The Dells (27 page)

“It was,” Hal said. “We'll go to your bank first thing Tuesday morning and get the rest out of your safe deposit box. Would you like me to tell you the number?”

“Go fuck yourself, Hal,” Peters said, without feeling. He stood. Beneath his round, hairy belly, his genitals protruded grotesquely in the ridiculous bathing suit, the shape of his fat penis clearly evident through the thin material, level with Hal's eyes.

Hal stood with a grunt. He followed Peters into the house and down the back stairs into the basement recreation room. It was finished like a British pub, complete with dartboard and ornate beer pump handles labelled with names such as Smithwick's and Courage. Hal had helped with the woodwork. Peters went behind the bar and swung aside a mirror to reveal a small safe set into the wall. He spun the dial and opened the safe. He handed Hal five one-inch stacks of bills bound by thick blue elastic bands.

“There's ten grand per bundle,” Peters said.

Hal fanned one of the stacks. The top bill in each stack was a hundred. So, apparently, were the rest. He put the money into the overnight bag and zipped it closed. The $50,000 would get Dougie Hallam off his back. The remaining $450,000 would go a long way toward covering his loses.

Peters gestured for Hal to precede him up the stairs. Hal almost complied, then shook his head.

“After you,” Hal said. Outside, he turned to Peters and offered his hand. “Thanks.”

“You bastard,” Peters said, ignoring Hal's hand. “Like I had a choice.”

“Sure you did. Just not a very good one. What are you going to do?”

“I've always thought it would be nice to live in Costa Rica.”

“What about Clara?” Hal asked.

“She'll be all right. The house is in her name. If she's careful, she won't have to sell it. She might have to get a second job, though.”

“You're a prince among men, Gord,” Hal said.

“You'd know,” Peters said churlishly.

“See you Tuesday,” Hal said, and walked to the car, heart hammering and sweat spilling down his sides. As he got into the car, he caught a whiff of himself. He didn't like what he smelled.

When Shoe lived in Toronto, bars weren't open on Sundays. The current situation wasn't an improvement, especially in the case of the Jane Street Bar and Grill. The only positive thing one could say about it was that it didn't pretend to be anything but what it was — a drinking establishment. The décor was uninspired, to say the least, and the music was bland modern pop, played just loud enough to be annoying. The only customers that Sunday afternoon were four solitary men, ranging widely in age and dress, but all white and all drinking beer from the bottle. No sooner had Shoe settled onto a stool than the barman was in front of him, wiping the stainless steel surface of the bar with a damp rag. He was about Shoe's age, with brown, thinning hair, sharp eyes, and a mouth that turned down at the corners. He wasn't wearing a name tag. “What can I get you?” he asked, placing a coaster on the bar.

“I'll have a club soda,” Shoe replied.

“You want that with a twist?” the barman asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Good. 'Cause we're all out and I hate disappointing a customer.”

While the barman was drawing Shoe's club soda, no twist, Shoe asked, “What's your name?”

“Syd,” the barman said, placing the tall glass of soda and ice on the bar.

“Pleased to meet you, Syd. I'm Shoe. Is Dougie around?”

“Dougie who?” the barman asked.

“How many do you know?”

“You'd be surprised.” He half closed one eye, peered at Shoe sideways with the other. “I know most all the regular cops around here. You're either new, visiting from downtown, or private. Which is it?”

“None of the above. I'm just a citizen.”

“Well, citizen, what do you want with this Dougie guy?”

“He's an old acquaintance.”

“What makes you think you're gonna find him here?”

“I heard a rumour he owned the place.”

“Oh,
that
Dougie. Why didn't you say so? Sorry, he ain't here. Most of the time he's what you might call an absentee owner. Hardly ever in before eight or nine at night. If you're an old friend of his, like you say, you'll know where he lives. Try him there.”

“I did. He wasn't home.” Neither was Janey. And Tim Dutton had been right, the place was a dump. Except for a small patch in the back, facing the woods, the yards were uncut and full of trash, decaying lawn furniture, rusting car parts, even the corpse of a discarded washing machine.

“Well, I ain't his keeper,” the barman said. “I just work for him.”

“Were you working last Thursday night?”

“Might've been, maybe.”

“Was Dougie around that night too?”

“I thought you said you weren't a cop.”

“I'm not.”

“Well, you sure ask questions like you're a cop. If you're not a cop, get lost. If you are a cop, get lost. I talked to enough cops today already. I got a very low tolerance threshold.”

Shoe looked him in the eye. He returned Shoe's stare, not intimidated in the least. After a long moment, keeping his voice low and friendly, Shoe said, “I'm just trying to help out a friend who's got himself into a bit of trouble with the law. I'm sure you can appreciate that. You seem to be a decent fellow.”

“Maybe I am and maybe I'm not, but I make it a point to keep my nose out of other people's business. Especially if it involves Dougie Hallam. No offence, Mr. Shoe, but you got questionable taste in friends.”

“It's just Shoe. And Dougie Hallam's not the friend I'm trying to help. I'm hoping he might be able to help me help my friend.”

“Then you don't know him as good as you think you do.” Syd thought for a moment, then said, “Okay, yeah, I was working Thursday night. Our other bartender quit and I'm workin' double shift till Dougie finds a replacement. Wish he'd hurry it up. Dougie was here too.”

“Do you remember a man about five-six or five-seven, my age, long greying hair, getting a bit thin on top? He might've been pretty drunk.”

“The cops asked me about a guy like that this morning.”

“What did you tell them?”

“What makes you think there was anything to tell them?”

Shoe feigned disappointment. “Syd, Syd. And here
I thought we were developing a rapport. I guess I was wrong. Or is it just general contrariness on your part?”

The barman smiled dryly. “Do you watch television?”

“Not much,” Shoe replied.

“Well, on TV it's usually at this point that the guy asking questions — that's you — takes out his wallet and offers the bartender — that's me — a hunnerd bucks.”

“As I said, I don't watch much television.” Shoe took out his wallet. “How's fifty sound?”

“What? You'll have to speak up.” He stuck a pinkie into his ear and jiggled it. “I got bad wax build up.”

Shoe rolled the fifty-dollar bill into a tight cylinder. He held it out. “Use this to clean it out.”

Syd took the rolled-up bill. “I hear you better now,” he said. He unrolled the bill, folded it, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Yeah, there was a guy like that, about as tall as me, but he looked older'n you. No question about him being drunk. Not that that's so unusual around here. He was runnin' off at the mouth about how him and Dougie were old pals from way back, tellin' everyone how dumb Dougie was then, and wondering if was any smarter now. Talk about dumb, I thought Dougie was going to kill the silly fucker when he asked Dougie if he was still porking his sister. That's when Dougie threw him out.”

“What time was this?”

“Eleven, eleven-thirty.”

“Did you see him after that?”

“You mean, did he come back in after Dougie left? Shit, no. He wasn't that dumb — or that drunk.”

“How long after he threw him out did Dougie leave?” Perhaps Hallam had seen Joey later that night, Shoe thought hopefully.

“Half an hour, maybe,” Syd said. “He got a call from someone. I remember because it pissed him off. He
was puttin' the moves on some blonde he's had his eye on for a while.”

“Did he leave alone?”

“No. She left with him.”

“Do you know who the call was from?”

“I didn't ask. I ain't his social secretary. A guy is all I can tell you.”

“How long was he gone?”

“An hour, maybe a little longer.”

“What kind of vehicle does he drive?”

“Big black Hummer. Windows tinted real dark. Keeps a mattress in the back. Sometimes he takes women to some local park in it — he's got keys to the gates, apparently. Other times, he just takes 'em out back. He's a class act, knows how to treat a woman right.”

A pair of men dressed in jeans and boots and western shirts, and sporting huge bellies and big silver and gold belt buckles, climbed onto stools at the far end of the bar.

“Be right back,” Syd said, and moved down the bar to serve the men. They ordered a pitcher of draft. Shoe sipped his club soda. The ice had imparted to it the stale flavour of refrigeration. Syd came back. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Ten years or so. Started working for the previous owner. Nice old guy. I didn't think he was interested in selling — I'd've bought the place myself. Instead, I wake up one morning a couple of years ago workin' for Dougie Hallam.” He shrugged. “Didn't like him much when he was a customer and like him even less as a boss.” He tapped his shirt pocket, wherein nestled Shoe's fifty-dollar bill. “The owner of a little pub up in King City says he's thinking about retiring soon, so I'll be moving on before long.”

“Do you know a woman named Marty Elias?”

“Marty? Yeah, I know Marty. Why?”

“How well did you know her?”

“Pretty good. She used to be a regular. Ain't seen her lately, but around the time Dougie bought the place, she used to come in most every Friday night. She didn't have to buy her own drinks, if you get my drift, but she usually did.” His eyes sharpened. “Why are you asking me how well I
knew
her?”

“If she was your friend, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this,” Shoe said. “She's dead. Her body was found this morning in the Dells.”

The man's face drained of colour. “Aw, crap,” he said. He twisted the cap off a single-serving bottle of mineral water and drank. His colour improved somewhat.

“She was more that just a regular, wasn't she?” Shoe said.

“We went out a couple of times,” Syd said. “She was good people.”

“She was,” Shoe agreed.

“You knew her?”

“Yes,” Shoe said. “A long time ago. She was my kid sister's best friend. We almost grew up together.” He felt a sudden chill. “Was she in here last night, maybe asking about my friend?”

“No. Like I said, I haven't seen her in a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“A year, more or less.”

“Was Dougie Hallam here last night?” Shoe asked, for no particular reason, except a tingle of curiosity.

“He's here most nights.”

“Was he alone?” Where was his subconscious taking him? he wondered.

“When Dougie's here, he's never alone. He's got lots o' friends in this place. I think that's why he bought it. It came with them built in.”

“Was he here the whole time?”

“He went out for while around ten or so.”

“How long was he gone?” “An hour, maybe a little less. He came back with the blonde. He left again around eleven, eleven-thirty, with the blonde and another guy.”

“This other guy, what did he look like?”

“Bit bigger'n Dougie, but soft. About fifty, fifty-five. Glasses. Short greying hair kinda lyin' flat on his head.”

The description fit Hal to a tee, Shoe thought unhappily. The Jane Street Bar and Grill hardly seemed like the kind of place Hal would patronize. On the other hand, he added to himself, glancing at the big-bellied men at the end of the bar, overweight middle-aged men weren't exactly in short supply.

“Did Dougie came back later?” he asked.

“Yeah, he was back by closing time. I don't think he trusts me.”

“And the other guy?”

“Don't remember seeing him later. This place is pretty busy on a Saturday night.”

Shoe stood up. “I appreciate your help. The police might be by again to ask you about Marty. I hope you'll be as helpful to them as you've been to me.”

“I dunno …”

“Would another fifty help you to make up your mind?”

“Keep your money. I'll tell the cops whatever you want. If Dougie and that other guy you're lookin' for killed Marty, they deserve what they get.”

“Just tell the truth,” Shoe said. “Thanks for your help.” He took out his wallet and dropped two twenties and a ten on the bar.

“I told you to keep your money.” “That's for the club soda,” Shoe said.

Syd picked up the bills. “The next one's on the house.”

Through the glass wall, Shoe watched Janey Hallam conducting an aerobics class. At least, he thought it was an aerobics class. It might have been a martial arts class, as it involved a lot of kicking, spinning, and air boxing, except that it was being performed to the mind-numbing thud of techno-rock dance music. The average age of the class appeared to be about forty-five. Women outnumbered the men two to one. With a few notable exceptions, most of both genders were ten to twenty pounds overweight, some much more. And, with more or less the same exceptions, most were having a difficult time of it. They missed steps, floundered, staggered, recovered, only to miss another step, like marionettes operated by a drunken puppeteer. Shoe hoped they were enjoying themselves, but judging from their expressions, they didn't appear to be. The majority looked as though they were in pain.