The Whole Megillah by Howard Engel

hardly any make-up. After a while I got her talking about the lecture she was going to give the following afternoon. I listened and asked a few questions, but I couldn’t keep my mind wholly on the development of the American constitution. Anna was one of the good things that had happened to me, and I’ll never figure out how it happened.
    When I got home a couple of hours later, I was interrupted in my gerbil feeding by the telephone. ‘Cooperman? Is that you?’ I was about to say that Dr. Cooperman was out of town, when I recognized Lowther’s voice. He confirmed my guess and continued. ‘I’ve decided to put you on the payroll,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want you getting involved with the police.’
    â€˜You want me to stay away from them? I usually try to when I can.’
    â€˜Don’t misinterpret me, please. What I mean is don’t make their investigation any more complicated than it already is. The principle of too many cooks, if you follow me.’
    â€˜Sure, I get you. What do you want me to concentrate on?’ I was sure of what he was going to say, but I wanted to hear him say it.
    â€˜The book, damn it! Find the Gerson Soncino Megillah and you won’t have to worry about your next job. Not for a long time.’
    â€˜Clients aren’t as long lived as they used to be, Mr. Lowther.’
    â€˜Don’t you worry about me. You find the megillah! You follow me?’
    â€˜I read you loud and clear. Over and out, unless you want to arrange another meeting?’
    â€˜I’ll catch you when I want you, Cooperman. Find that damned book!’
    I spent the night tossing and turning and running into fragments of dreams in which I was being chased through the Metro Police Black Museum by an assortment of recent acquaintances. I upturned a glass display case of murder weapons, with tags still attached to each item, in order to get away from Dalton. Three booksellers were chasing me through a prison corridor at the end of which a hanging rope dangled. When I turned, Honour Griffin was leering at me over the barrel of a blue steel automatic. The mysterious Aaron Kurian appeared from time to time, wearing a number of faces. Once I took him for Tony Moore, who was carrying Exhibit A for the Crown, a rusty hunting knife. When I woke up, it was in a tangle of sheets and a sweat. I made myself some instant coffee, the only kind I could find, and took a shower.
    Half an hour later, I was drinking some real coffee at the Cinnaroll Gourmet, where three women were independently working on literary projects of some kind. I recognized the proprietor of Book City, who was taking his morning tea with a colleague from the store. A curlybearded man I’d seen on Harbord Street was reading the Globe by himself in a corner, while a big blond man, going grey and dressed as though he had just returned from a safari to Tobora or somewhere west of Mombassa, was drinking café au fait and chatting amiably to a baby in a stroller parked beside him. To the waiter, he referred to the child as ‘the young gentleman.’ I wanted to lean over to him and tell him my good news. I wanted to tell everybody in the place my good news. I had just run into Aaron Kurian on Bloor Street. This was my lucky day!
    It happened like this. I was taking my morning walk, trying to find a new way to get to Bloor Street that I hadn’t tried yet. When I came out at the corner where the Bloor Super Save offers twenty-four hour service in fruit and vegetables, I saw Mary the bag lady across the street in conversation with a lean man with a goatee, who looked not at all out of place next to Mary in her tattered sweater. I crossed Bloor and had almost reached Spadina when it hit me. Richard had described Kurian as an old goat. The man talking to Mary had a goat-like look to him. I decided to put off my need for coffee long enough to check this fellow out. I crossed back to the north side