Keeper of the Flame. Jack Batten
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other dudes in Goldenberg’s law office called him ‘Fox.’”
“That’s because he’s smart like a fox. Does cross examinations that sneak up on witnesses.”
“He said you took jobs that were off the reservation,” Jerome said.
“He probably phrased it ‘off the reserve,’” I said.
“Could be, man.”
“What Americans call a reservation, Canadians call a reserve.”
“You do things different up here.”
“Other than that,” I said, “those were Fox’s words?”
“Exact quote,” Jerome said.
“If you gentlemen didn’t retain him,” I said, “I take it whatever brings you to my office doesn’t involve a criminal charge.”
“Quite right, Mr. Crang,” Carnale said. “Our objective is to head off an offender. Almost as essential, we need to keep the matter we’re about to discuss out of the media.”
“What kind of situation is it that hasn’t happened yet?”
“I describe it as robbery, plain and simple,” Carnale said, turning once again to Jerome.
“The situation is where a man wants money from us to keep his mouth shut,” Jerome said.
“Your guy, Flame, he’s the one on the wrong end of this shot at extortion?”
“Sad to say, man, he is,” Jerome said.
“This fine young man’s future could be destroyed,” Carnale said. He sounded outraged.
“To state the obvious, you want me to head off the extorter,” I said.
“That’s why we’re here,” Carnale said.
“Got any idea how I might learn this man’s identity?”
“We know very well who he is, Mr. Crang,” Carnale said, leaning even heavier on the indignation. “And we can tell you where to find him.”
“This whole deal sounds like the equivalent of a stickup in broad daylight,” I said. “Not your run-of-the-mill extortion.”
“Very brazen, indeed.”
“Let’s start with the guy’s name.”
Carnale nodded to Jerome.
“Goes by the name, Reverend Alton Douglas,” Jerome said. “The dude runs Heaven’s Philosophers on St. Clair Avenue West. I got the information off the business card he gave me.”
“Imagine that,” I said, “a person of the cloth dabbling in criminal pursuits. How much is he asking?”
“What he wants, man, that’s no dabbling,” Jerome said. “Eight big, big ones.”
“Eight million dollars?”
Jerome nodded.
I made a little whistling sound. “What’s he know about Flame, asking for money like that?” I said to Jerome.
Carnale stood up abruptly. He was even taller than I first thought. I was an inch short of six feet, and if I were standing, Carnale would tower over me.
“I need to keep a luncheon appointment, Mr. Crang,” he said to me. “One of our bankers downtown. I take it we’ve now got you on retainer?”
“Sounds like my kind of job,” I said.
Carnale said he’d leave Jerome to get into the details with me.
“Jerome will be your contact person until you tidy things up for us,” Carnale went on. “I trust that will be a matter of days. As few as possible.”
Carnale turned, carrying his briefcase, walking stick, and Foyle’s War fedora, and was out the door before I could rise from my chair.
I looked at Jerome. “Your boss is a man in a hurry.”
“Got a car waiting downstairs,” he said.
I went over to the window and watched Carnale as he came out of my building, now wearing the fedora. A large shiny black SUV was parked at the curb. A chauffeur climbed out of the front seat, and held the back door open for Carnale. I could tell he was a chauffeur from the dark suit and the hat he wore. The guy was almost as tall as his boss, slim, probably in his late twenties, judging from my view three floors up. He slammed the car door shut firmly.
“Expensive looking car,” I said to Jerome.
“Brand new Escalade,” Jerome said.
I couldn’t tell an Escalade from an Eskimo Pie.
“Chauffeur’s the guy who phoned me earlier on?” I asked Jerome.
“He’s the one,” Jerome said. “Serious young dude. Tries hard to look cool.”
“Looking cool probably comes out of the chauffeur manual.”
The Escalade pulled away from the curb, and when I turned from the window, Jerome was checking his watch.
“Where do you feel like discussing the Reverend Alton Douglas?” I said to him. “Over lunch maybe?”
“It’s one o’clock, man,” Jerome said. “I always feel like lunch at one o’clock.”
“Follow me,” I said.
Chapter Three
“Damn,” I said, “I hate it when they do that.”
“Who does what, man?” Jerome said.
We were sitting at a table in the window of Freda, an intimate, stone-floored restaurant around the corner from my office specializing in pasta dishes.
“They changed the menu,” I said. “I always have the chicken sandwich. Now it’s gone. Eliminated. Disappeared.”
A young waitress appeared. Like all Freda’s waitstaff, she looked crisp and smart in white shirts and black pants. Our waitress had exquisite features and a slim build. She left us with two menus and two glasses of water.
“Chicken sandwich, man?” Jerome looked aghast. “You come to an Italian restaurant and you order a chicken sandwich?”
“It’s organic chicken!”
“Chicken sandwich ain’t a manly dish, man.”
The waitress returned, and Jerome asked for spaghetti Bolognese and a glass of red wine.
“Spaghetti Bolognese is manly, Jerome?”
“The thing speaks for itself, man.”
“You’re kidding, Jerome, right?”
Jerome smiled at me.
“I’ll have the same as my friend,” I said to the waitress.
She wrote my order and went away.
Jerome said, “What’s your opinion so far about the problem with Flame?”
“Back in the office,” I said, “I couldn’t help noticing your Mr. Carnale didn’t always have the answers to my questions on the tip of his tongue.”
“That’s ’cause he’s the big picture man.”
“Give me an example,” I said. “I assume you’re talking about the big pictures in Flame’s career?”
“Roger Carnale’s the man that spotted Flame’s talent in the first place. This was before the kid was called Flame, back ten, twelve years when he was, like, fifteen, just doing his thing in some little neighbourhood ice cream soda club.”
“Very astute of Roger,” I said. “But it’s ancient