Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

He must have read an uncomplimentary expression on my face.

“You know, Mr. Cooperman, we have a book of advertising standards that spells out the rules for acceptable commercials. Toilet tissue, for instance, must stress absorbency and softness, but without showing the product near anything made of porcelain. I think snake oil is banned no matter what the approach. We have recently gone in for brand-name companies taking a high-toned institutional approach. ‘The following concert by the late Dermot Keogh was recorded in Madrid with the support of the Morgan Armstrong Corporation and Bix-a-bix Cereal Products.’”

“You knew Dermot Keogh well. I’d forgotten that. I know people in Grantham who have all of his recordings.”

“Yes, dear boy. And he keeps on selling. Luckily, we have a great deal of him on tape and on compact discs. His reputation will not stop growing for another ten years.”

“I remember one summer, up at Dittrick Lake, I was staying with friends and he was giving a radio concert. Warm night. Stars. We turned the radio up loud inside the cottage and listened to the music on the patio where we could look out over the lake. The house became a kind of sounding board for his cello, so that we felt that we were right there at the concert. I’ll never forget that.” It hadn’t actually been Keogh I’d heard, but the adapted anecdote fit the situation.

“That would have been the summer before last. There were no concerts last summer, of course.”

“You said that there are half a dozen biographies about him in the works. Why aren’t you writing one of them? You knew him better than anybody.”

“Too sadly true. I don’t think I’m ready to ride his coattails into the New York Times best-seller list, thank you very much. I’ll not repay his friendship in that way. Why, during his lifetime, someone approached his father-old Michael was still alive then-asking him all sorts of questions about Dermot’s childhood. When he heard about it, Dermot was fit to be tied. ‘If you want to know about me,’ he said, ‘ask me!’ Oh, that wasn’t a good day to be close to him. No, indeed!”

“Was he unforgiving?”

“He was generosity itself in most things. I’ve never known a more liberal spirit. But, on the subject of his own life, especially of his past, he demanded and insisted on holding a tight rein on all the options.”

“A control freak?”

“Something of that. The real mystery is why would he bother. His life was as ordinary as could be. His father was a streetcar conductor and his mother was a kindergarten assistant in a private school. They were neither rich nor poor. Apart from his genius, he was a nobody. I think it was a matter of control for control’s sake. Ray should have known that.”

“Ray?”

“Oh, a friend of his. He went too far.” Rankin wet his lips with the end of his tongue before going on. I made a guess and I was right. He did change the subject. “Mr. Cooperman, it has come to my attention that your work here is at least partly a matter of security. Am I misinformed?”

“I’ve been trying to keep a low profile,” I said.

“Oh, yes, I can appreciate that, dear boy. Does that mean that we are all under suspicion? I just want to be clear about that.”

“Mr. Rankin, the detectives over at 52 Division are in charge of the list of suspects. As for me, I’m still trying to figure out who reports to whom around here and why nobody talks in the elevators.”

“In order to understand this place, Mr. Cooperman, I suggest you arrange a tour of the CIA facilities in Langley, Maryland. It will act as a primer for operatives in these corridors.”

“I’ll remember that. I always like to see the bad guys get punished in the last reel.”

“Oh, I can see that you are going to have a great success around here, Mr. Cooperman.”

* * *

Just after five o’clock, I picked up the information Vanessa had left for me, wished Sally a good weekend and headed out into the streets of Silver City without a care in the world.

For dinner, I wandered up to the Annex, and took my pick of the places that had survived my last stay in Toronto. There was the edge of audacity about my being in this neighbourhood: Sam, my older brother, lived here, and I saw him seldom enough that he would have insisted on my staying with him while I was in Toronto. Not that he enjoyed my company all that much, but he knew the right thing to do even when it killed him. I thought it might be better for me and my work to hold on to my independence and risk running into him on the street. But, avoiding Sam meant that I couldn’t call my parents in Grantham. I knew that Ma’s first question would be, “Have you called your brother, Sam, yet?” So, ignoring my brother was a double headache, one of those family kinds that nag at you whenever your mind clears of other things.

After my pasta and Italian coffee at Via Oliveto, I wandered the bargain-book bins at Book City. I bought a book with maps of what is called “Cottage Country.” I tried to outfit my planned expedition, but beyond what I’ve said, my imagination let me down. I refused to believe that somewhere north of here I might find it difficult to buy certain things. I couldn’t imagine what they might be. I wasn’t going to the source of the Nile, after all. I had no need for gun bearers or cleft sticks. To be on the safe side, I bought a two-litre bottle of mineral water and some dried apricots. You never know. After walking along Bloor Street, past the poor of the city sitting in doorways begging the price of a night’s peace, whether that was a mickey of rye or shelter, I began to feel weary. In spite of them, I felt snug in the heart of the great city. I looked in the windows of the stores on both sides of the street, nearly gave in to a sudden urge to visit Sam a few doors up Brunswick Avenue, but contained it by walking through Book City again with a vagrant mind. Well, not completely vagrant. Part of it at least was back on Belmont Avenue, where I had spent the night waiting for a steak to thaw on the kitchen counter and learning that love play can include the handling of a loaded gun. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the covers of the books on view. I drank in the titles and authors’ names. They all made a good case for their claims on my attention. Recent memories and the unpurchased delights before me rendered me useless for planning ahead. Only my stomach twisted with guilt as I saw all I had yet to read outweigh the little I had. I bought a paperback biography of Dermot Keogh to still the inner voice. I’d lied to Rankin earlier about having read the book. I’d only flipped through the pages. Here was a way to make my fib come true.

Outside, I wandered past the hungry and homeless, paid the pavement tax when I could think fast enough and moved off.

“Any loose change, mister?”

“Sorry, I’ve run out.”

“There’s a guy in that car wants a word with you.”

“Huh?” A green car was parked at the curb.

“You heard me! Keep walkin’.” Before I could turn to get a better look at the source of these marching orders, I felt my arm grabbed hard and a push from the rear propelling me off the curb.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Shut up, Mr. Cooperman.” I’d been shoved into the back seat of a small car. It looked new enough and small enough to make this ridiculous. I’d been thrust tightly against the feet of a man already sitting in the back seat, when the man with his hand on my arm came into the car after me, slamming the door as the car moved out into traffic.

“What’s this all about?” I demanded, not knowing what to expect by way of an answer.

“I said, shut the fuck up! I’ll ask the questions.”