Read Online There was an Old Woman by Howard Engel - Free Book Online

he kept all of his wardrobe in a tangle for the cat to make a nest in on the floor of his single room. He was wearing an overnight beard. I indicated the empty space in the booth and he slid into it. I didn’t say anything and won points for it. I waved to the waitress who brought a fresh cup of coffee and set it downquietly in front of Bill. He placed a paper napkin under the cup, not to sop up spillage but to deaden the noise of moving crockery. The waitress gave me a refill, part of the Di’s bottomless coffee policy. Up the street, at the Venus Art Club, they had a topless policy. What was the language coming to?
    â€œThat feels better,” Bill said, replacing his cup and lighting a Player’s. “It always takes three cups. Funny, eh?” I nodded, just to keep the racket down. He noticed and added, “I’m okay now. I’ve climbed over the hump. I’m restored to the human race. How are you, human?”
    â€œMiddlin’,” I said, for no good reason.
    â€œBarney and I got in a poker game last night and we ended up driving to Buffalo for cigarettes for some stupid reason. And me with a column to finish.” We let a few dozen angels fly by.
    â€œWhat do you know about the people who do the news over at the TV station?” I asked. He tilted his head, thankful I wasn’t probing his misspent evening any further.
    â€œThere are about six of them. Most double as readers on camera, but they swat their own stuff together. Orv Wishart is the senior man. Remember, he used to do the weather? Now he just keeps the house in order. I don’t know how they do anything; they don’t have room to move in their shop. If they were in a union, the union would grieve on grounds of subnormal working conditions. Frank Hawkins is a bit of a pain: always whining. The sports guy, Larry Singh, knows his stuff. I like Cath.She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Nice head, nice shoulders.”
    â€œI agree. What’s her story?”
    â€œYou’re too late, Benny. McKenzie Stewart got there first.”
    â€œWho the hell is he?”
    â€œI thought you read detective stories?”
    â€œI do. What’s that got to do with it?”
    â€œStewart’s the creator of Dudley Dickens. You know, the sleuth who is supposed to live in Hamilton. Dud’s a black, ex-steel company security guard. Stewart’s written half a dozen books: Dudley Earnest is the best known. Haven’t you read him? He’s like a Canadian Walter Mosley. Or aren’t you an Easy Rawlins fan either?”
    â€œSure, I like his stuff, but Stewart’s new to me. I’m always discovering new people and old ones I should have read years ago. When I get through the last part of War and Peace, I’m going to blitz all the mysteries I’ve been neglecting.”
    â€œStart with Blood on the Floor. That’s a good one.”
    â€œI will, I will. What else does he do?” Doing my research in the Di has always been the best part of my job. And usually my informants bought their own coffee.
    â€œHe teaches up at Secord. Finds time to write magazine articles in Harper’s and The Atlantic. He used to review crime novels in The Toronto Star, but he gave it up.”
    â€œMaking too many enemies, I bet.”
    â€œCould be. I don’t think he’s rich by any means, but he’s not on the dole either. Maybe he’s got the Canada Council and all the other arts councils funding his activities. Who knows?”
    â€œSince when have mysteries counted as fundable art, Bill? Next you’ll be telling me they give grants to pet barbers.”
    â€œListen, Benny, I know a reformed bank robber who hasn’t hit a steel box since he discovered the Canada Council and the word processor.”
    â€œBill, I’ve lived too long. I’m out of my time. What’s happening to the world?”
    â€œRead my column in tomorrow’s paper. Tell you all