40 Nickels

by R. Daniel Lester

“That’s it.”

  I wasn’t sure but took her answer on faith.

  Silly Fitch. Never learned.

  Back in my room, I kicked my feet up and sat back. Lots to think about. The chat with Adora and the one that followed had been very helpful. I’d mentioned that Janssen had an ex-cop lackey and wondered if maybe Adora had a connection that could get me the skinny on him. Turned out she did, a police captain looking to make the leap to city hall and she gave me a number, only I should wait a few minutes so she had a chance to call first and “light the candle.” Her words. So likely “light the candle” was Adora-speak for “remind the person that I know something they don’t want known and so it’d be best to pick up the phone when ol’ Fitch calls.”

  Adora was dangerous, for sure, but on my side at the moment so that had its advantages. Right before we hung up she brought up my tow truck situation again and wondered if I’d find it helpful if she sent someone around to give me a tutorial, tell me what the tow truck biz was like, how to work the rig, etc. Because it just so happened she had the perfect person in mind. Of course she did. I made with the sigh and the “okay, fine, mother” routine because Adora with the scent in her sniffer was impossible to divert off the trail and she did the “that’s a good boy” response and that was that. Have a cup of coffee with a grizzled old tow truck vet, why not? But the way Adora sounded so satisfied with herself got me thinking she’d got one over on me, won a contest I didn’t know I was competing in. That’s how it usually went, “Life with Adora.” I could write a book. It’d be short, but salacious.

  After waiting five minutes, figuring that was plenty of time, I dialed the number Adora provided. The police captain answered, sounding impatient and ready to get down to business.

  “Yes?”

  “Yeah, hi. Adora Carmichael gave me this number.”

  “I was told to expect your call.”

  “Thanks for taking it.”

  “I wasn’t really given a choice. But it will clear a marker so the carrot has been dangled appropriately. Guess I’m the mule today, chase chase.”

  My hunch was right. This had to be about more than Janssen wanting to buy Rolly’s business and Adora’s kitchen staff falling for his preacher-man routine, if she was willing to burn a blackmail match to help little ol’ me see a little bit of light. I explained that a Detective Montrose had quit the force a few months back and that anything he could tell me about it and the detective himself would be most appreciated.

  He didn’t have to think about it for very long. “Okay, yeah, Butch, I know a little about that,” he said. “Up and resigned without any warning to go private. Headin’ up some bigwig’s security detail these days, from what I heard. Stock options and a company car kind of deal.”

  “Married?”

  “I don’t think so but he had a steady, a widow with a son. But that’s not going too well.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she said he split. Packed up and vamoosed. She even came by the precinct to check on him a few weeks ago and the desk sergeant told her he’d quit. It was news to her.”

  “What kind of detective was he?”

  “Never heard he wasn’t competent but I didn’t get the sense he was particularly motivated. Career man, up until recently. Moved his way up the ladder because that’s what you do on a ladder, climb, even if the top ain’t so grand when you get there. The department Rugby team will probably miss him most of all.”

  “He played?”

  “Nah, not anymore. He was the coach. But he played pro football. Made the BC Lions squad in ’51 or ‘52 and saw a little action. But he had bad wheels so he retired and joined the force. And that’s about all I know, so I’d appreciate you letting our shared acquaintance know I cooperated.”

  I said I would and he hung up, just like that, no goodbye. Some people’s manners. Okay, granted, I was getting juice from an orange that didn’t want to be juiced but still a little civility went a long way. Life was a vise. We all got squeezed one way or the other. But I was a man of my word regardless, so I fed the payphone another dime and made a call to Adora’s service to say that while there wasn’t much info I’d got what I needed from her source.

  Back at my booth, Glenda swung by to see if I wanted anything and I said no I was fine, I had a glass of orange juice to think about. She glanced down at the tabletop. She looked back to me. No orange juice. She shrugged her shoulders, funny ol’ Fitch, and moved on.

  So, Janssen’s doggie used to play football and had a pair of bad knees now. What a shame, poor pooch. But I still felt the sock in the gut and the rude, rather forced exit through the warehouse window, so I really hoped those rusty wheels hurt him. A lot.

  7

  Shaughnessy was quiet. Real quiet. I was parked a few blocks off Granville Street and a few south of 33rd Avenue, several houses down from the Brasher house, trying to see what I could see. What I could hear was barely a sound through the open window of my tow truck. Only the gentle breeze through the leaves, the hum of a distant lawnmower and a bird chirp now and then. Mostly, what you could hear, if you listened closely enough, was the sound of the money making whoopie. Money making money making money. Like a dating service for the almighty dollar and only family oriented money wanted. Single money not ready to mingle need not apply.

  And it was a spectator sport around here, no doubt. Not much to do but sit back and watch the money procreate. Not that it was my kind of game but I could imagine that in the mansions on the wide streets under the thick foliage of the tree canopies it was quality entertainment. Not like downtown, Gastown, the warehouse, the docks. There it was hard graft, lift that, put that there, sweat, lunch break, sweat, quittin’ time, do it again the next day. Every dollar too tired at night to do much in the way of baby making.

  I sat back in the seat and thought about the information pie on the table in front of me. I wanted to eat the whole thing but all I could put on a plate was a small slice. Still, Mrs. Brasher deserved an update so I’d called her prior to setting out for Shaughnessy. She wasn’t as impressed as I’d hoped.

  “I fear my money may have been ill spent,” she said.

  “It’s only been a day.”

  “Could the Egyptians have built the pyramids with that attitude, Mr. Fitch?”

  It seemed an unfair comparison but she seemed so set on it, I didn’t try to push her off. Instead, I said I was going to be snooping around her house later and I’d probably have her son, Hugo, out by teatime so best prepare the scones.

  When in doubt, swing for the fence.

  Like here, Shaughnessy, where the houses were big, the egos bigger. Take the Brasher mansion, for example. Only a ridiculous confidence, a sense of rabid entitlement, built something like that. A manifest destiny to live like Kings and Queens. Although, the place was only impressive if you liked castles. Otherwise, ho hum, yeah yeah, so what? Parapets and wide, sweeping balconies. All on a corner lot with a driveway, a wrought iron gate to keep the riffraff out and enough grass to make a par five with a dogleg left feel jealous. And a guy could get to thinking they didn’t want people snooping around what with the giant hedges bordering the property. The nerve. Made my job trying to see what was inside a hell of a lot harder. No respect for the nosy was what it was.

  Though I was about to find out that getting inside the house would be the least of my worries. Because that was when a pair of hands suddenly grabbed me around the collar and yanked me up and out through the open window. I made a whole bunch of sounds not fit for the ears of children and ended up on the grass beside my truck in a heap. With, surprise, surprise, the ex-cop bulldog standing over me.

  The doggy growled. “You’re makin’ this too easy, Fitch.”

  “I don’t see your owner. That’s nice that he lets you off the leash sometimes.” He raised a paw in a threatening manner. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Points for the window being all the way down this time. And for symmetry: we’ve g
one from out to in and in to out. But I didn’t know lil’ doggies could sneak up like that. You learn that in the force?”

  “And did you learn at dick school to show up to a stakeout in a tow truck with your name on it?”

  “Okay, you got me there. I’m still workin’ out the kinks. But to what do I owe the honour?”

  “Mr. Quest, he’d like to see you.”

  “And if I don’t want to see him?”

  “It’s not really a question.”

  “I see. Well, then, my answer is…” And then I kicked him in the right knee, hard. If I’d been standing it’d have been like stomping on a bug. But I was horizontal and with all that force going sideways the knee went a direction it wasn’t designed to. He screamed. And while he busied himself with that, I got up and ran. And I’d love to say I was the graceful sprinter rounding the corner in the 200m but no track, only sidewalk, and it was a pure panic run. Zero plan, simply get the hell away. I looked back, which was a mistake. Sure, the bulldog was on the ground on his side, clutching his ruined wheel, so no problemo there, but when I turned around again I ran straight into a brick wall.

  A wide, squat, brick wall in the middle of the sidewalk.

  Strange place for one of those, I thought, as I hit it.

  As the wind left me.

  As I stared at up at the sky, gasping like a fish.

  I ended up on a plush leather couch in a room with a big desk and a fireplace going gangbusters. Lots of wooden bookshelves lined with impressive tomes against green wallpaper. The brick wall I ran into outside was there, too. And so was Janssen. He had too many teeth. They were real bright. “Ah, yes, there’s that colour in your face again. You had us worried, Mr. Fitch.”

  “Us?” I said, not really pronouncing it properly. My tongue wasn’t fully cooperating.

  “Yes,” said Janssen. “My associate and I. You gave us a scare.”

  Oh. The brick wall I’d run into was a short wide man in a short wide brown suit with a brown bowler hat to match. And I swear, no neck. He was all big melon and chest and what neck there was looked like you could saw it in half and count the rings. So, easy mistake. But it made more sense now that I knew it was a man, not a brick wall that had put me over his shoulder and carried me into the house like a sack of potatoes. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” I said.

  “As he is sorry for getting in your way, aren’t you, Reynold?” Reynold grunted. Janssen backed up and sat on the corner of the desk, lifting a snifter of brandy to his lips. He took a sip and swallowed. “Sometimes my aides don’t know their own strength and simple requests like asking them to escort a certain old friend inside for a certain discussion can lead to a very different result than expected.”

  The room was hot. Sweat poured down my face.

  “A fire in May?” I said.

  “You wouldn’t stop shivering.”

  “I’m allergic to bouncing off brick walls, I guess. Speaking of the unexpected how is your bulldog?”

  “If you’re referring to Mr. Montrose then he’s likely seeking medical attention as we speak.”

  “The veterinarian, huh? Hope you got a good one. I had a friend once, took his dog in for worm shots and they ended up castrating him. Not the owner, the dog.”

  Janssen laughed. “Ah, yes, the trademark ‘Fitch funny.’ It takes me back. Think you can sit up now?”

  I sat up. Everything worked. It was a relief. “Reynold’s the quiet type, eh?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Janssen. “Never speaks, actually. Chooses not to, I suppose. But who knows? He doesn’t talk. Though my employment of him isn’t hinged on his ability to communicate.”

  “Only with his fists.”

  “What you must think of me, Mr. Fitch. Like some common goon, I bet.”

  “Janssen, Janssen.”

  “Actually, I go by ‘Quest’ now.”

  “I heard. That was quite the performance the other day. Because that’s what it is, right? You don’t believe that nonsense, do you?”

  He looked like maybe he was about to give me the business, the show, the pizzazz, but then thought better of it. Instead, he smiled and said, “Every sheep needs a shepherd. And I’d rather be the shepherd. It pays better.”

  “Well, you and your special medicine sure got the rummies attention.”

  “Too bad you had to leave halfway through.”

  “I never was very patient.”

  “I seem to remember that.” Janssen smirked and reached into his pocket. He put the roll of nickels on the blotter, standing them on one end next to a newspaper folded at the half and open to what looked like the obituaries.

  And there they were: my 40 nickels.

  I gave him the sweetness. “Janssen you’re a real peach. So nice of you to save them for me all this time. But I’ll take ‘em back now.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, giving me back the sweetness covered in icing with sprinkles on top. “These nickels have become very special to me. A good luck charm, as it will. Every time I’m in front of an audience I find their presence very comforting.” He placed the roll of nickels on a tiny pedestal on the desk, one he seemed to have had made custom so it fit oh-so perfectly. ”Why, can you believe, that it was the very day I attained these nickels that I first conceived of the DSG? And I have you to thank for it. You pointed me in the direction of the television medium and I took it the next logical step.”

  “Logical?”

  “Well, profitable.”

  I looked around. “Seems so. Fancy digs.”

  “Hugo’s a dear friend to the cause and is very supportive.”

  “Clearly. Say, he’s not around, is he?”

  “Why, yes he is. Ever since his father passed, Hugo’s become quite a homebody.” Janssen leaned forward, like we were gossiping and I was getting the primo dirt. “The death was quite hard on him. Happened right outside this window, actually. Fell off the roof, the poor man. Accidents in the home are so tragic. But I digress. Back to the nickels. Let’s say you did think you’d been wronged in some way. That I ‘stole’ your property, despite you having stolen it shortly before.” He removed a chequebook from the desk drawer then rang a little silver bell on the desk. A moment later, a man who appeared to be Hugo Brasher or at least his robot look-a-like entered the room and stood at Janssen’s side. According to the picture his mother had given me, the likeness was there, but there was no life in his face. Slack features, eyes staring straight ahead. I wondered if Hugo donated some brain cells to the cause, too. I’d seen lobotomy patients with more verve. “You would accept a cheque, Fitch, would you not?”

  I stared at Janssen. My heart pounded. The air got thick. Here was another potential payday, exactly what I’d always been waiting for. The buried treasure, the quick score. Like with the Dead Clown money only that was scooped up by Cleveland Moyer, the manager of the building where Jim Baxter hid it, months before I got on the scene. I never had a shot. But the dream of it still burned bright when I closed my eyes.

  “That’s some script you’re writing there. Usually the payoff comes at the end.”

  “I like to do things differently, you should know that. And why should I beat around the proverbial bush, when we both know what you want. Now, for the amount.” He readied the pen and made exaggerated “this is a man thinking very hard” sounds. “Obviously, the insult is worth more than the measly two dollars the nickels are worth. Mental pain and suffering? How much money would alleviate that?” Janssen tapped his finger and Hugo bent down. He whispered in Hugo’s ear and Hugo wrote out a cheque. Then he put the pen down and stood up. “Thank you, Hugo,” said Janssen, “that will be all.”

  Hugo left the way he arrived, dead-eyed and limbs by his side. Janssen ripped the cheque from the book and held it up. I got closer. It was made out to Carnegie Fitch and had four zeros. Boy, I sure liked a zero when it brought friends.

  And I couldn’t help but dream the ol’ dream again. The one with
the easy cash and where Glenda taps me on the shoulder and points up at the Eiffel Tower because we’re in Paris due to the fact that I’m so rich and sophisticated. Isn’t it beautiful? she asks. Yes, I say, yes it is.

  Back in reality, I took the cheque from Janssen. “A piece of paper like this creates questions,” I said. “Namely what do I have to do for it?”

  “Nothing more than what you’re doing now,” he said. “Simply walk that cheque to the bank, deposit it and enjoy the results.”

  “No strings?”

  “Only if you consider silence a string.”

  “So that’s how you got to your bulldog, too, huh? I heard he left the force so fast you could see the dust trail he left in his wake.”

  “No, I simply mentioned that I had a job opening for a Vice President of Security and mentioned the yearly salary. City policeman do not make much money. A shame, really.” Janssen shook his head. Mock sadness.

  And I’d never really noticed before, probably because in our hobo campfire days we all had that scrawny, down-and-out look, but with steady meals and a regular dose of soap Janssen cleaned up pretty well. With a mug like his, all ruddy-cheeked and eye-gleam, he probably could’ve been in the pictures. Maybe not the starring role but definitely sidekick material. Though I wasn’t sure the big screen would’ve been wide enough to fully capture the sheer size of his huge, ego-inflated head. And those teeth, yikes. Probably flash-fry the film and blind the leading lady.

  “That the same hex spell you bewitched Hugo with?”

  “Hardly black magic, my dear Fitch. The poor boy was distraught after the sudden death of his father and simply needed a shoulder to cry on.”

  “Oh, right. So his pops, Brasher, the elder, slipped did he? An accident in the home? I wonder about that. You’re like someone else I know. Always lots of accidents, especially tragic ones, happening around them…but always to other people.”

  “Oh, Mr. Fitch, I’m unlike anybody you know, I promise you.”

  “You are a special kind of crazy, I’ll grant you that.”