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Authors: Howard Engel
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you’ll clear a path to the door. I can’t walk through you.” Hart sputtered, then moved over to his mother’s side, as though completing an alliance that had only been hinted at. I got to my feet again.
“Mr. Cooperman, I hope you’ll understand,” Paulette said, her eyes pleading with me louder than her words.
“Mr. Cooperman will keep out of my business, if he knows what’s good for him.” He was gambling on the unlikely possibility that I would knock him down with his mother in the room. I had already decided not to lay hands on him, even mine, unless he touched me first. I collected my hat and coat and left the tender scene to unroll without me.
The dark green Triumph was parked in front of the house. I walked around the sports car twice, taking in as much as I could before marching away up Queen Street, looking for maple buds in the trees overhead. I couldn’t see any. In the bookstore across from the Beacon I went hunting for mysteries at the back of the store. There were a few favourites in paperback, which attracted me. I may have been a little rougher than usual as I pulled them off their shelves and flipped through the pages. I was getting rid of the feelings I carried away from Duke Street with me. Then I saw McKenzie Stewart’s new book, the one I had been reading about. Five copies of Haste to the Gallows were displayed face front. They took up a whole shelf. Very impressive for McStu, I thought. Still, it was in hardcover. I paused in my resolve to buy it, flipping through the pages looking for a flaw. But McStu was a friend, the only local author I knew, although I heard there was one at Cranmer College. I hated buying hardcover books, but since I might run into McStu at any time on St. Andrew Street, I softened and carried the book to the cash.
“You know that this one’s non-fiction, don’t you, Benny?”
“What? Sorry, Sue, my mind was unplugged.” Susan Torres who ran the bookstore usually looked out for me. She put me on to Walter Mosley, John Dunning and William Mcllvanney.
“This newest title by McStu isn’t a novel, Benny.”
“You mean Dud Dickens isn’t in it?” My enthusiasm had developed a slow leak.
“It’s about a real case, Benny. I know you’ll like it because it’s a local story.”
“Great!” I said, “Great!” damning McStu under my breath and passing my plastic to Sue. I wouldn’t even let her put the book into a bag for me. I slipped it into a pocket and returned to Duke Street feeling as though McStu had played an expensive joke on me. The Triumph sports car that had been parked in front of Paulette’s front door was gone. I should have given it a kick when I had the chance. I rang the bell a second time.
Paulette looked relieved when she saw me standing on her threshold. “I’ll bet you could use a drink,” she said. “I know I could.” She backed out of my way and we returned to the back room. Paulette poured shots of Scotch without asking my preference or forgetting what I had in my glass when Hart walked in. I sat where I’d been sitting, looking forward to the Scotch.
“I hear that Hart hates his father. Is there anything in that?”
“If there is, you won’t hear it from me. I try to be as loyal as I can. Hart sometimes tests my patience, as you’ve just seen. You mustn’t let that little drama sour you on the boy. I try to be fair to both the kids, both Hart and Julie.”
“Julie? I don’t understand. Isn’t Julie Lily’s problem?”
“Not when Abe gets on the telephone after midnight. God, I’ve been intimate with all of her problems from diaper rash to the present. Abe spares me nothing. In our divorce settlement, Abe got the phone and he plays it like, like a—a—”
“Virtuoso?”
“Yeah, like that,” she said, smiling at me with her eyes over her drink. “God knows, I tried to get Abe to show a little common sense in dealing with them. They always got their own way. Abe saw to that. As a result, they got a
“Mr. Cooperman, I hope you’ll understand,” Paulette said, her eyes pleading with me louder than her words.
“Mr. Cooperman will keep out of my business, if he knows what’s good for him.” He was gambling on the unlikely possibility that I would knock him down with his mother in the room. I had already decided not to lay hands on him, even mine, unless he touched me first. I collected my hat and coat and left the tender scene to unroll without me.
The dark green Triumph was parked in front of the house. I walked around the sports car twice, taking in as much as I could before marching away up Queen Street, looking for maple buds in the trees overhead. I couldn’t see any. In the bookstore across from the Beacon I went hunting for mysteries at the back of the store. There were a few favourites in paperback, which attracted me. I may have been a little rougher than usual as I pulled them off their shelves and flipped through the pages. I was getting rid of the feelings I carried away from Duke Street with me. Then I saw McKenzie Stewart’s new book, the one I had been reading about. Five copies of Haste to the Gallows were displayed face front. They took up a whole shelf. Very impressive for McStu, I thought. Still, it was in hardcover. I paused in my resolve to buy it, flipping through the pages looking for a flaw. But McStu was a friend, the only local author I knew, although I heard there was one at Cranmer College. I hated buying hardcover books, but since I might run into McStu at any time on St. Andrew Street, I softened and carried the book to the cash.
“You know that this one’s non-fiction, don’t you, Benny?”
“What? Sorry, Sue, my mind was unplugged.” Susan Torres who ran the bookstore usually looked out for me. She put me on to Walter Mosley, John Dunning and William Mcllvanney.
“This newest title by McStu isn’t a novel, Benny.”
“You mean Dud Dickens isn’t in it?” My enthusiasm had developed a slow leak.
“It’s about a real case, Benny. I know you’ll like it because it’s a local story.”
“Great!” I said, “Great!” damning McStu under my breath and passing my plastic to Sue. I wouldn’t even let her put the book into a bag for me. I slipped it into a pocket and returned to Duke Street feeling as though McStu had played an expensive joke on me. The Triumph sports car that had been parked in front of Paulette’s front door was gone. I should have given it a kick when I had the chance. I rang the bell a second time.
Paulette looked relieved when she saw me standing on her threshold. “I’ll bet you could use a drink,” she said. “I know I could.” She backed out of my way and we returned to the back room. Paulette poured shots of Scotch without asking my preference or forgetting what I had in my glass when Hart walked in. I sat where I’d been sitting, looking forward to the Scotch.
“I hear that Hart hates his father. Is there anything in that?”
“If there is, you won’t hear it from me. I try to be as loyal as I can. Hart sometimes tests my patience, as you’ve just seen. You mustn’t let that little drama sour you on the boy. I try to be fair to both the kids, both Hart and Julie.”
“Julie? I don’t understand. Isn’t Julie Lily’s problem?”
“Not when Abe gets on the telephone after midnight. God, I’ve been intimate with all of her problems from diaper rash to the present. Abe spares me nothing. In our divorce settlement, Abe got the phone and he plays it like, like a—a—”
“Virtuoso?”
“Yeah, like that,” she said, smiling at me with her eyes over her drink. “God knows, I tried to get Abe to show a little common sense in dealing with them. They always got their own way. Abe saw to that. As a result, they got a
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