“Not saying a single word.”
“Is it a date I’m supposed to remember?”
“Not going to get pressured.”
“Yes, I’ve got it,” I said in a fake British accent. “It’s our meeting anniversary.”
“Meeting anniversary? What is that?”
“It’s when we met the first time.”
“Get help, Jon. You’re hopeless.”
“Yes, and you know it and you still persist in behaving like this.”
“Jon, I just called to see how you were doing. Not to get badgered about things you can’t remember.”
Herrera and Barnes strolled toward me in the distance. “Roberta, can I call you later? I’ve got to go.”
“You take care of yourself.”
“Will do.”
“Anything?” I said, hanging up.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” replied Herrera. “The owner of one of the convenience stores said that in this area stores come and go. One week you see a new restaurant and four weeks later that same restaurant will be out of business.”
There was silence.
“Anything happen while we were investigating?” Barnes said.
I shook my head. “Nothing unusual.”
Silence again.
“You’re ringing, dude,” I heard Barnes say.
“What?” I said.
“Your cell phone is ringing.”
I pulled out my cell and said, “Hello.”
It was Beadsworth. “Leave Herrera and Barnes and meet me at the House of Jam. You know where it is?”
“Sure I do.”
“Good.” He hung up.
I turned to Barnes, “Where is the House of Jam, anyways?”
“On Queen Street West, near Simcoe Street,” he answered. “Why?”
“I have to go there.”
“We keep an eye out?” asked Herrera.
“Yeah, I guess until you hear from Garnett or Aldrich.”
THIRTEEN
I drove along Queen Street West searching desperately for the House of Jam. I asked several passers-by if they knew where it was but they shook their heads. Most of them were middle-aged, so I guessed they were not into that stuff. A young kid, wearing the Canadian flag as a bandana, told me it was around the corner, but he said it had no signs or markings in front of it. Great, that was going to help me a great deal.
I parked at the corner of Queen and Simcoe with the full view of the street. From here I was hoping to see Beadsworth.
I’m not much of a club hopper. In fact, this was my first time being inside a club. My mother never allowed me to get involved in music. She considered music the path to lawlessness. She couldn’t stand those who drove around blaring loud music from their speakers.
I waited for Beadsworth’s station wagon. The GM swerved around and parked a few cars away.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“Cal Murray is willing to meet us,” Beadsworth said. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“Where is this House of Jam?” I asked, looking around.
“You’re standing in front of it,” he replied.
I turned to a heavy black door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I moved back to get a full view of the place. The building, from the outside, looked like an abandoned storehouse. There was graffiti sprayed everywhere.
A few minutes later a man appeared at the door. He had gray hair and he was sporting a goatee. He smiled and extended his hand, “I’m Cal Murray.”
We shook hands and introduced ourselves. “Come,” he said.
We went past the door and up a long flight of stairs. “We have four entrances and exits to the building,” Cal started. “Plus, two more exits just in case of emergencies.” We were now in a narrow hall. “This is one of the emergency exits. But it leads straight to my office and it’s away from the public.” He unlocked a door and motioned us to enter. Opposite this door was another door.
The office was small, confined. The only objects inside were a brown leather sofa with a desk and chair opposite it. Behind the desk and chair the wall was covered with photographs of Cal with celebrities and other important people. Most of them I didn’t recognize. A fourteen-inch television was perched on a platform higher up.
Cal sat behind the desk. Beadsworth sat upright on the sofa while I sprawled.
“Max told me why you wanted to meet me,” Cal said. His face was serious. “First, we don’t do drugs. We don’t deal in that shit. We clear on that?”
“Of course,” replied Beadsworth.
“Sure,” I said, relaxed on the sofa. All my tensions were draining out. I moved my hand over the hand rest. The leather was soft and smooth. I was ready to go to sleep.
“These people came to me a while back,” continued Cal. “They said they have the next best thing and that if I let them open shop they’ll give me a cut.”
“They told you about Nex?” asked Beadsworth.
“What’s Nex?” he replied.
“The drug. It’s the name.”
“I don’t know,” he waved his hands. “They might call it that now. Names come and go. All I said to them was no thank you.”
My eyes were closing.
“But they came back?” Beadsworth said.
Cal looked down at the desk, “Yes. They are very persuasive. They keep coming back. You know, it took me three years to get this club on the map.” Through my bleary eyes I could tell Cal was now into promotional mode. “We get the latest bands launching their CDs. We have parties for film premiers. We even host fundraisers for the Hospital for Sick Children. If you’re in Toronto, this is the place to be.”
“Do they keep coming back because they think you’re interested?” inquired Beadsworth. I knew Beadsworth was onto something, but in my state of happiness I didn’t care.
“Yeah, a little,” I heard Cal say. “You have to understand. Drugs are hard to control. Ecstasy is everywhere. Deals take place behind your back. At least with this new product I could have some control over it. So, yeah, I thought about it. If I knew who was selling and who was buying I could maybe keep it away from the most vulnerable.”
“Children?” Beadsworth said.
From half open eyelids I saw Cal nod.
“What do they look like?” Beadsworth asked.
Cal thought about it, “Their leader is a woman. She has…”
I think maybe I was snoring. Maybe four or five minutes had passed when Beadsworth nudged me and I sat up straight. “Tell us more,” I said, crossing my leg.
Cal continued. “Then, finally, I guess there is this big Asian guy. Mean looking.” Beadsworth was making
