gave off waves of energy and panic. Reporters fuelling up for a deadline or coming down from meeting a deadline. Either way, they wanted their drinks in a hurry, and the three waitresses bustled back and forth between the tables and the bar. The decor still struck me as ersatz San Francisco. Griffin caught my reaction.
âOne of the dames in Features, hell of a writer, she has another name for in here,â he said. âShe calls it Château Despair.â
I put a ten and a five on the table to cover the pitchers of beer and promised Griffin heâd get the late-breaking news on Ace and Grimaldi. He winced.
Outside the restaurant, the sun had left its invisible message on the pavement. The heat off the asphalt in the parking lot seeped through the soles of my Rockports and gave my feet a soft, oozy feel. The sun was sliding behind the Harbour Castle Hilton across the street.
I drove up University Avenue, turned left before I reached the block where all the hospitals start, and switched through the side streets until I reached my place. The air in the living room was hot and stale. I didnât have air conditioning in the house. Air conditioning makes my body think itâs gone to its final resting place in a Holiday Inn. I opened the windows in the kitchen and the living room, and in a few minutes a gentle cross-wind ruffled the staleness. I poured a Wyborowa on some ice cubes and sat in the chair that looks over the park across the street. A couple of guys with their shirts off were playing chess at one of the tables.
Little things. I propped my feet on the windowsill and took a swallow of vodka. Everything I had so far was little. Ace hired bikers to drive its trucks. The man on the Leslie Street scale needed a half-minute of extra attention to weigh in the Ace trucks and another half-minute on the way out. One of Aceâs big shots made regular calls on weigh offices around the city. Three things and none of them significant in itself, but maybe there was a pattern. One of the shirtless chess players across the street stood up from his seat and paced back and forth behind his side of the board. Big move coming up. Another little thing was the bearded driverâs run up Bathurst Street. But that didnât fit the pattern, if one existed. The pacing player in the park resumed his seat and moved one of his pieces. His opponent stared at the board. Everything except the freelance fiddle at the Bathurst dump spoke, albeit faintly, of something possibly shifty on Aceâs part. The man across the street stopped staring. He swiped his right hand at the board and knocked the pieces to the grass. Sore loser. Iâd concentrate on my three small items that were consistent with Aceâs potential wrongdoing and see whether they led somewhere. The winning chess player was picking the pieces out of the grass. His friend remained in a funk. I went back to the kitchen for more ice and vodka and took my drink into the bathroom for a shower.
Ten minutes under the spray didnât do much for my ratiocinative powers but it worked up a swell appetite. I put on a clean collarless white shirt and the same jeans and Rockports Iâd been wearing and strolled down Beverley Street to Queen. It was almost nine oâclock and Queen was humming. Every second female wore a Madonna get-up. The guys were harder to fit to type, everything from virile Bruce Spring-steens in basic black T-shirts to candidates for the Hitler Youth in clumpy boots and leather gear. Commerce was brisk at the outdoor cafés and the boutiques that dealt in clothes my mother and father used to wear. A kid in a long white apron cooked and sold chapatis from a hibachi on a wagon parked at the curb. Two girls in their early twenties were projecting slides on the brick wall of a building beyond a parking lot. The night hadnât grown dark enough to give the pictures complete definition, but an ornately printed sign beside the projector
âOne of the dames in Features, hell of a writer, she has another name for in here,â he said. âShe calls it Château Despair.â
I put a ten and a five on the table to cover the pitchers of beer and promised Griffin heâd get the late-breaking news on Ace and Grimaldi. He winced.
Outside the restaurant, the sun had left its invisible message on the pavement. The heat off the asphalt in the parking lot seeped through the soles of my Rockports and gave my feet a soft, oozy feel. The sun was sliding behind the Harbour Castle Hilton across the street.
I drove up University Avenue, turned left before I reached the block where all the hospitals start, and switched through the side streets until I reached my place. The air in the living room was hot and stale. I didnât have air conditioning in the house. Air conditioning makes my body think itâs gone to its final resting place in a Holiday Inn. I opened the windows in the kitchen and the living room, and in a few minutes a gentle cross-wind ruffled the staleness. I poured a Wyborowa on some ice cubes and sat in the chair that looks over the park across the street. A couple of guys with their shirts off were playing chess at one of the tables.
Little things. I propped my feet on the windowsill and took a swallow of vodka. Everything I had so far was little. Ace hired bikers to drive its trucks. The man on the Leslie Street scale needed a half-minute of extra attention to weigh in the Ace trucks and another half-minute on the way out. One of Aceâs big shots made regular calls on weigh offices around the city. Three things and none of them significant in itself, but maybe there was a pattern. One of the shirtless chess players across the street stood up from his seat and paced back and forth behind his side of the board. Big move coming up. Another little thing was the bearded driverâs run up Bathurst Street. But that didnât fit the pattern, if one existed. The pacing player in the park resumed his seat and moved one of his pieces. His opponent stared at the board. Everything except the freelance fiddle at the Bathurst dump spoke, albeit faintly, of something possibly shifty on Aceâs part. The man across the street stopped staring. He swiped his right hand at the board and knocked the pieces to the grass. Sore loser. Iâd concentrate on my three small items that were consistent with Aceâs potential wrongdoing and see whether they led somewhere. The winning chess player was picking the pieces out of the grass. His friend remained in a funk. I went back to the kitchen for more ice and vodka and took my drink into the bathroom for a shower.
Ten minutes under the spray didnât do much for my ratiocinative powers but it worked up a swell appetite. I put on a clean collarless white shirt and the same jeans and Rockports Iâd been wearing and strolled down Beverley Street to Queen. It was almost nine oâclock and Queen was humming. Every second female wore a Madonna get-up. The guys were harder to fit to type, everything from virile Bruce Spring-steens in basic black T-shirts to candidates for the Hitler Youth in clumpy boots and leather gear. Commerce was brisk at the outdoor cafés and the boutiques that dealt in clothes my mother and father used to wear. A kid in a long white apron cooked and sold chapatis from a hibachi on a wagon parked at the curb. Two girls in their early twenties were projecting slides on the brick wall of a building beyond a parking lot. The night hadnât grown dark enough to give the pictures complete definition, but an ornately printed sign beside the projector
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