Forty Words for Sorrow

44

LISE DELORME HAD NOT SPENT a lot of time on stakeouts. She was discovering on Wednesday night that she was not much good at standing around waiting, especially in the middle of the night in an unheated storefront next door to the New York Restaurant. Luckily, the warm snap—assisted by a space heater—made it just about bearable.

The New York Restaurant has been a favourite with Algonquin Bay’s criminal element for as long as anyone can remember, certainly stretching back well before Delorme’s time. No one quite knows why, but they know it isn’t because of the food, which must give pause to even the most hardened ex-con. McLeod claimed the steaks were Aylmer-issue policewear. Perhaps the big-city name lends it—to the mind of a small-city thug—a certain glamour. It is doubtful in the extreme that any of Algonquin Bay’s casual assortment of lawbreakers has been anywhere near New York City; they’re no more keen on high-crime cities than anyone else.

Musgrave thought it was the two entrances. The New York is the only Algonquin Bay eating establishment that you can enter from the bright lights of Main Street at one end and exit into the darkness of Oak Street at the other. Delorme thought it might be the gigantic gaudy mirrors on one wall that made the place seem twice its actual size, or the red vinyl, gold flake banquettes that must have dated from the fifties. Delorme had a theory that bad guys were in many ways like children, and shared the toddler’s taste for bright colours and shiny objects, in which case the New York Restaurant, from its gold-tasselled menus to its dusty chandeliers, was a felon’s natural playpen.

And of course the New York is open round the clock, the only restaurant in Algonquin Bay that can make that claim, which it does boldly, in a flashing crimson neon invitation—or warning: The New York Never Sleeps.

Whatever the reason for its popularity, the New York is, as a result, of great interest to the various law enforcement agencies. Cops are encouraged to eat there, and often do, smack in the midst of people they have put in jail. Sometimes they chat with each other, sometimes merely nod, sometimes exchange cold stares. Unquestionably, it is a place where a smart cop might overhear useful information.

“Couldn’t have picked a better location,” Musgrave said. “Anyone spots you, it’s easy to explain how you happen to be in the company of a creep like Corbett. Not that anyone’s going to see them at two a.m. on a cold Wednesday morning.”

The former linen shop next to the New York Restaurant had been empty for six months, and the landlord, a bank, had happily provided the Mounties with a key. To cover their activities they had boarded up the window with an Opening Soon sign. The only lights in the place came from clip-ons above the electronic gear. Delorme was waiting in the shadows, along with Musgrave and two Mounties dressed in workman’s coveralls who—probably on orders—said not a single word to her. The “contractors” had been in place since noon; Delorme had come at nine p.m., entering through a back hall shared with a candle shop. Pleasant smells of sawdust and bayberry hung in the air.

A black-and-white video monitor showed a wide angle that took in most of the bar. Delorme pointed to the screen: “The camera’s movable?”

“Corbett said he’d be at the bar. Be very hard for Cardinal to explain how he happens to be at a table, actually sitting down with Canada’s number-one counterfeiter. Being at the bar’s a little different: you don’t control who your neighbours are.”

“Yes, but what if—”

“The camera’s on a turret, we can move it with a joystick from in here. We have done this before, you know.”

Touchy bastard, Delorme almost said. Instead she walked over to the boarded-up window and watched the street through a small hole carefully drilled in the dot over the I in Opening Soon. She knew he would enter through the back, the Oak Street entrance, if he came at all, but she wanted to be looking at something other than that vacant bar or the backs of her unfriendly colleagues. The peephole didn’t afford much of a view. The slush on Main Street was ankle-high. The sidewalks, thanks to their shopper-friendly heaters, were dry. Across the street an arts centre that had once been a movie theatre advertised an exhibition, called True North, of watercolours by new Canadian artists and an evening of Mozart courtesy of the Algonquin Bay Symphony Orchestra. The snow that had been forecast was coming down now as a light drizzle.

There were no pedestrians. A quarter to two in the morning, why would there be? Don’t come, Delorme was thinking. Change your mind, stay home. Sergeant Langois had called from Florida, confirming her worst suspicions, less than three hours ago. From that moment on, her feelings had been all over the place. All very well to talk about putting the cuffs on a man who sold out the department and the taxpayer to a criminal, another thing to destroy the life of someone you work with every day, the actual person, not the abstract prey. Even when she had bagged the mayor—now there was a man who had betrayed the city and had every reason to expect a stretch in jail—Delorme had gone through the same regret-in-advance process. When it came time to lock him up, all she could think about were the unintended victims of her expertise, the mayor’s wife and daughter. Collateral damage, she thought. I’m some true-believing pilot on a mission, following orders no matter what the cost; I should have joined the Air Force, I should have been American.

A red and white Eldorado came gliding into view, fishtailed a little in the slush, and stopped in front of the restaurant. Bright lights, shiny metal, like something you’d hang in miniature over an infant’s crib. Here we go, Delorme thought, too late for regrets now. It’s probably just stage fright anyway. The car had pulled too far forward for her to see who got out.

A radio crackled, and a male voice said, “Elvis is here,” which Musgrave tersely acknowledged. Delorme hadn’t even realized they had men positioned elsewhere. She hoped they were indoors somewhere.

She joined Musgrave in front of the video monitor. Onscreen, Kyle Corbett was handing his coat to someone out of view. Then he sat at the bar, well within the camera angle. Corbett looked mid-forties but styled himself like a much younger man, perhaps a rock star. He had long hair, cut all one length and swept back from a knobby brow, and an artistic goatee. His sports jacket was suede, with wide lapels, and he wore a crewneck sweater underneath. He leaned forward to adjust his hair and moustache in the mirror, then swivelled on his stool to greet the bartender. He flashed a billboard-size smile. “Rollie, how’s it going?”

“How you doing, Mr. Corbett?”

“How’m I doing?” Corbett gazed up at the ceiling for a moment as if pondering deeply. “Prospering. Yeah, I think you could say I’m prospering.”

“Pilsner?”

“Too cold. Gimme an Irish coffee. Decaf. I wanna sleep sometime this century.”

“Decaf Irish coffee. Coming up.”

“That’s my man.”

Delorme was trying to place what it was about Corbett’s manner that was so familiar: the big smile, the apparent thought expended on trivial questions. Then she realized what it was. Kyle Corbett, former drug runner and current counterfeiter, had adopted the kindly condescension of the very famous. Delorme had once seen Eric Clapton in the Toronto airport, cornered by fans, signing autographs. He chatted with them in the same easy yet distant manner that Corbett had appropriated for himself.

He had swivelled his back to the camera and spread his arms along the bar as if the place were his. “He doesn’t look that dangerous,” Delorme observed.

“Tell that to Nicky Bell,” Musgrave said. “May he rest in peace.” Then he gave a thumbs-up to his men. “Crystal clear, sound and picture both. Nice piece of work.”

The radio crackled again. “Taxi on Oak.”

Musgrave spoke into his radio. “Tell me it’s our man of the hour.”

“He’s getting out now.” There was a pause. “Can’t see his face. It’s raining and he’s wearing his hood. Headed your way, though.”

There was a loud clink of glassware, and the two men at the video console suddenly sat back.

“Jesus Christ,” Musgrave said. “The screen’s blank.”

“They put something in front of it. Stacks of bar glasses.” Frantic hands twiddled at dials. “It’s those huge dishwasher trays they have.”

“Jesus. Hit the joystick. Can’t you swivel around them?”

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“Shhh!” Delorme said. “Let’s at least hear what’s going on.”

Corbett was greeting somebody loudly, expansively, in his best “just folks” manner, and implying for the benefit of any restaurant staff that this meeting of cop and criminal was entirely accidental. “You gonna join me for a drink? Always glad to know a fellow insomniac, even if he’s playing for the wrong team.”

The reply was unintelligible. The other person was somewhere out of mike range, perhaps hanging up his coat.

“You guys always dress like Nanook of the North when you’re off duty?”

“Larry,” Musgrave said icily, “fix the fucking camera. We’re losing the main event.”

Christ, Delorme prayed. Let’s get it over with.

“What’re you drinking?” It was Dyson who spoke. “Shirley Temple or something?”

Musgrave whirled on Delorme. “Who is that? Is that Adonis Dyson? I thought you fed this pill to Cardinal.”

Delorme shrugged. A mixture of relief and sorrow was flowing into her veins as if from a hypodermic. “I fed Cardinal one date. Dyson got another.”

“You have something for me?” Dyson was saying on the darkened screen.

There was a crackle of paper. “Invest it wisely. Personally, I like index funds.”

“I got a cab waiting. So I’ll get right to the nitty-gritty.”

“What are you scared of? Didn’t you hear I’m immune these days? Amazing what a court order can do. I gotta say, the law’s really something when it works.”

“It’s late, and I’ve got a cab waiting.”

“Sit down. Don’t you haul ass on me. I told you I want a full fucking rundown. I don’t pay you for chicken feed.”

“The Mounties are going to hit you on the twenty-fourth. No chicken feed. The twenty-fourth. That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s the poison pill,” Delorme said quietly. “The twenty-fourth. Dyson’s the only one I gave that to.”

“And don’t clear out this time,” Dyson went on. “Leave something for them to find, and a couple of guys too. You’ve got nine lives, I realize, but you’re running on number ten and so am I, and if they nail me we’re all going down.”

Musgrave spoke into his radio. “We’re in play. Close the exits.” Then to Delorme: “Let’s get him, Sister.”

Musgrave went in through the front door, Delorme through the back, each accompanied by two Mounties. Musgrave took Corbett, and Delorme dealt with Dyson. “Really,” Delorme told people later, “it was smooth as a business transaction. Corbett didn’t put up any struggle, just cursed a few times.”

Perhaps Dyson had been expecting this ending all along. He folded his arms and put his head down on the bar in the time-honoured pose of the melancholy drunk, hiding his face.

“D.S., would you put your hands behind your back, please?” Delorme had no need to draw a gun; the Mounties behind her were taking care of all that. “D.S. Dyson,” she said, louder, “I need you to put your hands behind your back. I have to cuff you.”

Dyson sat up, his face paper white, and put his hands behind his back. “If it means anything, Lise, I’m sorry.”

“I’m arresting you for dereliction of duty, official misconduct, obstructing justice and accepting a bribe. I’m very sorry too. The Crown tells me more charges are likely.” She sounded very much the well-trained, don’t-mess-with-me modern policewoman. But she wasn’t really thinking of the Crown, or the charges, or even Adonis Dyson. The whole time she was executing this by-the-book arrest of her boss, Lise Delorme was thinking of that gawky young daughter she had seen outside his house, and of the wraithlike figure who had called her away.