Free Quid Pro Quo by Vicki Grant

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    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.
    â€œSo how long have you known Byron?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œByron, 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.”
    â€œWhat up and happened?” I asked.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œWh-why did she rob a church?”
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œThis 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?”
    â€œYeah, deal.”
    â€œOkay, then. Here goes. Byron was helping out at the Salvation Army while he was at the university. I guess he was fixing on