I sat at one of the Rivoli’s outside tables on the sidewalk in the Saturday sun. The Rivoli has qualities I admire in a restaurant: proximity to my house and office, Stan Getz tapes on the sound system, a menu that leans to Thai dishes. I ordered a half-litre of the house red and brooded.
James Turkin showed up fifteen minutes later.
“Watched you from across the street,” he said. “You don’t look your usual.”
“A funeral yesterday, James, another a week ago yesterday, both nice men, that’s taken the usual out of me.”
“Very, uh … debilitating?”
“Arranging to have a dog adopted, too, which doesn’t help my morale. So yeah, debilitating is close.”
James Turkin’s occupation is burglary. His obsession is vocabulary. In the three years I’ve known him, from the day I defended James in court on his first and only crime involving a degree of violence, an assault with intent to rob, he’s been building his word power. James has the appearance of a 1950s method actor — same blank face, same silent stare, and the nerves of what he is, a second-storey man.
“You’re looking spruce, James,” I said. “Any specific occasion for the suit and tie?”
“And the briefcase.”
“That, too.”
James’s navy blue suit looked like the sort that came with two pairs of pants. Cheap or not, he wore it with a certain stolid panache. His shirt was light blue; his rep tie had blue and green stripes. The briefcase was top of the line, black leather, slim, and had more locks than Conrad Black’s house.
“Projecting an image,” James said. “Like, as if I’m organized, which I am.”
“Impresses the hell out of me.”
“You don’t count.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s for clients who want a commission job, obtained to order, you know, a picture, item of jewellery, something they definitely got their mind on that they want procured. That variety of client, they’ll automatically think of me, the guy with the suit and the briefcase.”
“I don’t imagine there’re many burglars around like you.”
“We don’t say burglar.”
“We don’t?”
“Commission agent.”
“You should get a calling card printed with that on it. Something bold but tasteful, a no-frills typeface. ‘James Turkin. Commission Agent.’”
James thought about it. “Excellent idea,” he said.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t put a phone number on the card.”
“Clients leave the messages for me at my sister’s, anyway.”
“The phone number might run you afoul of the law, assuming a commission went wrong.”
James told the waiter he’d like a coffee.
I said, “I have a commission for you, James.”
“A minute ago I said that you don’t count. The jobs you ask me to do, this is what I was getting to, they mean trouble that is, uh, inexorable. And you shouldn’t be asking me, anyway, being a lawyer.”
“Is this just for the record?”
“You gonna tell me it’s for a good cause?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“No way that justifies illegal entry.”
“Want me to fill in the background or will you take my word for it that the purpose is noble?”
“Three hundred dollars plus expenses.”
“What expenses?”
“I’m not in a position to apprise myself of them until you provide the minutiae of the commission.”
“Minutiae? Jeez, James, this is a condo with, I assume, the usual security.”
The waiter brought the coffee. James loaded it up with cream and sugar and sipped it. It apparently met his approval. He put the cup down and devoted his attention to spinning the combination locks on his briefcase. The top flipped open, and James removed a spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen. He moistened the tip of the pen on his tongue.
“May I commence?” I asked.
“All details that are …” James hesitated.
“Pertinent?” I tried.
“Uh-uh.”
“Relevant?”
“Relevant, right.”
I described the lobby and the doorman’s counter at David Rowbottom’s condominium on Front Street. James made notes, asked questions, and made additional notes. I added stuff that was neither pertinent nor relevant just to give James more to write. He seemed to be relishing the note-taking. I told him the trip into Rowbottom’s apartment was more for the purposes of reconnaissance than plain theft.
“A daytime commission,” James said, holding the ballpoint pen suspended over the notebook.
“That much I reasoned for myself. The guy’s in the condo at night.”
“With a truck and uniforms.”
“These are the expenses?”
“Two people will be requisite, myself and an associate I highly recommend.”
“The associate is also three hundred?”
“One seventy-five.”
“Tell you what, James, I’ll be the associate.”
James got an exasperated look.
“I highly recommend me,” I said. “And I come cheaper by a hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
James tapped the pen against his notebook. “The thing you fail to comprehend, you have to go into the apartment, anyway. You’re the only one knows what we’re looking for. The other person, my associate, he waits outside in the truck.”
“Ah, a wheelman.”
“In a daytime commission such as you envision, it’s preferable to prepare for every …”
“Disaster?”
“Eventuality.”
“Like a quick getaway?”
“An unforeseen departure of the location.”
I refilled my wineglass.
“This associate,” I asked James, “you care to assure me that I’m getting bang for the buck?”
“He and I have collaborated previously, and he is under thirty-five years old.”
“What’s his age matter?”
James showed me an expression that was more blank than usual, flat and categorical. “All persons of my profession over thirty-five years of age are presently in two locations: jail or rehab. That’s my analysis of the statistics and from personal acquaintanceship. See, what I do for a living is stressful. The general public thinks it’s maybe colourful, like in certain movies. But they don’t comprehend the stress, working nights, having to be one hundred percent alert, keeping an eye out for cops, security, dogs, sometimes performing at high heights on the outside of buildings. This is stressful, which people over thirty-five are no longer of the temperament to compensate for. The people I refer to get careless in their work habits and are caught in the act of a commission. Or they resort to artificial means to stimulate their nerves, by which I mean alcohol or chemicals. You notice I, uh, disdain both of those.”
“Strictly coffee. I’ve always applauded your personal ethic, James.”
“So the older agents I speak of, they are serving sentences in Millhaven or they are attempting to terminate their alcohol or chemical dependency in rehabilitation centres, which is fruitless being as there is a high rate of remittance among them.”
“Recidivism, I think that’s the preferable word, James.”
James turned his notebook to a blank page. “Wanta spell that?”
I spelled recidivism.
“How about yourself, James?” I asked. “Where do you see life taking you at age thirty-five?”
“Naples, Florida, learning to play golf.”
“Nailed the future right down?”
“Already opened a bank account in Naples, Florida.”
James placed the notebook and pen in the briefcase and snicked it shut.
“In the interim,” he said, “my associate and I will be outside your house at ten o’clock Monday morning. Advance calculations will have been effected.”
James left without a goodbye or a nod. I asked the waiter for another half-litre of red. It was twelve thirty. I told the waiter to bring two glasses this time.