Chapter One
My name is Adam Garwood and I’m a private investigator. I can’t say that I’m the best private eye in town, but I do regard myself as the most colourful. My client list is far from being long. It is circumstantially an odd combination of personalities uniquely identified within the boundaries of the Plateau, that being the area in Montreal where I have set up my practice. People are not sure what to expect of me. I am listed in the yellow pages with all the other PIs, but when people come to visit, they are compelled to take a second look.
You enter my office building, which by the way, is a bright shade of yellow clapboard. On all three levels, the building is adorned with green shutters. I have added multi-coloured flower boxes which don seasonal displays. In the fall I remove the real flowers and replace them with plastic replicas. I know it might seem a bit tawdry but unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, that describes me in a nutshell. The building oddly enough fits into the scheme of the surrounding brick structures. My office is on the third floor, and I rent out the two lower ones. A small production company occupies the first and the second a catering service. The rent I receive compensates for my lack of clientele.
I graduated from McGill University – Faculty of Law, receiving marks of top distinction. I speak perfect French. Both my parents were of French descent, my ancestry being strong Quebecois. The name Garwood comes from my great grandfather who came from England, but on my mother’s side we are all Desjardins’. I love the fact that I can switch easily between the two dialects. It is a definite asset in my line of work.
* * * *
I met Gritty a year ago. It was on one of those wonderful summer evenings in Montreal. I decided after a great meal on boulevard Rene Levesque, to take a shortcut through a back alley leading to rue Sainte Catherine. I was meeting up with friends for drinks and did not want to walk the long way around. Having been warned several times about my ruelle jaunts, especially in the gay village, I determined from the brightness of the sky and the speed of my step, that my conclusion would have a safe outcome. It would save me twenty minutes or so and I was late as it was.
Although some of these passageways are narrow enough to be classified as an alley; many have street names because vehicles can go down them. Rue Dalcourt was one of those with its trendy small garden flats, and winding stairwells leading to mysterious inhabitants and unconventional life styles. Most of the buildings were gated, appearing to be closed off from the rest of the world. Whether it was the heat of summer or the absence of its vacationing residents, on that particular day, there was an overwhelming amount of unpleasantness: overbearing smell of urine, tossed fast food cartons, empty liquor bottles, used condoms, discarded needles and paraphernalia of its previous denizens. Cats were feasting on what little crumbs they could find and the occasional mouse was scurrying in self-preservation. Looking around I could see I was alone. Dalcourt’s less revered occupants were probably out scrounging the streets while the remaining daylight provided aid. It was the high season for Montreal’s tourist trade so the pickings were plentiful.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the entrance to rue Sainte Catherine. My escapade was nearing its end. I questioned myself on the worth of this shortcut as I tried to calm my irregular heartbeat. It brought back vivid memories of another time. How could I forget being a young boy scared out of my wits, taunted and challenged by the bullies and then being forced to act out for them: eating worms, stealing candy, soaping cars, turning over garbage cans and many other feats. This was a guaranteed trade-off to survive in the straight world. Despite the fact that I did not reveal my preference of choice in those early years; it became very apparent to my male contemporaries. I was gay and although never announced, my facade was very evident amongst my peers.
I was nearing my exit when I noticed something. Was that a movement I saw? There were boxes lined up against the brick walls but the one closest to me seemed to vibrate. I must have had too much to drink. I quickened my steps and reached the street. I could hear a call for help and my immediate reaction was to turn. Don’t look back; keep going. The gaiety of the street people was beckoning me forward but the desperation of the call was like a magnetic force drawing me back. No, you must not go. Whether it was the instinctive need to help or my insane curiosity; I went back. This was when I first met Gritty, the man who is now being removed from the Lachine canal. Although this might be an early supposition on my part.
“Is someone there?” I approached with caution. I realized that I was near the exit to the street, therefore my risk factor was at a low. Also, I was standing and he was lying down, he was at a disadvantage and I knew if I had to, I could run. “Are you in there?” I kept repeating and then I bent down to get a better look. Big mistake! A hand reached out and grabbed my shirt. I screamed in horror as I was being pulled down to his level.
“Please, I won’t hurt you. Please help me up.” He released me and I noticed that he had a cleft hand or lobster claw as the neighbourhood children used to call it. Although cruel in thought, the horrific circumstances of that first meeting and his pathetic appearance made the desire to help even more prevalent. He pushed his body forward, out of his home… the box, and with great difficulty tried to stand. For whatever reason I gestured that he stay and I crouched down to his level. He was hardly able to move. He was weak with hunger. I couldn’t leave him that way. I told him to stay put; I would return with some food. He nodded in compliance. At that moment I knew my meeting up with friends held very little importance compared to this new turn of events. I felt little remorse as I called and cancelled my plans. I did not even give my respondent a chance to reply. I hung up abruptly. Turning the corner, I saw a sandwich shop and asked them to brown bag a ham and cheese, milk and a large muffin. My heart was pounding but this time only in survival mode… his survival. There was a peculiar attraction drawing me towards him.
When I returned he was sitting up with back against the brick wall. I got a full view. He was taller than I imagined. He must have had a hard time manipulating his large frame to fit into his temporary lodgings. He looked to be in his late 60s, but with his grungy appearance it was hard to tell. He was bald and had the most perfectly shaped round head. This accentuated his pale blue eyes. I’ve never been so mesmerized with eyes, but his were sky blue with a deeper shade of blue competing for attention. They were hypnotic and I could not stop looking at them.
I was sure that when cleaned up, he would be an exceptionally handsome man. I could not help but feel the depth of his plight, binding us together, forming this human link. What was it about him that drew me in? Surely it was more than his eyes. He accepted the bagged lunch with a gentleman’s touch. Knowing his need, he could have grabbed at it, but no; he waited to be served. “Thank you,” he said. Hearing his voice made me aware that he was not your regular street dweller. I let him eat but observed enough to realize my curiosity had to be satisfied. He finished and breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t imagine not knowing where your next meal was coming from.
I felt the need to question…to talk. “What is your name?” I queried.
“Grenville,” he replied. “But most folks call me Gritty.”
“Grenville, isn’t that the name of a town?”
“Yes it is,” he said. “I was born in Grenville and my parents were too lazy to give me a proper name; they just named me after the town.”
Already I felt empathy for him. What parents name their kid after the town that they live in! Looks like he had a shit life from the get-go. I wanted to keep the lines of communication open. I continued. “Where is Grenville? Isn’t that up north somewhere?”
“Not really! It is closer to the Ottawa area. Not too far from Lachute.”
I could not believe that I was having this conversation. He spoke as if he were a man of education. There was a hint of an accent. I wanted to say British but was not completely sure. His speech was impeccable with such a velvety tone, echoing and being absorbed by me, causing a tingling sensation throughout my body. It was as if we were long lost friends sitting in some diner having a chat over a cup of coffee. My awkward position, with bent knees resting on ankles, in order not to touch the ground, was cramping my legs. I wanted to be at his level but in no way was I going to succumb to sitting on filth. Wanting to continue the conversation, I said, “I’ve never been to Grenville, but I have heard the name before.”
“You’re not missing anything. You wouldn’t have a smoke, would you?” he asked.
“No sorry, don’t smoke. Gave that up a long time ago.”
I ventured further. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, are you a cop?”
“No. You seem so well spoken; you don’t belong here. You are definitely educated. What gives?”
Before he could answer the other dwellers of the alley started to return. With that, Gritty took on another character. “Fuck off man. Leave me alone,” he said looking directly at me.
I was taken by surprise as if I had just been kicked in the stomach. What happened? The others circled; I felt threatened. Gritty remained loyal to a point and told them to leave me alone. He looked at me knowingly. I realized then that he was only trying to protect me by pretending to be one of them. Survival… no matter at what cost! Taking his lead, I got up and left. I looked at my watch and wondered where the last couple of hours had gone. I wanted to learn more about Gritty and the conditions that pressured him into living there. I could see that he was a smart man. Something terrible, some crazy set of circumstances must have caused this state of despair. He was not like the rest of them. He deserved better. I was brought back to reality by my cell vibrating.
“Richard, where are you? I thought that you could not make it to the restaurant. Are they still there? Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“I wanted to get out of work early and surprise you, but when I arrived they said that you did a no-show. Why didn’t you answer your phone?” asked Richard. “You know how paranoid I am, especially after your last case in Montreal. Perhaps we shouldn’t have returned. Adam, when you are not reachable, I hate the feeling that comes over me… sheer fear!”
“Really, I thought that you were working late. We will discuss this later, at home. There is nothing to worry about.”
What I did not know was that this get-together was really a surprise for me. Richard had lied about working late so I would not catch on. Marc greeted me with open arms. Nick from the pub was there with his wife and also a few close friends. It turned out to be a homecoming party celebrating our return to Montreal and I almost missed it. Richard had planned the surprise and it did not take long to get what few friends we had on board. Luckily the evening was saved and the merriment began.
* * * *
“Now that we have you on the spot Adam, we want you to tell us about your adventures in the Maritimes and why the hell you returned.”
I hated being unprepared but after a few drinks, I gladly spurted out the information.
“That whole Devon Lambert case made me realize how important life really is. In other words, it scared the shit out of me. My life with Richard was being threatened. I felt that a move away from Montreal was necessary. It was not a good move because it was based on fear. I’ve since learned that decisions should not be founded solely on one’s emotions. It is a recipe for disaster!”
“Why did you come back then?” Nick asked slurring his words. “You don’t sell your condo, change everything, and then move that far away only because of a case. You spent a small fortune on that place.” He then looked directly over to Richard, who by now wanted to crawl under the table, and said, “Richard that condo on the old port was your dream! I am flabbergasted by the fact that you could invest that much time and effort into purchasing a magnificent place like that and then discard it so abruptly. What really happened?” asked Nick. I knew then that I had to be as tactful as possible. People were on to me. Richard glanced over knowingly. I would have to make this as convincing as possible without letting on why I really left and then my reason for returning. Being an outsider, looking in; this must have appeared somewhat ludicrous.
I began. “At first it was great. Prince Edward Island is a wonderful spot to nest but although picturesque it did not provide me with the stimulus needed for my line of work. It would be a great retirement place but once the holiday of sorts was over, I missed my Montreal. In other words, it was very boring. Another thing to take into consideration was their non-acceptance of us. The daily stares were demoralizing. Montreal is a city of complete liberation; you can live as you please here. I guess you can say that was the main reason in a nutshell! Non-acceptance…!”
“Wow, that was an expensive move!” said Marc. “You had bought this amazing condo on the old port, only to have to sell it and relocate. And Richard I hear that you are working for half your salary, selling insurance for the Sunlight. What were you thinking man?”
I was pissed at how Richard was being attacked. No, the Sunlight was not the job that he was qualified for but for now it helped pay the bills. I admired my husband for jumping in and helping out with our return, putting aside his pride for us. I hated Marc for questioning it, but I answered as best I could.
“I know! There are some truths in what you say but you have to understand that my emotions were all over the place. Don’t forget we were the target of the mafia and Richard and I had just married. I wanted it perfect, but the way I was feeling was anything but perfect. We needed to get away to put things into perspective. It had to be done. Now we are back; this is our new beginning. I will not let anyone or any case have that much control or impact on me again. My case load might be limited but it will be chosen and accepted with Richard’s and my safety being foremost of importance. Hopefully that will answer your question.”
I looked directly at Marc, my glare being the only ammunition to combat his verbal attack. He, realizing his insensitive comments, stood up and offered his hand saying, “Welcome back my friend. If there is anything that you need, I not only speak for myself but for the others; we are here to help the two of you. It is wonderful to have you back. You were greatly missed.” Marc then raised his glass for a toast.
The rest of the night was spent sharing stories and anticipating what would hopefully take place in the next few months. We were finally home. I was starting to notice a pattern, one in which I did not like. When situations become uncomfortable or do not fall into my precise plan, I escape. First was my move to Prince Edward Island… the next my return home. The evening ended on a pleasant note and we left the restaurant and decided to walk down to the Old Port of Montreal.
The Imax Cinema was emptying and people were heading towards the food trucks. Excitement was all around us as they lusted for the flavors of the city: poutines, beaver tails, smoked meat sandwiches and anything that you could possibly put gravy on was devoured with the greatest enthusiasm. Aromas filled the air, mixed with the perfume of flowers as the vendors pushed their carts amongst the crowds. The night breeze carried the smell of the Saint Lawrence River and somehow these scents all came together as only recognizable to Montreal. It was uniquely ours.
This was my Montreal; the only place in the world that I wanted to be but I had to figure out if my desire to run when things did not materialize as planned, was an easy excuse for classifying Montreal as the only place that I wanted to live.
Only I knew the real reason for coming back.