Crang Mysteries 6-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

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СКАЧАТЬ it. Well, maybe scratch that supposition. Dave, for all his other fine qualities, mostly his honest-to-God musical artistry, might not be the planet’s most observant occupant.

      What if something was concealed in the case? Something Dave wouldn’t notice no matter how observant he was. Whatever was concealed, if anything, would have to be light. Otherwise the extra weight would tip off Dave. On the other hand, the case was new and unfamiliar to Dave, and he wouldn’t recognize anything out of sync about the case’s balance.

      I reached back of the sofa and turned on the lamp at its least bright level. The lamp sat on a dark wood table that Annie and I discovered on a foray into the antique-shop country up near Shelburne. Beside the lamp I kept a stack of magazines—Vanity Fair, Jazz Monthly, Saturday Night. James Turkin might have fun underlining the Mixed Media guy’s column in Vanity Fair, James Wolcott. He was always good for a “palpable” and a “semiotics”.

      Things that could be tucked out of sight in a saxophone case. Not gold bricks. Money, though it’d have to be in bills of very large denomination to make the trouble and effort of concealment worth while. Jewellery, though we’d be thinking small and prized diamonds, rubies, and so forth for the same reasons of effort and trouble.

      Or, oh shit, drugs.

      “Crang, we know you’re up there.”

      It was Ian from downstairs.

      “You want to come down for a drinkee?”

      I got off the sofa and walked to the top of the stairs. Ian was standing at the foot, a short, compact man, bald, a moustache, wearing white shorts and a Diana Ross T-shirt.

      “Ian, how many times have I told you, drinkee’s a dead giveaway.”

      “Who cares? It’s Friday. I never watch my language on weekends.”

      Ian was the swishier member of Ian and Alex. He sold real estate, Alex was a civil servant. Ian was joking. He didn’t care if he sounded like a queen. People buying houses preferred gay agents. Better taste in realty. Ian told me that, and I believed him.

      “Thanks anyway,” I said. “I’m out for dinner, and until then I got to ratiocinate up here.”

      “Get you. Ratiocinate.”

      “The mental equivalent of weightlifting.”

      “If you change your mind, Alex has done something super. It’s got brandy in it and honey and lime and champers. Pitchers of it, I promise.”

      “Save me some for breakfast.”

      “Oh well, give our love to Anniepoo.”

      “Ian, I’ll send someone around to wash out your tongue.”

      “Please do.”

      It was four-fifteen at the Alley Cat, and the manager was on the premises. He sounded friendly. Why do Americans get into all their wars? Most Americans I run into are too friendly for warmongers. The friendly American at the Alley Cat had practically total recall of the Dave Goddard saxophone episode. A guy came in with the new case early in the evening before Dave arrived for the first set, and said it was a gift of appreciation. He heard Dave lost his old case. Didn’t want to meet Dave. Just a present from an admirer to show Dave not everyone in Culver City was a ratfink thief. I asked the manager what the man bearing gifts looked like. Big, strapping guy, the manager said on the phone. That was Fenk to a T. Claimed he was a fan, but the manager didn’t remember seeing him around the Alley Cat. Still on stream for Fenk. The guy smiled a lot. Well, Fenk could fake it. The guy was black. Oops. Not Fenk. I thanked the manager, who said to come by next time I was out their way.

      I gave my glass a small snap of Wyborowa, a dressing drink, and sipped at it in the bedroom while I considered my wardrobe. The black guy who left the case for Dave could have connections with Fenk. He ran the delivery errand, and Fenk completed the arrangement by picking up the case in Toronto. Yanking the case out of Dave’s hands and slamming him with a two-by-four wasn’t precisely synonymous with “picking up”, but it rounded out the enterprise that began at the Alley Cat. Say the black guy snitched Dave’s old case, substituted the new, which had something hidden in it, and Fenk took delivery when the case reached Toronto with Dave.

      Should I congratulate myself on this marvel of deduction? Definitely premature. The whole house of cards hinged on the presence of something concealed in the case, and until James and I checked out Fenk’s room at the Silverdore, I wouldn’t know about the case or concealment. If Fenk still had the case. If the concealed goods existed. If they existed and Fenk hadn’t disposed of them. If you were the only girl in the world and I were the only boy. I got out the clothes for my date with Annie and put them on.

      13

      THE WAY I WAS DRESSED, someone would have asked for my autograph at the Belair Café. I had on a white linen jacket, a dark-red silk tie against a light-grey broadcloth shirt, and grey flannels fresh from the dry cleaner’s hot press. Instead, I took Annie to Emilio’s.

      Our waitress brought us menus, and I ordered a bottle of Vouvray. The waitress looked like Cher’s younger sister. Same pile of black hair, same lean curves, same expression that said attitude.

      I said to Annie, “You don’t suppose that girl’s got a tattoo in a very private place?”

      “Don’t bother asking her.”

      “Not till we’re better acquainted,” I said. “Around dessert time.”

      Emilio’s made me feel cosmopolitan and funky. It looked like it belonged in SoHo, the one in Manhattan. Which, in Emilio’s case, didn’t mean it had done a copycat act. The guy who owned it was a New Yorker who used to live in SoHo. I retained that bulletin of news from one of my intensive readings of Toronto Life’s restaurant reviews. Annie and I were at a table under a Canadian Opera Company poster for a 1986 production of Un Ballo in Maschera. Beside it was a black-and-white photograph of Emilio’s staff softball team, and in my sightline I could contemplate a metal sculpture of a white pineapple. Annie had on a black silk shirt and black cotton pants. Both were loose and billowy. Nat Cole was singing “Lush Life” on Emilio’s tape, and when he finished, a Latin group began a rendition of a Beatles song whose title I couldn’t remember.

      “Hear that?” I said to Annie. “I’ve eliminated it from my thought processes.”

      “If ‘Norwegian Wood’ was clogging your thought processes, you were in serious trouble.”

      “Not just the song,” I said. “The whole of Beatle lore. John, Paul, George, and Ringo are right out of my head.”

      “That’s a laugh. I’ve never noticed Sergeant Pepper in your record collection anyway.”

      “I’m not talking music, kid,” I said, “I’m talking information overload.” Cher’s Younger Sister arrived with the Vouvray. It was sweeter than I liked in my wine, but the fruitiness and acidity were close to the mark. I think I read that in Toronto Life’s wine column.

      I said to Annie, “What I’m trying to deal with here, it’s the bane of life in the 1980s.”

      “That’s easy. The bane of the 1980s is shoulder pads.”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ