A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  I opened the folder and caught my breath. The pictures showed wounded and bleeding dogs, some with their eyes gouged out, the bloody remains of ears bitten off; others with their throats ripped open and deep oozing scratches on their legs and undersides. Here was another with blood gushing from two big punctures in the back of its head, dying as Bernie Fiore had died before he’d been dumped on my porch. It was all I could do to keep from retching.

  I’d faced the horror of mutilated bodies during the war, but this was different – these dogs were maimed and slaughtered during peacetime, at the hands of depraved people for their entertainment. Most of the photos were close-ups of the dead and dismembered animals, but the one that hit me the hardest showed the leering faces of sweating gamblers leaning forward across a wooden enclosure, some with money clutched in their fists, screaming at the dogs to rip their opponents apart, to kill them. Those photos were so vivid they almost reeked with the sweet-sour odour of blood and booze and cigar smoke.

  I flipped quickly through the rest of the stack and took my time closing my notebook, and replaced it in my suit jacket. Forcing myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat, I pointed to an empty glass on the tray beside Mr. Neatby; he filled it from the pitcher and passed it to me.

  I gulped it down and returned the glass. “So this is why they call it a ‘blood sport’?”

  He nodded as he slid the photos back into their envelope. “It’s cruel and contemptible. Now you see why it’s urgent that we stop this vicious practice as soon as possible.”

  My eyes drifted to the window behind him, distracted by the busy snowflakes now changing to rain as the outdoor temperature increased a couple of degrees – in the same way that Mr. Neatby had increased the temperature on my conscience, hoping to change me into an active supporter of animal rights. He was a clever man, discerning that I might become a convert to his cause because it was the right thing to do. Even for no pay.

  “Give me a few days. I’ll see what I can do but I can’t promise you anything.”

  He rose to his feet and we shook hands. “That’s all I ask, Mr. Dexter. The Society appreciates your assistance.”

  He helped me on with my coat then handed me my fedora.

  “By the way,” I said. “Thanks for not mentioning that picture in The Spectator.”

  He squinted at me. “What picture was that?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I waved my hand. “Forget it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I left the Pigott Building, the sidewalks were wet but not slippery. So I decided to hike back to my office to clear my mind, still reeling in the after-image of those gruesome photographs coming so soon after yesterday’s shock.

  I joined a small knot of pedestrians gathered near the display windows at Robinson’s Department Store where a Salvation Army band was playing “O Little Town of Bethlehem”. I stood beside an old duffer tapping his cane on the sidewalk in time to the music. My eye was drawn to the cornet player – a shapely young woman even in her drab blue uniform with the old-fashioned bonnet. The guy on the bass drum and the euphonium player were doing their best to drown her out.

  My mind flashed to a vivid image from that Damon Runyon story about another Salvation Army woman, Miss Sarah Brown, who meets the gambler, Sky something-or-other, and tries to persuade him to tread the straight and narrow. It made me wonder how similar that odd pairing was to Isabel and me – probably closer than I cared to think.

  I dropped a two-dollar bill in the big collection kettle beside the tambourine player and she gave me a Christmas smile in return.

  At the corner of King and James, I glanced up at the huge billboard mounted on the roof of the United Cigar Store building – BUY TB CHRISTMAS SEALS – and I wondered what this time of year would be like for all those folks in the crowded sanitarium up on the mountain. Christmastime in the san. Didn’t sound too jolly to me.

  Black clouds were rolling in as the wind off the bay picked up and swirled along King Street. An ominous clap of thunder and a sudden crack of lightning sent pedestrians scattering for shelter. I began to limp on the double and almost at once my mind was under siege – I was diving for cover from the German artillery blasting down from the heights over Dieppe’s bloodied beach; then an angry pack of fighting dogs was racing behind me – snarling and drooling, their bloody jaws snapping while Bernie Fiore’s accusing eyes followed me. I tried to hurry even faster, attempting to leave those images behind me, but they were hot on my heels as if the dogs had my scent.

  I straggled into my building and slumped against the wall beside the doors, panting as I caught my breath and drove those terrifying images from my mind. And I wondered if these flashbacks would ever end. Would Isabel consider me damaged goods if she knew how often my mind was overtaken with those wartime memories of violence and death? Shell shock or battle fatigue, they called it. Army doctors had assured me those memories would go away in due course. I’d say that course was overdue.

  Outside, the sleety rain was now turning to wet snow and a clutch of pedestrians had followed me in, shaking the melting snow from their coats; they reminded me of house cats who’d been caught outside in a sudden downpour.

  Back in my familiar surroundings I felt my black mood beginning to lift. When I entered my office, Phyllis relieved me of my coat and hung it up for me. I said, “Thank you, Miss Evans.” No harm in introducing a certain business decorum into the office.

  Her eyebrows lifted and she sent me a puzzled look. “You’re welcome, Mr. Dexter.”

  I flipped my damp fedora onto the filing cabinet by the doorway. “Isabel back soon?”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “She said about 3:30, depending on how talkative Emma Rose is today.”

  I reviewed my notes from the meeting with Mr. Neatby, then pushed my chair back from the desk, staring out the window. Here was another situation that might bring some involvement with the city’s criminal underworld. Should I really take the risk of tangling with those mobsters again? Especially since Isabel and I were becoming closer. In fact, a lot closer.

  To be honest, I wanted both. I was fascinated as well as appalled by the Mob and the bold swagger of its bosses – Rocco Perri, Al Capone, Stefano Maggadino, and Dominic Tedesco – all larger than life figures who scoffed at society’s rules and regulations. I was strangely fascinated by them, but it annoyed the hell out of me that these guys could so frequently get away with murder and a laundry list of other crimes. I wanted to do my part, however small, in bringing the bastards to justice.

  But I also wanted the love of a woman who shared my convictions and was willing to raise a family with me. Was it possible to have both? That was the 64-dollar question.

  When Isabel returned from her meeting, she breezed into my office and sat beside me at the long table against the wall. “Tell me about your mysterious meeting with Mr. Neatby. You said he didn’t want to speak about it on the phone.”

  “Because he had some pictures to show me. He wanted to soften me up before he made his proposition.”

  She raised her right eyebrow. “An undercover job?”

  “Not exactly. Mr. Neatby’s the lawyer for the Hamilton SPCA and he wants me to look into a suspected case of staging dog fights, an offence under the Criminal Code. He showed me some photographs of dead and wounded dogs – the losers in those fights. A horrible sight, Iz.”

  She winced. “But what does he want you to do?”

  “Snoop around, mainly. There’s a guy in the east end of the city who might be arranging these fights and we’d need some evidence to bring a charge against him.” I hesitated a moment before I continued. “Tedesco and his troops might be involved too. They’re suspected of organizing the betting, the booze and the drugs.”

  Her eyes were downcast and she appeared to be inspecting the pale pink polish on her nails while I spoke. When she looked up there w
as a spark in her eyes and I couldn’t tell if it signified her fear that I may be involving us with Tedesco again or her revulsion at the practice of fighting dogs. Maybe both.

  “It sounds positively medieval, Max. Are you sure you want to get mixed up in this?”

  “No, I’m not sure. But I told Mr. Neatby I’d look into it and let him know. However, the pay’s not great.”

  “Don’t tell me. Pro bono?”

  “A small investment of time to cement our relationship with Mr. Neatby and to ensure his future business.”

  “Oh, Brother.” She was shaking those red curls. “You’re such an old softie, Max.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I was pacing the small area between the window and my desk, having a terrible time keeping my mind on business this afternoon. Every few minutes I’d find myself daydreaming, staring out the window or doodling in the margin of my note pad. My thoughts kept returning to Isabel, snuggled up beside me in Dave’s cab after lunch. And every time I heard her speak in the outer office my heart did a little flutter. Jeez Louise, I was behaving like a lovesick teenager.

  Then I thought about dinner with my mother and wondered again if it was a bonehead play to meet with her. Iz and I had discussed it once more when she’d gotten back from her meeting and I was relieved when she’d offered to go with me this evening. I knew I could rely upon her to keep me from making a fool of myself, if it came to that.

  I pushed my notes aside with relief when Frank Russo phoned.

  “How’s tricks, Max? No more visitors last night?”

  “Didn’t hear anyone. But thanks for sending that watchdog.”

  He paused and it made me wonder if he had some news. “What’s happening, Frank?”

  “Bernie Fiore’s funeral is tomorrow and I wondered if you might want to ride out to the cemetery with me.”

  “Jeez, I don’t know about that. And why are you going? You weren’t a friend of Bernie’s.”

  “No, I wasn’t. But we’re making it a practice now to keep an eye on the people who attend these Mob funerals. We have a photographer with one of those long-view lenses so he can stay out of sight while he gets close-up photos of some of these characters.”

  “Holy hell, Frank. You already know who the local Mob guys are. And you won’t get any big-time gangsters from out of town for Bernie’s funeral, he was too small a fish.”

  “You’re only half right, smart-ass. They wouldn’t come if it were just for him. But your mother’s in town and she’s a VIP in Mob circles. So we’d like to know who might attend in order to meet with her or Tedesco. We might even have a few of the big Mob bosses show up for a get-together under the guise of attending Bernie’s funeral.”

  “What makes you think my mother’s such a bigwig?”

  “The Chief got a call from the RCMP last week, passing on information received from the FBI – they’ve been keeping an eye on the Florida Mob where your mother’s well connected. When they learned she was coming to Hamilton they asked us to keep tabs on her while she’s here.”

  “Well, shit, Frank. Thanks for finally letting me know.”

  “Keep your shirt on; I just found out about it this morning – the brass here keeps that kind of info hush-hush and there was no reason for me to be in the know. But now, with Bernie’s death and his brother in jail for the murder of that Planning Committee guy, my boss told me about it because I’ve been assigned Bernie’s case as well as Nick’s.”

  “But my mother wouldn’t have knowledge of either one of them, would she? They’re just a couple of soldiers.”

  “That’s true. The boss just wanted to give me the full picture.”

  I thought about what he’d told me; if the Hamilton coppers, not to mention the FBI, were “interested” in my mother then maybe Frank was being pressured to squeeze me for any tidbit I might know about her. But he knew I’d had no contact with her since she left town all those years ago. He also knew that I’d kick up a helluva fuss if he tried to recruit me as a police spy.

  “Are you under the gun, Frank? Does your boss want you to enlist me as an unofficial pair of eyes, watching and reporting on my mother?”

  I listened to him chuckle in my ear. “Can’t pull a fast one on you, eh, Maxie? Yeah, that’s exactly what he asked me to do. I told him you didn’t know a damn thing about her – that we’d grown up together as brothers and I’d know if you’d been in contact with her.”

  “So now you’ve got, what, a couple of guys following her around?”

  “Just a loose surveillance, seeing who she meets, that type of thing.”

  I thought about our plans to meet my mother for dinner tonight. I didn’t want to place Isabel in the centre of a police investigation. Or myself, for that matter. And I hesitated about telling Frank about meeting her. But, hell, he’d find out anyway and then he’d be pissed that I hadn’t tipped him off. And I’d never place our lifelong friendship in jeopardy.

  “What time’s the funeral?”

  “Mass is at 0900 at All Souls, then burial in Holy Sepulchre, probably about 1100 or so. But if you’re really keen you can say the rosary this evening at Dermody’s Funeral Home just beside St. Pat’s Church there. 1930.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t make it for the rosary. Isabel and I are meeting my mother for dinner tonight.”

  I heard him catch his breath before he nearly shattered my eardrum, “WHAT?”

  “You heard me, Frank. Robert’s Restaurant. 1900.”

  He didn’t respond right away and I listened to his heavy breathing on the line, imagining his face turning purple and steam jetting from his ears. But his voice was subdued, even chilly. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “No, I’m not at all sure. In fact, it’s probably a stupid idea. But we’re going to do it anyway. I can’t explain it to you, Frank, it’s just something I have to do – even if she’s the FBI’s Public Enemy Number One.”

  I heard him clear his throat, probably deciding between coming over to my office to wring my neck or simply firing me as his kid brother. But he managed to keep his voice calm. “Do you want to go to the funeral or not?”

  “Yes, I do.” If my mother was as well connected with the Mob as the police believed, then I’d like to see with my own eyes how she might conduct herself with all those gangsters who might be attending the funeral because of her presence.

  “Okay, then. I’ll pick you up at your apartment in the morning – about 1000 and we’ll go straight out to the cemetery. And Maxie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful tonight. You don’t know what kind of woman your mother is – or anything about her. Just – don’t do anything stupid.”

  I hung up the phone and sank back in my chair. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to mix it up with Tedesco’s gang as long as Frank was by my side. But things were different now – I hoped for a life with Isabel and a family of our own. And poking your nose into the Mob’s business was an easy way to get it blown off. On the other hand, seeing my mother again was something I’d wondered about most of my life. I had my chance now, and I wasn’t going to give it up.

  I opened my office door and asked Iz to step in.

  She sat by my desk, questions in her eyes. “You look worried, Max. Tell me.”

  She leaned forward on the edge of her chair as I related Frank’s conversation. “It’s up to you,” I said when I’d finished. “You can back off if you’re worried about meeting her. Maybe it was selfish of me to accept your offer to come with me.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun, Max. Give me a moment to think about this.”

  I watched her in profile as she sat back and gazed out my office window. She could have jumped at my suggestion to back off but she hadn’t. No, she was weighing the pros and cons in her cool and rational manner. I waited, observing her as sh
e controlled her breathing, then smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt before drawing back a wayward red curl from her forehead with a long finger. A smart and beautiful woman. I still couldn’t believe my luck.

  She inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly, then turned to face me. “If the police are watching your mother it should be safe for us to meet her. But there’s a bigger concern: if she’s as important in the crime world as the police think she is … maybe we shouldn’t have anything to do with her at all.”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? I’ve often wondered if I’d ever see her again. And you know me, Iz, I’m a curious guy – so I’m anxious to know why she wants to meet me now.”

  Her eyes were fixed on mine while I spoke. Then she gulped, swallowing whatever misgivings she might’ve had, and stood up, extending her hand. “We’re in this together, Max.” And we shook on it.

  Later, I heard desk drawers and filing cabinets opening and closing in the outer office and I checked my old Bulova. Quitting time.

  Isabel stood at the entrance to my office, wearing her red winter coat with a small black velvet hat.

  “Spiffy outfit,” I waggled my eyebrows. “Going out tonight?”

  “Yes, I am.” Her lips twitched as she strained to keep a straight face. “My beau is taking me to dinner. To meet his mother.”

  “Your beau?”

  “Well, I guess you could call him that. He’s given me every indication that his intentions are sincere.”

  “Sounds like a smart fellow.” I moved closer, lowering my voice as I touched her arm. “Not to mention daring and adventurous.”

  “He’ll have to save that for later, Max. We’ve got just enough time for me to drop you at your apartment, go home to change my dress and pick you up at 6:45.” She reached forward to straighten my tie then brushed at something on my lapel with the back of her hand. “But what if your mother doesn’t want me there?”