A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  He shook it like the man of the house. “Sure thing, Mister. And if I see anything suspicious I’ll phone this number on your card.”

  Walking to the door, I noticed there was no Christmas tree or decorations, which seemed unusual so close to Christmas. “You wait for Christmas Eve to put up your tree?”

  “Nah, my mum doesn’t bother since my dad’s not here. She always says, ‘Maybe next year’.”

  I dug out my wallet and withdrew a $5 bill. “Here,” and I passed it to him. “You and your brother could surprise her with a nice Christmas present.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dave flicked off the radio and turned toward me as I slid onto the front seat of the cab beside him. “How did it go with the paperboy? Any help?”

  “Yeah, he’s a sharp kid. He’s seen that guy training his animals and figures he’s raising them as hunting dogs because he saw them running on some kind of conveyor belt gizmo.”

  I heard him catch his breath as he shifted his eyes away from me and stared out the window. “Trainers use a treadmill rig like that to strengthen the dogs’ stamina and develop their muscles.”

  His voice was strained, as though someone was squeezing his neck. “My Brit friend told me they also chain their dogs to a merry-go-round thingamajig which increases in speed – the dogs try to catch a chunk of meat dangling in front of them but of course, they can never get the bait. And sometime the dogs are hung by their jaws to strengthen their biting power. It’s an ugly business, Max.”

  I was holding my breath while he spoke, disgusted with sadistic morons who’d torture their animals like that. But I was determined to hear the rest of it. “Tell me about the fight itself, Dave. How did that work?”

  I saw the grimace on his face and almost stopped him from speaking. But I didn’t – my damn curiosity again.

  “The fight I saw was in a barn way off in the countryside. The bettors were crowded around a penned-off area about fifteen feet square, low wooden walls three or four feet high, and the floorboards were covered with a rough carpeting. To improve the dogs’ traction.

  “The two handlers brought their dogs to the centre of the pit where the referee watched as they exchanged their dogs then returned to their corners and washed them off –”

  “Wait a minute. Why would the handlers wash each other’s dogs?”

  “I asked about that too. Some shifty dog owners were known to rub a noxious substance on their dogs which would paralyze their opponents when they were bitten. So, after the washing, the dogs and the handlers returned to the middle with the referee who said, ‘Face your dogs’ followed by ‘Go!’ Then the dogs wrestled and snarled, biting each other and trying to get a ‘turn’ – that’s when one of the mutts turns away from the other and stops fighting.”

  “So that’s when the fight ends? When one of the dogs quits?”

  “No, not yet. Then the ref orders the dogs back to their corners where the handlers wash the blood off them and patch them up if they can. When the ref calls ‘Time’ the dogs must come out to what’s called the ‘scratch line’, that’s a line marked on the centre of the floor; then they continue to fight. If a dog fails to cross the scratch line and won’t fight, he loses the match. But if he does cross the line, the fight resumes until one of the dogs gives up or dies.”

  “My God. How long does a fight last?”

  “The guy told me it often goes on for an hour or more. But I didn’t last that long. I had to get the hell out of there when I felt my stomach heaving.”

  Those pictures Mr. Neatby had shown me had nearly made me sick; listening to what Dave had witnessed brought me to the brink again.

  We didn’t speak on the return trip until he dropped me off. “See you, Max.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Back in my office, I slipped off my coat and hung it up. Phyllis was busy typing but Isabel was quick to notice the sombre look on my face and she grasped my arm when I skirted her desk.

  “Hang on, Max. What’s happened?”

  I nodded toward my office. She followed me in and closed the door.

  “Dave and I drove out to the east end, beside the Civic Airport. I think we found the property where those dog fights are taking place and I talked to a neighbour about it.”

  I gave her a slightly edited version of what I’d learned from Mrs. Robertson and from Dave about the dog fight he’d witnessed, which accounted for my gloomy frame of mind.

  We sat at the long table by the window; Isabel clutched my hands and remained silent in the wake of my report. Then she shook her head. “For the life of me, Max, I can’t understand why people would enjoy watching animals fight and die. It’s just … barbaric – something from the Middle Ages.”

  “That’s why I’d like to help put these guys out of business. After I left the neighbour’s place I met with The Spectator carrier out there and he gave me the low-down on a few of the neighbours.”

  I related the kid’s story about his close call while watching the owner training his dogs. And his troubles with the old lady who was the owner’s mother. “I’m getting an idea about how to approach this problem, but I’ll have to think about it some more.”

  Isabel stood and ambled toward the doorway; then she slowed and turned back to me. “That neighbour woman wondered if the dog owner might have been warned about the police coming, is that right?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the houses out there are on a party-line?”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “Well, maybe the old lady on the corner tipped off her son. The newspaper boy figured out she wasn’t deaf so she could’ve been up late. Lots of old people don’t sleep well, and maybe she was listening in on the party line for something to do. Those party-lines are notorious for eavesdroppers. So she hears her son’s neighbour, Mrs. what’s-her-name, calling the police then she warns him. And there you go, Max – Bob’s your uncle.”

  She was standing taller now, pleased with her solution, a sparkle in her eyes.

  I didn’t want to tell her that I’d already dismissed that theory and I felt my heart sink as she frowned at my non-reaction. It didn’t feel good to disappoint her.

  She returned to the table and held both my hands in hers. “I’m only trying to help, Max. It’s just a possibility you might not have considered because you were so busy out there.”

  “It’s a good idea, Iz. But I didn’t pursue it because you always hear a click on a party line if someone else picks up when you’re using the phone. And Mrs. Robertson didn’t mention hearing an eavesdropper. So I was on a different track; I was thinking that the dog owner might’ve been tipped off by someone he knew in the police dispatcher’s office and I planned to follow that up with Frank.”

  Her eyes held mine and I hoped she didn’t think I’d dismissed her theory simply because she was new to the detective game. A silent moment later, she placed her hand on my shoulder and stood to leave. “Every once in a while in the accounting business,” she said, “the simple answer is the correct one.”

  I thought about her comment as I followed her to the door. “Once in a while in the sleuthing business, the simple answer sails right over my head.”

  After she left, I called Frank Russo and explained my involvement with the SPCA and my excursion this afternoon to ferret out some info.

  “Yeah, we hear about those fights from time to time,” he said. “But more often than not it’s cock-fighting; I was on a raid in the north end before the war and our main concern was collaring the gangsters there. To be honest, we didn’t worry a helluva lot about the dead and wounded roosters. They’re only chickens, eh?”

  “Come on, Frank, it’s against the law. Cruelty to animals – it doesn’t matter what kind of animals they are. It’s a case of men behaving like savages.”

  “You tellin�
� me you don’t eat chicken? How do you think it winds up on your dinner plate? Somebody’s gotta kill the damn birds.”

  “I know that but the animals we eat are usually slaughtered humanely. That’s a helluva lot different than dogs and roosters which are trained as killers so they can tear each other apart in bloody combat while so-called sportsmen bet on the outcome. Well, that’s just plain –”

  “Hang on a damn minute, Max. Get down off your high horse and listen. I agree there’s a big difference, just as you say. And I know about dog fights and how gory they are. Hell, we’ve prosecuted a couple of those offenders. But why are you telling me all this? What do you want from me?”

  I took a few deep breaths to control my frustration. Frank wasn’t the enemy and I hadn’t intended to dump my revulsion onto his head like an icy shower. “I’m sorry, Pal. The more I think about this business, the more disgusted I become. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “Fine. Now, what do you want me to do?”

  “Well, this guy out there, Gruchy is his name, he’s training these dogs and probably staging fights on his property. Couple of months back, the next-door neighbour called the police to report a commotion at the guy’s place, lots of cars and noise. But by the time the cops arrived, the place had cleared out and no arrests were made and no charges laid.”

  “Someone tipped him off?”

  “Sounds like it. And I wondered if it might’ve been one of the police dispatchers. Maybe this Gruchy guy out there is the dispatcher’s brother-in-law or connected in some other way. Do you think that’s a possibility?”

  I heard him grunt in my ear. “Nope … couldn’t have happened. And not just because the dispatchers are police officers. The sergeant in charge of the Radio Room is a guy by the name of Rod Latner. You know him?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Well, he’s a hard-nosed character; one of those spit and polish types who should’ve been a drill sergeant in the army. He runs a tight ship; those dispatchers can’t blow their noses without him knowing about it. He monitors their calls and watches them like they might be stealing the family silver. So I’d forget about that theory.”

  So much for my brilliant idea. “You’re absolutely sure, Frank?”

  “I’d bet my life on it. But I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s picked up any scuttlebutt about this Gruchy guy.”

  I thanked him, hung up the receiver and sagged back in my chair. Damn, damn and double damn. With that hunch of mine now in the toilet, I wondered if the simple answer might be the right one, just as Iz suggested.

  Damn again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I’d just finished making some notes on my afternoon trip with Dave when the office door opened. I looked up and stared bug-eyed as Isabel swished toward me like a fashion model and the office became her runway. She wore a silky red dress fitted at her waist then flaring at the hem just below her knees. “That dress is a humdinger, Iz. And the sprig of ivy at the neckline looks nifty with it. Did you just run home to change?”

  “No. I brought the dress to the office this morning and changed in the washroom.” She twirled so the hem rose a few inches to reveal her knees and I felt my heart skip a beat. “I’m glad you like it, Max. Phyllis gave me the ivy.”

  It took me a moment to find my voice. “So … ah, what’s happening? All dressed up like a million bucks.”

  “I’m off to the Yuletide Cocktail party put on by the Chartered Accountants Association. It’s just across the street at the Connaught this year. I’d ask you to come with me but you’d be bored to tears with all their shop talk.”

  I breathed a secret sigh of relief. She was getting to know me really well.

  “I let Phyllis go early,” she said. “She’s taking her mother Christmas shopping.”

  She leaned across my desk and pecked me on the cheek. “See you tomorrow, Boss.”

  I stowed the files in the bottom drawer of the desk and was putting on my coat in the outer office when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that Phyllis had mounted on the wall beside the filing cabinets. The guy looking back at me wore a rumpled suit, his tie hung loose, and his hair was shaggy. I watched the guy pull a face at himself. Then I pictured him standing beside Isabel in that dazzling red cocktail dress. Holy cow! Why would she be interested in such a messy lout?

  I took a deep breath, stood a little taller, combed my hair with my fingers and straightened my tie. I decided to get a haircut.

  Mr. Whitmore’s barber shop was in the basement of the Spectator building so I didn’t have far to go. I gripped my way down the steep stairs and saw I was in luck – one of the five barber chairs was open. Along a side wall was a row of tall shoeshine chairs – only two of those were occupied. A discreet sign read: Haircut 50¢ Shoe Shine 15¢.

  I liked the comfy atmosphere down here – customers and barbers murmuring about the lousy weather or what to get their wives for Christmas or the soaring cost of living – all to the tune of the scissors’ clickety-click and the snapping of the shoeshine rags. And through the two narrow windows set high in the street-side wall, you could see the busy feet of downtown workers and Christmas shoppers hustling along King Street.

  Mr. Whitmore was shaving a lathered-up face in the chair beside me and glanced over as I sat down.

  “How you doing, Max?” he said. “In for your annual haircut?”

  That was Whitmore’s stock line whenever I came into his shop. But in fact, I got my hair cut every month or two, whenever I remembered. “I didn’t recognize the guy in my bathroom mirror this morning so I knew it was time.” That was my usual response and I watched him wince as I delivered it.

  A young barber I didn’t recognize draped a striped cloth over my suit and cranked the chair down a notch. “How would you like it, Sir? Shorter all round or just a trim?”

  I noted the name tag on his white barber’s jacket. “Nice and short, Dino. So I won’t have to come back so often.”

  Mr. Whitmore glanced at me with a tiny grin as he rinsed his razor at the sink. He seemed to enjoy our little game.

  Now that the face beside me had been shaved I recognized that it belonged to Sam Lawrence, Hamilton’s flamboyant Mayor, and he turned toward me.

  “Say, aren’t you that young fella in the newspaper with the dead body on his porch? What a dreadful shock that must have been. How’re you doing?”

  That damn photo again – would I never hear the end of it?

  “Doing all right, Mr. Mayor. And congratulations on being acclaimed for another term in office. What’s that make it now, five years in a row?” Civic elections were held every year on January first. Unless, like this year for Sam Lawrence, he was popular enough that nobody ran against him.

  He swiveled his head, a smile on his face. “Well, thank you,” and he tugged back the cloth covering his suit so he could stick out his mitt for me to shake. Both barbers had to stop clipping for a moment to make time for this glad-handing.

  “That newspaper article suggested the killing was connected to organized crime and this city has more than its share of that,” the Mayor said. “That brutal murder of George Harris, Chairman of our Planning Committee, is a case in point.”

  “It’s a problem that seems to defy solution,” I said. “How do you think these criminals might be controlled?”

  I saw the muscles in his jaw moving as though he were chewing over his answer. “That’s a tough question. But I believe the solution is straightforward – we need more police officers on the streets and they deserve to be paid more. I know it’s difficult but the City has to keep pace with the cost of living. Why, did you know it’s up more than 20% since 1944? We also need better paying jobs for young people entering the work force and that might cut down on the number of young men who now consider joining the Mob because it pays more than an honest job.

/>   “I know, I know, you probably expect me to say that we need more and stronger unions to support workers’ rights – and that is true. And I’ll keep saying it over and over again until employers treat their people fairly.”

  It wasn’t the time, nor was it the place to warn the Mayor of the mayhem which would accompany the impending gangland struggle so I kept my trap shut on that score.

  Mr. Whitmore stood patiently by while His Worship delivered his little speech. As soon as he’d stopped for a breath of air, the barber turned the Mayor’s head firmly forward and finished cutting his hair.

  Mayor Lawrence heaved himself out of his chair and palmed Mr. Whitmore some money, then he stood still while the barber whisked off the stray hairs from his fashionable double-breasted suit. He put on his overcoat and waved his hat to everyone in the shop. “Happy Christmas to you all.”

  A kind of vacuum took over the room when the door closed behind him, as though his departure had sucked the energy out of the place.

  Mr. Whitmore broke the strange silence. “He’s quite the man, Max. Love him or hate him, you know he has the City’s best interests at heart.”

  “I heard he stirred up quite a hornet’s nest,” I said, “when he marched with the strikers during that big labour dispute last year at Stelco.”

  A couple of customers mumbled something under their breath.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Whitmore said. “He’s been a socialist all his life. But the press had a field day when some reporter was giving him a hard time for joining the picket line and Sam was quoted as saying, ‘I’m a union man first and a Mayor second.’ So even if you don’t agree with him, you have to admit he’s got the courage of his convictions.”

  An old boy in the chair at the end of the row had the last word on the subject. “I think he’s a pretty smart guy, that Mayor. He’s not like your other politicians – he uses his head for more than a hat-rack.”