disinfectants and stale air.
Byrne walked MacNeice to the front door and out on the porch, where he lit up another cigarette. MacNeice was going to ask the question anyway, but this seemed to be the best time to do it.
“Do you own a boat, Mr. Byrne?”
“What for?”
“You mean, why am I asking, or why would you want a boat?”
“The former.”
MacNeice watched Byrne, patiently wondering if the barman would answer, curious to know what he might be thinking.
“I’ve an old eighteen-foot aluminum boat. In season, it’s tied up at the far end of Macassa, far enough away from the yacht club that people won’t be embarrassed.”
“And where is it now?”
“In the garage beside me house and it stays there till the beginning a May, when I put it in the water to go fishing again.” Byrne looked at his watch, snuffed the cigarette against a column and turned to go inside.
“There’ll be a unit down here for the boat and a forensics team to do a thorough search of the premises—they’ll be as efficient as possible so as not to interrupt your business.”
Byrne exhaled dramatically but said nothing.
When he’d gone, MacNeice called Aziz to get the additional warrant to have the boat picked up.
Chapter 7
The Committed Chick was dedicated to all-day breakfasts and never-ending coffee. Freddy Dewar read the menu, taking his time over the cartoons of cavorting yellow chicks and photos of the specials. He settled on Chickin-lickin-blues, pancakes with two strips of bacon, maple syrup and blueberries—whipped cream on the side—and said yes to the bottomless cup of coffee.
Though it was a lie, MacNeice said he’d already eaten and ordered tea with milk—referencing the chick in a bowler hat with an umbrella tucked under its wing. He pulled a notepad from his briefcase and set a pen down on top of it. “Tell me about your life, Freddy.”
“I don’t recall ever being asked that question.” Dewar smiled. He absent-mindedly ran his fingers over the crease in the paper napkin, and then he started at the beginning. Born in Halifax, Freddy was eighty-four. He joined the merchant marine at fifteen, surviving the war ferrying supplies, equipment and men across the Atlantic. Afterwards, he tried settling down in Halifax, but it didn’t take. There was no steady work on land for a stoker. He eventually came west to Dundurn and worked with the city’s road crews patching cracks in the summer and spreading sand, and later, salt in the winter. For a few years, he signed on to the lake freighters, but he found working the lakes deadly boring.
Freddy paused as the waitress put the stainless steel teapot and china mug in front of MacNeice. He said he went back to spreading gravel in Dundurn and a year later married Florence—Flo—a girl he’d met at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. She worked next door in the lingerie department of The Right House. They had a daughter together—Edith.
The waitress slid the plate of pancakes in front of Dewar and filled his cup with coffee.
“Three years ago, almost to the day, Flo died of a heart attack. She was seventy-six. I sold the house on Province Street, including its contents, and moved to Edith’s dairy farm near London.”
He had his own room at the farm and the food was fine—there was always plenty of it—but there was nothing for him to do. His daughter was a teacher and her husband farmed from sunrise to sunset. They didn’t have kids, so he couldn’t even babysit. Before the first snow came, he moved back to Dundurn with nothing but a duffle bag and the nest egg of his savings account.
“Why would you live at the Block and Tackle rather than take a small place of your own?”
“I considered it. But I’d have to get furniture—everything from a bed to a lawnmower—and it didn’t make sense since I could be dead in a year or two.” The napkin’s crease was now crisp; he patted it gently, a job well done. “I stayed at the bar a couple a times
Byrne walked MacNeice to the front door and out on the porch, where he lit up another cigarette. MacNeice was going to ask the question anyway, but this seemed to be the best time to do it.
“Do you own a boat, Mr. Byrne?”
“What for?”
“You mean, why am I asking, or why would you want a boat?”
“The former.”
MacNeice watched Byrne, patiently wondering if the barman would answer, curious to know what he might be thinking.
“I’ve an old eighteen-foot aluminum boat. In season, it’s tied up at the far end of Macassa, far enough away from the yacht club that people won’t be embarrassed.”
“And where is it now?”
“In the garage beside me house and it stays there till the beginning a May, when I put it in the water to go fishing again.” Byrne looked at his watch, snuffed the cigarette against a column and turned to go inside.
“There’ll be a unit down here for the boat and a forensics team to do a thorough search of the premises—they’ll be as efficient as possible so as not to interrupt your business.”
Byrne exhaled dramatically but said nothing.
When he’d gone, MacNeice called Aziz to get the additional warrant to have the boat picked up.
Chapter 7
The Committed Chick was dedicated to all-day breakfasts and never-ending coffee. Freddy Dewar read the menu, taking his time over the cartoons of cavorting yellow chicks and photos of the specials. He settled on Chickin-lickin-blues, pancakes with two strips of bacon, maple syrup and blueberries—whipped cream on the side—and said yes to the bottomless cup of coffee.
Though it was a lie, MacNeice said he’d already eaten and ordered tea with milk—referencing the chick in a bowler hat with an umbrella tucked under its wing. He pulled a notepad from his briefcase and set a pen down on top of it. “Tell me about your life, Freddy.”
“I don’t recall ever being asked that question.” Dewar smiled. He absent-mindedly ran his fingers over the crease in the paper napkin, and then he started at the beginning. Born in Halifax, Freddy was eighty-four. He joined the merchant marine at fifteen, surviving the war ferrying supplies, equipment and men across the Atlantic. Afterwards, he tried settling down in Halifax, but it didn’t take. There was no steady work on land for a stoker. He eventually came west to Dundurn and worked with the city’s road crews patching cracks in the summer and spreading sand, and later, salt in the winter. For a few years, he signed on to the lake freighters, but he found working the lakes deadly boring.
Freddy paused as the waitress put the stainless steel teapot and china mug in front of MacNeice. He said he went back to spreading gravel in Dundurn and a year later married Florence—Flo—a girl he’d met at the Woolworth’s lunch counter. She worked next door in the lingerie department of The Right House. They had a daughter together—Edith.
The waitress slid the plate of pancakes in front of Dewar and filled his cup with coffee.
“Three years ago, almost to the day, Flo died of a heart attack. She was seventy-six. I sold the house on Province Street, including its contents, and moved to Edith’s dairy farm near London.”
He had his own room at the farm and the food was fine—there was always plenty of it—but there was nothing for him to do. His daughter was a teacher and her husband farmed from sunrise to sunset. They didn’t have kids, so he couldn’t even babysit. Before the first snow came, he moved back to Dundurn with nothing but a duffle bag and the nest egg of his savings account.
“Why would you live at the Block and Tackle rather than take a small place of your own?”
“I considered it. But I’d have to get furniture—everything from a bed to a lawnmower—and it didn’t make sense since I could be dead in a year or two.” The napkin’s crease was now crisp; he patted it gently, a job well done. “I stayed at the bar a couple a times
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