“There you go,” she said.
“Thanks Ruby,” Leon replied.
“Mmm-hmm.”
And she went behind the counter again, picked up the cigarette she'd left in the ashtray and took a long pull, never taking her eyes off Birdie for a second.
“No, no, I didn't mean it that way,” Leon stammered. “It's just that…if he hasn't come back by now, you know, then I just don't think he's ever going to, that's all. You see what I mean?” He kept a pencil behind his ear, for writing down fares.
“We just want to know more about Henry, that's all. What he was like, his habits, if he was seeing anyone, that sort of thing. What can you tell us, Leon?”
The coffee cup came up to lip level.
“Me and Henry, you know, didn't see each other much after we finished school. Kinda went our separate ways. He was working. I was working, never seemed like there was time to get together like we used to.” He took another sip of the coffee. “It was a bad thing he done, running off like that and I tell you what, it surprised me too.”
“Why's that, man?” Birdie asked him.
“'Cause Henry always played it straight, never stole or cheated, even at school. Most of the guys we went to school with cheated at somethin', you know, but not Henry. He didn't want to let his Momma down, he said, had to do it on his own, no matter what the obstacle, you know? Henry wanted to get a place for the two of them, so his Momma could take it easy, she worked so hard, he said. So, it don't make any sense him running off and then never to come back? Never to get in touch, not once? Uh-huh.”
“He have any girls?” Birdie asked.
Leon smiled and nodded, showing his teeth.
“Yeah, well, he was crushing on a girl back then.”
“You remember her name?” Birdie asked, sweet as pie.
“Her name's Rochelle Dodson,” Leon replied.
“She a white girl?” I asked him. Leon shook his head. “Got an address or a phone number?”
“She's in a situation right now,” Leon said. “Living with a big sonofabitch, works down at the docks, name of Steve….Steve O'Rourke….”
Leon patted his pockets before coming up with a frayed pad, pulled the pencil from behind his ear and wrote out the address and phone number. He ripped the sheet off the pad and slid it across to me. It was a place in the Junction, not far from where Aida Turner lived. A place where people who knew they were down on their luck, lived.
“She's got a couple of kids. This guy, Steve, he's a bad man, you know what I mean? A big mutha…not many men could take him….” Then he glanced at Birdie. “Not many,” he said as Birdie looked back.
“Hey Ruby,” Birdie called. “More coffee over here, if you please.”
Ruby snapped to, pulling her face out of the paper.
“Right away, master.” And laughed full out. “Hard boiled egg,” she muttered, then slapped her generous thigh.
8
Rochelle Dodson lived at the corner of Annette and Dundas and as soon as I saw the house, I began to feel sorry for her. A rotted, wood slat fence cordoned off a rutted yard leading up to a ramshackle structure. Grey laundry flapped in the dry wind, barely hanging on to a line that dipped dangerously low.
I knocked on the door and a slim, haggard-looking Negro woman with shockingly blonde hair opened it. A child in the house cried and a couple of others screamed and Rochelle Dodson looked as if she had enough of just about everything.
“I ain't buying anything,” she said, though she regarded Birdie curiously, who gave her his best smile.
“We're not selling anything Rochelle. I'm Mo Gold and this is my associate, Arthur Birdwell.” Birdie bowed to her slightly and Rochelle's eyebrows shot up. “We'd like to talk to you about Henry Turner. We're trying to find out what happened to him.”
At the sound of Henry's name, Rochelle glanced behind her, pulled the door closed, then slumped down on the stoop.
“You looking for Henry?” she asked.
I nodded and gave her my most reassuring smile.
“I ain't got much time…my man is due home from work…Henry…things woulda been different…” And when she turned her head slightly I noticed the bruising along the jaw line. Because of her color and the way she applied her make-up, it wasn't easy to see but as she tilted her head from the shadows to look up at the sky, squinting in the sunlight, it seemed pretty clear what had happened. I glanced at Birdie. He'd seen it too.
“What did you mean? About Henry,” I asked her.
Rochelle gave a sad, little laugh, almost a cry of despair choking out of her.
“I meant that life with Henry wouldn't have been this. He would have been a good provider. I would have kept my dignity. We would have had children but Henry wouldn't have wanted us to live in these kinds of circumstances, you know?” Her voice was high and sweet sounding tinged with bitter pain.
“This was a serious thing between you?” Birdie asked her.
Rochelle closed her eyes like she imagined it in her mind.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “We were supposed to be married and then all of a sudden, he upped and disappeared. It made no sense, no sense at all,” and Rochelle shook her head sadly, tears splashing down her cheeks.
“Were you in touch with Henry at that time?” I asked.
She looked at me defiantly, nostrils flaring.
“'Course I was, we saw each other every day, didn't we?”
“Just tell me what you remember.”
She smoothed her cotton shift over her narrow thighs.
“We had plans,” she said. “Such wonderful plans. We were going to get married in a church, the Baptist church where my parents went to services every Sunday. It was small but the chapel was very beautiful and the altar could make you cry out to Jesus when you saw it. Oh my, it was like a small piece of heaven right here on earth. But then Henry got a little funny about it.”
“How so?' I glanced at Birdie.
“Well, all of a sudden, he wasn't sure about getting married in the Church, wasn't so keen on it. I asked him why and he said that the Church kept the black man down, didn't let the black man live up to his potential and that our lord Jesus was white and didn't represent the black man at all. And I said, what about His suffering and His anguish? Isn't that our suffering and anguish too? And he said, but what good will it do us just to suffer? When are we going to get past that? Half the time, I didn't know what he was talking about. I just wanted to get married in my mommy and daddy's church, that's all. Such a beautiful, restful place,” she said in a dreamy kind of voice, a voice infused with fatigue, a voice that sounded as if she lay down for a minute, she'd never get up.
Birdie's face became strained and excited. Any talk of religion, no matter what, got into his blood.
“He turned away from Jesus?”
Rochelle squinted up at him.
“Yes, sir,” was all she said in that sad tone.
“Did Henry talk about his plans at all?”
Rochelle shook her head.
“No, sir. I mean, Henry hadn't formally proposed or anything, like he didn't get down on his knees and ask me to marry him but we had this understanding, we just knew that we would be together and we started talking about marriage in a natural kind of way. Henry had saved enough money to buy us a small house in a good neighborhood, so we'd have a decent place to raise our kids,” and as she said this, I noticed she turned her head away and looked at the street, not wanting to let the pain of her own misfortune encroach on her thoughts. She imagined what could have been there.
“Tell me about the days leading up to his disappearance. Did you notice anything unusual, anything strange that happened? Did he appear to act normal?”
Rochelle shuddered, “Henry did seem nervous, you know and I didn't see him as much, he kept on saying he was busy and couldn't get away. I was afraid…afraid that something had happened between us, something I didn't know about even and I asked him if he was unhappy with me. Oh no, baby, he said, it's
not you, I'm just taking on some extra work to make us some more money, you know, so we can save up even more. And he looked different, sort of scared but tired too, you know that kind of tired that gets behind your eyes? And then the next thing I know, he's gone off, left without a word, not telling me anything, not saying goodbye. I went crazy, called everybody looking for him. He'd just disappeared…vanished…”
“No word from him since?” I asked.
Rochelle shook her head slowly, swiped at the tears with the back of her hand.
“I got to go,” she said and jumped up disappearing inside, then slammed the door.
A large, hard-looking man, in work pants and undershirt strolled up the walk whistling under his breath. He carried a metal lunch box under his arm, had a scar above one eyebrow, a thin-lipped mouth below a wolfish face.
“What you sellin?” he spat.
“Nothing,” I said. “She ain't buying. Just a waste of time. Don't worry, mister, you're wallet's safe here.”
“Shove off.” His lips twisted into a cruel grin.
I tipped my hat and moved down the walk with Birdie on my heels. I could feel the heat in him percolating through his veins, wanting to take a crack at the guy so badly the breath rattled in his cavernous chest. The suspicious brute followed us with his wolf eyes, making sure we skedaddled off his property, ensuring no one fleeced him out of a nickel. The guy seemed a lit firecracker with a slow burning fuse. He couldn't wait for it to go off. Birdie had his eyes closed, pinched with rage. The big man went inside and no sooner had the door slammed than I heard voices raised through the cracks, one a low-pitched growl, the other whiny and frightened.
Birdie took a step toward the gate but I put a hand out and caught his arm.
“Not your fight pardner, leave it be,” I said.
Birdie gave me a cold look but finally eased off and I knew somehow it wasn't the end–that someone would pay down the line.
9
I'd parked the Chevy on Annette and we walked up the block towards it. Some kids played stickball in the street and that took me back; listening to the shouts and screams, the cries of disappointment and yells of triumph, the good-natured taunting and jeers. Thinking those days were over, I looked at the group and saw just kids, maybe nine or ten years of age, a mix of colors in them, some brown, some black, some white, thinking, they were just kids and didn't give a shit about anything but having a good time. Not thinking where they were headed, if they'd fail in life or would claw their way to some kind of a win. They just liked playing the game, knowing who had strength, who faltered and adjusted to that. I stopped. I took my time, appraising them. Birdie figured it out. He knew what I felt when I looked at those kids.
“You don't think her kids have much of a chance, do you?”
“Not much. Might call for one of your miracles.”
Birdie grunted. “There ain't many to go around. We save'em for the rough times.”
I nodded and went round the driver's side door with my key in hand. As I fumbled with the lock, I noticed a yellow Buick Roadmaster, two-toned, white-walled and showroom ready, parked half a dozen cars back. I squinted and could just make out a pair of hats perched on heads through the windscreen.
“Company,” I murmured casually.
Birdie bent his head but didn't answer and I saw his right hand snake into the inside of his jacket as he came around the end of the car. I was about to open the door when I heard a powerful engine rev, then gun. I stepped toward the street. The Buick leapt forward jackrabbit style, tires screaming. The kids stopped their game and turned. The Buick lurched toward me, then screeched to a halt laying down a track in the asphalt. The front right tire came perilously close to my foot.
Birdie had one hand on the roof of the Chevy and in the other, his nickel-plated .45. I turned slowly and looked into the car. Two Oriental faces stared back at me. I felt nothing but their good will. They wore identical hats and identical gray suits, rumpled in the heat. The closest one said, “Mr. Fat Gai say we watch you. He looking for his money. You find it, you tell us, then we don't kill you.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and saw them twitch, reaching for their weapons. “Relax,” I said and pulled out a packet of Sweet Caps. I offered one through the window, the passenger reached out to pluck one from the pack. I grabbed his finger, twisted it over and mashed it against the doorframe. He yelped.
“Listen. Don't threaten me–ever. If I find any of John's property, it will be returned to him, minus our agreed commission, understand?” I glanced at the driver who listened and watched intently but hadn't moved. His buddy wore an inverted clown face oozing constipation but give the little creep credit, he didn't utter a peep and I knew how much pain this little trick caused.
“We are honorable men,” I said to the driver, who smirked silently. “You tell John, I am his number four, you get me?”
I released the other guy's finger, tossed the cigarette on to his lap and turned away leaving my back exposed. The Buick tore down the street. A high-pitched curse blew back in a tunnel of air, something about my testicles shrinking into blueberries or maybe prunes. The kids watched them go and then re-started the game.
“Smooth,” Birdie said, re-holstering the .45.
I grinned, shaking out a Sweet Cap putting it between my lips. “I knew you'd be impressed and you're a hard man to impress.”
“I'm impressed by God,” he boomed.
I sighed. “Don't start.” I got in behind the wheel. I drove thoughtfully back to the office, the lump on the back of my head throbbed worse than a hangover.
I flipped through the mail. A packet had arrived from Callaway. It contained a mimeographed copy of the case notes from Henry Turner's disappearance. There wasn't much, just a few pages plus a statement Alison Foster, accompanied by her father said the scrawl, had given to the police a couple of days later. It added up to a missing person's report, sketchy and notable for its considerable lack of detail, not to mention, almost indecipherable penmanship.
This comprised the era before typewriters became mandated equipment. Cops had a choice. Since each bullpen only had one or two typewriters per floor, handwriting the reports seemed easier. And fudge the details in Egyptian hieroglyphics if so desired. I know. I'd done it myself on numerous occasions. The only difference being, that my handwriting resembled legitimate cuneiform, a sacred code interpreted only by me. I couldn't even make out the signature of the attending officer, even if I wanted to follow it up. What a perfect way to run an inept bureaucracy. No one could blame anyone for anything since the reports had been documented in black and white and open to any translation on the open market.
“Got anything on tomorrow?” I asked him.
Birdie looked up, riffled the pages of his bible, then slipped it back inside his breast pocket. “Nope.”
“Good,” I said. “Let's rattle the cage of a gilded bird.”
Birdie smiled.
“I thought you were going to say, ruffle a few feathers.”
“Am I that obvious? Please. Give me some credit.”
He frowned for a moment. Birdie had a face like rubber, he could pull it inside out and back again. “I'm fresh out.”
“Liar,” I replied affably.
He pointed a meaty forefinger. I was the only one who could get away with that and we both knew it. The worst thing to be called in Birdie's book. It meant that you'd lost sight of god and Birdie's vision had always measured a perfect twenty-twenty. He waggled the forefinger in front of my nose and showed me some teeth.
10
I had a weakness for a well-turned out ankle and Adele Rosewell had the prettiest set I'd seen in a long time. Ankles and how she used them said a lot about a woman, in my opinion. A shapely pair of gams could be ruined by plump, ungainly ankles. When those delicate bones disappeared into flesh, it became a sacrilegious occurrence. I told myself that Adele Rosewell could fill in a lot of the blanks about Henry Turner. Self-delusion was one of my specialties. I liked wom
en, always did, just never had much luck with them.
I grabbed an open meter on Queen Street not far from the red-faced façade of City Hall. I took it, leaning up against the side of the Chevy pulling on a Sweet Cap gazing at the street's reflection in a magnificent plate glass window, a sliver of the majesty of one of the new skyscrapers thrown up by a cartel of crooks that had greased the palms of the local planning committee. They made my old man look like a saint.
A ray of sun blasted out from a cloud and the entire street scene came to life on the screen of the gigantic glass surface–a translucent ice rink in the air. A two-tone Buick Roadmaster sat parked across the street and appeared then disappeared with the flow of traffic. I squinted up into the sky and could have sworn the building waggled in the light breeze.
The Montreal Bank and Trust occupied the ground floor where Adele Rosewell worked as an assistant loans officer. I checked my watch–almost noon and I figured she had to come out sometime. A traffic cop came to check out my parking status so I pumped a nickel into the meter, flicked the lever and was rewarded with a full hour of leisure. The cop touched the brim of his cap as he swaggered off in search of fresh game.
As I turned back, I spotted her coming through the main doors bobbing in a throng of the newly released who looked as if they hadn't felt the sun on their faces in years. She tried to hide herself behind a pair of round sunglasses the size of dinner plates but she didn't fool me. The outfit today came grey and tailored, the ankles trimmed to the wind, sailed along beautifully.
I ground out the butt and straightened up. She stopped suddenly and a guy behind her bumped into her back, excused himself but gave her an exasperated look before stepping around. I couldn't see her eyes behind the dark dishes but figured she gazed in my direction.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded.
“Ankles,” I muttered.
Looking for Henry Turner Page 5