Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

Inside I found a collection of fine electronic solderers, long-nosed pliers and the makings for the insides of computers: transistors, commercial cards with their printed spider-tracks and other hardware that has names to those who know about the electronic bric-à-brac that make this modern age possible. Under this mess were papers, business cards from car dealers, real-estate agents, marina operators and contractors. I thought that there might be an important clue here somewhere, but I was too hungry to write down all these names and addresses. I remembered that I had good intentions, because I had taken a notebook and pencil from my pocket, but I was distracted when I dropped the pencil. In retrieving it, I noticed pencil marks on one of the uprights supporting the corner of the shed. It was near where the filing cabinet had been, so there was lots of room to get close to the writing. It read, “R x 2 to 25, L x 1 to 11, R to 39.”

I made a copy in my notebook and pocketed it. I could hear the cruiser at the curb gunning its motor with impatience. I closed up the shed, locked the kitchen door and made sure I heard the front door click behind me as I pulled it shut. Sykes kept revving the motor.

The Kowloon restaurant is nestled in a block of stores and restaurants on the south side of Baldwin Street, near where it ends at McCaul. A woman with a shiny broad face grinned a greeting to the three cops and showed us to a table in the “no smoking” zone, under some flashing Christmas lights that had been left blazing to see in the spring and summer months. A waiter, who looked like a Chinese Charles Bronson, gave Sykes a printed order form, which he began to fill in with the provided pencil without looking back at us or asking questions. The order form was separated by the waiter into its component sheets, one of which was left with us, while the other made its way to the kitchen. We could hear aggressive cooking sounds: bangs and crashes, interrupted by the regular tinkling of a bell. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess a Chinese mass was being celebrated back there; the accompanying incense was delectable, sensual, not inspirational.

“Where are we on this thing?” Boyd wanted to know as he began doodling on a piece of lined paper. “We’ve got two cases that may be linked. And again, they may not be linked. We’ve got Renata Sartori, murdered because she was Renata Sartori. Or, again, she might have been taken for Vanessa Moss. We’ve got a suspicious death, which might be murder, and again it might be what it has always looked like, suicide. Have I left anything out?”

“You don’t have a murder weapon in the Sartori case, but you have shells found in Moss’s office at NTC.” I added this to help rid the air of the notion that I might be biased in favour of my client. Perish the thought.

“What we don’t have is the big picture. What ties Sartori to Foley?” Nobody answered. Boyd watched his ballpoint as it doodled a sketch of a hangman’s noose, Sykes stared at the aquarium of lobster and crab near the front window, Chuck watched the changing patterns in the string of coloured lights. I stole a secret glance at my watch. Even an untrained assassin could have claimed Vanessa six or seven times since I saw her last.

That got me thinking of my client’s tawny hide and I asked Jack if he could have a talk with NTC Security about stationing an extra man outside Vanessa’s office.

“With their system,” Jim said, “it can’t help.”

“It can’t hurt,” I said.

When it came, the food was impressive. Served in wooden and metal steamers or on saucers, the dim sum was an assortment of nearly bite-size items wrapped in noodle, a lotus leaf (I was told) or a steaming bun. I watched the others to see what to do. Sykes and Boyd were moving items from the steamers to the bowls in front of them with chopsticks. Chuck was using a ceramic spoon. I stabbed a noodle-wrapped object, which looked like a small scallop shell, with one of my set of chopsticks and dropped it in my tea. I’d been aiming for my bowl, but it was not to be. I abandoned it there, hoping that nobody saw. Then I tried a pancake-wrapped, halfmoon-like object with a spoon, getting it to the bowl just as a waiter arrived with a fork to help me out. My friends exchanged nods and I tried to ignore them. I mused upon the idea that in thousands of years the Chinese civilization hadn’t stumbled upon the chopped-egg sandwich. I decided to be charitable, and tried something else. It looked hot on the end of my fork, but I had manoeuvring time in case I found it not up my street. Admittedly, it was a far cry from my usual lunch. I grinned and bore it.

Lunch continued, I ate, mostly enjoying the food, and, between mouthfuls, we continued to push the case around the table. But, except for the food, which disappeared rapidly, nothing new developed on the problems at NTC.

Later, about an hour later, I ran the gauntlet through NTC Security, pasted on my pass, and made it, via the no-talking burgundy elevator, to my corner of Vanessa’s office. Sally Jackson was finishing the last crumbs of a paperbag lunch on her desk. She looked up at me, and gave me a smile that showed she was really trying to be the sunbeam that Jesus would have her be.

“They didn’t lock you up?”

“No, they took me to lunch instead.” (In spite of my offer to use my plastic, Sykes had paid the shot at the Kowloon. I could catch it next time, I was told.)

“I should be that lucky,” she said, making a moue, if people still make moues.

“Next time, I’ll invite you along.” I told her where we went and began to describe the food.

“Dim sum may be unknown in Grantham, Mr. Cooperman, but we in Toronto have had it for nearly forty years.”

“How lucky for you.” I paused a second and looked at her. Sally looked as tense as a rock band on their first gig. “Look, Sally,” I said, “for some reason you and I got off on the wrong foot. If it was my fault, I’m sorry. Maybe we can start over. What do you think? Can you take time off to have a cup of coffee with me?”

“Mr. Cooperman, somebody’s got to look after this department. You may not know it, but next to News, Entertainment is the most important department at NTC. Somebody’s got to be here while her ladyship is off buying up the pills in the neighbouring drugstores. Vanessa’s only going to be here for another season, but this is my department. It has been for six years. And I hope it will be for another six. I ran it with Nate Green. Now I run it in spite of Vanessa Moss.”

“Hey! Don’t take it out on me! I’m on your side. Come on! Let’s let the place run itself for five seconds. Show me where the coffee lives and I’ll bring us back two cups. What do you say?”

“The kitchen’s three doors down the corridor to the left. You should … Oh, to hell with it. I’ll show you.” Sally got up and I followed her. She opened a door into a tidy, tiny kitchen, where you could make a Christmas dinner for ten if you watched your elbows. Instead of showing me, Sally banged the cupboard doors herself and soon the coffee was dripping through the filter. As she returned to her place running the department, she gave me a grin that was intended as a peace offering. I accepted it and swore I’d bring the coffee and fixings as soon as the Braun stopped gurgling. True to my word, I did that.

I didn’t expect to find out much from Sally. Our truce was too new to be tested so soon. But I did manage to discover that she was no longer living in Richmond Hill, that she was staying with a girlfriend in the City Park apartments near Maple Leaf Gardens, and that she was free to have a drink after work. She knew a place where the NTC people never went after five. As she said this, she smiled and clicked her coffee mug against mine. What more assurance does a guy need to start living on hope?