Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [162]
“I wouldn’t say no to a cold beer.”
So we moved inside. I fetched O’Hearne a Molson and poured myself a Scotch. O’Hearne whistled. “I’ve never seen so many books outside of a library.” He stood close to a small ink drawing hanging on the wall. Beelzebub & Co. ravishing a nude young woman. “Hey, somebody has a real sicko imagination.”
“It’s by my first wife, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Divorced, eh?”
“She committed suicide.”
“Here?”
“In Paris. That’s in France, in case you didn’t know.”
I was on the floor, my head ringing, before I even realized I had been hit. Startled, I scrambled to my feet on rubbery legs.
“Wipe your mouth with something. You don’t want to get blood on that shirt, eh? I’ll bet it comes from Holt Renfrew. Or Brisson et Brisson. Where that bastard Trudeau74 shops. Your wife’s been in touch with us. Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to her there was a misunderstanding here early Wednesday morning, and you thought you had reason to be angry with her and Mr. Moscovitch.” Flipping open his little black notebook, he continued, “According to her, you drove in from Montreal, arriving unexpectedly early, and surprised the two of them in bed, and thought they had been, well, fornicating. But, and I’m quoting her again, the truth is your buddy was a very sick man. She brought him breakfast on a tray, and he was trembling so bad, chilled in spite of the heat, his teeth chattering like crazy, that she got into bed to hold him, just like a nurse might, and that’s when you barged in, sore as hell, jumping to conclusions.”
“You are such a prick, O’Hearne.”
This time he surprised me with a quick punch to my stomach. I reeled, sucking air, and slid to the floor again. I should have stayed put, because no sooner did I get up, lunging at him, than he slapped me hard across the face with his left, and then walloped the other cheek with his right. I ran my tongue against my teeth, probing for loose ones.
“Now I don’t buy it lock, stock, and barrel either. Not the whole bobbe-myseh, eh? I know some Yiddish. I was brought up on the Main. You’re looking at a professional shabbes goy. I used to earn nickels and dimes Friday nights, lighting fires for religious Jews, and I never knew a finer, law-abiding bunch. I think you ought to wipe your chin again.”
“You were saying?”
“Hey, it must have knocked you for a loop. Your wife and your best buddy in the sack together.”
“Let’s say I wasn’t pleased.”
“I don’t blame you. Nobody would. Say, where did Mr. Moscovitch sleep?”
“Upstairs.”
“Mind if I take a peek? It’s my job, eh?”
“Have you got a search warrant?”
“Ah, come on. Don’t be like that. Like you said, you’ve got nothing to hide.”
“First bedroom to your right.”
Fighting anger, commingled with fear, I went to the kitchen window and saw one of the cops moving into the woods. The other one had emptied my garbage pail and was going through the contents. Then O’Hearne returned, one hand held behind his back. “Damn peculiar. He left his clothes behind. His wallet. His passport. Say, that Moscovitch has sure done a lot of travelling.”
“He’ll be coming back for his things.”
He dug into a jacket pocket. “You’re fucking with me, Panofsky. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was marijuana.”
“But it’s not mine.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, finally bringing his other hand round from behind his back. “Look what I found.”
Damn damn damn. It was my father’s service revolver.
“You got a permit?”
That’s when panic got the better of me and I blew it. “I never saw it before. It must be Boogie’s.”
“Like the marijuana?”
“Yeah.”
“Only I found it on your bedside table.”
“I have no idea how it got there.”
“Hey, you’re some sucker for punishment, aren’t you?” he said, slapping me so hard I lost my balance again. “Now let’s get serious.”
“Oh, I remember now. It’s my father’s. He left it behind one weekend. He was a detective-inspector with the Montreal police force.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re fucken Israel Panofsky’s son.”
“Yes.”
“That makes us mishpocheh sort of. Isn’t that what you jokers call