Straight No Chaser Read Online Free Page B

but my guy sold it to a pal of his for five million. The five million never changed hands. But the pal got a trust company to advance him a mortgage loan for seventy-five per cent of the apartment building’s value, which the pal said was the five million he was supposed to have paid my guy. Seventy-five per cent of five million works out to $3,750,000. Subtract the one million my guy paid for the building in the first place, and there’s $2,750,000 in spoils. My guy and the pal split the money and went around smiling widely. There were also allegations of a fifty-thousand-dollar payoff to a loan officer at the trust company that granted the mortgage. I spent the two weeks trying to convince the judge in Provincial Court that the crown didn’t have enough evidence to send my guy on for trial. The judge said he’d take a few days to think it over. That freed up my schedule. People in the fraud business call the kind of deal my guy and the pal allegedly pulled an Oklahoma Scheme.
    I walked into the living room and looked across Beverley Street into the park. The leaves on the trees were still green, and so was the grass. Verdant, I thought. A teenage girl in white painter pants and a white sleeveless blouse was perched on one of the picnic tables gently rocking a baby carriage. Two old geezers were sitting at another table playing cards. I watched the game for a few minutes. Gin rummy, it looked like.
    My headache was beginning to recede. Should I interrupt the torpor of the day by chasing after Dave Goddard? What was my obligation to Dave? Was he a client? Or a friend in need? Had I botched the tailing operation? Should I make it up to Dave? Who was the guy in the beige jacket? Many more questions like those and the headache might stage a return.
    I elected to postpone all decisions until after lunch and left the house on foot. My destination was the Belair Café. Annie B. Cooke was sure to be there. I’d give odds.

5
    A NNIE HAD A NOTEBOOK laid flat on the table in front of her. Her dark head was bent low, and she was writing very quickly in the notebook.
    A woman I recognized, Helga Stephenson, was taking care of the talking. Helga Stephenson had lips like Sophia Loren’s, high cheekbones, a face of kinetic force. Plenty of guys must have cracked up on the shoals around Ms. Stephenson. Annie had introduced me to her a couple of times over the years. Helga Stephenson was the executive director of the Festival of Festivals.
    Eleven-thirty in the morning, and the Belair was abustle. I got a table against the wall. It left a wide but mostly unobstructed space between me and Annie. I ordered a vodka and soda with a wedge of lime.
    The third person in Annie’s group was an overweight guy in a checked sweater and thick glasses. He looked familiar. He had a notebook too but wasn’t writing. He was waiting, and not patiently. His legs jiggled under the table.
    â€œI told you it was too early,” the kid at the table next to mine said to his friend. The kid was about seventeen, and he was twisting in his seat to look around the room.
    â€œLast year, right over there, I saw Bertolucci drinking Perrier water,” the friend answered the kid. The friend was a girl the same age. “That table second from where the waiter’s standing.”
    â€œCould you tell who he was with? Bertolucci?” the kid asked. He had fuzz on his upper lip and scarlet acne streaked across his forehead.
    â€œPress I suppose,” the girl answered. “Somebody boring like that.”
    I squeezed the lime into my drink and prepared to sip. If the vodka gave me nausea, I might have to throw a tantrum.
    â€œWe still haven’t decided about Sunday morning,” the girl at the next table said. She had skin without flaw. Life was unfair.
    â€œWhy do they make such dumb schedules?” the boy said. “The David Lynch on practically the same time as one of the Truffauts, that’s maximum