Free The Whole Megillah by Howard Engel Page A

that.’
    â€˜I don’t want any trouble outside either. Think of my reputation.’
    â€˜Damn your reputation! You don’t have to pay a cent for the book!’
    â€˜If you play some trick on Kurian, you’ll never be able to enjoy quiet possession of the book, Mr. Lowther. It’ll be cheaper in the end to pay up.’
    â€˜When I want your counsel, Mr. Cooperman, I’ll ask for it. Now I want you to carry my message to Kurian and set a time for the exchange. The store’s open until ten, I think.’ He hung up without another uncivil word and I started looking for my shoes.

 
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    Chapter Nine
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    There was a large ambulance parked in front of the Brunswick House when I crossed Bloor Street. The word was printed backwards on the front so that it could be read by anyone who happened to be looking in a mirror at the time. The double doors at the back stood open, but nobody was hanging around except for a panhandler with a brush cut. He looked like he’d been driven out of an officer’s training camp. He even had a knapsack slung over one shoulder. I didn’t check to see if there was a swagger stick inside.
    â€˜What’s going on?’ I asked him, dropping a loonie into his hand.
    â€˜Guy got beat up in the hotel,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Yeah, Fergie, one of the waiters, just told me. They’re bringing him down the stairs.’
    â€˜Was it a fight in the beverage room?’
    â€˜Nobody says "beverage room’’ any more, fellah. Get with it.’
    â€˜Who got hurt?’
    â€˜An old Irish gaffer on the third floor. I seen him around, you know. I know the guy Fergie means. I seen him here before.’
    â€˜What happened? What did Fergie say?’ I asked, feeling ice in my stomach.
    â€˜He just got himself beat up, that’s what happened. Can you imagine beating up a guy like that? I remember when they blew up a gambler down Bay Street one time. Now I could see that. But this guy? What’s the world coming to?’
    Inside the pub, I got the same information again from Fergie, the waiter, without the philosophical reflections. Then as I moved close to the newel post, I caught a glimpse of the stretcher being carried downstairs. Kurian’s head was uncovered. That was the first thing I looked for. The face was deathly white, with blood on his forehead, but it was him all right. There was no doubt about that. I caught the coattail of the third man in white, the one who wasn’t carrying the stretcher. When he looked around, I fired about five questions at him all at once. I wasn’t as calm as I like to think I am in emergencies. All I found out was that he was unconscious from being battered about the head. Nobody saw what happened. He’d been found by the housekeeper.
    â€˜But he’s still breathing?’
    â€˜Oh sure. Unless he’s in a coma from skull damage, he’ll come out all right. You should have seen the guy we picked up this morning in High Park! Now, he won’t be on the street again.’
    I watched them put Kurian into the ambulance and close the double doors before driving off in the direction of Toronto Western Hospital. It was like the Late Nite News on a Buffalo station.
    I phoned Sergeant Pepper from a pay booth at the corner and left a message about Kurian. On balance, I figured that he should know. Then I walked along Bloor to Spadina, trying to think what my next step should be. Something must have been prodding my brain from the inside, because it made my body walk south on Spadina without giving me a hint what it had in mind. Then I remembered: Father Campbell of the Basilian Fathers.
    The Father Fort, as Kurian had said Father Campbell referred to his refuge, was a grey, stucco building set back from the street a few doors north of Harbord. It looked like an orphanage in a children’s book, with its great length stretching from the steps right to the