The Evil That Men Do Read online

  “Right,” Nina said, with a skeptical grin. “Look, I’ve promised to stay for the Skid Marks’ first set, but you guys don’t have to hang around. Danny, Phil and Randy have to go, but I can score a ride home. Or a place to crash.”

  I had no doubt about the latter. “I’ll take you home,” I said. Smiling, she leaned back and bumped my shoulder with hers.

  “Can we stay, Mom?” Rebecca said.

  “It’s up to Lawrence, sweetheart,” Terry said.

  Rebecca’s face clouded with resentment. “Why is it up to him?”

  “He’s driving, dear,” Terry said.

  But there was something in Terry’s voice and posture from which I inferred she really couldn’t get out of the place soon enough. I glanced in the direction of the man who’d been staring at her, but he’d gone.

  “Maybe Riley could take us home, too,” Rebecca said.

  “Rebecca,” Terry said.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Teresa,” Lawrence Thomason said, a little begrudgingly, I thought. “If you want to stay, I’m fine with that.”

  I sensed an unspoken “But … ”

  “All right,” Terry said. “If you’re sure. We’ll stay for the first set.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mom,” Rebecca said, jumping up and going around behind Nina and me to hug her mother. She returned to her seat. “Are they any good?” she said to Nina.

  “They’re okay,” Nina said.

  I asked if anyone wanted anything from the bar.

  “No, thank you,” Terry said.

  “I’m good,” Thomason said, his beer glass still half full.

  “Can I have a Diet Coke?” Rebecca said.

  “Sure,” I said, looking at Terry. She nodded.

  “Go,” Nina said. “I’ll join you in a sec.”

  I went to the bar, where I ordered Rebecca’s Coke and scanned the display of malt whiskies, such as it was. Nina joined me.

  “Are they any good?” I asked her, as the Skid Marks performed their sound check.

  “Not very,” Nina said, standing close, shoulder against my arm. I could feel the warmth of her through the denim of her jacket. “Their name says it all. What they lack in skill they more than make up for with enthusiasm and volume. They’re good kids, though.”

  “Do you want something?”

  “I’ll have a Griffon Red.”

  I ordered two.

  “It’s good to have you back,” Nina said. “Is it good to be back?”

  “Too soon to tell. But it’s good to see you again,” I said, leaning into her.

  “I was pretty pissed at you for a while after you left last time,” she said. “You could’ve at least said goodbye, for fuck’s sake. You can be a real jerk sometimes, you know.”

  “It’s taken a great deal of practice,” I said. I hadn’t said goodbye to her the first time I’d left, either. Her or Terry.

  “You never told me you and Terry stayed friends,” I said, changing the subject.

  “We didn’t,” Nina said. “Not really. It’s, well, a little complicated and—” She was interrupted by the wail of a guitar, accompanied by a screech of feedback from the amps. She raised her voice. “This isn’t exactly the time or place to go into it.”

  Chapter 2

  The Skid Marks weren’t very good but, as Nina had said, they were loud. They played classic rock covers, Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, Genesis, the Doors, Bob Seger, some of which I had trouble even recognizing. They were young, though, still in their teens, and many of the songs they played were old before they were born.

  “They suck,” Rebecca said to Nina as the set came to an end, leaning close, not wanting any of the Skid Marks to overhear. “I play better lead guitar.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Nina said.

  “Not as good as you, though,” Rebecca said.

  “I’ve had more practice.”

  “I’m putting together my own band at school, you know.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” Nina said, giving the girl a hug.

  Lawrence Thomason rolled his eyes. Not a fan of rock and roll, I supposed. He gave me a little shamefaced smile when he realized I’d noticed. Good thing Rebecca hadn’t.

  “I read one of your books,” Terry said to me. “Riley Down Under. Nina lent it to me,” she added, so I wouldn’t presume to think she’d picked it up herself. “It was quite funny. Reminded me of Bill Bryson.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You wrote a book?” Rebecca said.

  “A series of travel books. Really just collections of articles I wrote for a magazine about my travels, to help cover expenses.”

  “So they weren’t real books,” Thomason said.

  Rebecca said, “How many books have you written, Larry?”

  “Rebecca,” her mother said.

  “I know,” Rebecca said. “Don’t call him Larry.”

  I like this kid, I thought.

  “That will be enough, young lady.”

  “That’s all right, Teresa,” Thomason said, smiling as though his teeth hurt. “Rebecca’s right. I owe Mr. Riley an apology. Writing and publishing a book of any kind is an accomplishment to be admired.”

  I really like this kid.

  We trooped to the exit and I held the door for Terry. She looked at me, smile warm. The rain had stopped and the night smelled scrubbed clean. As we descended the steps to the parking apron in front of the hotel, Thomason raised his arm, and the lights of a dark-coloured BMW flashed. The man who had been staring at Terry in the bar stepped out of the shadows. He had a plastic beer cup in his hand.

  Warning bells clamoured in my head.

  “You bitch!” the man cried, and flung the contents of the cup at Terry.

  I was in motion even before the liquid left the cup. Turning, I shouldered Nina aside and placed myself between Terry and the arc of liquid. Someone screamed. Rebecca? Terry stumbled back and sat down on the tarmac. I felt the splash of liquid across my back. I whipped my jacket off before the acid could burn through to my skin. But it was water. Just water.

  Nina and Rebecca helped Terry to her feet. Terry’s assailant was face down on the tarmac, Lawrence Thomason kneeling on his neck.

  “Jesus, Riley,” Nina said, wide-eyed. “Did you think it was acid or something?”

  I gripped Terry’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said. Her hands shook as she brushed at her clothing. “I—I think so.”

  I went to where Thomason knelt on the man’s neck. “Ease up, Mr. Thomason,” I said. “You can crack a vertebra like that.”

  “Is that right?” Thomason said, making no move to let the man up.

  “Yes, it is,” I said. “Get off him.”

  Thomason removed his knee from the man’s neck and hauled him to his feet.

  “I wish it was acid,” the man said. His eyes were wild and he stank of beer, body odour and a musty aroma I couldn’t identify but which seemed familiar. “Bitch,” he yelled at Terry. “You got a fucking nerve.”

  “Shut up,” Thomason said, shaking the man like a

  terrier with a rat, even though he wasn’t exactly small.

  “I won’t,” the man cried, struggling in Thomason’s grasp. “I won’t shut up.” Spittle speckled his lips. “She should be in prison, not out having a good time spending my—my mother’s money. Sending her little cunt daughter to private school.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Thomason snarled, slamming the man against the side of a car so hard that a door window shattered in a burst of glittering shards. Terry’s assailant whimpered.

  “Lawrence, please,” Terry said.

  “I’ll teach this piece of trash a lesson he’ll never

  forget.”

  “No, please,” Terry pleaded. “Don’t hurt him. He’s—”
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  The man cried out as Thomason slammed him against the car again.

  I had no idea what was going on. It was obvious from what I’d seen inside the bar a few minutes earlier that there was a connection of some kind between Terry and the man who’d flung the water at her. I couldn’t shake the feeling, though, that there was an element of theatre about Thomason’s performance. Was he showing off for Terry? If so, she didn’t seem impressed. Neither was I: the guy wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

  “Mr. Thomason,” I said. “Lawrence. Relax, all right?”

  “Stay out of this,” Thomason said, emphasizing his point by throwing the man against the side of the car again, although with less force.

  “Look,” I said. “Whatever this is all about, it’s over now. No one was hurt. Let him go.”

  Thomason growled and threw the man to the ground. I helped him to his feet. A small crowd had gathered.

  “Someone call 911,” the man cried, pointing at Thomason. “This man attacked me.”

  “Don’t push your luck, friend,” I said. “You assaulted Ms. Jardine first.”

  “It was only water.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It was still assault.” I looked at Terry. “It’s your call. Do you want to press charges?”

  She shook her head. “No. He’s drunk. Let him go.”

  “This is your lucky day, friend,” I said. “I suggest you go home and sleep it off. You’re not driving, are you?”

  “So what if I am?”

  “You’re not fit to drive,” I said. “Maybe someone should call the police.”

  “Leave me alone,” the man said, twisting away from me and staggering across the road into the car park of the shopping centre.

  “He could hurt someone,” Terry said, as the man clambered into an old brown Chevy pickup and roared away in a cloud of oily smoke.

  “Or maybe not,” I said, as a passing police car pulled a quick U-turn and took off after the truck, strobes flashing and siren wailing.

  “The cops are never far from this place on Friday nights,” Nina said.

  “Now,” I said. “Maybe someone could tell me what the hell that was all about. What’s that guy’s problem?”

  “It really isn’t any of your concern,” Lawrence Thomason said.

  “Asshole,” Rebecca muttered.

  “Rebecca!” her mother snapped.

  Rebecca glowered. It was pretty clear she didn’t have much use for her mother’s boyfriend, if in fact that was what he was.

  “Do you have a business card?” I asked him.

  “Eh? Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “I find them useful,” I said.

  Thomason took out his wallet and handed me a business card. I glanced at it, noting that he was the sales manager of a company called Excel Wood Products, then tucked it under the windshield wiper of the car he’d slammed Terry’s assailant against, breaking the side window.

  “Hey,” Thomason said, reaching for the card.

  “Leave it,” I said. “It’ll save me the trouble of finding the owner and telling him who broke his car window.”

  “Forget it,” he said, retrieving the card. “Insurance will cover it.” He turned to Terry and Rebecca. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Hang on a minute,” I said, my wet jacket in my hands. “Terry, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Why did that man attack you? What did he mean about his mother’s money?”

  “You really don’t know?” Terry said.

  “No, I really don’t.”

  She looked at Nina. Nina shrugged. “I haven’t said anything to him.”

  Terry looked at me for a moment. “It was nothing, just a misunderstanding.” She hesitated, then added, “It was nice seeing you again, Riley. Goodbye.”

  The message was clear. “Goodbye, Terry,” I said. “Nice seeing you, too.”

  “Thanks for coming, Terry,” Nina said. “And bringing Rebecca.”

  Terry looked at her. “You should thank Lawrence for bringing us,” she said.

  “Right,” Nina said. “Thanks, Lawrence.”

  “You’re welcome,” Thomason said, smiling. The smile was a bit forced, but I couldn’t blame him: Nina’s thank you had been less than sincere.

  Terry looked at Nina again, as though she wanted to say something more, but she just said, “Goodnight,” and turned toward the car.

  Rebecca hugged Nina, then reached for the rear passenger door handle. Thomason got to it first and opened the door for her. Expression sullen, she ducked into the car without a word of thanks. Terry smiled an apology at him as he opened the front door for her. He shrugged, as if to say, “What can you do?” He closed the door, went around the car and opened the driver’s door. He stared at me over the roof for a second before getting into the car.

  “Well, I guess you’re stuck with me,” Nina said, as Thomason drove off.

  “Not exactly a hardship.”

  “You might feel different when I get into your car,” she said. “I need a shower. I really do stink.”

  In the car, I gave a theatrical sniff and said, “You’ve smelled worse.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “Okay, so what the hell was that all about? Why did that man assault Terry?”

  “It’s a long story,” Nina said. “I think Terry should tell it.”

  If I ever see her again, I thought. I wasn’t hopeful, but I let it go. We drove in silence for a few kilometres.

  “Have you spoken to Gil Maxwell yet?” Nina asked.

  Gil Maxwell was an old high school buddy who had a mobile-app development company. Despite my itinerant lifestyle, I’d managed to squirrel away something for my old age, thanks largely to a generous bonus I’d received early in my travels for my part in a marine salvage operation off the coast of South Africa. In a moment of weakness, I’d invested a chunk of my nest egg in Gil’s company. Apple had just introduced the iPhone, basically kicking off the consumer smartphone revolution, and Gil’s company was well positioned to take advantage of it. At least that’s what he told me; I’d yet to see a dime in return on my investment.

  “He didn’t have time for me today,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet with him at his office tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said.

  “When you work for yourself I don’t guess you get many weekends off. Why do you ask?” She and Gil

  Maxwell weren’t exactly friends.

  “No reason,” she said. “Just making conversation.” She fell silent again. Something was on her mind, though.

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “I’m going to need some kind of job to tide me over. Rocky’s got a list as long as her leg of work that needs to be done on the house. Any suggestions? Do you need another roadie?”

  “Sure, if you’re willing to work for nothing,” she said.

  “Kind of defeats the purpose.”

  We drove through the section of Hudson known as Como, past the car ferry to Oka on the far side of the Ottawa River, where it widened into the body of water known as the Lake of Two Mountains, or Lac des Deux-Montagnes. Traversing a predominantly agricultural landscape for four or five kilometres, we came to the sprawling ugliness of shopping centres, car dealerships, and big-box factory outlet stores at the junction of the Trans-Canada Highway. I experienced a moment of nostalgia as I navigated a roundabout on to the expressway. I pushed the Volvo up to 100 kph, which was 20 to 30 kph slower than most of the other traffic, but the car developed an alarming shudder. I slowed until the shuddering ceased at about 90 kph.

  “Christ,” Nina said. “It feels like the wheels are going to fall off. When was the last time Rocky had the alignment checked?”

  “Probably never,” I said. “I don’t think she’s ever driven it faster than 50 or 60 k
.”

  Rocky is my half-aunt, twenty-four years younger than her half-sister, my mother Grace, and only nine years older than me. Technically, the car—a 2001 Volvo station wagon—belonged to her, but I’d purchased it

  second-hand for her a few years before in return for its use when I was in Montreal. Once upon a time it had been red, but Rocky, an artist, had had it repainted a shocking pink. I felt like an idiot driving it.

  “Listen,” Nina said. “Do you want me to have a word with Louise, see if you can get your old job back?”

  On my previous visit to Montreal, on Nina’s recommendation, I’d taken a job as a part-time investigator at the law firm for which she moonlighted as a paralegal—her real job, she said, was music. Tracking down witnesses, taking statements, and running background checks was tame compared to marine salvage or offshore drilling, but it kept me in pocket money. And I’d enjoyed working for Louise Desjardins, Nina’s boss and one of the name partners at Roche-Desjardins. She was a smart, no-nonsense lady in her fifties, tough as boots but with a soft spot for Nina and, by association, me. I’d liked Denis Roche, too, Louise’s law partner and long-time lover. Pushing seventy, he was a classic old-school gentleman. The same could not be said for his nephew, Jean-Claude Aubert. Aubert was one of the firm’s junior partners, handsome and arrogant and not half as smart as he thought he was. My time at Roche-Desjardins came to an abrupt end when, during an office party celebrating a big win for the firm, I heard a ruckus in the file room and found Nina fending him off. I had no way of knowing that she’d gone out with him once a week or two earlier, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. She wasn’t interested in an encore, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  He was high on something—coke, as it turned out—and didn’t react well to the interruption. I’d had a few drinks myself and when he tried a couple of half-assed karate moves on me, I lost my cool and kicked the stuffing out of him, bloodying his nose and dislocating his shoulder. He went straight to his uncle, of course, and demanded my dismissal, claiming I’d assaulted him when he caught Nina and me having sex in the mailroom. I might have ridden out the storm, but I’d been in Montreal for four months by then and was getting restless. I handed in my resignation the next day.