Quid Pro Quo Read online

  The whole dream was like that. I wanted to see her—I’d go looking for her, I’d run after the sound of her voice—but I didn’t want to see her too. I knew she’d take away the skateboard, but that wasn’t what I was really afraid of.

  I was scared she was going to be mad at me when she found out Byron was my father.

  As if it was my fault.

  It sounds completely stupid now, but when I was dreaming, it was like it was really happening. I was freaked when I woke up. I could barely catch my breath.

  I looked around the kitchen for a long time, just telling myself it wasn’t real. That helped for a while, until I realized that reality was even worse than any dumb thing I could dream up.

  I thought about Byron and Andy having their little secret meetings at the waterfront. What were they thinking? Like they wouldn’t stick out there! Andy, in her Salvation Army specials, and the aging chick magnet trying to blend in with all those people in expensive business suits. If they wanted to keep their secret, why would they meet there?

  Because they were so in love they couldn’t think clearly.

  Oh, bleh.

  Kek.

  Ack. Ack. Ack.

  Gag.

  I practically barfed. It sort of made sense. I knew Andy acted like she hated Byron and wanted to get rid of him, but you know how weird people can be when they like someone.

  I couldn’t shake the idea that Byron was Andy’s boyfriend, and all those late-night arguments were just lovers’ spats. It was so gross and probably pretty stupid, but my mind wouldn’t give it up. It was like my subconscious or whatever you call it wanted to prove the worst was true, rub my nose in it. It said things to me like “She was just playing hard to get.” And “There was obviously something going on. She let him stay, after all!” Somehow blackmail didn’t seem like enough of a reason for anyone to put up with Byron.

  I saw little pictures of things that happened while Byron was living with us. Him singing, him giving Andy that “hey, baby” smile, her making sure he got his salad just the way he liked it. Then I remembered seeing that C.C. tattoo on his biceps when we were arm-wrestling, and all the blood ran out of my face. I suddenly knew what it stood for.

  Cyril Cuvelier.

  I really was his son! And the stupid mistake Andy said she made when she was a kid was me! And the reason Byron went to jail was because Andy was only fourteen when he got her pregnant, and that’s illegal.

  Oh, God.

  It all fit. I even remembered what they called it. “Statutory rape”—sexual relations with a minor child. An adult can’t do it with a kid under fourteen, even if the kid wants to. It was one of the few things they talked about at law school that I actually found interesting.

  I wanted to go back to sleep and just forget about everything. But I couldn’t. I still didn’t know why Andy’d just disappear like that. I still didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. I still didn’t know how I was going to survive.

  I heard the newspaper land at the front door. I needed to pee anyway, so I went and got it. I was really stiff, and my eyes burned when I opened the door and the light shone in. I grabbed the paper, slammed the door and went to the can.

  I didn’t trust my aim, so I sat. I scratched my head and rubbed my eyes. I put my elbows on my knees and looked down at the newspaper on the floor.

  There was a big red headline: “Suspect Sought in Masons’ Hall Fire.” Below it was a picture, one of those jailhouse photographs where the guy holds the numbers up in front of his neck. The guy was twenty-something, I’d say. He had a moustache that hung below his chin, and one eye was swollen shut, but I still knew right away it was Byron Cuvelier.

  chapter

  twenty-one

  Arson

  The intentional setting of fire to a building

  Halifax Daily

  SUSPECT SOUGHT IN

  MASONS’ HALL FIRE

  ANNA VON MALTZAHN

  CRIME BUREAU

  Halifax Police have released the name of a suspect wanted in relation to the fire that destroyed a historic landmark and killed a homeless man on August 20 of this year.

  Byron Clyde Cuvelier, 37, of no fixed address, is described as being 5’11 and having a slim build and blue eyes. His arms and chest are extensively covered with tattoos and he is missing his right hand. He was last seen at the Life’s Work Shelter for Men on the night of the fire. According to witnesses, he left around midnight to go to the Masons’ Hall.

  Mr. Cuvelier served six years in Dorchester Penitentiary for the robbery that cost him his hand, but is not believed to be dangerous. According to acquaintances, Mr. Cuvelier began frequenting the men’s shelter about eight months ago upon his return to Halifax after several years of travel. He was apparently well liked by all.

  Gisele Theriault, Director of Life’s Work, described him as “kind and extremely intelligent. Byron was always helping the other guys with their problems. He spent time in Guatemala doing aid work so he knows how to relate to people in crisis.” Based on his experience, Ms. Theriault had just offered him a part-time job as a counselor at the shelter.

  Police are releasing few details, but sources reveal that an anonymous phone call this week provided the first real lead in the suspicious fire that killed Karl Stafford Boudreau, 49.

  The Masons’ Hall had been vacant for over three years while heritage activists struggled to raise money for its restoration. During that time, homeless men often camped out in the five-story Victorian building. An illegal drug-making operation is believed to be the cause of the fire. Sources say a worker on a construction project next door provided evidence linking Mr. Cuvelier to a crack cocaine operation.

  Mr. Boudreau suffered from mental illness and diabetes. Friends say Mr. Cuvelier was often seen helping him with a weight loss program.

  Halifax Police ask that anyone with information regarding the Masons’ Hall fire or the whereabouts of Byron Clyde Cuvelier to please contact Sergeant Hannah Gautreau at 431-TIPS.

  chapter

  twenty-two

  Conspiracy

  The agreement of two or more people

  to perform an illegal act

  T hat woke me up fast. I ran into the living room and turned on The Breakfast Show. I had to sit through about ten minutes of this irritating guy making jokes about the weather, but it finally came on. “Masons’ Hall Fire Break-through!”

  The reporter did a big thing about how the hall had welcomed home our troops from both world wars, and then another thing about all the famous people who’d had their wedding receptions there. I was absolutely screaming at the TV by the time she got to the part about the hall’s sad years of decline, and how more than once it had been saved from the wrecker’s ball by heritage activists who fought against a new condo development or shopping mall.

  I was just about to try another channel when the reporter finally got to the part about the fire and Byron Clyde Cuvelier. They flashed that old picture of him on the screen, and then she interviewed a bunch of his buddies at the men’s shelter.

  You’d swear they were talking about some guy who’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize. Byron Cuvelier could do no wrong as far as they were concerned. One old grampa with about three teeth in his head and a bad eye said Byron was teaching him to read. Somebody else said Byron helped him give up smoking. A kid who looked about two years older than me said Byron gave him money when his eight-year-old needed a new snowsuit.

  Then this guy named Stan Berrigan started ranting away about how the whole thing was a conspiracy. “Byron ain’t done nothing wrong. Just ’cause he made a mistake a few years ago and done time, the police is pinning it on him. They always takes it out on the homeless. Like, just because you don’t have a roof over your head means you ain’t as good as the rich folks. Byron knows that ain’t true. He knows a few other things too. I’ll bet he knows a few other things that some of them rich folks wouldn’t like him spreading round neither.”

  You could tell the
guy wasn’t half finished, but the reporter wrapped it up anyway. “And now back to you, Josh, and today’s sports!”

  Somehow I didn’t feel like hearing about the Leafs’ season opener. I turned off the TV and stared at that stain on the ceiling again.

  Okay, I thought, so this is what happened: Byron Cuvelier, counselor to the homeless by day, was making crack cocaine by night. In his drugged-out state, he set a historic building on fire and killed a man.

  It at least explained that big blister on his arm.

  I never liked the guy, so I really wanted to believe my theory was true. But I couldn’t.

  It just didn’t sound like Byron to me.

  chapter

  twenty-three

  Hearsay

  Evidence that is heard secondhand

  I got a bag of Nacho Krispies at Toulany’s and headed off to the shelter to find Stan Berrigan. The whole way there I thought of all the things I could have believed about Byron. I could have believed he conned an old lady out of her last tube of denture cream. I could have believed he was a terrorist spy for the Home and School Association. Under certain circumstances, I could probably even have believed he was first runner-up in the Miss Nude Universe Pageant.

  But I couldn’t believe he was a crack dealer, an arsonist and a killer. Even if the fire and the death were accidents, I still couldn’t believe Byron was into drugs. The guy couldn’t stand cigarette smoke or cheeseburgers. I was supposed to believe he was doing crack?

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t doing it himself. Maybe he was just selling it. Living the pure life and selling it on the side.

  If that’s what he was up to, where was the money? What was he doing in a homeless shelter? He just liked the rooms better than at the Weston Hotel?

  And how come he was mooching off us? It sure wasn’t for the food. He never stopped complaining about it.

  The guy didn’t have any money, I was pretty sure of it.

  So what was Byron really up to?

  I got to the men’s shelter by about eight in the morning, but I was too late. The guys all get kicked out of bed at seven and aren’t allowed back in until nighttime. The lady sweeping up was nice, though. She knew Stan Berrigan and exactly where to find him. She sent me downtown to Argyle Street where all the bars and taverns are. He liked to get there early to collect cigarette butts from the night before.

  I found Stan harvesting butts from the sidewalk in front of the Liquor Dome. He didn’t look too pleased to be interrupted, but when he realized I wasn’t horning in on his territory, he lightened up a bit. I told him I was writing an article for the school newspaper on the Masons’ Hall fire and that I’d like to talk to him about Byron. Stan lit a butt, squinted at me like he’d have to think about it, then launched into exactly the same rant I heard on TV. I scribbled it all down, just to keep him happy. When Stan finally came up for air, I managed to get in one of my own questions.

  “So how long have you known Byron?”

  “Oh, Lordy, now there’s a tough one. Maybe twenty … twenty-five years. We’re from the same town, eh? Both come up to the big city to find our fortunes. Funny, but I didn’t manage to find mine. I guess it weren’t in the dishwater at the Seahorse Tavern after all.”

  He elbowed me in the side; I realized I was supposed to laugh, and he carried on.

  “Byron, though, was a different story. He done good for a while there. Went to the university and everything. Scholarship boy. His mum was some proud of him … until everything up and happened, that is.”

  “What up and happened?” I asked.

  “Oh, Lordy, you don’t want to get into that. It was awful messy…aw-ful messy. There was some girl—what did he call her?—Squirt or something. Just a little thing, but with a baby of her own already. She was no good, that one. And what a tongue she had on her too. She coulda stripped paint with it. Probably did. And you know what? This is the truth. Byron might have took the fall for it, but it was her what robbed the church.”

  My mouth was suddenly so dry that my teeth were sticking to my lips. I swished some spit around and managed to croak out another question.

  “Wh-why did she rob a church?”

  “Oh, you’re taxin’ me now, boy. This was a long time ago. How do you ’spect me to remember this stuff?”

  He took off his toque and started scratching away at his head with those big cracked hands of his. He was really going at it. Skin and hair and, I don’t know, probably little animals too, were flying all over the place. He finally put his toque back on and re-lit the butt he’d just stubbed out. He took a drag and then looked at me as if it all just came back to him.

  “This is what I think happened, but you better not write it down. I don’t want to get sued or nothing ’cause I got my facts wrong in the newspaper. That a deal?”

  “Yeah, deal.”

  “Okay, then. Here goes. Byron was helping out at the Salvation Army while he was at the university. I guess he was fixing on being a social worker or somethin’. That’s how I run into him again too. By that time my wife had took off on me, and I was turning up at the Army shelter every so often. Them days, I had a bad habit of drinking my paycheck away. Anyways, he was working with them “wayward girls” there—you know, the ones that went and got themselves pregnant—and he met Squishy or whatever damn thing he used to call her. I think he liked her. I mean just “liked” her. Nothin’ more. He was a lot older than her, and you know she had that baby too. What man in his right mind would want to take on somebody else’s kid, specially one that squalled away like that one did?

  “Anyways, she was a smart girl once you got past the dirty mouth, and I thinks he thought she could get into the university too. Thing is, she misinterpreted his intentions is my guess. Thought she caught herself a college boy to look after her and that scrawny baby. That was some sorry-looking youngster …”

  “So what about the church?”

  Stan quit shaking his head over what a pathetic baby I was and got back on track.

  “Like I says, you can’t quote me on this. It was a long time ago, and anyways, what do I knows about women? I only managed to hang on to one myself for seven and a half months before she turned tail and ran, and to tell you the truth, we’re probably both the happier for it, but my guess is this: Like I says, Squinty misinterpreted Byron’s intentions. She thought it was love. He thought it was charity. When she realized that’s what he was thinking, she done what every self-respecting woman does. She got mad—and then she got crazy. She dumped the baby outside Byron’s door and took off. Maybe it was for dope or maybe it was just to spite him for not loving her back, I don’t know, but she set out to rob that church … What’s it called? … The one all them rich south-enders go to? … Down Oxford Street … Big stone thing … First

  Methodist, that’s it! My grandmother on my father’s side was a Methodist, though she weren’t rich, of course.

  “Anyways, Byron had helped the church raise all this money for some Mexicans who got shook up by some earthquake, and that Squawker went after it. She made a terrible mess of them fancy stained glass windows church people like so much. I don’t know how, but Byron figured out what she was up to and came after her. He cut his hand something awful on the glass, strugglin’ with her. I guess he couldn’t get her to give back that strongbox no matter what he did. Church people, eh? What were they thinking? Just leaving the money there until Monday when the bank opened. Don’t they know there’s sinners out there?

  “Anyways, the alarm went off, or someone out walking their dog saw all them broke windows, I don’t know, but the police got called and the two of them ran. Three of them, that is. Byron had the baby with him too, if you can believe that.

  “It took about a week for the cops to catch ’em, and by that time Byron’s hand was so swolled up and pussie they had to cut her off. I bet they wanted to cut off more than that too. Them church people were madder than hell. They figured Byron had raised all that money just so he could go and steal it and t
hen run off with some teenager and her baby. As far as the good people of Halifax was concerned, he was the lowest of the low, and he never told them no different. And you can bet that little Squishy didn’t neither. She may not a got him to marry her, but she got the next best thing. She got to make him pay...

  “Near everybody thought the judge was right to throw the book at Byron, but me and the boys down to the shelter had other ideas. We figured he kept his mouth shut ’cause he knew how much Squishy loved that baby of hers. He knew they couldn’t charge her with much because she was only fifteen or sixteen, but he also knew they could take the baby away. If that judge found out this was all Squirt’s doing, he wouldn’t be giving her back no baby to raise. So Byron just went along with his being the bad influence what led the poor girl astray. He got time, and she got off scot-free. That’s the truth, and I can see you don’t like it no better than I do … Maybe you should sit down, boy.”

  “No, no. I’m okay. What happened to the girl?”

  “Don’t know. I heard she changed her name, and I bet right now she’s living a respectable life out in the suburbs somewhere. Probably married herself some nice tradesman who don’t have the first clue about what she used to get herself up to. But Byron? He loses his hand. He wastes six years of his life in Dorchester Pen. And now they’re after him again for somethin’ I knows he wouldn’t do. I’ll tell you somethin’, son. In life, things never add up right. They just don’t …”

  chapter

  twenty-four

  Restitution

  Repayment for something that has been lost or stolen