second twenty, and waited. None of the other customers in the room needed his attentions.
“Two more twenties,” I said.
“I noticed.”
“You got two more names?”
“David.”
I positioned a third bill in the middle of the bar.
“Okay, the guy isn’t famous or anything that I know of, ” Malcolm said. He was talking faster. “I never heard his last name. But this David, Ian Argyll had drinks with him a lot of times last summer and fall, enough that I remember them together. A tall, skinny guy, weird build on him, kind of nothing as far as looks go. Very good dresser, though, always sharp suits and silk ties and shoes that somebody’s put some polish on.”
“David?”
“How do you like my powers of description?”
“Impressive.”
Malcolm picked up the third twenty.
“I got something else,” he said.
“Another name?”
“Not of somebody Ian had drinks with,” Malcolm said. “I don’t know anybody else Ian had drinks with, not regularly, anyway.”
“Who’s the somebody?”
“A guy that came in and asked me the same questions you’re asking.”
“If you say anything except Alex, you’re either a liar or you’ve got a real scoop.”
“Alex Corcoran.”
“Congratulations on your honesty, Malcolm.”
Malcolm pasted the boyish smile on his face.
“Did Alex recognize the third guy from your description?” I asked. “The thin, nothing-looking guy?”
“David? I forgot about him when Alex was in here.”
“So you didn’t try David’s name on him?”
“Sure I did. When I remembered, I phoned Alex and described the guy. Last night, I phoned late from right here.”
“And?”
“You mean, did he know David?” Malcolm thought it over. “I’d say he probably did.”
“Good of you to phone Alex, Malcolm. All heart.”
“Why not?” Malcolm’s smile widened. “He was paying me fifty a name.”
I shoved my last twenty in Malcolm’s direction. “For the two Poire Williams.”
Malcolm carried the twenty to a cash register at the far end of the bar. The cash register was silver and miniature and resembled something from the NASA program. Malcolm laid my change on the bar, a two-dollar bill, a loonie, and some loose coins.
“I’m not gay, you know,” he said to me.
“I didn’t know.” I picked up the two-dollar bill. “Or care.”
“I just happen to work here.”
“And a splendid job you do of it, Malcolm.”
Chapter Six
The back page of the sports section of the Sunday Star carried a full-length colour photograph of Daryl Snelgrove. It showed a guy whose eyes were wide, whose cheeks swelled like they had cotton stuffing in them, whose smile was ingenuous and lopsided. Daryl was gripping a baseball bat so tightly his biceps popped out of the short sleeves of his Toronto Blue Jays uniform. His chest had the proportions of a silo, and his thighs could have stood in for a pair of sturdy oaks. If this guy had AIDS, I was Ty Cobb.
A box of type in the corner supplied Daryl’s stats. Twenty-six years old. Born in Emporia, Kansas. Six-foot-three, two hundred and twenty pounds. Second season with the Blue Jays, but first as the starting left fielder. Threw right-handed, swung the bat the same way. Hitting .302 through Friday, six home runs, eighteen RBIs, nine stolen bases.
The Blue Jays were in the middle of a long home stand, playing Minnesota in the SkyDome at one o’clock. Channel nine was carrying the game. I fixed a ham, cheese, and cucumber sandwich, poured a glass of Portuguese red and switched on the TV set in the bedroom.
Top of the second, Blue Jays ahead by a run.
I stuck it out till the bottom of the third, Blue Jays ahead by two. Daryl Snelgrove had a single and a run scored.
I turned off the television and read some of the Mel Tormé autobiography. When I got to the part about Mel’s romance with the very young Ava Gardner, I went back to the ball game.
Top of the eighth, Blue Jays up by four.
I put on a grey tweed jacket over my dark-blue work shirt and jeans and walked down to Queen, east a block to John Street, then south. The SkyDome blocked out most of the view at the foot of John Street. Maybe that’s how it got the name: you couldn’t see the sky for the dome.
At one of the gates, a portly man in an official blue blazer told me that the lot where the players parked their cars was somewhere on the dome’s south side. The man had an attitude that bordered on surly. Probably when a place sells out every game, fifty thousand seats, it doesn’t need to test its employees on a graciousness index.
I found the players’ lot and waited. So did half of Toronto’s under-twelve population. The cars in the lot ran to Mercedes and BMWs and American models with low ground clearance. At around six, two Latin-looking guys came out of a double door into the lot. They wore enough gold chains around their necks to pay off a Caribbean island’s national debt. The kids descended on the two guys. Both kept on the move, expressionless, scrawling fast autographs, headed for an Audi, and drove out of the lot.
Daryl Snelgrove emerged by himself a few minutes later. He was generous with the kids, signing programs, patting heads, flashing the grin. I stood back until he’d worked his way free and had the door to a black Corvette open.
“Pardon me, Daryl,” I said. “Mind if I call you Daryl?”
“That’s the name my dad gave me.” The grin looked good on the lopsided mouth. “You got something you want me to sign on?”
“Conversation is more my preference, Daryl.”
“Oh, yeah? Listen, sir, I got to be getting my supper.”
“At the Purple Zinnia maybe?”
Daryl’s face was too callow to have developed disguises for emotions. At the mention of the Purple Zinnia, his grin fled and his wide eyes got wider.
“No need to panic, Daryl,” I said. “I’m here in everybody’s best interests. That includes yours.”
Daryl’s mouth worked enough to get out a mumble.
“Can
