A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  Leaving the shop I caught sight of a well-groomed guy in the long mirror by the doorway. Jeez, it was me. I was beginning to look more like someone Isabel wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  When I got home the phone was ringing. I kicked my toe-rubbers toward the doormat and hurried to the kitchen where I grabbed the receiver.

  “Is that Mr. Dexter?” A young voice, midway between soprano and alto.

  “Yeah, who’s this?” I had one arm out of my overcoat and switched the phone to my other hand.

  “It’s Trevor. The Spectator carrier.”

  “What’s happening, Kid, you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Nah. But I said I’d call you if I seen something suspicious.”

  “I remember. So what did you see?”

  “Well, I just delivered the paper to Mrs. Robertson on Parkdale; she’s at the end of my route. You know … the lady next door to the guy with the dogs? And when I got closer to that guy’s house, well, I seen this truck, some kind of small delivery van and it pulled into his driveway. Then these two guys jumped out and started unloading boxes and stuff, taking them round to that barn behind the house –”

  “Wait a minute; slow down. What kind of stuff?”

  “It was just getting dark so it was hard to see. But some of those boxes were cases of beer, I could hear the bottles clinking together –”

  “Hang on. How do you know what beer bottles sound like?”

  “We had our annual bottle drive for the Boy Scouts last week. Some of the people gave us their beer bottles and that’s the noise they made.”

  This kid was one smart cookie.

  “I ain’t finished yet. So when those guys left in their truck, another one drove in. This time there were three big guys and they brought out these wire cages with dogs in them and carried them out back. I counted them – six cages in all. But I didn’t want to get any closer to see what kind of dogs they were.”

  Sonovabitch. Preparations for dog-fights were underway, probably for tonight. I felt my pulse quicken and my heartbeat shift into a higher gear. “Listen, did any of those guys see you watching them?”

  “Nope. I stayed behind those bushes beside the driveway. And it was getting dark by then.”

  “Good. Now, I want you to stay away from that place. I think there’s some kind of criminal activity going on there. Are we agreed on this? Do I have your word?”

  “Yeah, sure, Mr. Dexter. But I was going to tell my mum, is that okay?”

  “Of course, but nobody else. Is she there now? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “She’s still at work. Stores are open ‘til nine o’clock now – right up to Christmas.”

  “All right, but tell her she can call me if she wants to and I’ll explain it to her. Oh, I almost forgot. What’s the house number for that guy with the dogs?”

  “I’m not sure because he’s not a customer. Just look in the phone book.”

  Then the kid was silent for a few seconds and I wondered if he had more on his mind. “Anything else you wanted to tell me, Trevor?”

  “Umm … I just wanted to say thanks again for giving me that money for a present for my mum.”

  “You’re welcome. Did you decide what you’re going to get her?”

  “Oh, sure. My brother and me are going to Robinson’s on the bus tomorrow after papers. We can’t go to Eaton’s because that’s where my mum works and she might see us. We’re getting her a Yardley gift set – two bars of Yardley soap and it comes with a small bottle of Yardley perfume.”

  “Nice gift. How did you come up with that?”

  “My Dad used to give her Yardley’s at Christmas and on her birthday.”

  That raised my eyebrows – what a thoughtful kid. “You got enough money for that?”

  “Sure do. The gift set’s $4.50. And then on the way home we’re getting a Christmas tree. This guy over on Main Street sells them for a buck this close to Christmas.”

  “But that’ll leave you … 50¢ short.”

  “Nope. My brother and me get 25¢ allowance every month. So we’ll chip that in too.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, Kid. Thanks for calling me. And Merry Christmas.”

  I hung up my coat and shucked off my suit jacket and tie. Back in the kitchen, I phoned Frank at home.

  “I’m calling about that guy with the fighting dogs I told you about. Out there on Parkdale, across from the Airport?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. But can’t this wait? We just sat down for supper.”

  “’Fraid not, Frank, it’s an emergency. I just got a call from that newspaper kid I met out there. A few minutes ago he saw some guys delivering crates of dogs to that place on Parkdale, along with booze and other stuff.”

  I reached for a note on the counter and gave him the guy’s address. I’d gotten it from the phone book. “Sounds like they’re preparing for dog fights tonight. What d’you say to an early visit from Santa? In the form of a raiding party to catch those buggers red-handed?”

  “Helluva good idea. Homicide won’t be handling the case, but I’ll call the sergeant who’ll organize the raid. He might want to speak with you directly so I’ll give him your phone number. Thanks for the tip, Max; I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

  I placed a pot of water on the stove to boil and I measured out a big serving of spaghettini. Frank’s wife, Angela, kept me supplied with her special tomato sauce and I took out a large jar and set it on the counter beside the pasta.

  The phone rang again. I turned off the burner before I answered.

  “It’s Terry Martin calling from the Hamilton Police Department, Mr. Dexter. Frank Russo gave me your number and I appreciate your help. Maybe you could run through what you told him.”

  “Sure thing, Sergeant.” I gave him a quick summary of my visit this afternoon and the tip-off from the newspaper carrier.

  “That’s good news,” he said. “We know about this bird and he’s a slippery bugger. He moved out there to Parkdale Avenue last year – after we’d paid him a visit at a property he was renting near Waterdown. We couldn’t charge him for fighting his dogs then because the fights had finished and the crowd dispersed by the time we got there. But he was fined for various liquor offences. Damn law is weak in this area, as you probably know.”

  “Yeah, I think it’s stupid. I hope you catch him in the act this time. Good luck to you.”

  After supper, I was reading the paper when the phone rang again – I didn’t get this many calls at the office. It was Frank.

  “News about the raid on the dog guy already?”

  He grunted in my ear. “Too early for that. No, I wanted to tell you about my visit to the jail late this afternoon and you were so damn excited when you called before that I forgot all about it. I dropped in on my way home from work and had a talk with Nick Fiore, trying to loosen his tongue about that murder at Paddy Greene’s. But he’s clammed up tighter than a flea’s patootie. I told him what Bernie said to you about Sal Angotti being the actual killer and he denied saying it. He said his brother was never a smart guy and must’ve been confused. And it surprised me that Nick showed no sign of anger toward his bosses for bumping off his only brother. He’s sticking to his story – somebody knocked him out in the parking lot at Greene’s and he woke up in jail.”

  “He knows damn well what happens to jail-house canaries, Frank.”

  “Yep. That’s why he told me not to come back. There ain’t no secrets in the joint – especially if a prisoner gets a visit from a copper.”

  “Did he ask you about the funeral? If you saw his parents?”

  “Not a goddamn word. He’s a hard guy and his lip is buttoned.”

  I stayed up as late as I could, but when there was no
word on the raid by midnight I decided to hit the sack. I put an extra blanket on the bed because of the predicted cold snap and fell asleep right away.

  I don’t know how much time had passed when an insistent high-pitched ringing – as loud as an air-raid siren – shocked me out of bed. I was searching my apartment in a frenzy, stumbling like a blind man from room to room, trying to locate its source as it increased in volume. I staggered about, banging into walls, knocking over an end table and then a kitchen chair. I was trying to step over the chair when a bloody arm shot out from under the table and grabbed my ankle, bringing me down with a crash on the kitchen floor where I lay prone and face to face with a sneering German tank commander, his grey jacket crisp and clean and his eyes flashing with fire as he raised his Luger and pressed it against my temple. He counted down, drei, zwei, eins … then his head was blown off his shoulders and his blood geysered over me.

  I scrambled away from him, groping my way to the front door and into the outstretched arms of Bernie Fiore. He held me in a bear hug, sobbing on my shoulder. I struggled to free myself but my hands slipped off him, covered with blood seeping from the bullet wounds in the back of his head. His lips didn’t move but I could hear his accusing words all around me: “You should’ve helped me, Max, you should’ve helped me.” I tried to run away, but Bernie’s arms were cold and tight around my torso.

  I woke up in the front hallway, my arms wrapped around the coat rack, tears streaking down my cheeks, as exhausted as a marathon runner stumbling across the finish line. My pajamas were soaked through but that strident ringing had quit, bringing my nightmare to an end.

  A moment later the ringing began again. I groped my way to the kitchen, flicked on the light and checked the clock – 0230. Then I answered the phone.

  A raspy voice croaked, “Sorry, wrong number.”

  I’d never heard those words uttered like a threat before. I hung up the phone, tumbled back into bed and worried myself back to my nightmares.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  When I awoke in the morning the phone was ringing again. I pinched myself to make sure I was awake and not reliving that nightmare. Then I hustled into the kitchen and picked up the receiver, wondering if it might be that “wrong number” voice again.

  “Max, it’s Frank. What took you so damn long to answer? You sleeping in?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” I glanced at the wall clock – 0830. “I had a long night.”

  “Well, we’ve got some good news for a change. That raid out on Parkdale Avenue worked out tickety-boo. They rounded up a dozen guys; most of them’ll be charged with liquor offences and some with possession of unlicensed weapons. But we’ve got this Gruchy character on keeping a common gaming house, and the unlicensed sale of booze. Some drugs were confiscated, too. And finally, cruelty to animals for staging those fights. The SPCA had their van out there and took away the dead and injured dogs. How’s that for a night’s work?”

  “Pretty damn good, Frank. I’m really glad to hear it.”

  “Well, it’s thanks to you for that tip-off. Good work, Max.”

  “It wasn’t me. That newspaper kid gets the credit for keeping his eyes open and letting me know. He’d be tickled pink if he got a letter or something from the Police Chief. What d’you say?”

  “Good idea. I’ll look into it and let you know.”

  We didn’t speak for a moment. Frank was waiting for me to continue. He knew me so well that he was able to sense when I had something else on my mind.

  “C’mon, Maxie. What’s up?”

  “Yeah, well, I had this nightmare, that’s why I slept in. Bernie Fiore paid me a visit; he was upset with me for not helping him and it became quite … emotional. When I woke up I got this phone call – a creepy voice saying he’d dialed a wrong number. So I was wondering if there were any Mob guys picked up during the raid.”

  “Why? You think the Mob’s trying to rattle you with wrong-number phone calls because you tipped us off about the dog fights?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But those guys aren’t usually that subtle. If they’re mad at you – BAM, they hit you. Do you think someone spotted you snooping around out there?”

  “I know so. That Gruchy guy warned off my cab driver, Dave Rettig. You might remember him – he served with the Rileys and he’s the son of Ted Rettig, that famous sculptor.”

  Frank mumbled. “Yeah, I remember Dave. But I never heard of his old man.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “while I was in talking with Gruchy’s neighbour, Dave snuck around to the back of his house to look the place over. Damned if he didn’t get caught and was run off the property. Gave the guy some lame excuse and talked himself out of a beating or worse.”

  “Seems like a long shot to me, Max. But, yeah, some of the guys arrested were Tedesco’s soldiers. I think it’s more likely your phone call was just a prank. Or maybe you’ve got a case of the willies and you dreamed that too.”

  I grunted at him. “Don’t think so. I’ll bet Gruchy told one of the Mob guys he had a snooper in a Veterans Cab nosing around in the afternoon. And it’s no trick at all for the Mob to squeeze the cab company and find out the name of the driver … and his fare.”

  “Yeah … maybe you’re right.” There was a long pause on the line. “So just in case, it wouldn’t hurt to strap on your gun.”

  After my bath, I set out my usual breakfast on the kitchen table: a large bowl of Grape-Nuts Flakes, and a cup of Maxwell House. I stepped out on the back porch to get my bottle of milk and there beside the milkbox was – another goddamn body!

  This time it was a dead dog, battered and bloodied. One eye had been gouged out and was drooping from its socket in a mucous sac. Around its neck was a red Christmas bow.

  If Tedesco was trying to scare the hell out of me, he was on the right track. First Bernie’s body, then that creepy phone call and now this mangled animal. But he had no idea about my stubborn streak, probably inherited from that dark-haired and dark-minded woman who was in town to deliver him the Mob’s Christmas message.

  I stepped inside and found an old sheet in my closet rag-bag to cover the dog’s corpse. Then I called Mr. Neatby.

  “Just arrived at my office,” he said. I could hear the excitement in his voice. “Congratulations on a job well done, Mr. Dexter. I got a call at home early this morning – I certainly didn’t expect such a quick result. Criminals arrested, dogs taken in for treatment or burial. It’s a banner day for the SPCA and we owe you a big debt.”

  “Thanks, but it wasn’t only me.” Then I told him about the paperboy’s help. “I’m actually calling about something else.” I explained that I’d found a dead dog on my back porch and asked him to arrange for its removal. “I’ve covered it in an old sheet and I hope it can be taken away discreetly. I don’t want to spook the neighbours again.”

  “Good Grief, that’s shocking. And I sincerely apologize for bringing this trouble to your doorstep, Mr. Dexter. I’ll look after it right away and –”

  He was about to continue when I cut him off. “Please, it wasn’t your fault and I don’t blame you. We’re dealing with people who have no regard for the law. And no qualms at all about the suffering they cause innocent civilians and animals alike.”

  After I hung up the receiver, I crossed the room to the kitchen window, staring at the lump under the blood-stained sheet beside my milkbox. What did it mean? More pressure from Tedesco to keep my big nose out of his business?

  Or maybe …

  I rushed into my bedroom, opened the closet door and reached into the pocket of my blue suit jacket to get that note Diane Black had given me at Robert’s Restaurant.

  I dialed the phone number and while I waited I studied the note: her handwriting was straight up and down, neat and precise, as you’d expect an accountant
’s to be – just four words: If you need me. Then the phone number. It was signed, D.B.

  Did I need her? It pained me to admit it but, yes, I did.

  Did she need me? Only if it suited her.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Max Dexter speaking, Mrs. Black. I want you to know that your scare tactics won’t work with me.”

  “What scare tactics?”

  “That dead dog left on my doorstep.” My voice was quaking with anger. “You can’t manipulate me. I won’t play your game and neither will Frank Russo.”

  “Dead dog?”

  “Please. Don’t play dumb. That dog was dumped in exactly the same place as Bernie Fiore’s body. Sometime after the police raid on the dog fights in the east end of the city.”

  A long pause on the line – then she finally said, “I’ll look into this.”

  I was still holding the phone after she’d hung up and it felt like the dial tone was thumbing its nose at me. Was she really in the dark? Why would she have given me her number if it wasn’t an offer of … what?

  I called for a cab to take me downtown. Dave was in the office so I asked to speak with him. “Another nasty shock on my doorstep this morning,” I told him. “It was one of those fighting dogs, a dead and bloody mess.” Then I related the news about the raid and subsequent arrests. “I’m sorry, Pal, if you get dragged into this too. We both have to be more careful now – these damn guys are capable of anything.”

  It took a long moment for him to answer in a shaky voice, “Okay, Max. I’m on my way.”

  Then I secured my revolver in its shoulder holster. As I did so I was reminded of a statement which some folks attributed to Al Capone: “You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone.”

  I decided to follow that advice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was mid-morning by the time I reached my office and Iz rushed toward me as I entered.