A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  I took a deep breath and decided to wipe the slate clean and make a new start to the day. It couldn’t be any worse than my first try. I peeled off my old duds as I headed for the bathroom.

  I was buttoning a clean shirt when the phone rang. Another damn reporter, I thought, possibly my Uncle Scotty at the Spec. Or maybe it was Frank.

  It was neither.

  “It’s Isabel, Max. Are you feeling any better? You seemed annoyed with me when we spoke earlier.”

  “I’m fine now. And I apologize for being abrupt with you before.”

  I heard a sigh on the line before she spoke. “I should know by now that when you feel under pressure you just grit your teeth and carry on. It’s not a bad trait, Max, but sometimes it scares me. You’re not Superman, you know. I still think it would do you a world of good to rest up for a day or two.”

  I was touched by her concern for me. She was right, of course; I’d always tried to handle a difficult situation head-on and damn the torpedoes – it was the only way I knew. But now, if I wanted to share a life with Isabel and even raise a family with her, maybe I’d have to be more selective with the cases I chose to work on.

  I wanted Iz – hell, I desperately needed her in my life. But I couldn’t resist that deep-seated urge that compelled me to fight against the injustices which surrounded us: those greedy businessmen exploiting their workers, the crooked politicians who lined their pockets with taxpayers’ money, and especially those mobsters who routinely defied the law and maimed or killed anyone who stood in their way. The kind of people who left other people dead on the doorsteps of law-abiding citizens.

  But was it possible to have both? I knew I had to try.

  “I agree with you, Iz, I’m not Superman. Hell’s bells, I doubt if I could leap a dog house in a single bound, let alone a tall building. I’m going to take it easy today, as you suggested. And … thanks for checking up on me.”

  At suppertime, after a long day of jittery nerves, I was opening a can of McGinty’s Irish Stew when I heard a loud thwack as something banged against my front door.

  Alarm bells clanged in my head and my stomach muscles clamped tight. Tedesco wouldn’t hit me again, would he? Not twice in one day.

  I peeked out the living room window toward the porch.

  Nobody in sight.

  Standing to the side of the door, I turned the knob and kicked it open.

  No one.

  I scanned the street; the coast was clear.

  Then I noticed the Home edition of The Hamilton Spectator lodged in a shrub beside the step and I figured the paperboy must have ricocheted it off the door. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I didn’t see the carrier nearby so I was denied the satisfaction of giving the kid hell. I recovered the newspaper, locked the door and sat at the kitchen table where I pushed the half-opened can of stew aside and unfolded the paper with some trepidation.

  There it was on the front page: a four-column photo of a dazed man in rumpled clothes. His disheveled hair was long and shaggy, his unshaven face contorted in an angry scowl. And beneath the photo in bold type:

  Local detective finds body instead of milk delivery

  The story was short on details: a few facts about Bernie, his age, his address and an oblique reference to his possible occupation. “Mr. Fiore’s brother, Niccolo, a long-time member of Hamilton’s underworld, is currently in the Barton Street Jail, charged with the murder of Controller George Harris of this city.”

  Max Dexter was quoted as saying, “I have nothing to say.”

  Poop. This wasn’t the kind of publicity my new business needed.

  The telephone rang again. I pushed back my chair and crossed the room to where the phone hung on the wall. When I grabbed the receiver I heard Frank crowing, “Is that Mr. Photogenic?”

  I groaned.

  “That picture’s a real humdinger, Maxie. I bet you could run for ‘Hobo of the Year’.”

  “You’re a true friend, Frank. Making me feel a whole lot better.”

  He cleared his throat in a series of short coughs; something he did when he felt uncertain or uneasy, and sometimes when he realized he was being a horse’s ass. “You’re right. I guess I shouldn’t be laughing, but that photo’s a lulu.”

  “You’ve got some news about Bernie’s murder?”

  “No, I just wanted to know how you’re doing. You still sound a bit jumpy.”

  “Well, it’s been that kind of day, hasn’t it? It started out with a bang and didn’t get any better. But thanks for sending that car around. I felt relieved when I saw the guy stationed down the street.”

  He paused a long moment. “Listen … I wasn’t able to send the car yet.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What the –?”

  “Hang on. Don’t get your knickers in a knot. I just spoke with the sergeant in charge of the Radio Room and he told me there’ll be a guy out front in 20 minutes.”

  I held myself in check – that watcher I saw parked down the street hadn’t made a move on me yet and I doubted he would in the next 20 minutes. So I shut my gob and didn’t bitch about the delay; no point in jeopardizing the provision of a free bodyguard.

  “That’s swell, Frank. I should be okay until your man gets here.”

  I’d forgotten to turn the stove on and the bowls were all dirty, so I ate my stew cold from the pot. Isabel called again, and I reassured her with more confidence than I felt. The day wasn’t going to get any better so I added the dirty pot and bowl to the pile in the sink and peeked through the front window for that police car, but didn’t see it. I went to bed.

  But before I slid under the covers, I retrieved my father’s .32 Colt revolver from the closet and set it on the bedside table. It wouldn’t hurt to be prepared in case uninvited visitors decided to pay me a late-night call.

  When I closed my eyes I envisioned Dominic Tedesco smirking at my mother while he stood over the bloodied body of Bernie Fiore on my back porch. “Hamilton is my show,” he told her, “and if you don’t keep your goddamn kid from nosing into my business, he’ll end up just like this dumb bugger.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I awoke to the Royal Oak Dairy guy rattling his bottles in their metal carrier and for a few nerve-tingling seconds the image of Bernie Fiore’s lifeless body held me in its grasp once more. I felt my way to the kitchen door and out to the milk-box – a quart of milk. No bodies. And judging by the milkman’s footprints, about an inch of powdery snow had fallen overnight, which might’ve delayed him on his rounds this morning.

  It was already 0830 as I slurped down my Grape-Nuts Flakes while standing at the sink. Last night hadn’t been a night of rest – mean, muscle-bound kids from my old neighbourhood ganged up on me after school, chasing and beating me with baseball bats. Later, a couple of German soldiers took turns torturing me in a French farmhouse. Then Tedesco’s troops dangled me from the Tivoli’s marquee, using my body for target practice. And above this tableau my mother was orchestrating my suffering like a conductor from hell. Even though I was exhausted, I was grateful to get out of bed when I opened my eyes to sunlight on my bedroom walls.

  I called my friend Dave at Veterans’ Cab to pick me up and 10 minutes later I heard him tap his horn when he pulled up at the curb. Some folks might call me lazy for not taking the Belt Line streetcar to my office as I usually did. But I saw no point in navigating the two long blocks along slippery sidewalks from my apartment to King Street and risk falling on my keister or worse.

  Dave jumped out to open the car door as I approached. “How you doing, Sarge? Saw your picture in last night’s Spec. Jeez, it must’ve been a terrific shock to find a corpse at your door.”

  I sighed. At least he hadn’t remarked upon my appearance in that photo.

  “I didn’t even recognize you at first. Thought it was one of tho
se bums the cops throw in the drunk tank.”

  I shot him my hard look, the one that said “T’ain’t funny McGee” and slid onto the front seat. “Let’s go, Dave. I’m late for work.”

  At my office I tried to open the door but it banged against something hard. My body tensed. I was still jumpy from yesterday’s ordeal.

  “Just a moment.” I relaxed at the sound of Phyllis’s voice. Then she swung the door open. “Oh, it’s you, Max. Good morning.”

  In her hands was a length of green garland that trailed onto the floor at her feet. “I’m just about finished decorating the office for Christmas. Isabel thought it was a good idea too.”

  I glanced at Iz as she stood up from her desk, the hint of a grin on her face. She wore a tailored green dress this morning, a Christmassy complement to her striking red hair. “Take a seat on the couch, Max. I just got some coffee from the White Spot.”

  The large window facing King Street was draped with some of that garland, and a pint-sized artificial Christmas tree squatted on the coffee table. I hung up my coat and hat, then sat on the couch. There was even a string of silver foil letters spelling “Merry Christmas” tacked above the doorway to my office. I sighed.

  Phyllis stowed the small step-ladder in the closet and perched on the edge of the couch beside me, her face aglow. “So how do you like it, Max? It’s pretty jolly, isn’t it?”

  “Very jolly. Thanks for brightening up the place.” I figured it was part of my job to bolster the staff’s morale even though I wasn’t yet in the swing of the festive season.

  In fact, I hadn’t been in that swing since the war years. I’d spent two Christmases in a men’s canteen in England: both were melancholic times, brief bursts of forced goodwill in the face of Jerry’s bombing raids. Then a Christmas in Normandy while I was attached to a British regiment after that raid on Dieppe. The following year I was back in England with the Canadians, preparing for the Normandy invasion. Then, after nearly losing my leg during the D-Day landing, I spent the next Christmas in a British hospital where the so-called joy of the blessed season was in short supply.

  Since being back in Canada, with those wartime experiences further and further behind me, I was beginning to swim with the tide.

  But not the Yuletide, it seemed.

  Isabel joined me in my office and pulled up a chair beside my desk. “Looks like you haven’t quite recuperated from yesterday, Max. I can’t blame you for that.”

  “I’m feeling a lot better than the guy who got his picture in The Spec.”

  “If you say so.”

  Then she leaned across the corner of my desk, sliding her right arm around my neck. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

  We remained like that for a long moment, almost nose to nose, and I could barely speak. “You’re a peach, Iz.”

  She kissed the tip of my nose, then picked up her notebook from my desk and resumed her seat.

  I forced myself to follow her lead even though I hated to break the mood. “What’s on the plate for today?”

  “Mr. Neatby called just before you came in.” She passed me a message slip with a phone number. “Something about the Humane Society.”

  We’d met Philip Neatby on a case a few months ago; he was a partner with a long-established Hamilton law firm – a helpful, friendly man. He’d been easy to work with when he’d hired Max Dexter Associates a couple of times since to undertake witness background checks and other trial preparation work.

  “Right – Mr. Neatby. I happened to run into him on the street the other day. I was supposed to contact him about a cruelty to animals case but … there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then, hasn’t there? I’ll call him today.”

  Isabel sat quietly, observing me like a drill sergeant inspecting a new recruit. “You sure you’re feeling well enough to be back at work?”

  I stood up, took her by the arm and guided her toward the door. “There’s no cause for worry. I’m jim-dandy.” I changed the subject before she could examine me further. “What are you working on today?”

  Her lips pursed into a frown that told me I wasn’t fooling her – that she knew I was a mile away from being jim-dandy. “I have an appointment at the Wentworth Law Office this morning.”

  “Where Emma Rose works.”

  “That’s right. I’ve kept in touch with her since we met right here in your office, Max.”

  I picked up on the teasing tone in her voice; even so, the alluring image of the dazzling Emma, whom I’d known from school days, blossomed in my mind. I also remembered Isabel’s discomfort when she’d first met her, thinking there might have been, or might still be, something going on between Emma and me. I leaned toward her, eyebrows raised, “So how is Emma?”

  “She’s just fine. And she’d like me to do some accounts analysis work to support a fraud case she’s working on. I’m really interested because it’s a relatively new field; what they call ‘investigative accounting’.”

  I nodded as if I understood that. Of course she knew I didn’t, so she didn’t elaborate.

  “And I’m taking you to lunch today.” A chirpy tone in her voice now. “I’ve made a reservation at Fischer’s Hotel for 12:30.”

  “Well, thanks. But what’s the occasion?”

  She took a half-step forward, jutting her chin out. “We don’t need a special occasion. I’d just like to take you to lunch.”

  I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. “You know, your eyes seem to sparkle a brighter shade of green when you zing me with one of your looks.”

  She moved closer and pinched my arm. “Enough of your blarney. If I’m not back by 12:15, I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  I was grinning as she swished out of my office.

  I picked up the note to return Mr. Neatby’s phone call and wondered if he might have another job for us.

  “I’ll see if he’s still in his office,” his secretary told me. “He has to be in court shortly so he might have left while I was away from my desk.”

  I waited a moment, then Mr. Neatby came on the line. “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Dexter. I’ve got to leave in a few minutes so I wondered if you could drop in to see me this afternoon. About two o’clock?”

  I glanced at my agenda – no appointments after lunch. “Two’s fine. What’s it about exactly – animal cruelty or something?”

  “Yes. I do the legal work for the Hamilton branch of the Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals. In fact, I’m on their Board of Directors. It’s a very active affiliate of the Ontario SPCA and I think we’ll need some help with an investigation.”

  “Sounds intriguing – tell me more.”

  He paused briefly then cleared his throat. “I’d rather not say on the phone. I’ll see you at two.”

  I plopped the receiver back on its cradle, wondering what would keep him from speaking about animals on the phone.

  Later, Phyllis tapped on my office door and poked her head in. “There’s a woman on the line who insists on speaking with you, Max. But she won’t give me her name. Do you want me to take her number?”

  “No, I’ll talk to her. Thanks.”

  I picked up the receiver.

  “Hullo.” A sultry voice. “This is Diane Black calling.”

  I drew a blank. “Sorry, you must have the wrong number.”

  “It’s your mother, Max. I have a new name now. As well as a new life.”

  I rocked back in my chair as if I’d been rammed in the chest. I looked at the receiver in my hand as though I’d never seen a phone before. What do you say to a mother who abandoned you as a child? A woman who had the same regard for you as she might have for a piece of used furniture or an old coat. A woman whose presence here may have contributed to Bernie Fiore’s murder and his disposal on my doorstep. Righteous anger raced a
long my nerve endings as my grip tightened on the receiver.

  “Why are you calling me? Why now, after more than 20 years?”

  She paused a long beat before answering. “I don’t think I can give you an answer that will satisfy you – and certainly not on the telephone. My decision to leave Hamilton had much more to do with your father than it did with you. But I can understand why you’re upset.”

  “I don’t think you have the slightest idea why I’m upset. You don’t know anything about me. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Wait, Max,” an urgency in her voice. “I need to see you. There’s something I have to discuss with you. It’s very important. I’ve made a reservation at Robert’s Restaurant for 7:00 this evening. Please don’t disappoint me.”

  She hung up before I could.

  I replaced the receiver, questions somersaulting through my mind but no answers in sight. Something important, but she couldn’t tell me on the phone. I was madder than hell but in the end I knew I’d probably meet her. Sometimes I was just too damn curious for my own good.

  It seemed that an ordinary day was a thing of the past; so far, there hadn’t been much business happening in my new business. And I’d received two phone calls, but both callers said they couldn’t explain their business on the phone.

  And two women had made plans for me: one for lunch, the other for dinner. If this kept up, I wouldn’t have to think for myself anymore.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Iz and I stood out of the weather in the entranceway of the Spectator building. The light snow had changed to an icy mix so I’d called for a cab to take us to lunch. As we waited she angled her head toward the Capitol Theatre, just a couple of doors west.