knew me, so I could hardly sidle up to them and eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Monique,” I whispered. “Do me a favour?”
“Depends!”
“See Fanshaw and that woman walking over to him?”
“Yes.”
“Go spy on them for me. Tell me what they say to each other. I'll explain later.”
She gave me the odd look my request deserved, but curiosity got the better of her. She casually walked towards them. I kept an eye on my targets while listening to the banter among the Mounties at my table. When Monique came back two minutes later, she reported: “I missed the first part. When I arrived, Mrs. Scott was saying: âTo a child! And that's what he was when it all started, no more than a child! Which makes this charade here tonight all the more â' Then Fanshaw cut her off. His eyes were darting back and forth, as if to see who was listening. To say he was nervous, no â he looked frightened. All he said was: âIt wasn't like that.' And he kind of launched himself past her. So is it her son she's talking about? Did he know Ken Fanshaw? Is this related to Graham Scott's death?”
“There's something she's not telling me about her son. I know he knew Fanshaw; they sailed together. Whatever else happened, I don't know. What I'm really trying to find out is how Corey Leaman came to include Graham Scott in his . . . his suicide. We don't know whether Fanshaw knew Leaman.” I did not add that Fanshaw and Dice Campbell were connected through the Colosseum.
“I'm glad this landed in your lap, Monty, not mine,” Monique remarked.
She and I drifted over to the Stratton Sommers table to chat with Rowan and Sylvia Stratton. The band shuffled off after an excruciating rendition of “This Diamond Ring,” a song I had forgotten
completely for twenty years. It was a relief when Janis Joplin came wailing over the sound system. “Kozmic Blues.” Yes! An old favourite of mine and, I remembered unfortunately, also of my long-lost and recently unlamented wife. The song had been playing one night when we had patched things up after an agonizing quarrel and separation; we had fallen back into each other's arms, Maura in tears, me trying to make a wisecrack over a lump in my throat, and we swore we would never hurt each other again. We rushed off to the altar shortly afterwards.
No point in dwelling on that. Where was Monique? I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. It wasn't Monique. It was Maura, gazing up at me without expression. There was no mistaking the signs of her pregnancy. What the hell was she doing at my firm's table, rubbing it in with all my colleagues present? Revenge for being told off at long last? I looked at her without speaking.
She cleared her throat. “Dance?”
What was I going to do? Turn my back on her in front of everyone? I seized her by the elbow and moved her out to the middle of dance floor, then reluctantly took her in my arms and felt another man's child pressing up against me. The song told me what I already knew: that we still weren't right after all these years and we never would be, so I'd better take what I could get. I listened to “Kozmic Blues” for what I hoped would be the last time ever.
When the music was over, Maura whispered in my ear: “I'm sorry, Monty. I never meant for it to happen. The pregnancy, the scene in Cape Breton, any of it. I'd been hoping we . . . I'm sorry.”
I didn't respond; I had already said everything I had to say on the subject. I took her to her own table, then walked away.
When I got to my place Monique put her hand on mine. “Maybe there's a chance you and Maura can work things out, Monty? Alyre can come and pick me up.”
“Maybe there's a chance Fidel Castro Ruz will be invited to give the keynote address at the next U.S. Republican convention. Now where were we?”
The night droned on after that, until it was time to make an exit and take my date home to her beau. Alyre was asleep in his armchair when we got there. I gave Monique a double-paw handshake à la Ken
Fanshaw and his over-the-top protégé, and headed for home. But I didn't get there, at least not straight away. I was downtown anyway, so I pulled out from Monique's on Victoria Road, went left on Inglis, left again on Barrington, and pulled up at the Lighthouse Tavern.
A commotion started up at the table beside me just as I ordered my first beer.
“You want my beer bottle? You want my fuckin' beer bottle?”
The man's hair was buzzed short in front and straggled long and dirty down his back. He was face to face across the table with another upstanding citizen, and was trying to shove a bottle down the guy's throat. They were both manhandled out the door by the bar staff.
“What started all that?” I asked a couple of girls who had been at the table until the violence got out of hand.
“Duane don't like nobody peelin' the label off his bottle.”
“What?”
“Duane was peelin' the label down with his nail like he always does and then he got up for a piss. When he come back, this other guy was, like, peelin' the rest of the label offa Duane's bottle. So . . .” She shrugged: What can you do?
I spent a few seconds wondering what I was doing there, then returned to my drinking. Once again I boosted the local economy by taking a cab out to Armdale when I could drink no more.
â
I tried to put the personal aspects of the dance, and a brutal hangover, behind me the next day at the office. I made a phone call to Muriel Scott and asked if I could drop by. I didn't mention Fanshaw. But she put me off. When I suggested other times she put me off again. I was not going to be able to pry any information out of the young victim's mother, at least not for the foreseeable future. The closed look I had seen on her husband's face at the dance led me to believe I would not be any more successful with him.
I sat looking at my notes on the case and saw that I had written a reminder to sort through Leaman's history. His legal troubles began when he was thirteen, and most of them were related to drugs, though he also had convictions for theft, break and enter, and assault.
He did federal time from 1983 to 1985, on a narcotics conviction. This may have been around the time Felicia said Fanshaw paid someone to take a drug rap for him. I would need more evidence before I took the story as gospel. Leaman was admitted to the Wallace Rennie Baird Addiction Treatment Centre in 1985, shortly after his release from Springhill Penitentiary. He entered the Baird Centre again in December 1990, after another string of legal difficulties, and was there until his release in early January, just before his death.
I shoved the file aside and directed my mind to other events coming up that week, most notably the concert our choir was putting on Friday night. I had neglected to practise my parts at home and should do that. But then I lapsed into a funk again and, for the rest of the day and evening, I accomplished absolutely nothing.
But who may abide the day of His coming? And who shall stand when He appeareth? For He is like a refiner's fire.
â Malachi 3:2 (Handel,
Messiah
)
“Boys, you look like angels,” the choirmaster declared the night of our concert, when he saw us attired in our white surplices over black cassocks. “See if you can keep up the pretence for the duration of the evening. Sing like the heavenly host.”
There had been an extra rehearsal the night before, but I had missed it. Johnson and I had gone to the Seahorse Tavern for supper and a beer. He left for the practice, and I told him I would join him in a few minutes, but I ended up staying at the tavern until it was too late for choir. Ed came back afterwards and let it be known that our choirmaster was not amused by my absence. We stayed till last call, and closed the place by giving our own rendition of Matt Minglewood's “East Coast Blues.” I was sick in the morning but recovered in time for the performance; Johnson, by all appearances, had not.
Burke was in a black soutane, the usual square of white at his throat. The nave of St. Bernadette's was filling up below us. “Get yourselves in order for the procession, and remember to keep your places when you get to the altar. Rrrrichard Rrrrobertson, you lead on the left. Matthew, on the right. George and Ed Johnson will be last in their respective columns.”
He made the sign of the cross and led us in a short prayer:
“Lauda, Sion, Salvatorem, lauda ducem et pastorem, in hymnus et canticis.”
I translated that to mean we were to sing hymns of praise to our Shepherd and King. The prayer had barely left Burke's lips when he leaned towards me and whispered: “You'd better not banjax this on us, Collins, or I'll have your bollocks for bookends. We've worked hard even if you haven't.” He returned his attention to the choir of white-robed angels and said: “Move it!”
We processed from the loft and down the aisle with a modicum of dignity. I noted it was pretty well a full house. I caught sight of Normie, Tom, and Lexie, and gave them a discreet wink. Scattered throughout the audience I recognized some of the street people who bedded down regularly in the vicinity of the church. There were a few priests and nuns, and a section reserved for students of the choir school. When we were all in our places, Burke raised his arms, nodded, and we began the twelve-hundred-year-old chant
Veni Creator Spiritus
. The program was organized in chronological order from early medieval times through the Renaissance to the baroque. It was the latter group of pieces that brought our two soloists to the fore. First, young Richard, who was trembling when he stepped forward to do “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” Burke gave him an encouraging smile, and he started in, gaining confidence as he went along. By the end he was, indeed, singing like a heavenly angel. Burke mouthed the word “beautiful” when he finished, and the applause was warm and prolonged. The little fellow beamed.