The Higher the Monkey Climbs Page 10

  “Well, tell her I called, would you?” I said. “How’s it going with you?”

  “I’m just reading Guerrilla Warfare.”

  “Oh yeah? How is it?”

  “I just learned how to build a tank trap.”

  “And here I’ve been trying to trap a tank for years,” I said. “You’ll have to show me where I’ve been going wrong.”

  I undressed, slid under the heavy blankets and punched numbers on the remote control, unable to decide if I wanted to learn how to debone a chicken, watch highlights from the NBA playoffs, or listen to the grim roundup of details on any one of several newscasts. Instead, I turned off the television and closed my eyes and revisited my memories of Gord and Marty Schuller.

  As far as I know, Schuller didn’t die, though it was never clear to me if Allistair Forzante really meant that he would actually have Schuller killed—as in taking the life from the man’s body—or if he meant it more metaphorically, the way pretty much everyone, at some point in the ­thermal heights of an argument, has killing thoughts.

  Even as I grew older and learned to appreciate the strange and often counter-intuitive machinations of these things, I had never thought about my father or Forzante as men who would have a rival killed, though it was certainly possible that they had the power. Or: At least it was important that people thought they did. But to actually kill a man?

  The negotiations with the Royal Windsor Hotel went ahead and a deal was eventually signed without a strike. But then business began to suffer. Even when the economy picked up again, Schuller struggled. Service was certainly an issue. There was a good deal of employee turnover; he had a hard time keeping anyone. The building fell into disrepair.

  Eventually, he sold out to Marriott. After that, I had always assumed that Marty Schuller left town, retired to some place warm with his diminished fortune, shrunken and defeated, but alive. Now, the fact that I couldn’t remember the exact location of Marty Schuller’s exile (or if I ever knew it) began to bother me and soon after my eyes opened the next morning, I called the townhouse. Sagipa answered.

  “Listen,” I said. “If your offer still stands to help me out, I’d like to take you up on it.”

  There was a pause and then his voice took on new buoyancy. “Sure! Anything. What do you need?”

  “I need you to find out about a guy named Marty Schuller. Do you have a pen? That’s S-c-h. Two l’s.”

  “Schuller, Marty. Got it. Who is he?”

  “He used to own a hotel called the Royal Windsor in Wanstead but he sold it in the early seventies and left town. What I’m mostly interested in is what happened to him after that.”

  13

  Later that day, at Drew Herringer’s house, I parked behind two cars, a new-looking burgundy Explorer with sporty roof attachments and a license plate reading LASER 1 and, next to it, a silver Lexus with chrome hubcaps centering fat tires.

  Drew had the door open before I could ring the bell. She reached her arm around my neck and then pulled it back.

  “Well. Come. On. In,” she said.

  My steps echoed in the vestibule. On hardwood floors and Persian rugs we walked past a wide staircase, through a living room where chunky bronze and stone statues sat on pedestals and a kitchen shining with stainless steel appliances, glass door cabinets, polished granite.

  “Beautiful house, Drew,” I said.

  “We’ve just finished the renos. It took. For. Ever,” she said. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  She led me from the den to the living room where a picture window spanned the front of the house, framing a lawn that ran to the edge of the river. In the early, prosperous days of Wanstead, industry dominated the riverside and maybe from the end of Drew’s dock you would still be able to see decayed traces of this history: a sooty rail depot; a semi-demolished foundry; the Clifford distillery (now converted into lofts); creosote-soaked wood pilings that once supported docks and now poked at useless angles through the river’s surface.

  The place smelled thick with air freshener and new broadloom. A console displayed a family of silver lions, arranged from largest to smallest. Enormous, frameless canvasses hung on the walls. I was squinting at one of them, a still life in bright colours, when a voice startled me from behind.

  “It’s a Luček,” he said. “In case you were wondering.”

  Drew introduced me to Gus, her husband.

  “Are you a fan of our good Luček?”

  “He’s definitely in my Top 10,” I said.

  “One of his paintings went for four hundred and sixty last year at Christie’s,” Gus said. “It was a smaller canvas. Makes one think this one would fetch seven-fifty, minimum.” He was a bald, pale man wearing a pressed polo shirt buttoned to a large Adam’s apple that led on to a narrow chin and a stunned, wonky smile. “I adore art. You might say I have an eye for it.”

  “Gus is an ophthalmologist,” Drew said, as though she’d had to explain the joke many times before.

  “I was the first to do laser eye surgery in the province. This was before the procedure found approval in the States. Here, let me show you.”

  And then we were in the ophthalmologist’s office, dark wood paneling and shelves packed with thick volumes of medical texts and journals

  “That’s all reclaimed oak,” Gus said. “Comes from an old house in Devon. That’s me there.” He pointed to an enlarged cover of Canadian Business magazine, framed of course, a younger Gus featured in a lab coat, laser beams criss-crossing in the background. The headline, TEN ENTREPRENEURS MAKING A DIFFERENCE, ran across his waist.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Drew asked.

  “I take you for a scotch man,” Gus said. “Lawyers usually are. I’ve got about two dozen single malts. Highland stuff. Islay. Or do you like it blended? I never drink blended. My favourite is this Poit Dhubh. Thirty years old. Practically an antique. Five hundred a bottle, but when the Lord is good to you, you have to reward yourself from time to time, right?”

  This is probably unfair, but almost from the beginning Gus struck me like the kind of guy who is so driven to succeed in a particular field that it is only later in life that he finds time to round himself out with extra-curricular interests. Without the youthful passion, his current hobbies would follow reliable clichés. Given the opportunity to snoop, I’d expect to find a large collection of jazz music among his collection: Miles, Brubeck, Coltrane (re-issued vinyl), but nothing recorded after 1961. He’d proclaim weaknesses for Cuban cigars, Italian cured ham, and fly fishing. In a games room in the basement I’d bet on finding a snooker table along with a Les Paul six-string displayed on a stand. In another room, the largest television ever seen outside a sports bar, speakers in every corner, and there, anglophile Gus would sip warm Guinness and watch weekly footy matches, declaring his support for Manchester United, tossing the word ‘scouser’ around on certain Saturday mornings.

  We left the office and passed a studio portrait of the clan mounted on the wall. In addition to Drew and Gus, there were three kids, two boys and a girl. I recognized Bernie immediately. He was larger than the other two combined, the round face and thick neck unmistakable tracers of Tony.

  “Boy, this is a nice house,” I said.

  “Here’s the kitchen.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “It’s the subway tile back splash. It just pulls the space together so well.”

  “It really does, Drew,” I said, scanning the expanse. “It really does.”

  We sat down together in the den. Drew’s hair shone with a greater variety of colour than it once had, coppers and golds joining a blonde foundation. But it was still as buoyant and curly as I remembered. Her eyes were still big and round and her teeth still perfect.

  Only her skin seemed weathered, a victim of local pollution and Wanstead’s long and hot summers. Or maybe she was just getting old. But not quite
so old. In those first minutes in that glimmering living room, it was hard for me to fathom that Drew wasn’t still a teenager, playing house here until she decided to grow up. She wore a pair of narrow blue jeans and a white blouse unbuttoned three times and the next thing I wondered was if she’d had her boobs done.

  “Are you sure you won’t have something?” Drew said. “I made a special trip to the liquor store. Gus doesn’t really drink and I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough.”

  I leaned back in my seat, rolled my cuffs down my arm, and fastened the plastic buttons.

  “Well if you went to all that trouble,” I said.

  “Allow me,” Gus said, shooting up from his chair.

  “It’s in the fridge,” Drew said. “The Pearl Morissette. Make sure you get the Pearl Morissette.” And then, to me: “I like to support Ontario wineries when I can.”

  “How’s Bernie?” I asked.

  Drew smiled and shook her head, closed her eyes, opened her mouth slightly to suck and release a sigh and said, “Bernard. Is. Just. Ter. Rific. He’s is in the Congo, if you can believe it. He’s set up a tropical medicine clinic there and convinced a few of his colleagues to volunteer and they’re teaching doctors and nurses and treating people for so many things—you know AIDS is everywhere there but they’re really making some progress—and it’s just. A. Fan. Tastic. Thing.”

  “So Bernie’s a doctor. That’s great.”

  “Yup. Bernard is a doctor.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Well,” she said. “Thea went to Bishop’s for a year but didn’t find university to her liking. She’s more of a creative type anyway. She’s gone to Amsterdam for a little while but might try art school next semester. She’s, you know, she’s fine. She’ll be alright. And Nicky is in Grade 11 and just. Loves. To ski. He’s on the team at his school. He plays in a band, too. They’re getting better. Maybe. How would I know? He probably pays too much attention to music.”

  Gus returned with two glasses and the bottle. “Is this what you wanted?”

  “No. I asked for the Pearl Morissette. This is from Chile,” Drew said.

  “It’s all that was in the fridge.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I looked.”

  “Oh, damn. I was sure we still had a bottle. I really wanted Richard to try that. Would you mind?”

  “You want me to go to the liquor store now?”

  “It’s not that far, Gus. But you have to go to the one next to the mall. The one near us doesn’t have the selection. Here. I’ll write it down for you.”

  Gus looked at me. I’m not sure why. “Right,” he said. “Back in a flash.”

  Before he was out the door, Drew was in the kitchen. She returned with a bottle of tequila, and two shot glasses. When she sat down, she was closer to me. The weight of her body stretched the leather upholstery under my legs, drawing me closer. We downed the first shot; I shook my head. My jowls made a flapping noise. She poured another and then I asked her if she’d heard about Tony’s arrest.

  “It was in the Echo. I can’t imagine what he was thinking. Of course, I haven’t seen your cousin in years. You remember he wanted to marry me?” Drew said.

  “I was going to be the best man.”

  “Then you probably know that my parents wouldn’t let me do it,” Drew said, her voice softening.

  “I remember that. He was pretty busted up.”

  “Still,” Drew said. “After Bernard was born, he really did his best. He worked overtime at Krulls to make extra money and lived in his mother’s house to save. He even took a second job bouncing at a club downtown. The Galaxy. It was in the old Empire Theatre. It’s a bingo hall now.”

  “I don’t think I knew that.”

  “He didn’t last long as a bouncer. I found out much later from a bartender I once knew that Tony got fired after refusing to beat up some persistent troublemaker.”

  “Isn’t beating up troublemakers kind of the job?” I asked.

  “I guess it is. But the guy was drunk, so Tony refused to fight him.”

  I nodded. That seemed right.

  “Were you still dating then?”

  “Not really. We weren’t dating other people, but my parents did everything they could to keep us apart. They never offered to babysit so we could go out and never left us alone when Tony came over. You can just imagine. The four of us, plus Bernard, in the living room. They wouldn’t even let us watch television alone. They made things as awkward as possible. Poor Tony. He would be so nervous. He tried to be friendly with them. He’d ask my father about business and my mother about whatever she was reading in her book club. He even read the books they were doing to have something to talk about with her. He was just trying to make them like him and every time he’d end up frustrated. He used to talk about your father a lot, too.”

  “About Gord?”

  “Oh sure. ‘My Uncle Gord used to say that cheaters only cheat themselves.’ Or ‘Uncle Gord McKitrick once told me the inside story of the Krulls sit-down strike of ’45, want to hear it?’ and my father, who is a good man but not very savvy, would just grunt ‘No!’ and turn up the volume on the television. Bottom’s up.”

  “Lessons from Betty’s,” I said.

  “Did he ever look forward to those breakfasts! Afterwards, he’d tell me everything he and your father talked about. To be honest—and this is nothing against your father—I thought it was kind of weird.”

  “It was weird,” I said. I wondered if Drew knew about Tony’s assassination theory but didn’t want to ask, in case the simple question from one old friend to another might turn into a citywide rumour.

  Drew continued: “And so after a year or two of that crap, my parents acting like prison wardens, we just sort of broke up. And then, when Bernard was about four, I met Gus. My parents. Loved. Gus. At first I dated him just because they let me. I wasn’t even twenty.”

  “Tony must have been jealous?” I said.

  “I thought the same thing,” Drew said. “I didn’t tell him about Gus for months and made sure we never went anywhere Tony might be. Eventually, I sat him down and just told him everything. Give me your glass.”

  “How did Tony react?”

  “How did he react? Well, he was fine about it. Very mature. I remember how he kept nodding. How he told me he was happy for me. I thought he must have been seeing someone else, too. But he said he wasn’t.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “Well, you know. He would never have lied to me.”

  She said it without conviction. In fact, her tone during my visit reminded me of a religious skeptic. One who doesn’t necessarily believe in God as much as the habit of belief itself.

  “Come on. One more. I still want you to try that wine once Gus gets back.”

  “Cheers.”

  Drew drank and sat back in the couch, looking like a bored teenager. “It’s good to see you,” she said. “I’ve missed you sometimes, you know?”

  “Really?”

  “Those were good days.”

  “You seem to have done okay,” I said.

  “I know. But I miss those days when the three of us would actually do stuff. Fun stuff. It seems like all of that was cut off far too quickly. I know it wasn’t always perfect and you were a bit messed up with your dad dying, but that was the last time I was a kid, you know?” She filled our glasses. “Here’s to making up for lost time. You look good, by the way.”

  We touched glasses and said nothing, Drew awaiting a return compliment. A freighter’s prow drifted into sight, navigating the river slowly. I waited long enough to see the smokestack and then, when the boat had passed, returned my attention to Drew. She was still looking at me, her eyes bright and pushy. Muscles in my back contracted involuntarily. Out the window, a speedboat hung suspended from a hoist, shrink-wrapped
in grey canvas. Drew was still staring. I switched my shot glass from my right to left hand, my wedding ring clinking on the glass.

  “So you’re married.”

  “I am. Eight years. Her name is—”

  “I’m married, too.”

  “I know,” I said. “Gus. The ophthalmologist. Seems like a good chap.”

  “That’s right.” She drained the rest of her shot and extended her glass for me to refill it.

  I topped mine, too and shifted in my seat.

  “I’d be interested to know what happened with Tony after you and Gus started dating.”

  Drew ran her tongue between her lip and gum and then folded her lip over her lower teeth.

  “I find it interesting, your sudden devotion to Tony,” she said.

  I cleared my throat. “What can I say? He’s my only cousin, after all.”

  “But what does this have to do with him setting fire to the UCF Building?”

  Nothing, I thought. But instead said, “You never know.”

  She ran through the years quickly. “We saw less and less of each other. Gus got more serious. That happened pretty quickly. My parents practically begged him to marry me.”

  “Tony never visited Bernie?”

  “Oh sure. Gus was busy setting up his practice and worked most weekends and so Tony took Bernard to things like Cubs and hockey practice. It was a big help when my second one was born. He kept sending the child support cheques, though they really didn’t amount to much. And besides, Gus started making a good living right away. I didn’t want to accept his money, but Tony insisted, so I just started signing the cheques over to the United Way. That was my mistake, because they sent him a tax receipt with a card of thanks for all his donations.”

  “So what did he do?”

  “Nothing. He said if we were going to give the money away then he would just keep it for himself or use it to buy Bernard something. Which suited us both fine. He seemed reasonable about it. Then, a few weeks later, Gus left his office and found a cinder block tossed through his car windshield. Well. It rattled us. I mean it was a German car, but I thought those days were over. Anyway, we told the cops, got a burglar alarm installed on the house. But we didn’t necessarily see any connection.