Looking For Henry Turner E-Book

W.L. Liberman

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Toronto, 1960. Mo Gold and Arthur "Birdie" Birdwell are like fish out of water. Mo is Jewish and sardonic; Birdie's black, thoughtful and gargantuan. They're private detectives.

Henry Turner disappeared eight years ago without a trace, and his mother wants him back. Mo and Birdie try to find him; they search high and low.

Meanwhile, Mo’s father Jake is in prison on a manslaughter beef. When he escapes, all hell breaks loose.

Leseprobe

Looking For Henry Turner

Mo Gold And Birdie Mysteries Book 1

W.L. Liberman

Copyright (C) 2016 W.L. Liberman

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Kat Kozbiel

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

1

Toronto 1960

Ying Hee Fong looked like an angel minus the wings. Whoever shot him did a good job. He couldn't have been deader if he'd lived then died again. Blood gushed from a jagged hole in his right temple, spilling into a sticky pool circling his head. He looked serene. Dark eyes stared into eternity, legs sprawled, arms thrown up over his shoulders. Just like a kid making angels in the snow. Except the snow melted, stripping bare the rotting garbage of a back alley in Chinatown.

Ying worked for John Fat Gai, a gambler and racketeer. John ran illegal poker games and craps in dingy rooms above chop suey joints and small food markets where, for a nickel, you could catch a disease and buy a rotting cabbage. Wherever you found a spare table, chairs, bootleg whiskey and suckers willing to throw their money away, the action never stopped. Ying dealt the cards, sometimes straight up. The dealers worked six shifts a week from 11 at night until six the following morning. They got Sundays off. None of them went to church. Like the others, Ying came off a boat owned by John who paid customs officials at Pier 21 in Halifax to look the other way. He arrived with a host of other bedraggled refugees toting a battered suitcase and not much else. His life and earnings belonged to John Fat Gai. Ying had made his deal but decided he couldn't live with it. We saw the result.

John found out Ying had been skimming the pot. Ying went into hiding; an impossibility in a city where dirty money counted, information came cheap and fear ruled above the law. In a city known as Toronto the Good.

Funny. I never seemed to see that side.

My kid brother, Eli, gambled, although calling what he did, gambling, never seemed right. He went to the card dens and lost all his money. Most of the games in town barred him because he liked to turn over tables and sock guys after some card shark cleaned him out. Lately, Eli had been playing in Chinatown. He owed John Fat Gai a wad of dough. Usually, when Eli found himself in trouble, he called on me to bail him out. Depending on the circumstances, I'd say yes or no.

This time, I didn't hesitate, knowing what would happen to Eli if he didn't have the scratch to pay the debt. Most guys who crossed John ended up dead. In the past year, six bodies had turned up. Four had come in as floaters, two in Lake Ontario, one in the Humber River and another in the Don River. The last two cadavers had missing ears, eyes and tongues. Another had been burnt to a crisp in a house fire. The sixth guy took a swan dive off the roof of the Imperial Theatre on Yonge Street. Landed on a brand new Ford Galaxie crushing the hood. All connected to John. Nothing proven. No arrests made. No witnesses. No one even chirped.

My partner, Birdie and I, paid a visit to John Fat Gai to see how we could straighten things out. I think he respected me. I almost arrested him once. He feared Birdie because of his size and volatile temperament. John told me and Birdie, in the nicest way, to find Ying pronto or we'd find parts of Eli's anatomy all over Chinatown. Ying had committed an unpardonable sin. He'd stolen from John. We found Ying. We just didn't count on him being dead.

“Think it was John?” Birdie's deep voice rumbled in his chest.

I shook my head and thought. The angel's wings lay still. “This doesn't look good for Eli,” I said.

“Maybe he needs to take a vacation, somewhere nice and quiet and out of the way,” Birdie replied.

I thought about that too.

“Better call Callaway.”

Birdie nodded, returned to his full height of six feet seven inches and strode to the phone booth on the corner. I'd worked with Callaway in homicide. I thought about families and how much trouble they caused. Mine had given me nothing but grief ever since I could remember.

2

“My God is the one true God,” Birdie said.

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, not troubling to glance up from the sports pages of the Toronto Telegram. The Argos had been sniffing around Russ Jackson, maybe signing him as the new quarterback. That would be a coup, for a change. A different kind of miracle.

I took a scant second to think about my own religious situation. It was tough being a Jew because the Jew was born with a stain on his soul. We carried a helluva burden being God's chosen people. I wouldn't wish it on anybody. All that pressure.

We lounged around the offices of Gold Investigations waiting for something to happen. That's me, Mo Gold and my associate, Arthur Birdwell, aka, Birdie. We had a walk-up over a hardware store on King Street west of Bathurst, south side. The sign said, Discretion Assured. I'd spent 10 years in the military and another 10 on the force before I decided I'd had enough of idiots telling me what to do.

Birdie smiled, opening his face to the grace of the early morning light. Around the wastebasket he'd littered crumpled balls of paper. Birdie considered himself to be a basketball maven, heir to the Harlem Globetrotters, so go figure. Couldn't dunk the low one.

“Because he is a merciful God, full of forgiveness.” He leaned his large frame toward me. “I may commit terrible sins every day of the week but come Sunday, I am washed away clean, ready to begin again.”

“Doesn't the church frown on committed sinners?”

I noticed that Dick Shatto, the team's best halfback, might be out for a few weeks with a hamstring pull.

The smile never wavered.

“Yes, that is true,” he replied. “But they never give up on us. There is always hope and as long as you have hope, there is the possibility of salvation.”

“Is that important to you? This idea of salvation?”

“Very important.” Birdie boomed. “How would I live with myself if I thought that some day I couldn't be saved, redeemed by God?”

“You think about this often?”

“All the time.”

“During the War?”

“Especially during the War. It was the War that helped me see the light.”

“But you didn't go to confession.”

Birdie shrugged his massive shoulders and leaned back in the wicker chair choking squeaks and groans out of it. He nodded. The stubble on the top of his scalp glistened. Occasionally, an island lilt murmured out of his speech.

“No, too busy killing Germans but I prayed and asked forgiveness before I shot the next Kraut bastard and when the priest came round finally, I didn't hold back.”

I laughed.

“You kept him in the confessional for an hour and a half. When you got out, there must have been 60 guys lined up behind you. Before the next guy in line could sing, I saw the priest sneak out the back and hit the latrine. You must have scared Jesus right out of him.”

Birdie guffawed with me.

“Those were special times,” he said.

“You got that right,” I said. I looked at Birdie and also thought about the fact that having a black man for a partner would get me lynched in Alabama. Torontonians had prejudice in them but they wore it differently. It came through veiled sneers and whispers not burning crosses and hangings.

Birdie and I met on a massive troop ship, The Grey Ghost, just after it steamed out of Halifax Harbour in May, 1940. Fortunately, it didn't get torpedoed. It carried us and 9998 other green stiffs heading for the war via a stopover in England. We bunked below the water line and none of the other rookies wanted to share the cubicle where we'd slung our hammocks. That was fine by me. Shit faces. All of them. I got my own back when I earned my stripes. I boxed in the military—middle weight—good way to let off steam and get your own back from guys who'd stiffed you one way or another.

A light tap rattled the door. I barked at it. After a moment, it creaked open and an elderly black woman poked her head in. She wore a Sunday bonnet, one with a tie under her sharp chin. Her cloth coat appeared worn but well looked after, carefully brushed. She had on her good shoes, the ones she'd wear to church. That's the feeling I had. She'd been praying recently.

“Mr. Gold?”

“That's me. Mrs?” I stood up to show her I had some manners.

“Turner. Aida Turner.” She glanced quickly at Birdie, then turned away and stared at the floor.

“My associate, Arthur Birdwell.” Birdie smiled at her. “Won't you sit down Mrs. Turner?” I offered.

She nodded without saying anything else, and positioned herself in the half-wingback chair I put out for clients. Birdie perched himself on the credenza beside me, swinging one leg that brushed the floor with the sole of his size 17 brown leather brogue.

“What can we do for you Mrs. Turner?” I asked.

“I want you to find my son. He's missing.”

“How long's he been gone?” I asked, lighting a Sweet Cap.

“Eight years,” she said.

I paused. “That's a long time. What about the cops?”

“They don't care. They told me he run off and he's gone for good,” she replied.

I nodded, taking in this bit of wisdom while I heard Birdie tsking under his breath. “They're probably right,” I said. “Listen, Mrs. Turner…we don't take missing persons cases…it's still a matter for the police.”

Her back stiffened and she glared at me. “I told you. They gave up–they don't want nothing to do with it and I got to know what happened to my Henry–he's all I got, all I live for…”

“Why now, Mrs. Turner? After all, it's been eight years.”

She nodded like she expected me to ask the question. She took a gulp of air and swallowed. “I've been poorly lately. Finally, I went to the doctor. They gave me some tests. Cancer, they said. I don't know how much time I got left and I want to see my son before I die. I want to know he's safe.”

Birdie shot me a look and I knew what it meant. I never liked it when he did that. It was his “God will reward us” look and I'd seen it plenty of times in Europe. Me and Birdie. Fish out of water in the Royal Scots Regiment. A Jew and a black man. I was 18 and Birdie was 20. We'd seen plenty and I owed him my life more times than I could count so when he gave me the look, I knew I was stuck.

I shuffled my feet, cleared my throat, scuffed my shoes, sighed and crushed the Sweet Cap into the ashtray. Birdie didn't have a desk and didn't want one. He liked the idea of me being the front guy. Would make people feel more comfortable, he said. Just looking at him made clients nervous.

“We get $250 a week, Mrs. Turner.”

She'd been off in her thoughts too but glanced up sharply at my voice.

“I've got a thousand dollars. Took me 10 years to save it but I got it and want to use it to find my Henry…” She fumbled in her plastic bag and I was thinking, what? A maid or a cleaner somewhere, working to save that kind of money, scrimping every week, putting a little bit by, knowing what she wanted to use it for. How could I say no to that? I didn't feel guilty about taking it, we had to eat too. Aida Turner pulled a wad of used, crumpled bills bound with an elastic band and slapped them down in front of me. I counted out $250 and handed the rest back to her.

“We'll get what's owed when we're done. One way or another. If I think we're getting nowhere after the first week, I'll tell you, Mrs. Turner. I won't string you along to take your money, okay?”

Aida Turner allowed herself a glimpse of a smile. “Okay. Thank you.” She glanced again at Birdie who gave her his most benign expression.

I basked in the glow of so much mutual admiration that I was tempted to light another Sweet Cap, but stopped myself and fidgeted with a pen instead.

“Ah, Mrs. Turner, tell me about your son, Henry. What happened to him? Tell me everything you can remember, tell me who his friends were, his known associates, tell me where he worked, where he liked to go in the evenings, any women he may have known, everything and anything; all right?”

Aida Turner nodded and handed over a photograph. A pose typical of high school graduation–blanket lighting, artificial smile–but I saw a handsome, young man, thin moustache penciled on his upper lip, nice teeth, sweet-looking brown eyes.

“That's my Henry when he was 18. He'd be 32 now.”

“Just fill in the details, please,” I said.

Aida Turner told her story: “My Henry graduated from Harbord Collegiate in 1946, he was a bright boy, full of ideas. He wanted to do well, and wasn't afraid of hard work, no sir, he would put his back to it, whatever it was. But he wanted to make a few dollars, settle in and have a family. His father died when Henry was just six and it was a terrible blow to him, losing his father at that age. He missed his father so. I tried my best but it wasn't the same. A boy needs his father, you know, to show him things, take him places. My Henry never had that but I did my best, I always tried as hard as I could. He could have gone to university if we had the money, but I just couldn't afford it. Henry didn't resent it, he wasn't angry or anything just knew he'd have to make it up himself. Henry worked as a stock boy at the supermarket for a while, then he went to work for the city as a cleaner, the wages were good and the hours weren't bad, sometimes, he'd be cleaning the parks and cemeteries. He liked outdoor work, felt it made him strong and healthy, he didn't like being cooped up inside. Then when he heard that the new subway was being built and the wages were good, he applied and got taken on. And that was fine until he had the accident and hurt his back, hurt it bad. He was in hospital for six weeks. After he got out, he couldn't work on the subway anymore, it was too hard so Henry got a job as a chauffeur for a wealthy family and that's when the trouble started.”

“What trouble is that?” I had been taking notes as she talked, trying to make sure I had all the pieces.

Aida Turner glanced downward and kept her head down.

“There was a daughter, younger than Henry. She was wild and carried on and Henry, he always thought the best of people. Then, in the spring of 1952–May the twelfth–Henry disappeared. They said he never showed up for work that day but I know that's not true. Something happened and no one will talk about it. They're hiding something. Been hiding it for eight years. I've got to know what happened to him. I need you to find him for me, Mr. Gold. Please. It's what I hope and pray for every day.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a hanky, gave it a mighty blow, snuffled a bit and stuffed it back in.

“Did Henry live at home?” I asked.

“Yes, he did.”

So, I was thinking, maybe a Mama's boy, maybe a little too repressed, a young man itching to bust out on his own get out from under her thumb. All of these thoughts ran through me but I didn't want to jump to any conclusions too quick.

“We'll need to see his room,” Birdie said in his deep, cavernous voice but gentle-like, he didn't want to startle her. Aida Turner looked at him, her eyes wide and lips tight but she nodded.

“Does this mean you are taking the case for certain?”

I nodded at her.

“I guess it does, yeah. I wouldn't have taken your money otherwise, Mrs. Turner. In the meantime, write out everything you can remember about what happened, okay? Give us a list of all his friends and associates and any contact information you've got. And leave us your address and phone number. When would be a good time to take a look?”

“This evening will be fine, if you like. I get home from work around seven. Here's the address and phone number. I'll prepare the list for you this evening.”

She picked up a pen from my desk and I slid a notepad across to her. She bent her head down concentrating on the writing. After several moments, she examined her work and set the pen down. I stood up and reached across the desk to shake her hand. Her strength surprised me, callused palm, sinewy fingers, hands that had done hard work for a long time. I could feel the broom and mop handles, sense the scrub brushes in those fingers.

“We'll see you this evening, Mrs. Turner, probably closer to eight o'clock, if that's all right.”

She released my hand and clasped her handbag as she stood.

“That'll be fine,” she said. “Goodbye.” She nodded at Birdie who acknowledged her, then tugged at the door and left. I heard her footsteps echoing in the hall fading down the corridor leading to the staircase. The door went and the outside bell jangled and then silence.

“I know,” I said. “Sucker for a sob story but you're worse than I am.”

Just as Birdie opened his mouth to answer, the bell from the street door jangled again. Birdie was about to stand up from his perch on the credenza but sat back down, while I remained behind the desk. We heard a clattering of high heels on the stairs, it grew louder in the corridor, then the door burst open. A pretty, young, blonde woman in an Oleg Cassini tailored suit, with matching hat and gloves and shoes carrying the tiniest square handbag, appeared, breathless and panting from climbing the two sets of stairs. She had an attractive heave to her bosom. I looked some more. She was a dish–long, golden tresses falling about her shoulders, red lipstick applied well, startling blue eyes and if the suit had been a little snugger, I could've traced every curve and nuance of her body.

“That woman…that woman who was just here…what did she want?”

The eyes grew larger as we greeted her with utter silence. A silence that egged her on.

“Tell me, do you hear? I demand to know….”

I stood up slowly. “Take a load off first. Miss…?”

She looked at me, then at Birdie, then back at me again. I could tell she liked the idea that she could get what she wanted whenever she wanted it. She made a growling sound deep in her throat but sat down in a huff.

“Mrs. Lawson. Mrs. Alison Lawson.”

The name seemed vaguely familiar and to appease her, I sat down too. Birdie remained where he was.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lawson,” I said. “And your interest in the lady is…?”

“I hate the way you don't finish your sentences. Didn't you graduate from school?”

Together, Birdie and I guffawed.

“I graduated from several schools of all different types, Mrs. Lawson.”

“I see,” she said rummaging around in the tiny bag, although hunting and pecking would be more accurate. A tigress on the prowl. She removed a cigarette case, unsnapped it and placed a Dunhill between her ruby lips. I leaned over with a light, which she took, and she stared at me from under some awfully long lashes.

“You were saying?” I said and snapped the lighter closed, dropping it into my jacket pocket.

“Mrs. Turner works for me as a housemaid, well actually, she works for my parents but you can see I have a direct interest in what she does.”

“Not if it's personal business, Mrs. Lawson,” Birdie boomed not sparing the resonance. She gave him a withering look but needless to say, he didn't melt or flinch.

“Everything Aida does is my business. Everything.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Lawson,” I said. “Was there anything else we can do for you?”

She drew heavily on the cigarette, blew a plume of smoke and nodded.

“Yes, I'd like to hire you.” I raised my eyebrows. “Things have gone missing lately, that's why I followed Aida. I suspect she might be the thief.”

“What sort of things?” I asked.

“Money, a watch, a charm bracelet, that sort of thing.”

“Valuable?”

“Well, the money was petty cash–a few dollars here and there, the watch and charm bracelet were given to me a long time ago and have sentimental value, their actual worth is minimal.”

“How many servants do you have on staff, Mrs. Lawson?”

“Seven.”

“How many live-in?”

“Just two–Aida and the cook. Aida has two evenings and Sundays off to go to church. She's a religious woman.”

“Has Mrs. Turner been in your employ long?”

“Forever. Since I was a little girl. After I married, I convinced my parents to let me take her along, part-time. She spends two days a week with my mother. My husband had no objections.”

“And yet you suspect her now, after all these years, of taking things of little real value?”

“I do.”

“Yet, given the number of staff you have and likely other service people who come and go, you have quite a few people moving through your house, do you not?”

“Certainly. I can't keep track of everyone and then I'm not always at home. I do have a life of my own.”

“Of course. I don't think we can help you, Mrs. Lawson. I suggest you call the police if you have some evidence and they will assist you free of charge,” I said.

She leaned forward in her chair, arching her back, then stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I don't want my husband to find out and we don't need the publicity. I want this done discreetly. I'll pay you a hundred dollars a day.”

I paused, letting that sink in.

“That's very generous of you, Mrs. Lawson but beyond our normal fee for this sort of thing and besides, we have a client already. Perhaps I can refer you to someone else?”

“So, that's it.”

“Pardon?”

“Her money is good but mine isn't?” She stood up abruptly. “You're making a big mistake. More than you'll ever know.” Alison Lawson turned on her sharp, expensive heels and without glancing back, stalked out leaving the office door open. We heard her beating a tough, fast rhythm on the stairs.

Birdie raised his eyebrows at me. All I could do was shrug. A nutcase. We get them all the time. Most aren't as attractive as Alison Lawson, however.

3

John Fat Gai slurped noodles in his restaurant of the same name–Fat Gai's. Bang on the corner of Spadina and Dundas, prime real estate in Chinatown. Most people didn't know that Toronto had the largest Oriental population outside of mainland China. You think San Francisco has a thriving Chinatown? Forget it. Nothing compared to Toronto. All of this played right into John Fat Gai's hands, of course. More shopkeepers to buy his protection racket. More marks for his gambling tables. More addicts for the dope he peddled and the girls he pimped. Nothing but a sweet guy all in all. John the warlord with Chinatown as his kingdom.

John occupied the corner booth at the back. He sat facing the door so he could monitor who came in and who went out. A mirror hanging on the opposite wall helped him observe the foot traffic but it had been set at an angle so he didn't look into it directly. That was bad luck. I'd thrown a chair through it once but that was another story. Also bad luck.

Birdie and I pushed our way in. John's cronies sat packed around two wooden tables, laden with food. I spotted barbecued pork spare ribs, kung pao chicken and Shanghai noodles. The aroma hit me and my mouth watered. The high-pitched conversations halted mid-screech as we stepped inside. John's goons wore snap-brim fedoras, padded jackets and high-waist, pleated trousers with snaps. Each man wore a shoulder holster and filled it with their weapon of choice, a nickel-plated .45 pistol. A dozen pairs of hostile eyes turned in our direction.

Just as a precaution, I packed my service piece. Birdie packed two, one under each arm and he kept a snub .38 down his right sock. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some legit patrons scurry away. Birdie scorched the room with his fiercest glare. John sat back in the leatherette booth eating calmly, set down his chop sticks, and sipped some green tea, all without looking up. My gaze flitted between the tables of silent gunmen and John, then back to the gunmen.

“Smells good in here,” I said.

John smiled. Suddenly, everyone smiled. John beckoned and the animation returned. The gunmen continued attacking the platters in front of them.

“I certainly wouldn't mind some chop suey,” Birdie said.

“We're not here to eat.”

“Well, we could shoot somebody and then eat if that will make you feel better.”

I paused and turned to him. “It might,” I replied.

John sat there with an amused look on his face.

“Ah so, venerable gentleman. To what do I owe dis pleasure?” he trilled.

“Cut it out, John,” I replied and Birdie tssked again.

John threw his head back and laughed. He had a slender throat, a clean-cut jaw and a clean upper lip. Unlike his gang, he remained bare-headed, his lank hair parted in the middle falling foppishly over the tops of his ears.

“Sorry,” he said in the well-modulated tone of a BBC announcer. “Just my little joke.” He'd grown up in London learning the family trade. After he'd gotten into a little trouble bribing some customs agents, John had been deported. He came to Toronto to settle and established a string of enterprises including this thriving restaurant.

John moved opium through a warren of warehouses all along the docklands. None of this proven, of course. He'd never been charged with anything serious, never had anything stick. John traced his lineage back to the Sung Dynasty around 1100 A.D., marking the rise of the merchant class in cities spread out across China. With the rise of the merchant class, greed, avarice and crime became engendered. In a way, John came by his criminality honestly.

I knew John to be a contented killer with an obsessive interest in spirituality. He believed in ghosts and evil demons frightened him. He wore a jade dragon pendant around his neck as a talisman. He carried a ring of jade coins to symbolize good fortune.

On the table in front of him, he spread out a handful of playing cards, all eights from each of the suits. Eight meant good luck. Festooned inside his house he'd planted bamboo, another means to ward off evil intentions. Each common room had aquariums stocked with fish as fish represented the means to overcome barriers in life. He ate peaches every day imported through his own trading company. The peach symbolized longevity and immortality.

I'd heard rumours that he slept with lights ablaze to deter the spirits from attacking him. He carried firecrackers in his pockets to ward them off. Every night, flares were lit outside his house. His guards patrolled the halls, corridors and elaborate grounds carrying burlap torches soaked in kerosene. I pictured them tripping and setting the joint on fire. Chinese hellfire. I'd bring the weenies and marshmallows. I think that's why Birdie spooked him. John thought Birdie represented a demon that had his number. We did nothing to discourage that notion.

Birdie and I slid into the booth opposite him. The goons moved to squeeze in beside us when Birdie gave them a look. They hesitated, looked at John, who, with that amused look, nodded slightly and they backed off. Then he barked something in Mandarin and the two disappeared.

“Ying's dead,” I said.

“I know,” John replied.

I took out a pack of Sweet Caps and offered them to John. He looked down and flinched. Only four in the pack. Four–symbol of death in Chinese culture. He shook his head curtly. I put the pack away without taking one out.

A waiter set a tin pot of green tea before us, ceramic cups flipped over and steaming liquid poured out. I picked up the cup and sipped. Birdie took one sip and sucked the cup dry. Less than twenty seconds later, a plate of spring rolls appeared and some pork dumplings.

“Please,” John said. “You are my guests.” He scooped up the eights and slid them into his pocket.

We dug in. Had to admit the food was good–fresh and hot. Birdie could have downed the contents of each platter himself. Keeping him fed had been a problem in the Army. He lost over 50 pounds and always complained about being hungry. Never enough rations on hand.

“I don't like being used, John. Neither of us do.”

John accepted this comment silently. If we'd been Chinese and had said this to him, he'd have had our throats slit and bodies dumped in the harbour.

“I understand,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I didn't kill Ying.”

I went for a spring roll. It crunched nicely between my molars.

Birdie shoveled three dumplings into his mouth.

“Why not?”

The two men hovering near by tensed, one muttered something I took to be a profanity but John shushed them with a gesture.

“Simple,” John replied. “He took a great deal of my money and I want it back. If I was going to have him killed, the money had to be recovered first. It is still missing. I had every reason to keep him alive you see. As did you,” he said to me. “This is a most unfortunate occurrence for your brother, unless you can pay his debt, of course.”

I digested this along with the spring rolls. John wanted his cash, all of it. “Any ideas?”

John shrugged. “That is your business. For your brother's sake, I hope you come up with a solution quickly.”

“You don't want to go to war with us, John,” I said and held up four fingers.

“Agreed,” he replied amiably but glanced at Birdie nervously and worried the dragon pendant. “Better for all of us if you find the money.”

“How much is missing?” Birdie asked, pouring out more tea for the two of us.

John shifted in his seat, then drummed his slender fingers on the table. He drummed each hand ten times. I nodded.

“Okay, John. We'll keep looking.”

Birdie grabbed the last two dumplings and spring roll, and downed another cup of green tea. We eased out of the booth. As we stood up, the tables of henchmen went silent. I nodded to John. “I'll let you know if we find out anything.”

John smiled coldly. “Don't make me wait too long.”

As we pushed through the tables and chairs and the inert, watchful bodies, John kept watch in the mirror. He spread the eights back on the table.

4

Aida Turner kept a two-bedroom flat on Symington Avenue not far from the Junction, a run-down crossroads of industrial wasteland mixed with dilapidated residences, a stone's throw from the barren emptiness of the railway lands. Earlier waves of immigration brought Ukrainians, Macedonians, Croatians, Serbs and Poles looking for a better life.

This section of the city had never seen good times. The bosses of the foundries, the mills and the wire factories liked to keep their workers close by. They felt they could get more out of them that way and they did, working them to death on land polluted with lead and iron. The stench from the tanning factories and meat packing plants lay like a thick, sour slab. Home to the largest stockyards in the country and I swore I could hear the cattle lowing in fear just as they were being slaughtered.

Fifty years ago, the district had such a serious drinking problem with the workingmen flooding the bars and taverns after their shifts that it voted to go dry after Prohibition. It remained dry ever since. The bars closed and Methodist churches took their place scraping some respectability out of the industrial waste that had been left behind.

Aida Turner's flat occupied the main floor of a row house at 263 Symington, above Bloor Street but below Dupont Avenue, light years away from Mrs. Lawson's residence, I guessed. At seven-thirty that evening, we paid her a visit. The flat looked small but cozy. She kept it spick and span. A chain-link fence and a well-oiled gate led to a recently swept walk up to the front door. The flat had a decent-sized living room and a faux fireplace, a working kitchen with fitted appliances, a threadbare but clean and well-maintained carpet in the living room, two small bedrooms at the back, the larger of the two was clearly Henry's. It overlooked a small garden. Compact, but neat, the grass raked, flower beds clean where roses and hydrangeas bloomed, a large sunflower perched on either side of the bed with some hosta filling in the blanks. A tiny oasis surrounded by rotting vegetation. I nodded my approval.

“Nice garden.” I stood in her kitchen gazing out the back window. “I like a bit of gardening myself, find it relaxing, eases the strain of the day.”

“Do you get many stressful days, Mr. Gold?”

I looked at her and smiled, like she was telling me that the stress of losing her son could not be equaled. “I've had my share—we both have–depends what's on the burner, if you know what I mean, Mrs. Turner.”

“Or who,” Birdie said and he gave me a look that told me what he was thinking. I knew because I thought the same thing–my father, a notorious gunsel and thief, currently incarcerated in the Don Jail. The old man had been a blight on my life ever since I could think. Ever since I had a conscious memory and that would make me maybe four or five years old. This time he'd been done for manslaughter and it looked like a life stretch. If he ever got out, he'd be old and decrepit.

“May we see Henry's room, please?”

She rose stiffly from the hard backed chair in which she'd been sitting. “It's through here.”

Henry's room mirrored the rest of the place, neat and orderly. His clothes hung tidily in the closet, dresser drawers filled to the brim, two pairs of shoes, one brown, one black, perfectly polished and placed heel-to-toe on a rack. A high school yearbook lay on the side table. I took in photos of Henry in his football and track uniforms.

“He fit in there, Mrs. Turner?” I held up the yearbook.

She looked wistful for a moment. “Oh yes. Henry was always popular in school, he had a lot of friends and not all of them was colored neither. It just didn't seem to matter when it came to Henry, he was friendly with everybody.”

“What were his prospects?”

“Like I told you, he always worked after school and after he finished, he didn't have any trouble finding jobs.”

“Then he started working as a chauffeur for the Foster family…” Mrs. Turner nodded. I set the yearbook back on the dresser careful not to disturb any of the photographs or trophies. Two for track and field I noticed, so Henry had been a talented runner. “Do you work for a Mrs. Lawson presently?”

“I do,” she replied. “And her parents too.”

“Have you noticed anything going missing in the household? Nothing too valuable, knick knacks and such.”

“No, I haven't noticed anything missing, Mr. Gold. Why do you ask me?”

I described the scene after she left the office. Aida Turner opened her eyes wide and then swallowed hard.

“I should have told you this but Mrs. Lawson is Alison Foster, the girl that Henry was supposed to be driving when he disappeared.”

That got my attention. “You shouldn't have held back on that, Mrs. Turner.” “I was going to say–it was, just–hard for me to get the words out.”

“Why you still working for those people?” Birdie demanded.

Aida turned to him, imploring. “I might learn something, something that will tell me about Henry and where he is.” Aida Turner shook her head and tears squeezed out of her eyes. “I'm willing to do anything to get my Henry back, Mr. Gold, even if it means working in that house until the rest of my days.”

“Okay, Mrs. Turner. We'll need that list of names if you've got it.”

While Aida Turner went into the living room to write out the list, Birdie and I poked around in Henry's room. I heard a distant knock on the front door, it opened and there came the murmur of voices, female voices. Company.

Birdie pulled out a dresser drawer. “Didn't take much stuff with him. These drawers are full.”

I stopped. “You thinking that, maybe, he thought he wasn't going too far or for too long?”

“Well, if I was fixing to take off, I'd want my stuff with me, my good clothes. I wouldn't leave all this behind unless I be coming back.”

I grinned. “Good point, Sherlock. Maybe something took young Henry by surprise, something he wasn't expecting.”

We continued to search methodically but found nothing of consequence, no diary, no letters, no notes, no indication of his innermost thoughts. A few record albums–Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Satchmo–seemed like our boy Henry was a jazz fan. Birdie stared at the records. And I found a copy of Ralph Ellison's, The Invisible Man. I had read it but wondered what attracted Henry to it. The copy was dog-eared. I slipped the book into my pocket. Jazz and Ellison. Interesting.

“How many jazz clubs in town?” I asked. Big band was more my thing. I liked classical, opera and rockabilly too but I could never really dig jazz.

Birdie shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Only five or six good ones,” he said with regret.

Downstairs, Aida Turner worked on the list and read it over. She perched on the sofa. A young black woman sat beside her. She gave me a hostile glare and fired another one, even hotter, at Birdie. We each took a chair.

“I write slow,” she apologized. “This is my niece, Adele Rosewell.”

“Miss Rosewell.” Miss Rosewell didn't answer at first. She wallowed in anger or resentment.

She spoke in a well-modulated tone. “I told my auntie this is a crazy idea, hiring the likes of you.”

“Adele.” Aida Turner looked alarmed.

“I take it you don't approve?” I asked.

“That is the understatement of the decade, Mr–whatever your name is.”

“Gold. Mo Gold. And my associate, Arthur Birdwell but call him, Birdie.”

I said, “Do you have any idea where your cousin might be, Miss Rosewell?”

“Of course I don't,” she said.

“Then what do you suggest? Don't you want to know what happened to Henry?”

She pressed her lips together.

“Naturally, I do. I just don't have the confidence that you or your associate, Mr. Bird Brain, can put my auntie's mind to rest.”

I stood up and Birdie stood up with me. “Well, Miss Rosewell. That's fine. We'll happily return the dough Mrs. Turner gave us and be on our way.”

Her expression changed, clouded. She hadn't expected it to be so easy.

Aida Turner had put down her pen. “Now Adele, I know you mean well but this is my business. I need to know what happened to Henry. And I think these gentlemen can find out for me. Goodness knows, the police haven't done anything these past eight years, now have they?”

“I don't want to see you get hurt,” Adele replied.

“I've already been hurt,” Aida Turner said. “There's nothing much more can hurt me now. I need the truth. That's the only thing that can help and if these men can deliver it, then it's worth double the price. Triple even.” The pen resumed its scratching. “I'm sure these gentlemen would like a cup of tea, wouldn't you?”

“That would be swell, thank you.” I liked a cup early in the evening. Reminded me of when I was a kid, before the rough times.

Adele rose from her perch stiffly, threw out another minesweeper of a glare. “Very well.”

Then moved purposefully into the tiny kitchen. I took a look. Nice figure. Conservative skirt and jacket, well-cut. Sensible shoes with a bit of a heel. Muscular but nicely shaped calves. The rattling of crockery took on a shrill tone.

“Don't mind her,” Aida Turner said. “She's just looking out for me. She and Henry were close. Adele has a good job. Works in a bank downtown. Graduated from university too.”

“Maybe I should apply for a loan,” I said.

“Now you,” Aida Turner admonished.

“Mrs. Turner, did Henry keep a diary or ever write letters to anyone, have a notebook maybe?”

She looked at me sadly.

“No, not that I know of. Henry wasn't much for writing, he knew how to write, don't get me wrong but he just didn't express himself much, if you know what I mean.”

“Quiet sort?”

“Sometimes,” she replied. “But when he was happy, the words flew out of his mouth.”

“And was he happy those last few days,” I asked her.

Aida bit her lip, then shook her head.

“It's too far back,” she said, “and so close.”

“We need your help, Mrs. Turner. Was something bothering Henry those last few days?”

“I asked him what was wrong but he wouldn't say anything. Just smiled and put his arm around my shoulder and said not to worry, that everything would be fine.” She buried her face in her hands. “I should have made him tell me but you can't make a grown man do anything he doesn't want to do. It was hard enough when he was six or seven but then, in the end I couldn't do anything to get him to tell me what was wrong.”

“Don't blame yourself, Mrs. Turner,” I said. “We'll find out for you.”

Adele Rosewell brought in a tray stacked with tea things. I went over to help her but she ignored me. The tray thumped down and the crockery jumped. Some tea slurped out of the pot. Aida Turner suppressed a sad smile.

“How do you take it, Mr. Gold?” Adele asked.

“Just as it is–no sugar.”

“And you?” she asked Birdie.

“White,” he said. “Extra white.” That got him a glare.

We all sat there awkwardly and sipped for a moment.

I held up the dog-eared copy of The Invisible Man. “Ever see this book before?”

“I know it was in Henry's room,” Mrs. Turner replied

“Ever read it?”

“I'm not much for reading, Mr. Gold, except for the bible, of course.”

“I read it,” Adele said.

“And?”

“It's a masterpiece. I think he's a genius.”

“So do I.” Adele's eyes widened. She softened for a moment then caught herself and lowered her face into the teacup.

“Mind if I keep it?” I asked Aida Turner.

“No, I don't mind.”

I knew what I wanted to say and I hated the thought of saying it.

“Mrs. Turner–I'd be derelict if I didn't mention this and I'm sorry to have to say it. But we,” and I glanced at Birdie who frowned, “believe the likelihood is that something happened to your son and he's dead. I can't think of another way to put it.”

She surprised me.

“Oh, Henry isn't dead, Mr. Gold. I'm sure of it.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

She stood up. “I'll show you.”

She moved like a woman with aches and pains but too proud to let them show. We heard her rummaging around in a closet. She returned holding a large, beat-up box. She set the box down on the coffee table.

“He leaves me things,” she said with a smile.

“What sort of things?” Birdie asked her.

Aida reached into the box and pulled out some objects–a small doll without a head, a white rose made out of cloth, looked like it had been snipped from a dress or an ornamental pillow, fragments of letters, a pair of dice, a piece of copper wire.

“Where did you find these objects?”

“Why, outside my front door.”

“How do you know they were from Henry?”

“I just know,” she replied. “These things have some kind of meaning but I haven't been able to figure out what yet. I found two of them on my birthday.” Adele Rosewell looked embarrassed but held her tongue. I could see she thought her aunt had lost touch with reality.

I examined each object carefully, then set it back in the box. With due respect for their preciousness.

“Thank you Mrs. Turner.” I stood up. Birdie rose. “We'll keep you informed of our progress. Thank you for the tea. It was nice meeting you, Miss Rosewell.”

Adele Rosewell nodded curtly but didn't say, likewise. Her mouth pinched tight as if she bit her tongue. I expected to see blood any second.

Aida Turner shook each of our hands firmly but imbued with an indescribable sadness. I loved and hated my work. The hope I saw in Aida's Turner face caused me pain and it would make me sick at heart to disappoint her. In my experience, however, disappointment was an all too common occurrence. But I thought, maybe this time it would be different. People didn't come to us because they were happy or even hopeful. Usually, they were scared or angry and needed to be doing something because doing nothing just wouldn't work for them. I knew it wouldn't work for me. Aida Turner's love for her son now became my burden, mine and Birdie's. I couldn't wait to get it off my back.

As we left the flat, the presence of Adele Rosewell stayed with me, even though I didn't want it to. Maybe the fear, even revulsion I saw in her eyes, the disapproval on her face, the hard lines of a sensual mouth, moved me. Birdie had already forgotten her but I couldn't shake her from my mind.

5

Birdie and I had some legwork to do, catching up with people, following a trail over eight years old. We stirred dead ashes in the grate of a fire that burned out long ago.

Holding Aida Turner's list, I got in the passenger side of the Chevy Biscayne, white paint job, red leather interior–a large, comfortable car with enough under the hood to keep me happy. Birdie slid in behind the wheel then fired the ignition. The Invisible Man pressed against my kidney.

I looked over the list that Aida Turner had written out so carefully in her neat hand and then took another peek at the graduation photo. The hint of a smile touched on Henry Turner's handsome face, an earnest expression, honest and sincere, almost guileless. I noted the strong jaw, the even white teeth–a good-looking kid and I thought about the young Alison Foster and her influence on him. Maybe she'd been one of those good-hearted souls who was color-blind and saw only a person's inner qualities? Maybe. But that wasn't the brash sex-bomb who'd sashayed into my office.

“Time to pay Mrs. Lawson a visit,” I said.

“Now you're talkin'. Let's rattle her manicure.” Birdie guffawed loud enough to make me roll the window down. After he subsided, he added, “Man, there's a lot going on there.”

I had to agree.

Birdie pulled around the back of our building sluicing through the alleyway. There might have been two inches of clearance on either side. If you parked here, you had to have a ragtop or else, shinny out the window. Neither of us had put a nick on the Chevy yet and I wanted to keep it that way. Two parking bays sat between a dumpster and a rod iron staircase. I used my key on the back door and we pounded the stairs. We found visitors waiting for us on the landing outside the door, still rattling the knob.

“Hey,” I said. “You'll crack the glass if you shake it any harder and it'll cost you eight bucks to have it fixed.”

Detective Sergeant Roy Mason straightened up, frowned, and dropped his bony hand to his side. Inspector Harry Callaway snorted. He chewed on a toothpick, something he did regularly, ever since his wife forced him to give up cigars. Callaway was a large, smooth Irishman, with graying hair slicked back from his forehead, a lantern jaw and cold, blue eyes. He wore a grey suit to match his hair and fiddled with a grey fedora in his right hand, rotating it along the brim through his thick fingers. Roy Mason stood tall and skinny in a caved-in way. A taciturn man given to sniggering. I couldn't stand Mason, considered him to be the worst kind of cop. A prick who stepped on the face of the next guy to make himself look good. But Callaway was okay.

“Allow me,” I said, shaking out a bunch of keys and fitted one into the lock. Callaway dropped into the half-wingback while Mason lounged in the corner watching. “What are you having?” I asked.

“The usual,” Callaway replied.

I poured the two of us a belt of Canadian Club each. Birdie didn't drink much and I wouldn't give Mason spit if my life depended on it. We clinked water glasses.

“Slan,” Callaway said.

“L'chaim,” I replied.

Callaway hesitated, then took a sip of the Scotch. I sat behind the desk, Birdie rested in his usual spot on the credenza and swung his leg in a long arc. I could see it annoyed Mason to no end. I shook out a Sweet Cap, snapped my lighter and took a long drag.

Callaway ran a stubby forefinger around the glass rim. “Had a call,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Good for you.”

Callaway ignored me.

“A guy named, Lawson. Some big shot industrialist. He complained to me loud and long about the treatment of his wife by one Mo Gold. Wanted me to throw the book at you. I told him you hadn't broken any laws recently but since we were acquainted I'd have a quiet word. That seemed to pacify him for the moment. And that's why I'm here. So, humor me, Gold, and tell me a story, one that I'll like, all right?”

I laughed. “This is getting comical.”

“Put me in the joke,” Callaway replied and Mason sniggered. I shot him a look and he stopped.

“Mrs. Lawson,” I began. “Young, beautiful, sexy, born rich, married rich and trouble from the tips of her toes to the tip of her nose and all those curves in-between. If I were her husband, I'd be on the floor barking if she blinked at me.”

“Well,” Callaway drawled. “Maybe that's just you.” Birdie guffawed.

“Maybe.”

So I filled him and Mason in on what happened, more or less. Told him I'd refused Alison Lawson's dough and that put the peeve into her and she must have run to hubby and complained about how rude I'd been when I'd been very polite, excessively polite in my opinion.

“She just doesn't like to hear the word “no,” I said. “Probably the last time was when she threw Pablum at her nanny during snack time.”

Callaway rolled more of my Scotch around his tongue.

“Think there's any proof to the pilfering beef?”

“Not a chance. I told her it was a matter for the police. She said they didn't want the unnecessary publicity and also didn't want her husband to be bothered with this. Said she wanted it to be handled discreetly. Offered us a hundred a day.”

Callaway whistled. “That's pretty good scratch.”

“We can't be bought. We have our principles, don't we Birdie?”

“I was thinking about a new suit I saw in the window of George Richards,” Birdie boomed.

“There you go,” I said. “We're incorruptible. Besides, I didn't like her attitude. So what are you going to tell the husband?”

Callaway yawned.

“Nothing to tell. I told him I'd look into it and that's what I did. End of story. I don't care for these big shots, either. They piss me off to tell the truth.” Callaway glanced up at Mason, who, studiously, examined the hair on his skinny knuckles. Callaway cleared his throat and stood up reaching for the door. “What's this I hear about a stiff in Chinatown?”

“We tried calling you,” Birdie said. “But you were off-duty.”

“He was a card dealer, wasn't he?”

“That's right. Ying Hee Fong,” I replied.

Callaway chewed his lip. “You guys found him?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“John Fat Gai was looking for him–said he was skimming the take from his table.”

“That so?” Callaway chewed the toothpick for a while, then looked at Mason. “Roy, step out for a moment. I need a quiet word with these two.”

Mason looked surprised and hurt but covered it fast. “But…” Callaway jerked his head, then turned away from him.

Mason left reluctantly pulling the door closed behind him, none too gently.

“The walls have ears,” Callaway said. “You guys working for John Fat Gai?”

“He asked us to find Ying, that's all. And we did,” I replied. I decided to keep my brother out of the picture for now.

“You kill him?” Callaway's voice went low, descending into a husky whisper.

I sighed, sat back in my chair and stubbed out the Sweet Cap.

“I'm surprised you'd ask me a question like that. You know me better. That's the way we found him. He was dead in the alley, all right?”

Callaway nodded and examined his fingernails for a while.

“He was one of my guys.”

“What? A cop?”

Callaway shook his head. “A snitch. He was giving us good info on John Fat Gai's operations. There's at least half a dozen murders we figure John is good for.”

“That's all? I think you're miscounting,” I said.

Callaway slammed his meaty palm on my desk.

“We were making good progress until this. Now it's all gone to shit. Someone fingered Ying to John. Then he hires you two to find Ying? Ach…” And he swiped at the air raising a breeze. “It all stinks.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I glanced at Birdie who'd remained stridently impassive. “What're you gonna do about it?”

Callaway glanced up at me sharply.

“That's just it, to the department, Ying's just another dead Chink in Chinatown. I kept this one to myself, no one else knew and he still took two slugs in the head.”

“Maybe you talk in your sleep?”

Callaway smiled ruefully. “Yeah, maybe. You guys hear anything, I want to know about it first.”

“Sure, sure, you got it, Callaway.”

“Why you working for that gangster anyway?” Callaway asked.

I shrugged. “It's a job, nothing more, nothing less.”

Callaway snorted. “I thought you had some scruples, Mo, what happened to 'em?”

“Well, it beats going hungry.”

“Sure,” Callaway replied but I heard the disappointment in his voice.

I looked over at Birdie who studied the polish on his shoe tops.

“Anything else?”

Callaway said, “The way I hear it, you'd be hard pressed to collect anything from John Fat Gai. Most of his associates end up dead.”

“Funny,” I said. “I heard the same thing but somehow I think John will come across for us. He likes us. We get along swell. Besides, we've got strong survival instincts and what with God on our side, well…” I shrugged.

“Sure you do,” Callaway said. “If you find out anything interesting about John that you think I should know, you can reach me any time. I'll always take your call.”

“We work odd hours.”

Callaway glanced at his watch, it was going on ten p.m. Neither Birdie nor I made a move. “No kidding.”

He sat back for a moment, grinding his teeth with gusto.

“This Mrs. Turner. She on the level?” he asked.

I said, “Why would she start to steal after all these years? And then, take items of little or no value? Doesn't add up.”

The Irishman nodded. “I'm with you but still, I've got to take it seriously when we get a complaint from a prominent citizen.”

“I understand completely,” I said, thinking the Super must be breathing down his neck pretty hard. “We're gonna have to talk to Mrs. Lawson, just so you know.”

“I ain't responsible for you,” he said to me. “Or you,” and swiveled toward Birdie who smiled at him.

“That's the last thing I want,” Birdie said. “I report to me and to God, no one else.”

Callaway rolled his eyes. “Where'd you get him, anyway?”

“I didn't–he got me–some foxhole in Holland I think it was. We had a few bodies piled up around us.”

“Oh yeah, that. I forgot.”

Callaway pushed himself out of the chair, stared nostalgically at the empty tumbler for a moment, then put on his fedora. Callaway had been in the Navy, a lieutenant commander and flew Corsairs. He had that roll when he walked as if the deck still heaved beneath him. At the door, he paused. “Remember, you find out anything about Ying, you let me know.”

“Of course,” I said.

“God bless,” Birdie intoned and Callaway shot him a funny look. Then I shot Birdie a funny look but he remained oblivious.

After Callaway pulled the door behind him, I turned to Birdie. “Let's start with Aida's list. We can tackle Mrs. Lawson later. She's not going anywhere.”

“What about Ying?”

“We'll start with his digs, see what we can find.”

Birdie rose to his full height and gave me an evil grin.

“I haven't been to confession in a while. It's time to do something that might make me feel a little bit guilty.”

“Time for Eli to take a little trip. Lay low until this mess blows over,” I said.

“Think he'll take much convincing?”

“Leave it to me. C'mon, I'll drop you on the way.”

6