John Goldbach - The Devil and the Detective

‘What the hell did he do?’ I said and Darren said he wasn’t sure.

‘Well you did a good job, Darren.’

‘Thanks. But we gotta figure out where this restaurant is, so we’re there for the handoff.’

Darren bounced in his seat, jacked up on adrenalin. ‘Get the drop on the drop.’

‘Well, Old Port, not far from the pier.’

‘There’re a bunch of restaurants around there.’

‘We’ll ask Michelle if Bouvert has a favourite.’

‘Good idea,’ said Darren and pulled out his cell and her card and called her.

While Darren sat, cell in hand, waiting for Michelle to pick up, I sat stunned. I felt amazingly stupid. I’d been deceived by essentially everyone, I thought, for the n th time, save Darren. But then I cast a sidelong glance at him, wondering if somehow, in some way, Darren was tied up in this conspiracy, in this web of lies, this hell I now inhabit, a hell I was dragged into with a late-night phone call while I was minding my own damn business and reading and drinking on my couch in relative peace. Could Darren be working for these goddamn lawyers and these rich assholes, these assholes who chew through people, masticating them, in service of their tawdry dramas and the further accumulation of vast wealth? Anything was possible, I thought, though I hated myself for having to always be so paranoid, though still never paranoid enough. I wondered what to do about O’Meara. Should I confront him before the handoff, or after the handoff, or at the handoff, at the pier, with Bouvert and perhaps Adamson, too? Also, I wondered, what was O’Meara going to do about me?

It seemed like an eternity as we sat there waiting for Michelle to pick up her cell. Darren had his cell up to his ear but I could hear it ringing, over and over again, while I sat there mildly suspecting Darren of being in on this strange conspiracy, one I didn’t understand. The ringing was loud and I found it odd that a machine hadn’t picked up yet, and the phone rang and rang ad infinitum . I didn’t really suspect Darren, I thought, while listening to the abyssal ringing of the phone. But then I didn’t really suspect O’Meara, either, and he was involved somehow, involved enough to be paid off to keep his yap shut. Clearly O’Meara was only partially involved, I thought, from what I could deduce from Darren’s notes, since it was clear that he didn’t know everything , and was ultimately incidental to the overall conspiracy, et cetera. That is, if Darren’s notes were an accurate transcript of the conversation overheard at Le Charon. Perhaps, I thought, Darren’s notes were entirely fabricated and scripted by O’Meara, Bouvert, Adamson and (I hated to think it) Darren so as to set me on the wrong path. I kept giving Darren sidelong glances as he held the loudly ringing phone to his ear. It was clear that Darren didn’t suspect me of suspecting him, I thought, as he sat waiting for Michelle to pick up. No, Darren wasn’t involved, he wasn’t working for Bouvert and Adamson, I decided, and I desperately wanted to believe right then and there that Darren wasn’t working for Bouvert and Adamson (or their client, rather, or clients , plural) and that he was in fact on my side, assisting me with the case, acting as my sidekick, a partner I could trust. Then, the loud ringing stopped and for a second there was complete silence.

‘Hello … ’

‘Hey, Michelle, I’m sitting here with Bob and need to ask you a question … ’

‘Um, another time would work better.’

‘I just need to know what restaurant Bouvert likes in the Old Port.’

‘Okay, so later sounds good. Thank you.’

‘Michelle, just think — does he have some place there he goes to often?’

‘All right. Sounds good. Talk to you soon.’ And she hung up.

Darren looked perplexed but I said, ‘Somebody’s with her. She can’t talk.’

‘Right,’ said Darren. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We wait and call her back.’ I rocked in my seat. I blurted out, ‘When you call her back, though, don’t ask questions — just give her a location to meet us at.’

‘Right. Where?’

‘A bar?’

‘Okay, but what bar?’

‘Shit, I wish I knew the name of the railway-car-like bar … ’

‘Where is it?’

‘About twenty minutes east of the Andrewses’ but I don’t really remember.’

‘Along the highway?’

‘Elaine took a back-roads route. She drove for about twenty minutes and there it was alongside the road with the bare trees with the black branches.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.’

‘I know.’

‘I know a place. A place we drink at after classes sometimes and I go there after work, too. It’s a quiet dive. I’ll tell her to meet us there in half an hour.’

Darren and I sat at a table in the bar by a large sliding window looking out on the street, waiting for Michelle. The plan worked, in theory; Darren called and told Michelle to meet us in thirty minutes at his bar, Chez Carlos, and all she had to say was yes or no and she said yes . Nevertheless, we’d been waiting for about thirty extra minutes and she still hadn’t shown. For the first fifteen, I refrained from drinking beer with Darren and had a club soda with lime, but after fifteen I cracked and ordered a beer when Darren asked for his second. We sat there silently drinking our bottles of beer and staring off into nowhere, like the three or four other patrons. The bar was exactly as Darren had described it, a quiet dive. Punk rock music played softly and there was a pool table but no one playing and only men sat at the bar but the bartender was a woman, a thin pretty redhead, who looked tough, though, not to be fucked with, and the server was the only other woman in the barroom, a stout Québécoise waitress in her mid-forties, I’d guess, but I’m bad at guessing. Darren peeled the label off his second beer and used it as a coaster. He yawned, then rubbed at his eyes. I felt tired, too, but when was I ever going to sleep well again? This case, these people, they were devouring me, I thought, and I’d never rest well again. I stared out on to the street and it had started to rain.

I spotted Michelle walking in the rain with a black umbrella before Darren because she was walking north and I was facing south. She saw me and waved a small wave. Darren jerked around fast when he saw me wave back. She smiled.

Closing her umbrella and shaking off the raindrops, Michelle entered the bar and came over to our table. ‘Hey, guys.’

‘Have a seat,’ said Darren and she sat down beside him, across the table from me. ‘How’re you?’

‘Good, fine. Sorry about before, on the phone, but I was with Bouvert. He came back to the office after the hotel.’

‘Do you know why?’ I said.

‘No, but it wasn’t unusual.’

‘Well the question remains,’ said Darren. ‘Do you know of a restaurant Bouvert frequents in the Old Port?’

‘Yeah, of course. Diavolo Cucina, or its full name’s something like La Diavolo del Cucina, but Diavolo Cucina, yeah … Italian … Bouvert goes there all the time — sometimes with Adamson but it’s where he goes. I think he might even be a part owner or something, but I’m not sure.’

‘That’s helpful, Michelle. Thanks.’

She nodded.

‘Have you ever been there with him?’ asked Darren.

‘Yes, a few times. It’s not very big, sort of dark inside, very, very good. And Bouvert clearly knows everyone who works there.’

‘Did you know he’s going there tonight?’ I said.

‘No, but that doesn’t surprise me. It’s one of the few places that he won’t ask me to make him a reservation at. I don’t think I’ve ever called the restaurant for him. He just goes.’