Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  That seemed to cap a wonderful morning.

  “We'll see ourselves out, Mr. Foster.”

  12

  I told Callaway we'd be taking a crack at Foster's daughter and that's what we did. Fresh from talking to the old man whetted my appetite for strange encounters. It didn't take long to get there.

  Alison Lawson lived in a fine, Tudor-style mansion in the Rosedale district of the city, an area so gentrified, it might have been airlifted direct from Scarsdale.

  When I rang the bell, I heard it gong deeply inside. A pretty maid in a cute uniform opened the door.

  “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked us demurely.

  “We're looking for Mrs. Lawson.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked and glanced boldly at Birdie. He had that effect on most people, especially women. From over her aproned shoulder, I spotted Alison Lawson who had emerged from somewhere else in the house. I took in a large foyer with marble floors and entrances leading off from there.

  Alison Lawson stopped suddenly, put a hand instinctively to her throat, then having made a decision, carried on walking toward us, having pulled herself together in record time.

  “It's all right, Essie,” she said. “I'll talk to these gentlemen.”

  Essie bobbed her head then scurried off.

  “Please, come in.” We stepped inside. Birdie bowed his head getting in the door. “This way.”

  And she led us through to a drawing room, plenty of thick carpeting and big, comfy chairs to sink into and a large couch that'd hold ten, large-boned people easily. She must have hired her mother's decorator.

  Birdie and I parked ourselves on the couch. Alison Lawson, perched on a wingback chair, her body taut. She opened a silver cigarette box on a marble side table and lit up with a lighter in the shape of a knight. The flame came out of the visor. I thought it was very cute.

  “We just had a conversation with your father, Mrs. Lawson.”

  She exhaled heavily. “What did you talk to him about?”

  “We chatted about Henry Turner.”

  Alison Lawson froze for a moment paling slightly but brought herself under control. Coolly, she blew out a stream of smoke before replying.

  “What did happen to Henry?”

  I exchanged a quick glance with Birdie who sat impassively looking directly at her. He did this to unnerve her. He had a way of unnerving a lot of people.

  “I was hoping you could tell me. After all, you had to be one of the last people to see him before he disappeared.”

  She held the smoldering cigarette rigidly, her right hand stiff, braced with her left clamped on her wrist.

  “Was I?” she asked.

  Birdie snorted like an elephant snuffling through its trunk. Alison Lawson didn't break her pose, nothing cracked. She could have been a marble statue smoking a cigarette.

  “Well, yes, you were and what's more you know that, so why play these silly games with us, Mrs. Lawson when there are serious things to discuss?”

  She smiled coyly. “I like playing games.”

  “Evidently,” I replied. “Like accusing Aida Turner of stealing when she didn't. Just another, what? Amusement for you?”

  Her smooth brow creased for a moment. “But things have gone missing, Mr. Gold. I wouldn't have come to you otherwise.”

  I sighed. “The night before Henry Turner disappeared, you were out joyriding with some of your friends. You were pulled over by the cops and taken downtown. Your parents were at some retreat in Palm Springs. They sent Henry to bail you out. Feel free to pick the story up from there.”

  She mashed the half-smoked cigarette out in an onyx ashtray heavy enough to take a man's head off. “I think I'm tired of this game, now.”

  “Lady, answer the question,” Birdie growled.

  “Or what? You're going to punish me? How exciting.” And her eyes went cold and her lips pencil thin.

  “Maybe I'll just put you over my knee,” Birdie said.

  “Ooohh, that sounds like fun,” she cooed and I got the impression we were dealing with something a little different here. “And I'll have you charged with assault.”

  “Just tell us what happened, Mrs. Lawson and we'll get out of your way. I'm sure you have a lot of things to do today and so do we,” I said, conscious of the fact that we were getting nowhere with her.

  “All right.” And she smiled prettily. “I was out having some fun, that's all. Things got a little bit out of hand as they often do. My boyfriend at the time, Harvey Troyer, had taken his parents' car and he didn't have a license. We were young and stupid. He didn't really know how to drive. He thought he did but it's not the same thing, is it?”

  “No, it isn't,” I said, just to sound agreeable.

  “The police officer who stopped the car was particularly unpleasant. And when Harvey threatened to have his badge–his father was a judge but he's retired now–well, the officer got nasty. He had the car impounded and we were driven down to the station and suddenly, the evening wasn't much fun anymore. We sat in a dingy, smelly little room for a few hours and then finally, Henry showed up. I was cross with him, I'll admit. I demanded to know what took him so long and he told me he'd been waiting outside in the corridor for the longest time. The police wanted to make us suffer, I suppose. I couldn't wait to get out of there. Henry drove me home and that's the last time I saw him. And it's also the last time I saw Harvey Troyer too, the stupid idiot.”

  “How many in the car with you?” I asked.

  “There were four of us.”

  “I'll need their names.”

  She patted her hair. “Well, Harvey Troyer, the fink, I've already mentioned. And then there was Gayle Sorenson and her boyfriend at the time, Rance Callaway.”

  The name gave me a jolt. “Did you say, Callaway?”

  Alison Lawson smiled as sweetly as a cobra. “That's right, I did.”

  “Anything between you and Turner?” Birdie boomed.

  She turned her attention to him. “Certainly not,” she replied coolly. “I liked Henry but not in that way. Besides, that would have been asking for more trouble than even I would have liked. I'm not going to deny that I liked a bit of adventure in those days. Now, I'm just an old married woman.”

  “What's going on?” an assured but quizzical voice said. I looked up and saw a tall, blonde man with wide shoulders and carefully manicured hair wearing a Tip Top Tailors custom made suit that probably set him back 300 bucks. He stared at us with a puzzled expression on his clean, smooth face. “Who are you?”

  Alison Lawson looked up and smiled at her husband. “Oh darling, we're just exploring some of my sordid little past.”

  Before he could respond, the housemaid appeared with a dry martini on a silver tray. After he lifted the glass and put it to his lips, he murmured, “Thank you, Essie.” She did a little curtsy then scurried off. He drank a bit deeper. It wasn't even noon yet.

  “Ahh, needed that. What part of your sordid past is being examined exactly?” he asked his wife.

  Birdie jumped in first. “We've been asking your wife about Henry Turner.”

  Mr. Lawson wrinkled his smooth brow. I put him in his late 30's, just about old enough to have seen active service during the war. He took another glug of the martini. This seemed to enlighten him.

  “Ah yes, the missing chauffeur. Poor fellow.”

  “Did you know Henry Turner, Mr. Lawson?” I asked him.

  Lawson smiled, “Sorry, before my time, I'm afraid. Alison and I have only been married a couple of years. I'd heard about him, of course.” He turned to his wife. “Are these the two you were telling me about earlier, darling?” She looked up at him, made a pouty face and nodded. His expression hardened. “Right. In that case, I'm going to have to ask you two to leave my house or I'll call the police. You've no right to be here and I don't think a second complaint will go down too well, do you?”

  I shook out a Sweet Cap and took my time lighting it, then grinned at him through the smok
e. “That must have been a damn good martini, Mr. Lawson.”

  He looked at me uncertainly.

  “Yes, Essie knows how to make them. By following my instructions, of course.”

  “Of course,” I allowed and laughed, not pleasantly. “I guess you needed that to stiffen your resolve.”

  “Now look here…”

  “It's okay. I've seen plenty of guys like you, Lawson. Guys who have it handed to them on a silver plate. Guys who think they're tough and think that just because they have a position in society they can treat other people like dirt.”

  Lawson paled. She bared her fangs.

  “Reginald. Are you going to let him speak to you like that?” Her tone could have minced diamonds. Lawson glanced at his wife uncertainly then back to me.

  “I want you men out of my house,” Lawson said. He went over to the phone where it rested on a mahogany side table. Even the phone was pampered.

  “Mr. Lawson,” I began, “we're investigating the disappearance of Henry Turner and….”

  “I don't give a damn…”

  “…we'll continue to investigate his disappearance no matter where it leads or who we need to question. You can call the big boys downtown all you like but that's not going to change. I hope you get my drift.”

  Lawson's pale face reddened then went florid.

  “Out,” he yelled. “Before I do something drastic.” He glanced at Birdie who sighed and shifted his weight. “Er, I mean, don't come back here or I'll have you arrested on the spot.”

  “Don't think so,” I said. I took a deep drag and exhaled slowly.

  “What?” Lawson was stunned. Alison Lawson shot daggers at her husband, her expression porcelain.

  “Maybe you know something about Henry Turner and maybe you don't but your wife does.”

  “You leave my wife out of this.”

  “As soon as she comes clean, we will.”

  “Why you…you….” He sputtered. “You, dirty…miserable…filthy…”

  I cut him off.

  “We're going to find out what happened to Henry Turner, Lawson and there's nothing you can do to stop us.”

  I nodded at Birdie who kept his eyes fixed on the Lawsons and it wasn't a friendly look. I doffed my hat and we strode across the foyer clicking our heels in unison.

  “Oughtta be a song and dance team,” Birdie said. “Putting on the jive.”

  I wasn't sure if he was referring to the Lawsons or the two of us.

  13

  From my vantage point behind the wheel, I surveyed the sweeping driveway, the breadth of the front lawn, the splendor of the house and knew secrets had been bottled up inside.

  “Well, we've stirred up the hornet's nest,” I said. “Guess we'll be hearing from Callaway any time now.”

  Birdie grunted and stared out the window.

  “There was a big estate near where I grew up,” he said. “Looked like this. Manicured grounds, nice orchids in the garden. I remember thinking how pretty they were. The owner was a sonofabitch too.”

  “White man?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We're not all bad.”

  “So you say.”

  “I do say.”

  Birdie turned to look at me. “How you planning on getting out?” Lawson had parked close behind my Chevy and I was a nose back of his wife's Caddy.

  “I was thinking of driving out over the lawn. What do you think?”

  “I think that's a good idea. Don't miss the roses over there.”

  “Sure thing,” I replied, putting the car in gear.

  I made certain to leave deep ruts in the grass. It was a little bumpy but navigable. As I came around and headed down the driveway, I glanced in the rear view mirror. Thought I saw a set of curious eyes staring out from the living room, then a swish of curtains. I liked to think the Lawsons went at each other tooth and nail back in their comfy living room after we left. Would have been fun to watch too. I realized I wanted to smash the Lawsons, that I hated who and what they represented. Smugness, arrogance and money. I wanted to drive my fist through it. Birdie saw the expression on my face.

  “Don't lose the plot,” he said.

  The Flit Construction Company had won the contract for extending the Queen Elizabeth Way highway westward expanding it to six lanes so traffic could float in and out of the city bypassing the residential streets. The Queen Elizabeth Way or QEW first opened in 1939 just as the war commenced, beginning life as a four-lane that went right into St. Catharines–smooth sailing all the way.

  Building roads meant big business and took big money and Mr. Flit had both. Henry Flit Senior now served the back end of a five-year stretch for bribery. Apparently, some inspectors and city planners received anonymous contributions to their retirement funds and these payments formed a trail back to Mr. Flit who didn't deny it. He didn't deny it because he took the rap for his kid whose guilt had been cast-iron. The empire carried on under the sure hand of Henry Flit Junior. The Flit contracts had been maintained since the schedules lagged and the province needed to have these roads pasted down pronto. Tons of automobiles itched to cruise this new super highway. Flit came up for parole in the fall, for good behaviour, meaning he didn't kill anybody while inside. I'd heard he'd had a fairly easy ride. Money can buy a lot of things in prison. I don't think Flit Junior had put the champagne on ice just yet.

  It was easy to spot the site. Dust churned up and spiraled into the air visible for miles. I turned the Chevy onto a slip road and pulled up behind a half-ton Ford pick-up. I'd seen battered tins cans with fewer dents. Concrete pylons separated the old highway from the new section. As we stepped out, Birdie became annoyed as he watched dust settle on his new Sy Sperling jacket, a 56 tall. I was a 40 regular and could buy off the rack. Most of the activity took place a few hundred yards ahead with twin jackhammers roaring and a backhoe stepping in to scoop up the crackling mess, spewing its load into the back of a monstrous dump truck. The site office consisted of a mobile home towed to a new location every other day as machines split the ground open, metal beams laid down, forms built and concrete poured–all at a manic pace. Like the old days of the railroad laying miles of track every day to meet the quota set by the bosses. Same thing with the roads I reckoned. A young stud wearing a hard hat, kerchief pushed below his chin, sleeveless tunic, blackened Levis and scuffed boots, leaned up against a concrete barrier sucking on a fag. A blue eagle tattoo etched into each bunched bicep darkened by the sun.

  “Looking for Frankie Deans,” I yelled above the roar of the Caterpillar grinding away. The young guy cupped his ear, nodded, then pointed toward the site office set back on a grassy verge away from the noise and the dust.

  “Up yonder,” he said, then took another pull while he glanced casually at Birdie who continued to pat and swat with hands the size of sauce pans, flicking specks off his lapels.

  I nodded my thanks and we headed toward the trailer stepping over metal railings, dodging madmen with wheelbarrows. A beefy, brick-colored guy with a tan line below his eyebrows sat at a rickety card table with his hard hat off sweating over a blueprint jawing on a field telephone. Limpid blue eyes followed our progress as we approached even though his mouth kept moving. We stopped in front of him. Birdie cast a long shadow. The guy dropped the phone into its rickety cradle.

  “Say, could you stand right there all day?” he asked in a languid voice then gave us a lazy grin. Birdie stepped away letting the light hit him right between the eyes. The guy didn't flinch.

  “You Frankie Deans?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we ask you a couple of questions?”

  “What about?”

  The smile never wavered.

  “Henry Turner.”

  Flit Construction had the contract for the subway dig too. Small world when hand-outs and pay-offs had been spread around.

  “I'm Mo Gold and this is Arthur Birdwell. We're private investigators.”

  Deans looked from me to Birdie and back
again. I didn't see anything come into his eyes or face. I'd know. I'd seen it enough times over the years.

  “Ask away,” he said.

  “You were the area site foreman on the Yonge Street subway job?”

  “Yup.”

  I could see that he wasn't going to offer up information. I'd have to yank it out of him.

  “Henry Turner worked for you?”

  “That's right. Him and a lot of other guys.”

  “But you remember him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Was he a good worker?” I asked.

  “He was fine,” Deans said.

  “What does that mean?” Birdie interjected.

  Deans cast a glance up at him.

  “It means he came to the job on time every day, didn't shirk off like some clowns and carried his weight. Henry was stand-up. I was sorry about what happened to him.”

  “You mean the accident?”

  “That's right. On any construction site, something is bound to happen. Digging tunnels can be tricky sometimes. You have to go slow from time to time but we were under a lot of pressure.”

  “You saying that this pressure caused Henry's accident?” Birdie asked.

  Deans rubbed a dirty, meaty paw around his stubbly jaw line. The limpid eyes told me he liked his beer cold and often.

  “No, I'm not saying that but it can be a factor, you know? You have to have eyes in the back of your head in this job and you can't always anticipate every problem. You do your best, that's all.”

  I prodded him. “So what happened when Henry got hurt?”

  Deans sighed and licked his lips. He was thinking about a long tall cold one and I couldn't blame him with all the dust swirling around.

  “A couple of days before, there'd been a lot of rain. The ground was soaked and the section of the tunnel we were digging got flooded.” He shrugged. “I mean, it happens, we drained it as best we could, then laid down some forms but they hadn't dried completely. This was a cut and cover job which is cheaper and faster than boring through. Henry was with a crew down in the trench helping to pour some cement into an archway. Another crew was positioning beams overhead. Normally, it would have been fine but the rain softened the support and part of it crumbled under the weight. A couple of beams came down and took Henry with them. Lucky he wasn't crushed and luckier that his back wasn't broken or he woulda been in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He was busted up pretty good and had to spend a few months in hospital.”