Forty Words for Sorrow

A radio crackled, and a male voice said, "Elvis is here," and Musgrave tersely acknowledged. Delorme hadn't even realized they had men positioned elsewhere. She hoped they were indoors somewhere.

She joined Musgrave in front of the video monitor. On-screen, Kyle Corbett was handing his coat to someone out of view. Then he sat at the bar, well within the camera angle. Corbett looked mid-forties but styled himself like a much younger man, perhaps a rock star. He had long hair, cut all one length and swept back from a knobby brow, and an artistic goatee. His sports jacket was suede, with wide lapels, and he wore a crew-neck sweater underneath. He leaned forward to adjust his hair and mustache in the mirror, then swiveled on his stool to greet the bartender. He flashed a billboard-size smile. "Rollie, how's it going?"

"How you doing, Mr. Corbett?"

"How'm I doing?" Corbett gazed up at the ceiling for a moment as if pondering deeply. "Prospering. Yeah, I think you could say I'm prospering."

"Pilsner?"

"Too cold. Gimme an Irish coffee. Decaf. I wanna sleep sometime this century."

"Decaf Irish coffee. Coming up."

"That's my man."

Delorme was trying to place what it was about Corbett's manner that was so familiar: the big smile, the apparent thought expended on trivial questions. Then she realized what it was. Kyle Corbett, former drug runner and current counterfeiter, had adopted the kindly condescension of the very famous. Delorme had once seen Eric Clapton in the Toronto airport, cornered by fans, signing autographs. He chatted with them in the same easy yet distant manner that Corbett had appropriated for himself.

He had swiveled his back to the camera and spread his arms along the bar as if the place were his. "He doesn't look that dangerous," Delorme observed.

"Tell that to Nicky Bell," Musgrave said. "May he rest in peace." Then he gave a thumbs-up to his men. "Crystal clear, sound and picture both. Nice piece of work."

The radio crackled again. "Taxi on Oak."

Musgrave spoke into his radio. "Tell me it's our man of the hour."

"He's getting out now." There was a pause. "Can't see his face. It's raining and he's wearing his hood. Headed your way, though."

There was a loud clink of glassware, and the two men at the video console suddenly sat back.

"Jesus Christ," Musgrave said. "The screen's blank."

"They put something in front of it. Stacks of bar glasses." Frantic hands twiddled at dials. "It's those huge dishwasher trays they have."

"Jesus. Hit the joystick. Can't you swivel around them?"

"I'm trying, I'm trying."

"Shhh!" Delorme said. "Let's at least hear what's going on."

Corbett was greeting somebody loudly, expansively, in his best "just folks" manner, and implying for the benefit of any restaurant staff that this meeting of cop and criminal was entirely accidental. "You gonna join me for a drink? Always glad to know a fellow insomniac, even if he's playing for the wrong team."

The reply was unintelligible. The other person was somewhere out of mike range, perhaps hanging up his coat.

"You guys always dress like Nanook of the North when you're off duty?"

"Larry," Musgrave said icily, "fix the fucking camera. We're losing the main event."

Christ, Delorme prayed. Let's get it over with.

"What're you drinking?" It was Dyson who spoke. "Shirley Temple or something?"

Musgrave whirled on Delorme. "Who is that? Is that Adonis Dyson? I thought you fed this pill to Cardinal."

Delorme shrugged. A mixture of relief and sorrow was flowing into her veins as if from a hypodermic. "I fed Cardinal one date. Dyson got another."

"You have something for me?" Dyson was saying on the darkened screen.

There was a crackle of paper. "Invest it wisely. Personally, I like index funds."

"I got a cab waiting. So I'll get right to the nitty-gritty."

"What are you scared of? Didn't you hear I'm immune these days? Amazing what a court order can do. I gotta say, the law's really something when it works."

"It's late, and I've got a cab waiting."

"Sit down. Don't you haul ass on me. I told you I want a full fucking rundown. I don't pay you for chicken feed."

"The Mounties are going to hit you on the twenty-fourth. No chicken feed. The twenty-fourth. That's all you need to know."

"That's the poison pill," Delorme said quietly. "The twenty-fourth. Dyson's the only one I gave that to."

"And don't clear out this time," Dyson went on. "Leave something for them to find, and a couple of guys, too. You've got nine lives, I realize, but you're running on number ten and so am I, and if they nail me we're all going down."

Musgrave spoke into his radio. "We're in play. Close the exits." Then to Delorme: "Let's get him, Sister."

MUSGRAVE went in through the front door, Delorme through the back, each accompanied by two Mounties. Musgrave took Corbett, and Delorme dealt with Dyson. "Really," Delorme told people later. "It was smooth as a business transaction. Corbett didn't put up any struggle. Just cursed a few times."