of past interviews with him, he popped the questions.
“Uh, Mr. Grimaldi,” Griffin said, “I’ve got some names here I’d like to try out on you for background on the story I’m researching. Laid-law Construction’s one. Stibbards Wire. That’s with two ‘b’s in the middle. And the last is Soward. S-o-w-a-r-d. A concrete company.”
As he talked, Griffin kept the receiver cradled between his left shoulder and his ear. He wrote in the notebook with his right hand and held the notebook in place with his left. I sat across the table with the soggy vodka and ice I’d been nursing along most of the evening.
“All customers of yours?” Griffin said into the phone. “That’s what I understood. Well, the thing is, Mr. Grimaldi, it’s come to my attention, these three, kind of a coincidence here, they were all charged 837 dollars by your company for work done on the same day in June. Wonder if you could explain that for the story.”
Grimaldi talked for five minutes without allowing space for Griffin to butt in. Griffin kept himself busy writing in his notebook. The writing covered six pages before Grimaldi took a break.
“Sure, it makes sense, Mr. Grimaldi,” Griffin said. “Good business practice, yeah, like you say.”
Griffin and Grimaldi alternated talking in spurts. I listened to Griffin’s end. I could imagine Grimaldi’s end.
“Well, anyway,” Griffin said when he had a space, “I believe I have a backup on this. Nothing definite, but a source of mine might make available the relevant invoices, the ones for the three companies I mentioned a minute ago.”
Grimaldi took a turn. He raised his voice loud enough for me to make out two of his words.
“Fucking nerve,” Grimaldi said. He repeated it a couple of times.
“Just running down my leads, Mr. Grimaldi,” Griffin said. He was good on the phone, guileless, and a dangerous hint of information held in reserve. “If I get the invoices, you know, it’ll be a matter of nailing down the answers. Confirm what you’ve explained.”
Griffin let the phone fall from his ear. Grimaldi had geared up to a shout.
“That’s getting serious, Mr. Grimaldi,” Griffin said when it came back to talking time for him. “Nobody’s threatening your company. Any event, I can’t reveal my contact. He hasn’t said he’ll definitely come through with the invoices. It’s up in the air right now.”
Griffin got off the phone and flipped his notebook shut.
I said, “You care for another Bloody, Ray?”
Griffin shook his head.
“The reason the figure is the same for the three companies,” he said, “is a system they got at Ace that’s a variation on equal billing. Kind of thing Consumers’ Gas does with your monthly bill.”
“That’s what Grimaldi said?”
“Makes crazy sense when he’s explaining it, but I don’t swallow it,” Griffin said. “He asked me out to the office for a look at his accounting system. He said it’s state of the art.”
“He didn’t lie.”
“He got abusive when I brought up the invoices,” Griffin said. “Wanted to know who the guy was, my source. Made some noise about taking steps. That was his phrase. He said the person with the invoices would end up with his ass in a sling.”
“Another one of his phrases?”
“It’s you he’s talking about, correct?” Griffin said. “Whatever these invoices amount to, you’ve got them.”
I told Griffin he’d get the story complete to every detail as soon as the rest of the pieces had fallen into place. Griffin tried a few questions. I talked around them. He thrust. I parried. And after a while, Griffin said he had to leave for another appointment. I asked if it was with his clothes consultant.
“Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Crang,” Griffin said.
He left and I put a Lester Young album on the stereo in the living room. It was from the 1950s when his sound had grown thicker and more sombre. I sat in the dark and looked out the window at the park across the street for a long time. Charles Grimaldi would know it was me who’d tipped off Ray Griffin. That was the point. I wanted Grimaldi to know. But he’d also recognize I’d given Griffin only a taste of what I had. Three names and a figure in dollars wasn’t the basis for a solid investigation even by a persevering chap like Griffin. But the invoices, if Griffin got his hands on them and took note that the invoice numbers were the same on each of the three, would launch him in directions calculated to make Grimaldi nervous. Had I developed a scenario that might persuade Grimaldi to deal with me on Matthew Wansborough’s three hundred thousand? It struck me as a good bet. Scenario? As words go, it was as moronic as interface and relationship. I was developing lazy etymological habits.
I got up and turned over the Lester Young album. He blew “Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams” as if it were a dirge. Nothing was stirring in the park beyond the window. It was a fair trade-off, Wansborough’s investment in return for the documents I’d purloined from Ace and a promise to clam up to Ray Griffin and everyone else on what the documents revealed. Grimaldi had too much to lose by not going along with the offer. Bringing Griffin into the picture showed him I meant business. Tough me. Grimaldi wouldn’t want Ace’s operations spread across several pages of copyright story in the Star. The longer I buzzed the idea around in my head, the more persuasive it shaped up. One hitch, I didn’t intend to keep my promise to shield Ace. But Grimaldi didn’t know that. Would he guess? Could be.
Lester Young moved on to “Skylark” and I kept watch over the darkness of the park. Scenario, interface, relationship. Impact was another, used as a verb. Pepsi commercials impact on the under-twenty market group. Canadian foreign policy doesn’t impact on anyone. Charles Grimaldi might impact on my head. I had two more Lester Young albums from the 1950s. I listened to them until past midnight.
30
THE MESSENGER wasn’t a kid on a bike or an aging hippie in a Purolator jacket. He had on a black suit and tie, a white shirt, and a black cap like the kind limousine drivers wear. He was about sixty-five years old, and when I answered his knock on my office door, he removed the cap and handed me an envelope.
“My instructions are not to wait for an answer, sir,” he said. His accent was plummy, his manner haughty.
“Indeed?” I said. The messenger made me feel inadequate.
“But I am to confirm you are Mr. Crang,” he said in clipped English tones.
“Want to look at my driver’s licence?” I asked. I wished I had some Earl Grey in the office. Invite him in for a cup. Talk cricket scores.
“Your word is sufficient, Mr. Crang,” the messenger said. “I was advised you would be the gentleman in the casual dress.”
I changed my mind about the Earl Grey. The messenger left and I opened the envelope. It and the piece of stationery inside were as thick and substantial as parchment. Publishers don’t print books on stuff that good. The letterhead announced that it belonged to a man named Frederick A. Lewis who was a vice-president at the Bank of Commerce. His signature
