Part 30 (1/2)
”Your friend the diamond merchant said players, plural, right? Maybe Louie sold jewels to other players. Maybe there's someone from that Argo team still around that we can talk to without tipping O'Grady off.”
”Jee-zuss,” Adele muttered. ”Good luck tracking one down.”
”What are we talking about here?” Orwell asked his map. ”The 1982 Argos?”
”Yeah, '82, somewhere around there,” said Adele.
”Because it just so happens there's a resident Canadian Football League expert right here in town. Knows the name of every man on every Grey Cup winner for the past fifty years. And we don't have to look back nearly that far. h.e.l.l, 1982. That'd be recent history to him.” Orwell picked up his phone, punched in a number from memory. ”Georgie? How about a slice of pie?”
”You're buying, right?”
”Need to pick your brain.”
”You're buying.”
Georgie was waiting in their usual booth. It was after three, the lunch crowd had moved on, allowing the pie fanciers to check out the selection and indulge their choices in peace. ”Easiest decision of the day,” Georgie said. ”Coconut cream's been missing for weeks.”
”I was thinking of putting together a pet.i.tion,” said Orwell.
”Woman who makes them had a baby,” said Ethel. She waited patiently. The choosing process was important she knew, at least on the Chief's part. ”And there's pecan,” she said. ”Really good.”
”Can't justify it, Ethel, calorically speaking. I think a slice of the apple, with maybe a piece of that nice cheddar cheese.”
”Not sure about the calorie count,” Georgie said, ”but it sounds nutritious.”
”Exactly,” Orwell said, with a virtuous air. ”Wholesome to a fault.”
Ethel lifted her eyebrows. The apple pie was as thick as a dictionary. ”And you'll be wanting the sharp cheddar, Chief?”
”If you would be so kind, Ethel, my dear,” he said. ”And coffee, of course.”
The Chief began his ritual unfolding of the napkin and polis.h.i.+ng of the fork and spoon. To Georgie, it looked as formal as a tea ceremony.
”Gregg Lyman getting on your nerves yet?”
”What? Pah. Politics is politics. He can blather all he wants.”
”Taking shots at you and yours.”
”Consider the source, Georgie. Lyman's base is on the Knoll. That's where the money is, and those are the people who would love to have me out. If he gets elected, I wouldn't bet on me getting a contract extension.”
”Doesn't p.i.s.s you off?”
”Ever hear of a Jersey Giant? Or a Bearded Wyandotte? How about a Buff Orpington?”
”These are chickens, right?”
”Fowl. Fancy fowl,” Orwell said. He beamed as Ethel set his ma.s.sive wedge of pie before him. ”That looks scrumptious, Ethel dear,” he said.
”Wouldn't know,” Ethel said. ”Screws up my blood sugar.” She put an equally large slice of coconut cream in front of Georgie. ”Coffee's on the way.”
”Just black for me,” Orwell said.
Ethel shook her head. ”Sure,” she said. ”Mustn't overdo.”
”What about the Ruffled Hottentot?”
”When I retire, or get canned, I'm going to raise chickens.”
”Sure you are.”
”I am, Georgie. Patty says horses and chickens get along just fine.”
They concentrated on pie for a few moments. For all his size and gusto, the Chief was a very neat eater, feeding himself cheddar chunks with the fingers of his left hand while wielding his fork like a scalpel. ”Diana phoned this morning,” he said. ”She's coming up. The two of you will make a formidable team.”
”We've got the pre-trial hearing set for tomorrow. You want to watch her in action? I tell you, Stonewall, she's a dynamo when you turn her loose.”
”I'd better stay away, Georgie.” He carved a neat section of pie, topped it with a nugget of sharp cheddar and made the arrangement disappear.
”Any fallout from that outfit she works for?”
”She was a little evasive on the subject. I expect we'll get the full story come suppertime.”
”Must be the Pie Club for Men,” said Sam Abrams.
”Grab a seat, you ink-stained wretch,” Georgie said. ”Coconut cream has returned in time for spring.” Georgie slid sideways to accommodate Sam. The Chief's side of the booth couldn't handle both bulks at the same time.
”Oh dear,” said Sam. He was aware of his girth as he squeezed into position. ”I don't think I'd better.”
”Then you have to leave,” Georgie said.
”All right. A small slice of, I don't know, any of that strawberry rhubarb left, Ethel?”
”You bet. Ice cream?”
”No. But thank you.”
”Warmed?”
”Please.” Sam beamed at the two men. ”So? Discussing the Harold Ruth case?”
”Off limits for the duration,” said Georgie. ”We're talking fancy fowl.”
Sam looked confused. ”Chickens,” Orwell said helpfully.
”Okay. Chief, I've got a quote from Mr. Lyman's camp that you might have to deal with.”
The Chief put down his fork. ”Really? What's he saying now?”
”He says you used police funds to pay for customizing your personal vehicle.”