Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

“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.

“Ben!” It was Devlin. I turned and wondered what was on his mind so soon after our recent conversation. “Ben, a few of us are going over to ROYC tomorrow for a sail at six. That’s my yacht club over on the Island, you know? We’ll just take a run around the Island, nothing fancy. If you’d like to come, I’ve got all the gear you’ll need stowed on board. It’s just a thought. Chance to get to know you better.”

“How soon do you need to know? I’ve got some things to do tomorrow, but I should be clear by six.”

“Great! If you can swing it, we’ll be catching the six o’clock ROYC ferry at the foot of Spadina. I want you to meet some of my friends. They’re as crazy about boats as I am.”

I nodded assent. I thought it might prove an interesting trip. Besides, I’d never been to a proper Upper Canadian yacht club before. I thought it might be instructive to put myself among people who had the right clothes for every situation.

Ten minutes later one of the limos hired for the occasion dropped us in front of the network building on University Avenue. George Brenner was standing in front with his hair trimmed and wearing a shirt and tie. It was a new George, or at least a new side of him. He and Vanessa exchanged looks that I wasn’t supposed to see. He even spared me a grin as Vanessa preceded me through the revolving doors.

I could tell from Sally’s face that there was a reception committee just inside the closed doors of Vanessa’s office. Vanessa caught the look on Sally’s face too and coolly asked her to hold all her calls until further notice.

Inside her large office, the three cops I had been talking to were sitting together on a couch. Rub-a-dub-dub. On our entry, they shot to attention, looking like schoolboys caught smoking behind the gym.

Sykes was the first to speak: “Ms. Moss, I told you that we might have to have another talk with you. Well, the time has come.” He thanked her for her frank and open co-operation so far and hoped that in this same spirit of helpfulness they would be able to continue their inquiries. Then he introduced Detective Sergeant C.R. Pepper. Vanessa made for the door to beg coffee of Sally. Boyd had half risen as she moved, then tried to regain his seating surreptitiously when she returned to sit down in front of her desk.

“I want to get to the bottom of Renata’s death as much as you do, Sergeant Sykes. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do my best to respond. But, just for the record, am I under arrest?”