Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

me feel comfortable in a bar—dark wood, exposed brick, dim lighting. A forest of ficus benjamina grows out of the planters scattered among the tables. Martinis cost five dollars.

      I arrived fifteen minutes early. The hostess perked up when I dropped Alice Brackley’s name and showed me to a table in a private corner beside the windows that overlook Yorkville Avenue and a posh antiques store. The hostess had auburn hair and carried herself like a runway model. I ordered one of the five-dollar vodka martinis. It came cold and very dry. The hostess put it down on a square paper coaster done in white and gold. She brought a dish of mixed nuts. I picked out the almonds.

      Alice Brackley came fifteen minutes late. She was wearing an avocado-green jacket and skirt and a lot of gold. She had a gold chain made of thick links around her neck, gold earrings shaped like tiny seashells, a clunky gold bracelet on her right wrist, and a small gold Rolex on her left wrist. She had no rings on her fingers, gold or otherwise. She knew where to draw the line.

      The hostess pulled out Alice Brackley’s chair and Ms. Brackley thanked her. She called the hostess Miriam. Miriam went away without inquiring after Ms. Brackley’s preference in beverage.

      “You come here often?” I said. It was my customary snappy opener with strange women in bars.

      “I live near by, Mr. Crang,” Ms. Brackley said. Her voice had the tremor.

      Miriam returned with a drink that looked like a Rob Roy. It came with a cherry. Miriam replaced the dish of mixed nuts with a fresh supply. Terrific, more almonds.

      Alice Brackley was about forty. She had long dark hair and a face that received plenty of pampering. Her lips were thin, and there were the beginnings of fine lines on her cheeks. I felt a faint breeze of tension coming from her side of the table.

      “What is this about, Mr. Crang?” she asked.

      “Don’t you want to wait for the greetings and preliminary remarks from the chair?”

      “What I’d prefer is that you not be oblique.”

      “Right to the point,” I said. “I have reason to deduce that things at Ace Disposal are not entirely aboveboard.”

      Alice Brackley opened her handbag. It was white leather. She took out a package of Vantages and tapped a cigarette from the package. I picked up the book of Four Seasons matches from the ashtray and suavely snapped one into flame on my first try, but I wasn’t fast enough. Alice Brackley had already lit the cigarette from her lighter. It was a Hermès and gold.

      “Nonsense,” she said.

      “Granted,” I said, “but somebody’s probably making a dishonest buck from the nonsense.”

      “Are you being deliberately offensive, Mr. Crang?” Alice Brackley said. She blew cigarette smoke through her nostrils and did her best to look stern. “If that’s the case, you’re succeeding admirably. I’m developing a severe antagonism to you.”

      “I’m not the enemy, Ms. Brackley.”

      “I wasn’t aware there was a war.”

      “Could be I’m expressing myself badly.”

      “Clearly you are.”

      I fingered around in the dish of nuts until I came up with an almond.

      “Let me build my case,” I said. “Sol Nash and his chum in the straw hat are not what I’d call businessmen with MBAs from the University of Western Ontario.”

      “Their duties hardly require that sort of background,” Ms. Brackley said. “Sol and Tony are very effective at their assignments.”

      “No doubt,” I said, “as long as we’re agreed that the assignments include shaking down the weigh-masters at the Metro dumps.”

      “We’re agreed on no such thing,” Ms. Brackley said. Her eyes had narrowed. I couldn’t tell whether it was the cigarette smoke or part of the stern look.

      I said, “Mighty peculiar how that little old pink Cadillac makes its rounds to the dumps.”

      Ms. Brackley stubbed out her Vantage. It was only half smoked. Miriam the hostess arrived to replace the ashtray.

      “And what about your boss?” I said. “Charles Grimaldi is no stranger to shady stuff.”

      “You’ve gone way too far, Mr. Crang,” Alice Brackley said. Her eyes became very wide. “Charles Grimaldi is a respected businessman and I’m not going to tolerate another word of your insinuation and slander.”

      “Charlie knows how to turn a profit,” I said. “I’ll give him that.”

      Ms. Brackley took another cigarette from her package. Before she raised it to her lips, I had a match lit. She looked at me and blew out the match. So much for gracious gestures. She snicked a light from the gold Hermès.

      “Let me ask the questions, Mr. Crang,” she said. “Who retained you to approach me with these insults?”

      “That’s confidential,” I said, “but it’s not someone who wishes you harm.”

      Alice Brackley gave her first smile since she sat down in the bar. It wasn’t bad even with the thin lips.

      “You know, Mr. Crang,” she said, “I could make a few educated guesses about your client and his motivations.”

      “I’d be delighted to hear them.”

      “And you’re not entirely unknown to me yourself.”

      “I didn’t imagine I was.”

      Ms. Brackley dropped the smile.

      She said, “What do you mean by that?”

      “Nothing special,” I said. “Just that it wasn’t difficult for me to make an appointment with you.”

      “Perhaps I was curious.”

      “Perhaps you heard my name around the office.”

      Alice Brackley’s head lifted. Her expression flashed surprise and a touch of alarm before she got her composure back in order. She was looking over my shoulder. I turned in my chair.

      “Why, Charles,” she said. “How nice.”

      The man approaching our table was all teeth and suit. Both were white and gleaming. He was handsome, if your taste is for Latin lounge lizards. The suit was linen and double-breasted and came with white shirt, tie, and shoes. The teeth were all his and blinded everything in their path. His skin was naturally bronzed and he had hair as sleek as Remington Steele’s.

      “I’m Charles Grimaldi,” he said. He stuck his hand out and grabbed mine in the forthright manner that my grandfather used to call a good Presbyterian handshake. Miriam appeared behind Grimaldi and moved a chair into place. Grimaldi ordered a gin and bitter lemon. Alice Brackley fussed.

      “I thought you’d gone home from the office, Charles,” she said to Grimaldi. To me she said, “Charles has a wonderful house out in the Kingsway, one of the old Gooderham places.”

      Grimaldi paid no attention to Alice Brackley’s chatter. He focused on me.

      “And you’re the busy Mr. Crang,” he said.

      “You mean I don’t have to introduce myself?” I said.

      Alice Brackley spoke quickly. “I’m forgetting my manners. Charles, Mr. Crang is a lawyer.”

      “A criminal lawyer,” Grimaldi said.

      “You recognized my style,” I said. “Very flattering.”

      Grimaldi said, “You’ve been calling on my associates, Mr. Crang.”

      “Not exactly,” I said. “Some of them initiated the get-togethers.”

      “Alice didn’t,” Grimaldi said. He turned his smile and all those radiant choppers on