Street Legal Page 16

  “Hey, hold on that,” Hollis Lamont said, but too late: the picture changed to a scene at the bar. Carrie Barr on a stool in the company of three men.

  “Twenty-one thirteen hours,” Mitchell said. “On her left that’s Humphries, and behind her, guy name of Deeley, a couple of Billy’s foot soldiers.”

  “And here’s me,” said an officer named Chester. He was the charmer who’d sat on the stool next to Carrie.

  From the video: “Hey, asshole, I’m having a conversation.”

  “It’s the man of steel,” Lamont said.

  Chester’s recorded voice: “I’ll open your brain, smart-ass, you don’t butt out.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Lamont, “there’s gonna be a fight. Watch Chester clean up on these guys.”

  Chester just grinned as he watched himself exit the scene.

  “What were you trying to do, Chester, win an Oscar?” Mitchell said.

  “I just wanted Hollis to get some sound levels, Inspector.”

  “Well, from now on just butt out of the scene, Steve McQueen. From now on everyone stays away from this lady. She’s not dumb: she could pick up on the surveillance. She should spring Cristal today. We put eyes on him, instead, okay?”

  “Roger,” said Chester.

  “All right, you guys, don’t forget what you’re doing out there. Don’t forget what this is all about. Sweet fucking revenge. And goddamnit, someone bring in Normie Shandler.”

  ***

  Normie the Nose woke up that Tuesday morning to a powerful need, and his hands groped around for his jacket with his outfit and the last of his stash. He had no idea where he was, but it seemed like the outdoors: there were weeds growing everywhere around him. In agony, unable to find either his works or his smack, he rolled over onto his side, and saw he was beside some kind of culvert, and cars were passing over it. He couldn’t remember how he got here last night. For some reason he must have decided to sleep outside.

  Yeah, his landlord had kicked him out, it all came back. Some of it, anyway.

  Shouldn’t have pissed out the window. Should’ve tried to make it to the bathroom in the hallway.

  Pissed right on the asshole’s car.

  The Nose thought that scene was funny enough to laugh at now, except he wasn’t feeling well enough to laugh. Where was his jacket, where were his goods? He was feeling some morning chucks, he needed a straightener. He wondered when was the last time he ate. Did he eat yesterday? He wondered if he was hungry.

  There, hanging from a low branch of a scraggly tree, was his jacket. He crawled to it on his hands and knees, unable to stand, not ready for heights. He reached up and pulled it down, and found his ’fit, the whole factory was in his pocket, the spoon, his tourniquet, a lighter, and the condom with . . . God protect him, his dope was almost gone, there was just a taste left. There had been a whole ounce here once, the condom had been fat and was now limp.

  Could he have shot up a whole ounce in a week? He had shared some, yeah, he remembered passing the needle around with some friends a couple of nights ago. But a whole ounce?

  The Nose felt the first prickle of panic. Carefully, though his hands were shaking, he swept the last of the dust into his spoon, turned the condom inside out, brushed it, and managed to get enough for a hit. He added some water from a sour-smelling puddle near the culvert outlet, heated up, tied off, and shot it in the line.

  He felt the cooling rush, the glow. He could stand up now, he could be normal for a while. For long enough to call that lady lawyer, for long enough to score.

  ***

  Carrie had laid the money out on her desk for Leon and Chuck to admire, three hundred thousand dollars in rubber-banded wads.

  “This pays off the loan, guys,” said Chuck. “So we all understand, he is willing to sign this over as your fee?”

  “Unless he changes his mind,” said Carrie.

  “But if he disappears?” Leon said.

  Carrie recalled, then, Cristal’s spooky words: If I disappear, then you keep it all. If I die . . . then it will be a good year for your office. What had caused him to pull that terrible thought from the recesses of his mind? Was it his so-called clairvoyance, a prophecy?

  “Well, obviously, if he skips bail it’s forfeit to the Crown,” she said. “It’s a chance we take.”

  Chuck fondled a stack of bills. “So what you have to do, Carrie, is make sure he stays around for the trial. What you have to do is convince him beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will be found not guilty.”

  “It’s a very weak circumstantial case. I don’t think he’ll run.”

  Carrie repacked the money into the zip-around briefcase. It would go into their trust account. General and Commercial Trust would issue a certified cheque which would be deposited at the bail office.

  Leon’s secretary came to the door. “Cool Aid is here.”

  “Ah, yes, they want to start a counselling service for kids on drugs.”

  Chuck groaned. “More charity, eh? I know Cool Aid is a good cause and all, but we can’t keep giving those guys complimentary passes.”

  “They do more for the street kids than the entire Department of Welfare.”

  Chuck stood. “I’ve got a sentence appeal this morning.”

  Carrie followed him out but stopped in the waiting room to greet the three fuzzy freaks who were the executive officers of Cool Aid: Roy, Elmo, and Parjanya.

  “We’ve got a real problem with junk on the street,” Roy told her. “Lot of sick people out there.”

  “I heard, twenty bucks a cap.”

  “Does the Lion sleep tonight?”

  “He’s just coming from his den.”

  Leon emerged, gave them hugs and pats and led them back to his office.

  Carrie checked the mail. A note from G & C Trust complaining that her law firm had overlooked the last payment due on the loan — well, she would stop down there and speak to Mr. Barnsworth. Tickets for that bar do tonight for Mr. Justice Clearihue; how could they send that tyrant up to appeals? But she and her partners would have to go — they did a fair bit of work in the appeal court, and Clearihue, a stuffed shirt, would remember who didn’t show up to honour him.

  And here was a couriered letter marked PERSONAL, from Prud’homme, Graves and Company, advising that Mr. Graves had been retained to represent Mr. Theodore Barr in “matters pertaining to the sad difficulties of your marriage,” and could she give him a call at her earliest convenience. Carrie tore the letter up, disgusted — the coward was already hiding behind another lawyer’s robes. Oh, yes, he was terrified that Melissa Cartwright would be named as corespondent, the client upon whose body he had committed numerous breaches of ethics.

  She had never really intended to name Melissa, just to hang that grim possibility over Ted’s head. But damn it, now she might. Get this B-and-E artist disbarred for life.

  She wondered if she should hire her own lawyer, maybe Melvin Belli, or just do her own cross-examination of the adulterer. Mr. Barr, please tell the jury about the night you discussed the evidence with Mrs. Cartwright until three a.m.

  She suddenly realized that today was the day the Cartwright divorce opened. She assumed Ted had had the good sense to retain someone to substitute for him. That someone would be unprepared. The case could be a schemozzle.

  “For you, Carrie.” Pauline handed her the phone again.

  “This is Normie,” came a low, lazy voice. “Remember me?”

  Carrie was still silently fuming, and it took her a few moments to move from Ted mode to Normie mode. “Yes, of course, thank you for calling.”

  “I want, like, an appointment, only not in your office.”

  He was drawling, stoned — but he didn’t sound as groggy as the time he’d encountered her on the street.

  “Where and when would you like to meet?” She made her voice sou
nd conspiratorial.

  “I ain’t ate nothin’, I figure, for two or three days, so I’m gonna be over at a place I know in Chinatown, Sunrise Bar and Grill, just off Dundas and something. Bring ten grand in cash.”

  Carrie couldn’t bribe a murder witness, that would create serious implications for her career, but she wasn’t going to let this mercenary little junkie escape her hook. “I’ll meet you there in an hour, and we’ll discuss it.”

  “Ten grand down, and I want another fifty in a week.”

  “Order a big breakfast, Normie, it’s on me.”

  “I need some cash, lady.”

  “I’ll see if I can help you out.”

  He rang off after her vaguely worded assurance, and Carrie, clutching the zip-around briefcase, finally made her exit from the office. In the elevator, silently sinking toward the ground floor of the G & C Building, she reorganized the morning’s agenda. First the bank to deposit the money — no time to stop and chat with Barnsworth now — then breakfast with Normie, and then get André out on bail. Her client would understand why she was late.

  In the spacious, antiseptic offices of this venerable trust company — founded in 1857, boasted the sign above the door — Carrie presented herself to one of the accountants. She saw that Robert Barnsworth’s office door was open, and he was peering out at her.

  How overdue was that loan payment? Almost a week — eight thousand dollars, mostly interest — and now the rent for August was also due, another ten thousand.

  The accountant opened his eyes wide at the sight of the money, and he quickly filled out the slips. Carrie felt a presence behind her, and when she turned, she saw it was Barnsworth. He glanced from the money to her, his pink face a mask portraying false good will.

  “Ah, Mrs. Barr, I’d rather been hoping to have a little chat.”

  “I’d enjoy that, Mr. Barnsworth, and I’d like to set a time.”

  Barnsworth lowered his voice while his clerk counted the money. “I shouldn’t suppose you’d care to, ah, put things straight with us right now, Mrs. Barr?”

  “I actually intended to speak to you about an extension on the loan, Mr. Barnsworth.”

  “I’m sorry — and extension?”

  “Frankly, we don’t have the money right now.”

  He looked from her to the stacks of bills, then back to her, his face animated with suspicion. She didn’t attempt to explain where the money came from — let him think she was washing it.

  “Really, Mr. Barnsworth, we’ve been quite reliable to this point, but since you cut off your referrals we’ve been very pinched.”

  “I also gather your firm is currently undergoing some, shall we say, disorganization.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are divesting yourself of a partner?”

  Carrie was suddenly at the end of her tether with this man. “Do you spy on all your customers?”

  He was taken aback, and he sputtered a little. “We are a major financial institution, Mrs. Barr; it is our business to know these things. I rather think I must be blunt. Your husband developed several corporate clients for your firm — is he taking them?”

  “Why you snotty little prig. Your nose is stuck in our business. Pull it out.” She whirled, the certified cheque in her hand, and strode angrily out to the street. She wondered what was happening to her, what were these changes being wrought in her, anger so easily rising to boil. Uncool, uncollected Carrie.

  She must pull herself together for this Normie character, be suave and smart. She took a taxi to Dundas West, the ever-lengthening spine of Chinatown, and found squeezed amidst the clutter of Cantonese restaurants an ordinary greasy spoon, the Sunrise Bar and Grill, where ham and eggs were a dollar-fifty.

  Normie was in a booth at the back, and he’d already eaten. “Good morning,” she said. He nodded.

  As she sat across from him, he wiped his mouth with a napkin, and she saw his hand was shaking. Furtive, watery eyes. He looked as if he was coming down.

  “Did you bring the money?”

  “What are you selling?”

  “I don’t wanna horse around.”

  “Why should I trust you? How about a sample of what you know?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, I was there, I seen the whole thing.”

  “Did you see André Cristal there?”

  “For the right kind of money, I didn’t.”

  This was ridiculous, Carrie thought. “I’m not going to pay you any money, Mr. . . .”

  “Shandler. They call me Normie the Nose ’cause I got this gift, I can smell almost as good as a dog.”

  He actually smelled as bad as a dog. His clothes were rumpled and grass-stained.

  “That’s why they hire me sometimes as a tester. I’m a expert. I want ten grand to start with.” He paused. “You got problems raising it that quick, I’ll take half now.”

  He was licking his lips, twitchy, trembling. Carrie knew what he needed. “I’ll lend you something to tide you over.” She pulled fifty dollars from her purse and put it on the table.

  Normie looked at it with dismay. “I guess you ain’t been hearing me.”

  “Then let’s hear you. Prove to me you know something.”

  “Okay, I was up there with Hiltz and Perez. I’m a friend of Hiltz, a kind of half-brother, and I was there to test the product. I can describe the place — you been there? fulla movie shit. I remember the name, Last Exit from Istanbul, something like that. There was a crate with some veils — you know, the stuff belly dancers wear? That’s where I hid. That a good enough sample for you?”

  She said nothing. But it was a good sample.

  “A couple of G’s, lady, I’ll trust you for the rest.”

  Carrie opened her purse again. “Look, I’m going to lend you another fifty dollars. Do you have a place to stay? Maybe I can help you find one.”

  Normie was looking agitated. He stared at the two orange-coloured bills on the table but didn’t pick them up.

  “I’m gonna give another free sample. I was there when Jerszy Schlizik came in unannounced with a heater.”

  “And what about my client?”

  Normie’s voice broke in exasperation. “I told you, I’m willin’ to say I didn’t see him in there.” Now he leaned toward her with a smile that showed his crooked teeth. “You want me to say I saw him in that loft? That’s what you want me to tell the cops? You want me to say he came in just behind Schlizik and he blew the fucker away? ’Cause that’s what I’m gonna say in court, I don’t get compensated for my trouble. Two grand, lady, that’s the bottom line.”

  Carrie didn’t at all like the latter version of his evidence.

  “I don’t have two thousand dollars on me, Mr. Shandler.”

  “So sell your car. I’m wastin’ my time here.” He made motions as if to stand, but still had his eyes on that hundred dollars.

  “I haven’t been paid any fees for this yet.”

  “Then you better go see Billy Sweet right away, Billy don’t want the Frenchman convicted — least I don’t think he does.”

  “I’m not working for Billy Sweet.”

  She saw some tiny bubbles of perspiration on his forehead now, and he was fidgeting — he seemed to be slowly disassembling in front of her. He had a hell of a monkey, and it was becoming obvious he was out of heroin.

  He snatched the two fifties from the table and got up. “Back here, same place, three o’clock this afternoon. A thousand bucks. I ain’t takin’ less, and it’s just for starters.”

  “Just a sec, Normie . . .”

  But he was walking rapidly out, on his way to get fixed. She wanted to chase after him, and had to keep herself from doing so. She worried she’d blown this one good chance. She’d given him too much money — with heroin going at twenty a cap he’d be higher than a kite when he showed up th
is afternoon. If he remembered to show up.

  Carrie paid his bill and walked back downtown to the Queen Street courts, still pondering the alternative twists that Normie the Nose might give to his evidence. He could say he never saw Cristal. Or he could say Cristal murdered Jerszy Schlizik. She hoped he was making the second version up — if so, it was the most reprehensible form of blackmail, threatening to lie to convict a man of murder.

  A loose cannon on the deck. She was resolved that for their next meeting she would conceal a tape-recorder.

  At the bail office, she deposited her big cheque, the pledge for André Cristal’s freedom. Cristal was brought out wearing a suit Carrie had picked up for him in a men’s store, one she saw now was a little tight around the chest and hips. He was smiling.

  “The first t’ing, I am going for a run, and then a long, hot bath.”

  “That suit looks awful. You couldn’t have given me the right measurements.”

  “I t’ink I put on weight in here. From ’aving no exercise.”

  The trousers were so tight she could see — a quick glance, how embarrassing — the slight prominence of his sex.

  The clerk passed him his belt, a set of keys, and his wallet. “Sign here, here, here, and here.”

  Cristal did so, his signature the letter C and a squiggly flourish.

  “And here,” said Carrie, who had scribbled upon the back of the bail receipt a direction transferring the money to her firm.

  Cristal looked over it quickly, and signed it with the same flourish.

  “Your fee, Carrington. As I ’ave promised.”

  He looked in his wallet. Carrie saw several dun-coloured hundred-dollar bills in it. He checked his credit cards — at least six of them. “It is fantastic,” he said. “In Toronto you have honest police.”

  “Toronto the Good, we call it.”

  He stared at her for a moment, a careful appraisal. “Thank you, Carrington. For my freedom.”

  Something in those penetrating eyes gave her goose bumps. “Let’s go have a nice healthy fruit juice or something. We have to talk before you go jogging off.”

  Outside, on the steps of the courthouse, he paused and looked about: the grass, the trees, beyond that the busy corner of Queen and Bay.