happening,” James said at eleven-thirty. We finished our drinks and walked out the front door.
Outside, away from the pounding music and the thick cigarette smoke, the night was still and sweet. We turned the corner of the club and stepped into the parking lot. One row of cars over, two men were standing beside the white Volks. A tall guy in a jean jacket had his hands in his pockets and was listening to the other man, who was talking and waving his arms. The talker had a thick beard and a bulky build. It was the Ace driver I’d defeated by a TKO on Bathurst Street. I took James’ arm and stepped behind a maroon Volvo.
“Those two guys by my car,” I said, “go over and tell them the car’s owner is inside on the pay phone.”
James looked across the lot.
“Sure,” he said.
“Tell them something’s spooked the guy on the phone and he’s calling a cab and wants it fast.”
“What if they ask how come I’m telling them this stuff?”
“Say you’ve got a beef with the guy,” I said. “And tell the bearded guy you know it’s him the guy on the phone’s trying to steer clear of.”
James walked across the parking lot to the two men by the Volks. My former adversary stared at James. He heard James out, and as he listened, his jaws began to work. Froth at the mouth and drool in his beard ought to follow any minute. The guy was aching for a return bout with me. He turned away from James and took a step in the direction of the club. The guy in the jean jacket grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Jean-jacket did the talking. He held the floor and the bearded guy listened. Jean-jacket switched his line of patter to James. He was firing questions. James answered. He looked assured. Nothing moved except his lips. No fidgets, no nervous body language. James stood his ground. The tall guy in the jean jacket and the fat man with the beard looked at one another and walked away from James. They broke into a run and cut behind the back of the Majestic.
“Nice,” I said to James when I reached the Volks. “Lot of finesse, James.”
“The tall guy didn’t go for it at the first,” James said.
“He went for it at the last,” I said.
I turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights, and backed the car out of the parking slot.
James said, “Those guys are pissed off at you.”
I drove down the row of cars to the front of the lot and stopped to let two cars go by on the street.
“Not both guys,” I said. “The guy with the beard.”
I turned right. The front door of the Majestic banged open. I had the Volks in low gear. Someone was running from the Majestic toward the street. I pressed the accelerator.
“Here comes the tall guy,” James said.
I said, “Didn’t fool him long enough.”
The tall man in the jean jacket was going full tilt. At the rate he was covering the ground, he’d reach the road before I was past the Majestic. I had two options, stop or step on the accelerator and risk smacking into the tall guy. He slid into the street and threw up his arms in front of the Volks. There went option number two. I stopped.
“You see the other guy?” I said to James. “The fat one with the beard?”
“Just coming out the front door,” James said.
The tall man stood in the lights of the car and looked back toward the Majestic. He was waiting for his friend. I couldn’t wait. One guy I might have a chance of handling if James pitched in. Not two.
The top was still down on the car and I shouted at the tall man over the windshield.
“Hey you, stringbean,” I said, “you want some of what I gave your fat pal the other day?”
With my left hand I turned the handle on the door and opened it a crack.
“You’re asking for a broken head, asshole,” the tall man said. He walked out of the headlights toward my side of the car.
I said to James, “Where’s fatso now?”
“Halfway to us.”
The tall man reached my door. His hands were set to grab me. I swung the door open fast. It caught the tall man in the right kneecap and just below his ribs. He fell on the road. I slammed the door shut.
“Fat guy’s coming quick,” James said.
The tall man rolled over on the pavement. He didn’t know whether to grab his kneecap or his stomach. He was moaning.
I pushed the accelerator and the rear tires squealed.
“Fat guy’s gone crazy,” James said. His voice was louder.
I glanced to my right and saw the guy with the beard launch himself at the car. His arms were stretched in front of him as if he were diving, and his feet had left the ground. I pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The man with the beard thudded into the door on James’ side. I straightened the steering wheel and the car kept moving.
“Bet he left a dent,” James said.
I looked back. The bearded man was on his knees watching the Volks drive away down the street. He had his hands on his hips. The tall man was still rolling on the pavement.
“Now,” I said to James, “both guys are pissed off at me.”
18
I DROVE ANNIE out to the airport Friday morning. Her appointment with Vincent Canby for the CBC radio item on movie critics was set for Canby’s office at the New York Times that afternoon. Annie was excited but a shade weary. Alice Brackley hadn’t left her place until almost two.
“You may be right about a romance between Alice and Mr. Grim-aldi,” Annie said in the car.
“It was Wansborough who raised the possibility,” I said. “Actually Wansborough’s wife. No, scratch that, it was Wansborough’s wife’s friends. Two of them. Separate occasions.”
“You finished?”
“Run with it.”
“Okay, Alice didn’t give names, not Grimaldi’s anyway,” Annie said. “But she made it clear she was involved with a man no one she knew would consider appropriate. Certainly not her family.”
“Don’t see Alice making a guy like Grimaldi the centrepiece at a Wansborough-Brackley gathering.”
“I thought Wasp families were supposed to be loosening up these days.”
“From my small intercourse with clan Wansborough,” I said, “I’d judge a pound of gelignite wouldn’t loosen them up.”
“Well, she’s obviously troubled by the relationship.”
“What’d
