tradition. The movie about the Mexican illegals seems to be the first legitimate thing he’s got his name on. Hell’s Barrio it’s called. Imaginative, right? But get this, until now, Mr. Fenk’s movies have been strictly for the porn market.”
“Cam Charles fed you the hot stuff?”
“’Course not,” Annie said. “This is original research. I got Fenk’s name and the title of Fenk’s movie from Mr. Charles. Cameron, I should tell you, is very distressed with you. The rest I just finished digging out of my library. I’m home right now, doing your legwork, planning on a soaky bath, putting on the finery.”
Annie was covering the opening movie of the Festival of Festivals that night. The new Norman Jewison led things off.
“In your library,” I said, “you’ve got books on pornographic movies?”
“Two reference works,” Annie said. “I counted eight listings for Raymond Fenk before I quit. Betty Blows Baltimore is one of his.”
“Alliterative.”
“Okay, sugar,” Annie said, “your turn.”
“You’re wondering what nature of bad guy I’ve hired on to defend this time.”
“Something like that,” Annie said. “In fact, exactly like that.”
“Anybody’s the bad guy, it’s Raymond Fenk.”
“He looks the part, I’ll go that far.”
“And I’m not acting for him.”
“I didn’t have the impression you were trying to collect a retainer from him this afternoon,” Annie said. “So who is your client?”
“If I have a client, it’s a man named Dave Goddard,” I said. “Whatever he’s involved in—Dave’s a jazz musician—it may be troublesome. Other hand, it may be nothing.”
“Oho, the familiar dichotomy,” Annie said. “Knowing you, I pick troublesome.”
“Dave, the history he’s had, he doesn’t deserve any grief,” I said. “But he might’ve found it, and Raymond Fenk could be the one who made the grief. That’s as far as events’ve gone.”
Even to myself, I sounded defensive. I hadn’t told Annie about the Cameron alley assault. I didn’t want to get her worried. Or ticked off at my carelessness. No wonder I sounded defensive even to myself. Better to edge away from the subject.
“Annie?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“When Fenk sat me down at the press conference, how silly did I look?”
Annie said, “Who was the American president who was always bumping his head and tripping whenever he got off Air Force One?”
“That silly?”
“’Fraid so.”
Great line for an epitaph. Whom did the late Mr. Crang most remind you of, madame? Well, he had a touch of Gerald Ford.
8
HARP MANLEY was playing “Milestones” again. So were the three young black guys in the rhythm section. Dave Goddard wasn’t playing “Milestones” or anything else.
I had a vodka on the rocks and a seat at the bar. Chase’s was as crowded as it had been the night before, except two of the principal characters weren’t centre stage. Raymond Fenk was probably at the Silverdore practising push and shove. It was Dave Goddard’s no-show that bothered me. Not half as much as it seemed to be bothering Harp Manley.
He ended the first set early and abruptly, and ignored his adoring fans all the way to the bar. Manley pushed past a waiter into the bar’s service area and spoke to the bartender. The bartender picked up a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label with a jigger on the end and held it over a tall glass until the jigger filled and emptied three times. The bartender didn’t add water. I got out of my seat and carried my vodka with me.
“You mind we talk about Dave Goddard?” I said to Manley.
He was wrapping a small white cocktail napkin around the bottom of the glass. He finished the job and had a long pull from the drink. I wasn’t sure he’d heard me.
“Dave Goddard?” I said. Alistair Cooke couldn’t have enunciated more clearly.
“Damn,” Manley said, “where’s that kiddie at?”
His question was aimed at his drink.
“Let’s discuss it,” I said.
Manley swallowed more Scotch and used the swallowing time to give me a look of close inspection over his glass.
“Kiddie plays real pretty,” he said. He spoke circumspectly.
“It’s not Dave’s musicianship I had in mind,” I said.
“Thought you was a critic.”
“A lawyer.”
“Dress like a critic.”
I followed Manley to the table beside the door into the kitchen. On the way, he drank the Johnnie Walker down to the middle of the glass.
“A lawyer, huh?” he said across the table. He had abandoned the circumspection. What I heard in his voice was the sound of a disgruntled boss.
“Yeah, and if you’ll let me explain, I’ve got reason to think Dave Goddard may be in a piece of trouble.”
“Trouble’s the only time a lawyer comes round,” Manley said. “Been my experience.”
“Lot of people’s experience, but okay with you we stick to Dave?”
“Trouble, huh?” Manley had a little ridge of tough hair under his lower lip. “That kiddie ain’t seen trouble he don’t get his sorry ass in here real fast. You understand what I’m saying, Mr. Lawyer. I need two horns, man my age. I can’t do all the damn solos. Ain’t got the lip like when I was young.”
“Good point,” I said. What should I call him? Harp seemed presumptuous, Mr. Manley too formal. Abner Chase had an exclusive on Harper.
“Does Raymond Fenk mean anything to you?” I said. “That name?” Manley stared at me with an expression I read as incomprehension. His eyes were bloodshot, but apart from them and the patch of hair under the lip, Manley’s face had a round and contained look. Symmetrical. No wonder the camera loved it. He had on a single-breasted suit jacket with three buttons. All three buttons were buttoned up. He wore a crisp blue shirt and a black knit tie that was knotted precisely dead centre of the shirt’s wide collar. Short and rotund men don’t always achieve the neat look. Harp Manley did. It was combined with an uncomprehending look.
I said to him, “Raymond Fenk was on stage same time as you at the Park Plaza this afternoon.”
“You
