He that had the way with words a snake charmer had with a poisonous viper, bending, curling them to his own ends.
He that was always your best friend, hands on your shoulders, pat, massage, so glad to see you, how have you been?
He of the stolen 40 nickels.
I couldn’t help myself.
“Boo,” I said. Not loud, but not particularly quiet either. I said it again but added a little extra zest. “Boo, Janssen, boo.” Jansen stopped and looked towards me, at the back of the room. He leaned down and whispered into the bulldog’s ear. Heads turned. I played innocent. I played, “Who said that?” The gentleman next to me was wise. I offered my paper cup as a bribe. He nodded and turned back to the stage, swigging that liquid down. Then he turned back to me. I shrugged “no more.” He shook his head, not meaning my serving of “juice.” He looked scared. He indicated to my right.
And it wasn’t the way I would’ve chosen to leave the warehouse, in fact I didn’t even realize the big front windows out onto the street opened at all. But at least the bulldog was nice enough to open one a crack before shoving me through. I felt like a calf being born in a farmyard, only dropping to Gastown pavement instead of soft grass. And how nice of the bulldog to go around, exiting through the real door, to greet me on the other side. He even helped me to stand. What a gentle doggie.
“Mr. Quest sends his regards,” growled the bulldog.
“Well, that’s—“ The large paw in my belly took the words and the wind right out of me. I decided to sit back down on the street. Better that way. Much nicer. Standing was overrated. I leaned back against the warehouse so my head was level with his paw as he opened it up. And there, as if it always had been, like it’d just popped by to say hello, was a roll of nickels.
The damn 40 nickels.
5
The old lady, she smelled like lilacs. Dead ones. But expensive. And while they were alive they were undoubtedly cut by the sharpest scissors, housed in the finest crystal vases and sprayed with only the purest of waters. I didn’t see her enter the diner but there she was, sitting down across from me in my usual back booth, where, after being accosted by Janssen/Quest’s ugly bulldog I’d decided to play a kind of dog myself and lope back and lick my wounds amongst the scritch and scratch of forks and knives against diner plates, the low roar of the lunch crowd, Greek Benny’s “Order up!” and the “ding ding” of the bell. That music to my ears, that balm for the soul. Still, it did very little to dull the roar of my gut ache and my dinged-up pride.
The old lady, she didn’t say anything right away. She seemed content to silently judge me while removing her white gloves and hat and placing those rare, precious items on the diner table on a handkerchief that I assume she packed in her purse for exactly such an occasion. The trouble with regular folk was we were dirty and had germs. Best to be prepared.
I opened with “Your driver miss a turn somewhere?” and it seemed to barely register, except maybe a little flicker behind the eyes.
“I don’t believe he did. You walk very slowly, Mr…?”
“Ah, she speaks. Fitch.”
“Fitch, yes, it would be a moniker like that.”
“I could change it for you, the price is right.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“Too bad. There’s this silver spoon I’ve been saving up for. Thought I could do some hobnobbin’ with the hoity-toity crowd.”
“Silver is very out these days, Mr. Fitch. Might I suggest diamond or platinum?” A faint smile curled her top lip. Touché.
“And you were following me why?”
“Because you were at that meeting this morning but you did not seem interested. I knew for sure when you were accosted on the street.”
“Oh, you saw that, did you?” Damn, there went my chance to play tough guy.
“I did.”
“All part of the plan.”
“It was your intention to get pushed out of a window and beat up in broad daylight?”
“I work in mysterious ways.”
She considered this. “So…you were working?”
“Call it more an idle curiosity at this point.”
“But you know the man on the stage, do you not?”
“I do, unfortunately. But how do you know that?”
She leaned forward, whispering, “I have a molar inside.”
I leaned forward, too. “Really, I have a few myself. Do you mean a ‘mole’?”
She sat back, chastised. “You will have to excuse me, Mr. Fitch, I am rather new to these sordid underworld dealings and the vocabulary that accompanies them.”
“Mrs…?”
“Brasher. Kathleen Brasher.”
“Like ‘Brasher’ as in ‘Brasher Industries’?” She nodded. I said, “Nice view of Water Street out your warehouse window, but I’m not crazy about the drop.” Her eyes clouded over. Rainy season, tears in the forecast. I’d struck a nerve. Now to find out why. “Well, Mrs. Brasher, you followed me for a reason, so why don’t you tell me what that reason is.”
So, she did, in stops and starts and non-sequiturs, but the gist was that she was the widow of Peter Brasher, who’d died eight months ago in a roofing accident at their Shaughnessy home. Always one for DIY improvement he’d been replacing a few missing shingles when he slipped and fell. Her son, Hugo, former vice president, was now running the family business. And it’d been business-as-usual up until a few months ago, when all of sudden, unbeknownst to her, he shuttered the family business and sold all the equipment.
Glenda walked by. I asked for a glass of water for Mrs. Brasher. Glenda gave me an “everything okay?” side-eye as she poured and I nodded. Mrs. Brasher sipped at the water. Glenda put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Ma’am, it’ll be okay, whatever the problem is. Fitch is good people. Why, he’s working a missing person case pro bono as we speak just because he likes to help.”
This perked Mrs. Brasher up. “You are a private detective?”
“I dabble. Mostly insurance fraud cases. I’m the guy in the bushes with the camera.”
She put her hand to her throat. “And I am sure I would not know anything about that.”
“I’m sure not,” I said, not because I figured the Brasher name was squeaky clean by any stretch but living that high up above the ground and you weren’t likely to hear the ants move beneath you.
“But you take cases? I could pay you.”
This was sticky. I wasn’t legally a shamus. No P.I. license in my wallet. True, I craved the action like a bee did the flower, but some cravings might be best left unfulfilled. The last time I’d taken a case, I’d ended up in the hospital after getting repeatedly menaced by asshole clowns, tortured and shot at by a deranged janitor and nearly trampled to death by a stampeding elephant which my client, Adora Carmichael, was riding at the time. Messy like a two year-old eating ice cream. With writing like that on the wall even a blind man would stick his hand out to stop me and say, “You may want to think about this.”
Glenda couldn’t believe I was hesitating. Mrs. Brasher was clearly a walking neon dollar sign and who couldn’t use some of that light in their life. I shook my head and politely-as-possible shooed her away. Best to figure out a little more about this potential “case” before making any decision.
I asked Mrs. Brasher to tell me more about her son’s change of heart. “This must’ve been quite the shock,” I said. “But maybe it was a sound business decision. Maybe he knew something you didn’t?”
“It is true, I did not meddle in the day-to-day business activities of my husband and I was not about to start with my Hugo. But business was very good and it is all my son has ever known. Perhaps I should have paid more attention after Peter died. Hugo was never the strongest willed of children, despite my husband’s efforts to make a man out of him.” She sighed. “That is the problem with the children of wealth, I have found. They get everything handed to them and do no
t know what it is like to be hungry.”
“How has your son been lately?”
“I have no earthly idea, Mr. Fitch. I have been living in England with my sister since the accident. Too many memories here. All I know is that since returning, he will not answer the phone or come to the door. He dismissed all the house staff and his driver. There are lights on but the curtains are always closed. I am worried he might be ill.”
“And now this preacher character is having his revival meetings at your warehouse, dishing out mysterious medicine and recruiting the locals.”
“Yes. And I was hoping you would be able to tell me more about Quest. My ‘mole’ said you called him by another name before you were accosted.”
“Yeah, he went by the handle ‘Copernicus Janssen’ a few years ago when our paths crossed. And I don’t know what he’s got going on here, but dollars to donuts it’s a scam. Whatever he’s calling himself, he’s bad news. But I’m beginning to think this is a matter for the police, Mrs. Brasher. If you feel there’s been some criminal hijinks.”
I got the first smile out of Mrs. Brasher, but it was a pursed one, like sucking on a lemon. She knew something I didn’t and was itching to tell me.
“Yes, that is what I thought, Mr. Fitch, so I already went to the police.”
“Okay.”
“And the detective I talked to nodded with much interest and took notes and got my name and number and said everything he was supposed to say.”
“Which was?”
“That he would follow up.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Well, that was a month ago.”
“And still no word from Detective…?”
“Montrose. No, nothing. And I got tired of waiting, so yesterday I went back to the police station and found out the detective I talked to quit without warning only a few days after I met with him. The other policemen I talked to were nice about it but you could see they did not think there was anything to my story. They did the equivalent of giving a five year-old who cannot sleep a warm glass of milk and a pat on the rear by walking me to the door and telling me Detective Montrose’s caseload was being divided up and they would be sure and contact me if they found out anything more about my son.”
I sat back. Sure, the ol’ dismissive-walk-and-talk. Handshake and a comforting nod, no intention of following up. And detectives quit the force, it happened. Retired, moved away, went into the private security business. There were a lot of reasons to be the cow and head for greener pastures. “So you never saw him again?”
“But I did and therein lies the problem.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It was today,” she said, her look a menu serving up two options: half a smile for knowing what I didn’t and half a grimace for what that meant. She cleared her throat. She took her time. “When I saw him push you out a window and punch you in the stomach.”
I sighed. Oh, that.
6
Half an hour after Mrs. Brasher left, I dialed the number from the diner payphone. I felt different, more alive. The buzz, the jolt, of having a case, even though I wasn’t officially involved. I’d taken down the number where she was staying, the Sylvia Hotel, and promised to take a look into the matter, though I’d warned Mrs. Brasher I wasn’t in the business of “business,” like giving official reports and receipts and she laughed so much she started to tear up and had to dab at the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief. Of course, not the same handkerchief she used to keep her belongings clean from the diner scourge, no, that would be silly. Her purse must’ve been stocked with them, one for every occasion. With this handkerchief, a brilliant white one with lace edges, she wiped up the laugh tears, saying she never thought I would be much of a “business” and that’s exactly why she wanted to hire me. She’d tried the proper channels and it wasn’t working.
The two 20 dollar bills she handed to me like a rookie nurse offered a cloth to a leper sold me on the proposition. And, she said, if it led to an “investigation” I could “bill” her later. She made it clear, she was a baker: plenty of dough. Pockets so deep there was magma at the end of them. And, of course, there’d be a hefty bonus for getting her son, Hugo, out of the house.
Staring at the twenties in my hand, so crisp and so pretty, I protested enough to feel right about it, almost figuring it’d be rude not to take the advance. Why poor ol’ Mrs. Brasher had been forced to come downtown and rub elbows with the vagrants and ruffians and I almost felt bad for her, the poor dear.
Though I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or complimented that she hadn’t sized me up for having a professional setup. What could I say, I walked what I talked, my advertising equaled my reality. I decided to be neither but to take her money and do my best to see what was going on with her son. Something seemed off. She’d lost a husband to the grave and a son to a castle. Not to mention that Copernicus Janssen was involved and that bastard had his bulldog punch me in the stomach with a roll of nickels. My nickels, to be exact. Well, really, Wendell, the Miner of the Sudbury Basin’s nickels but I’d been one to do the dirty work to relieve him of them so I felt a sense of ownership, justified or not.
First things first, I made a call to Adora since it was her tip that got me to the warehouse. I needed to know more about why she wanted the skinny on Janssen/Quest and also ask if she could look into a few things for me. Adora’s number was for a service. She never answered direct. I left a message and that was that. Nothing to do but wait.
I went back to my booth and ordered a clubhouse sandwich. Ah, the clubhouse. Why do anything with two slices of bread when you could do it with three? One of mankind’s greatest creations, you asked me. And Greek Benny made a pretty good one, with just the right amount of mayo, crisp bacon, thin-sliced tomatoes, lettuce and enough layered turkey to last me to next Thanksgiving.
“Coffee to go with that, Fitch?” asked Glenda, as she set the sandwich down.
“Please,” I said. Glenda flipped the mug that was facedown on the table and poured. “I’m goin’ easy on the booze but a guy’s got to hold on to something, right? Would you date a man with no vices?” I think it came off as conversational repartee but, hey, a little research never hurt.
Glenda smiled. “Only if his biggest habit turned out to be me.”
It was a hell of an answer and I had no follow up. But none was needed. The diner was lunch rush busy and Glenda was table-hopping, a consummate pro. I knew it wasn’t her dream occupation but she took pride in her job. And so did I, making short work of the clubhouse and the mug of coffee and by the time I’d finished I heard the hallway phone ring and Greek Benny saying, “Fitch, you got a call.”
“You rang?” said Adora. Fastest return call ever. Leading with “news about Quest” worked like gangbusters. Now I wanted to know why.
“I did,” I said. “Yeah, that Quest thing was a bust. Nothin’ there. Bubkus.”
Adora paused. “You called to tell me nothing.”
“But nothing is something.”
“You sure? I heard there were meetings taking place there for sure.”
It smelled fishy, a setup. Couldn’t put my finger on it exactly but it felt a little like the last time Adora asked me to look into something, when she’d waltzed into my office in a knockout dress and hired me to investigate the death of Jim Baxter, back when she was the Circus Owner and I was the Pretend Private Eye. She made out to be the grieving “niece,” since Jim had been like an uncle and golly gee whiz she was so sure he didn’t drink and drive and drown in a lake. But he did. And he also came back to Vancouver to collect the stolen loot he’d murdered Adora’s father for and then hidden away before being locked up in prison and Adora’s real motivation was to see if I’d stumble upon the money by accident. Agendas like layers of an onion, one inside the other inside the other.
“Well,” she continued, “okay then.”
“So I should stop snooping around?”
�
�Who said to snoop around?”
“You did. Not in so many words, but…”
“Sure, stop.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Fantastic.”
“Wonderful.”
Another Adora pause. Then: “Okay, spill it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can read your cards like a book, Fitch, even over the telephone. You’re holdin’.”
Shit, she was good. Or I was a terrible poker player. I preferred option number one. “Fine. Not only was Quest there, but he’s actually one Copernicus Janssen, disgraced dentist and an old crazy hobo campfire pal of mine. And let me be clear: by ‘disgraced’ I mean ‘criminal,’ by ‘crazy’ I mean like a ‘deranged fox’ and by ‘pal’ I mean the kind you don’t turn your back on if he’s holding anything even remotely sharp.”
“He sounds charming.”
“Oh, he is. But be ready for the oiliest of apple butter talk and check your pockets for your valuables when you’re done listenin’. Okay, your turn: why so curious?”
“Like I said, my kitchen staff, the ones I had to fire, they were talking about him. Like he and this ‘glow’ could heal all their wounds, answer all their problems. Also, a few months before the health club accident, Rolly told me this Quest fella was making a hard play for his tow truck business. He wanted to buy it outright, lock, stock and barrel. Had some big money behind him. But Rolly wouldn’t sell. So Janssen seems like a player and I’m curious to know what I’m up against in case his name pops up again.”
“And that’s it?”
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