off with a round medallion on a chain. She’d even done something new to her hair since Isaw her last, but I couldn’t figure out what. Part of the effect of the transformation was spoiled by the fact that she was still wearing bedroom slippers that had probably been around when William Lyon Mackenzie roused the province to rebellion in 1837. With her Churchillian chin, Martha could have outfaced a battalion of rebels or the same number of Tories if it suited her.
I’d met Martha Tracy about ten years ago when I did that investigation into wrongdoing at City Hall. Martha worked in a real-estate firm that was mixed up in the story. She’d been keeping her eyes open around the powers that moved and shook Grantham for many years. Nobody knew Grantham like Martha. She once hinted that the firm she worked for, Scarp Enterprises, kept her on because they couldn’t afford to let what she knew fall into other hands. She didn’t do much around the office any more, but she answered the phone and watered the plants in a way that gave peace of mind to the partners. Her telephone manner was gruff; she tended to discourage triflers.
There’s nothing more burnt-out looking than a cold pizza, is there?”
“Reminds me of lonely birthdays in strange towns. Not mine, but I get that feeling. Another beer?”
“Moved and seconded. Why do you want to know about what the city does with its garbage, Benny?”
“I’m not sure I know yet myself. But if the city’s up to some funny business, I won’t find out by asking questions without knowing the background. If I’m going tostir up a local bees’ nest, I want to know when I’m doing it. It’s easier to stick handle the traffic that way and stay alive. I’m not interested in all of the garbage, just the toxic stuff: PCBs, dioxins and heavy-metal waste.”
“Hey, Benny, you’re pretty good! You must have been reading up on the stuff.”
“Bedtime reading since I got involved,” I said. Martha shook her head in sympathy. But she was right, I was getting better at talking about toxic garbage. But it was still more abstract than real to me. I couldn’t really imagine that stuff leaking from a truck could send me to hospital. In fact, I was dreading my encounter with reality. What form was it going to take? For Martha I tried to look innocent. Maybe I achieved the look of a kid caught cramming before an easy exam.
I opened a beer for Martha, and she poured most of it into the glass in front of her. My own glass was still full. What with my visit to the O’Maras’, I was seeing a lot of beer suddenly. I got back to questioning Martha. First, though, I decided not to light a new cigarette. It was a peculiar feeling.
“Who is in charge of the toxic waste that comes out of the city, Martha?”
“The head man is Paul Renner, director of sanitation.”
“Is he elected?”
“Not on your life. It’s a paying job and Paul’s been in it for four or five years. As director he sits as a commissioner along with other non-elected heads of standing departments: roads, parks, finance.”
“Does the city deal with its own waste?”
“No, it does what you and I do: it passes it on to somebody else. In this case it’s a contractor. Kinross, I think. Why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat? You know I can’t stand secrets. Benny!”
“Okay. Okay. Kinross has been doing a lot of dumping, legal and illegal. Some of that is for the city. How much does Paul Renner know about what Kinross does with the toxic stuff it collects?”
“How come you give a damn? What’s in it for you?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, expenses and maybe a broken kneecap if I make the wrong moves. So far I haven’t been moving at all, just asking fool questions. Who controls the money and the hiring of an outfit like Kinross, Martha?”
“The purse-strings of city council are held by the inner circle called the executive committee. The committee picks the contractors to do all
I’d met Martha Tracy about ten years ago when I did that investigation into wrongdoing at City Hall. Martha worked in a real-estate firm that was mixed up in the story. She’d been keeping her eyes open around the powers that moved and shook Grantham for many years. Nobody knew Grantham like Martha. She once hinted that the firm she worked for, Scarp Enterprises, kept her on because they couldn’t afford to let what she knew fall into other hands. She didn’t do much around the office any more, but she answered the phone and watered the plants in a way that gave peace of mind to the partners. Her telephone manner was gruff; she tended to discourage triflers.
There’s nothing more burnt-out looking than a cold pizza, is there?”
“Reminds me of lonely birthdays in strange towns. Not mine, but I get that feeling. Another beer?”
“Moved and seconded. Why do you want to know about what the city does with its garbage, Benny?”
“I’m not sure I know yet myself. But if the city’s up to some funny business, I won’t find out by asking questions without knowing the background. If I’m going tostir up a local bees’ nest, I want to know when I’m doing it. It’s easier to stick handle the traffic that way and stay alive. I’m not interested in all of the garbage, just the toxic stuff: PCBs, dioxins and heavy-metal waste.”
“Hey, Benny, you’re pretty good! You must have been reading up on the stuff.”
“Bedtime reading since I got involved,” I said. Martha shook her head in sympathy. But she was right, I was getting better at talking about toxic garbage. But it was still more abstract than real to me. I couldn’t really imagine that stuff leaking from a truck could send me to hospital. In fact, I was dreading my encounter with reality. What form was it going to take? For Martha I tried to look innocent. Maybe I achieved the look of a kid caught cramming before an easy exam.
I opened a beer for Martha, and she poured most of it into the glass in front of her. My own glass was still full. What with my visit to the O’Maras’, I was seeing a lot of beer suddenly. I got back to questioning Martha. First, though, I decided not to light a new cigarette. It was a peculiar feeling.
“Who is in charge of the toxic waste that comes out of the city, Martha?”
“The head man is Paul Renner, director of sanitation.”
“Is he elected?”
“Not on your life. It’s a paying job and Paul’s been in it for four or five years. As director he sits as a commissioner along with other non-elected heads of standing departments: roads, parks, finance.”
“Does the city deal with its own waste?”
“No, it does what you and I do: it passes it on to somebody else. In this case it’s a contractor. Kinross, I think. Why are you grinning like the Cheshire cat? You know I can’t stand secrets. Benny!”
“Okay. Okay. Kinross has been doing a lot of dumping, legal and illegal. Some of that is for the city. How much does Paul Renner know about what Kinross does with the toxic stuff it collects?”
“How come you give a damn? What’s in it for you?”
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars a day, expenses and maybe a broken kneecap if I make the wrong moves. So far I haven’t been moving at all, just asking fool questions. Who controls the money and the hiring of an outfit like Kinross, Martha?”
“The purse-strings of city council are held by the inner circle called the executive committee. The committee picks the contractors to do all
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