Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

When Vanessa barged in twenty minutes later, she found me at my desk, reading up on the latest pocket biographies of her NTC colleagues supplied by Sally. She stood mutely over me, so that I could, if I was up on such things, identify her perfume, or imagine her wrath, which could be something biblical when she needed it. “Where were you for the last three hours?”

“Doing my duty with the officers investigating Renata’s death.”

“That’s right! And the fact that I’m still standing here, instead of lying dead in the morgue, doesn’t bother you at all, I suppose?”

“Well, if you want to give me credit for it, sure, go ahead, but, Vanessa, even murderers take time out. Maybe our guy has a day job just like you and me.” I could see her eyes darkening and a squall coming, but suddenly it subsided. A lot of her bite was straight histrionics, worked out in advance with the weight of the audience figured into the total effect. It was all calculated to within a centimetre of where she wanted it to be.

“Would you like to tell me where you went after the reception, Vanessa? Through the Khyber Pass and back?”

“Now, Benny, don’t you start. I had a bad enough time with Ted. He wants to split up Entertainment into three independent sections with me at the top.”

“Well?”

“Well, that’s like inviting me to leave. He wants me out of here, Benny. How many times do I have to tell you? He does; they all do.”

“I don’t see …”

“Look, once it’s divided among three hungry underlings, what is there for me to do? All I can do is sit on policy and keep my hands off the all-over good of the department. I won’t let him do this to me.”

“But, Vanessa, aren’t the sections we saw at yesterday’s meeting independent?”

“God no! I keep them all on short leads. They all do exactly what I say or they’re out of here. He wants to tie and gag me. Under Ted’s arrangement, I wouldn’t be able to veto anything. I couldn’t make a suggestion and have it taken seriously. I’d never see a pilot or meet a producer. I’d be making sure that their pension-plan contributions were being deducted properly. Damn it, Benny, I’d rather be shot at than reduced to a cipher. I’d much rather clean out the fridge.”

“Okay, okay. Simmer down. Catch your breath. Let’s take things one at a time. What do you have to do for the rest of this afternoon?”

“Let me think. Oh, yes, I’ve got to go over to Studio Three where they’re shooting a pilot I’m interested in. Then I should send another thunderbolt to Eric Carter. You remember, the Christmas show you saw in production yesterday? I just saw what that butterball turkey he’s cooking is going to cost. I’ll have to stop there again on my way home.”

“Vanessa, remember that fellow who was here that first day? Hy Newman?”

“Yesterday. What about him?”

“Why don’t you get him to do a lot of your running around for you? He’s an experienced producer. You could make him your personal emissary or something. Eric Carter wouldn’t be able to fool him about his wasteful ways.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Benny! Newman went out with the A-line, the cha-cha-cha and canasta.”

“Yes, but he’s been in this business since geese first went barefoot.”

“You let me look after Entertainment, you look after me! You hear?”

“Yup. You want me tagging along with you?”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.” While she was talking, she was winnowing the phone messages and faxes with a deft hand. “Oh, by the way, thanks for the 222s.”

“The what?” Here she lifted up a fresh package I’d never seen before.

“The Frosst 222s. You know how I depend on those things.”

“Vanessa, I bought you some aspirin yesterday. I didn’t get you any 222s.”

“Well, I wonder …? They were on my desk. Funny. Oh, never mind. The main thing is that I’ve got them.”

I jumped up and grabbed at her arm. A blue telephone message slip floated to the carpet. “Vanessa, let me see them!”

“What? The 222s? Whatever for?”

“You don’t know where they came from. That’s reason enough. Get them and put them in-in-” Here I reached for a big manila envelope. “-in here.”

“Benny! what sort of melodrama are you acting out?”

“Trust me, Vanessa. I just want to be on the safe side.”

Instead of accompanying my client on her lateafternoon rounds, I took a taxi to 52 Division with my manila envelope of questionable medicine. The driver didn’t seem to understand the need for speed, and I lacked the courage to tell him to hurry.

Boyd was sitting in Sykes’s chair wearing a bright yellow straw hat. He was reading a computer monitor. He looked up and gave me a friendly grin, then returned to the screen for another two minutes. I moved my weight from shoe to shoe. At last he squeaked his chair away from the screen. I explained what I had found and he said that he’d see that somebody had a look at the vial. “Who touched it besides Ms. Moss?”

“Nobody that I know of,” I said. “Not me, anyway.”

“Well, that’s a good start.” He loaded the envelope and its contents into a plastic freezer bag, typed information on a stick-on label and attached it. He did this carefully and without comment. Then he made a note on his calendar.

“Jack taking the rest of the day off?” I asked, to fill in the silence.

“Naw, he got a call from College Street, the Chief’s office. Probably has to explain his expenses. It happens. What can I say?”

“Well, I hope they don’t deduct it from his take-home pay. You want to talk about this now?” I asked. Boyd looked at the freezer bag.

“Naw, it’ll keep. No sense talking until we find out whether there’s anything to talk about. It may end up being the usual aspirin-caffeine-codeine concoction. If it is, we can talk about old movies or how the Jays are shaping up.”

I could see Boyd was right. Cops in Toronto are bound to remain calm in every situation. Grantham cops tend to be less worn down by the rigours of the work. The result is that they get excited on one occasion and are oystercalm on the next. It’s harder to figure. So, I made my retreat past the desk sergeant and the glass-brick walls to the outside world, where the warm spring day continued to give delight to all who stopped to notice it. Not many.

As I decided what to do next, one of those new Volkswagens pulled away from the curb. Its green matched the young leaves on the trees in a playground across the street, where swings, slides, climbers and sandpiles waited for the ringing of a bell. The Volkswagen was still in sight as I rounded the corner on University Avenue and headed south.

When I got within sight of the big NTC owl, I began to hunch down mentally, ready for the renewed onslaught of Security. I was wondering whether Vanessa might let me do my business from the New Beijing Inn and thus avoid running the gauntlet here every time I wanted in or out. I had just nerved myself to the ordeal, when two men in wool jackets moved in on me. “Mr. Cooperman?” It was the tall, curly-headed one who spoke. “Mr. Benny Cooperman?”

“That’s right.” I tried to feel in my pockets for anything that might, in a pinch, be used as a weapon.

“My name’s Alder. Jesse Alder. I’m one of the techs here at NTC. So’s Ross.”

“Yeah, Ross Totton, Mr. Cooperman. Glad to meet you.” They both fumbled to take my hand, which I delivered as soon as I could drop my car keys back in my pocket.

“We heard that you were here, sort of working for Ms. Moss and all. And we just wanted to buy you a beer and tell you what’s going down around here.”