Part 41 (1/2)
The two women took a moment to enjoy the absurdity of the situation, then Stacy became businesslike again. ”When Dylan was a cop, what did he carry?”
”Same as Paulie. Smith .357 Magnum.”
”A .357 fires .38 Specials, too. Interchangeable. The slug they recovered from the Queensway scene was a magnum, right? Paul's revolver was loaded with .38 Specials. Did he ever switch? Any Magnum slugs around?”
”No. Not in his locker, not in the apartment. His ammo in the desk, box of .38 Specials.”
”So unless he loaded a Magnum bullet exclusively and specifically for shooting Nimchuk, Paul's piece isn't the murder weapon.”
Georgie Rhem carefully removed the white tin letters that spelled ”Treganza & Swain” from the lobby directory board and dropped them into a brown envelope. ”Oh darn,” he said, ”I'm going to need that ampersand. Find it for me would you, Stonewall?” He handed the envelope to his friend and began inserting the D-A-I-L-E-Y of his new partner.
”I guess this makes it official,” Orwell said.
”Soon as you find that thingy.”
”End of an era,” said Sam Abrams.
”Or the beginning of one,” Georgie said.
”Here's your thingy.”
Georgie inserted it between the two names and the three men took a step back to admire the new listing.
RHEM & DAILEY.
Barristers and Solicitors 3rd floor ”Calls for a ceremonial slice of pie, don't you think?” Georgie said.
”Well, a cup of coffee, at least,” said Orwell.
When the three men reached the opposite sidewalk, they turned back to look up at the third floor windows where ”Rhem, Treganza & Swain” still glowed in fine gold leaf.
”It'll take a while to get that sc.r.a.ped off,” Georgie said, ”let alone find someone who does that kind of gold leaf lettering in this town. I think the guy who did that died in '64.”
”I'd leave it up there, Georgie,” said Orwell. ”It's worth preserving.”
”A heritage site,” said Sam.
”I suppose. They were middling lawyers, but they taught me a lot.” He clapped the two big men on their backs. ”Come on then, I'm buying.”
Ethel smiled when she saw her three favourite regulars come through the door. ”You make a lovely couple,” she said.
”There are three of us,” said Georgie.
”I meant the Chief and Donna Lee.” She held up a copy of the Dockerty Register, where the Chief and the Mayor were on the front page. Again. ”Was she standing on a flowerpot, Chief?”
”He was bending his knees,” said Sam. ”Kathy told me. Most considerate.”
”Hard to get them both in the frame otherwise,” said Georgie.
”Glad to see you're taking the election seriously, Chief,” said Sam. ”Not in a rush to start raising chickens?”
”Not just yet. If Donna Lee gets reelected maybe I can hang in for another five years. After that, who knows?”
Ethel brought coffee and three menus. ”We all having pie, gentlemen?”
”I'll hold off until next week,” said Orwell. ”I made the mistake of stepping on the scales this morn. Not a pretty sight.”
”I broke mine,” said Sam. ”Just coffee, thanks.”
”That leaves you, Georgie,” she said.
”In that case I'll have French toast and maple syrup. And sausages.”
”Atta boy.”
The two big men shook their heads sadly.
”So Georgie,” Sam started, ”you handling the Edwin Kewell case perchance?”
”No one's called,” he said. ”Two murder cases in two weeks? A bit much to hope for.”
”Too bad. When does your new partner get here?”
”Well, she has to take care of a few hundred things in the city.”
”She won't dawdle,” said Orwell. ”Once she's made her mind up, she moves pretty fast. I'll drive down when she's ready, get her stuff packed up.”
”You need any help, let me know,” said Sam.
Orwell smiled to himself. His pocket started singing. ”Brennan,” he said. ”Okay, on my way.” He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and levered himself out of the booth. ”Duty calls, gents. Visiting dignitary.” As he was heading out the door, he heard Sam's voice.
”Oh what the heck, Ethel. Give me a small slice of the rum raisin.”
It is good to have friends, even if you never see them, people you can call upon without worrying whether they will remember you. Gita Crystal (born Brigitta Schneiderschnitz) was one of those. Twenty years ago at the National Ballet she had attended to Anya's fine golden hair on a nightly basis. These days she owned and operated a salon and day spa in Yorkville. Arabesque, an intimate oasis, neither trendy nor excessively posh, was, like its owner, elegant and devoid of affectation save for (in Gita's case) a fondness for rose-tinted gla.s.ses. She loved Anya Zubrovskaya.
”Nanya! My goodness. How wonderful! To see you! My darling! Come in here! Give me kisses! More kisses. Let me look at you. Ach! You are as lovely as ever. But. Of course, your hair . . . Something must be done! You agree?”
”That is why I am here. Perhaps you can work a little magic on this wreckage.”
”A new man?”
”In a way.”
”Oooh. Lovely. You must tell me all about him.”
”He is quite dangerous.”
”Wonderful. We will make you irresistible.”
When Anya left Arabesque three hours later, she did look, if not irresistible, certainly acceptable. Her skin was glowing, her hair was a chic tousle of platinum feathers and even her forlorn hands and aggrieved feet had been pampered and soothed.