Little Boy Blues. Mary Jane Maffini
But here’s the good news.”
I knew what made P. J. a first-rate reporter. He didn’t understand any part of no.
“Later,” I said.
“I have a chance to do a restaurant review this week. Hot new spot. Friday night. Want to come with me?”
“Aren’t you covering Nicholas Southern’s Right to be Wrong, Let’s Bore the Country Senseless from Coast to Coast to Coast Campaign?”
“Very funny. The Right to be Right is a serious movement.”
“Sure. Serious bowel movement.”
“I won’t dignify that. Anyway, he’s got some private function that night. Oh, quit laughing, Tiger, it’s not that hilarious. Come with me to the restaurant. It’ll be like undercover work. You can be part of my disguise.”
“Not that I haven’t always wanted to be part of a disguise, but no can do. I’ll be at Bluesfest. Blue Rodeo opens. I am there.”
“But Bluesfest isn’t twenty-four hours a day. You have to eat.”
“No dice, P. J. I’ll eat on the site. Any other time would be great.”
“You don’t understand, Tiger. I’m stretched to the max with this assignment.”
“I hope you’re not complaining. This Nicholas Southern thang is supposed to haul you out of crime reporting and onto the national scene. Make you or break you, I believe you said. Or was that the restaurant reviews?”
“Come on, I’ve the weekend off, at last. You’re supposed to be my buddy. Don’t let me down.”
“Gotta go, P. J.”
I knew the longer we talked, the more persuasive he would become. It takes more than rudeness to shake P. J. Lynch. I hung up.
• • •
I set off to Gadzooks to find Alvin and hold him in a headlock until he called his family. Twentysome minutes later, I hit the far side of the market and strolled up to the small, upscale gallery. Through the plate glass window, I spotted René Janveau, the owner, surrounded by vast, gleaming crystal sculptures.
René knew my name, since I had provided Alvin with an extraordinarily glowing recommendation. I plan to work that off in Purgatory. He kept running his hands through his hip hairdo and spewing anxiety.
I got to the point. “I need to speak with Alvin Ferguson.”
“I am afraid that’s not possible.”
“Well, it’s an emergency.”
“It certainly is. I have to leave for Montreal, and Alvin is not here yet. Where do you think he is?”
I felt a little throb in my temple. “I don’t know. I’m asking you.”
“How ridiculous. I am his employer, and I have no idea.”
“Well, I’m his former employer, and I have even less.” I tried to imagine Alvin keeping the sparkling half-acre of glass free of fingerprint smudges and dust. I failed.
“But I must leave immediately. A major show could fall through if I miss these negotiations.”
I shrugged. I had a lot of problems, but this wasn’t one of them.
He brightened and gave me a crafty glance. “You look more or less presentable. Would you consider filling in here until he shows up?”
• • •
Hull, Quebec, may be another political world from Ottawa, but it’s a short walk from the market. I always love walking over the Alexandria Bridge. The breeze blowing up the Ottawa River was the best thing that had happened to me so far that day. But the cooling effects were quickly lost pounding the pavement on the other side.
It was a hot half-hour before I panted up to Alvin’s rickety eight-unit building on Boulevard St. Joseph and staggered through the front door. As usual, the faint memory of marijuana hung in the corridor.
I thumped on Alvin’s door. Legally, that was better than thumping Alvin himself, which had crossed my mind. I almost hoped he wouldn’t answer so I could continue to get rid of my frustrations.
A small child emerged from the next apartment and watched me with great interest. I provided a bad example by giving the door a kick. It swung inward. I hated to venture into Alvin’s apartment unassisted. I never knew what I’d find, but I always knew I wouldn’t be prepared.
Inside the apartment, the floor had been painted black, the walls an elegant shade of dove. The lighting was museum quality, but the temperature hovered slightly below boiling. I managed to maintain my cool as I came nose-to-nose with a pretty fair papier mâché replica of The Thinker, sitting in the middle of the floor. A series of question marks hung, suspended by invisible wires, over his lovely puzzled head.
Alvin’s retro fridge had been redone in a bracing shade of fuschia, and labelled The Pinker. The toilet which he uses as a planter had a cabbage rose growing in it and a little plaque on the wall behind that said The Stinker.
A floor-to-ceiling rectangle consisting of three broad vertical stripes caught my eye. Alvin had thoughtfully added a blinking artificial flame at the base of the painting and a talk bubble that said, “Ouch, that’s hot,” at the top. It got the label,The Blinker.
On the next wall, a Picasso from the blue period. The large eye winked at me, and two seconds later the small one did. The label said, naturally,The Winker.
That boy gets me every time.
I did have to ask myself: if Alvin was ingenious enough to create and maintain this display, why, in his time at Justice for Victims, had he never once answered the goddam phone properly?
• • •
I found Alvin in the bedroom. I almost didn’t spot him under the tangle of sheets. He was curled into the fetal position. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see any movement. His ponytail spread over the crisp white pillowcase, and five of his visible earrings glinted in the pale glow filtering in from the living room.
Alvin didn’t even appear to be breathing. I almost stopped breathing myself. I reached out and touched him. Warm. And better yet, that small rise of his chest indicated that he was alive.
Now that I knew he was alive, I really felt like killing him.
I shook him vigorously. “Are you out of your mind, sleeping in on the first day of your new job?”
Alvin didn’t respond. I gave his grey, bony cheek a gentle slap.
I sat back and looked around. Had he accidentally overdosed? I saw nothing in the small bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was simple and neat. Double bed. No clothes strewn. No museum knock-offs. His all-season leather jacket hung on a wooden hanger in the closet, next to his Mickey Mouse scarf.
I checked the bathroom. It was spotless. White towels with the monogram AF were displayed neatly on the towel rack, fresh soap sat in the soap dish, and the bathmat was clean and fluffy. Aside from the Magritte panel reproduced on the inside of the shower stall, it could have been anyone’s bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet.
It contained a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.
I rushed back to the bedroom and stuck my head under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.
Alvin hadn’t budged. My cellphone decided this was a dead zone. I was pretty wobbly as I hightailed it to the living room to call for help. Too bad Alvin had painted his telephone black to match the floor. I was about to race into the hallway yelling for help when I stubbed my toe on the missing phone.
911. I stammered out the address. And admitted he was breathing. Yes, I was calm, I insisted. No, I didn’t know of any medical conditions. No, I didn’t think he had been sick recently. No, I’d found no sign