Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Anyone else get hurt?”

  Deans shook his head and his jowls wobbled a bit.

  “No. Henry was unlucky. The rest of the crew had time to get clear but Henry caught his boot on something.”

  “He get compensation?” Birdie asked.

  Deans face coloured then and he stared down into his gut.

  “Not really. He wasn't union yet and the company anted five hundred bucks. I tried to get him more but I was turned down flat.”

  “Who'd you ask?”

  “Mr. Flit. He looked at me like I was crazy even asking.”

  “Let me understand this,” I said. “You're telling me that you went out on a limb for Henry Turner?”

  Deans nodded. “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  “Henry was a bright kid. He only had high school but that didn't matter to me. I'd marked him in my mind to train him up as a site engineer.” He poked a thick forefinger onto the blueprints. “Then the accident happened.”

  “What about after? You could have taken him on then, couldn't you?” Birdie asked.

  The heavy shoulders went up.

  “Yeah, maybe. I told him to call me. Then I heard he got another job and never heard from him. After that, someone told me he disappeared. Is that why you're here?”

  “Henry get along with the guys in the crew?” I asked.

  “Sure. Why wouldn't he?”

  “Because he was a Negro for one thing,” I said.

  “Take a look, mister.” And he pointed at the guys crawling like ants over the site. “We got all kinds–Negroes, Chinks, Spics, Wops, Polacks, Indians, Limeys, Krauts–you name it. These guys have to work together and I don't put up with any crap from any of them. They don't have to love each other and what they do outside of working hours is their business. They could be Nazis or Communists for all I care. On the job they stick to the job or they're out of a job. End of story. That's how I run my site and always have.”

  “Nice speech,” I said. “Save it for the United Nations when you come up for Commissioner. Now, was there anyone in particular that Henry was having a problem with?”

  “Not that I remember but it was a long time ago, over 10 years.”

  “What about buddies?”

  Deans smoothed out the blueprints in front of him and looked longingly at the field phone praying it would ring.

  “There was a guy he seemed on good terms with, yeah.”

  “Name?”

  “I'm thinking. Ricky, Ricky Garcia.”

  “He still work for Flit?”

  Deans shook his head. “After the tunnel was finished, never saw him again.”

  I had a thought. “You keep employment records?”

  “Of course we do. Everything is legit,” Deans replied with some heat.

  “You got them that far back, on the tunnel job?”

  “Dunno. I'd have to check in the office.”

  “A list of names, addresses and phone numbers would be very helpful,” I said. “I'd appreciate it. And Henry's mother would too.”

  “That's a lotta names, mister.”

  I shrugged.

  “You working for the old lady? That figures,” Deans said.

  “Why's that?”

  Deans raised a finger like a shaman.

  “Mothers always care–no matter what. I call my mother every day without fail.”

  “Good for you,” I said. I took out a pad and pen and wrote on it. “Here's my number. If you could get us that list as soon as you can, it could make a difference.”

  Deans took the piece of paper, glanced at the number and stuffed it into the side pocket of his vest.

  “See what I can do,” he said. “Mothers…” And he smiled.

  As we drove away, Birdie asked, “Think he'll call?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not.”

  But then Frankie Deans surprised me. A couple of days later, a package of mimeographed sheets came to the office by messenger. There must have been 200 names on it. Deans scrawled a note in handwriting a five-year old would be ashamed of: For Mrs. Turner, it said. The clown really was sentimental. I leafed through the sheets and whistled. “Quite a list.”

  Birdie took a look at it and scowled. “Hope it's worth it,” he said.

  Birdie and I spent the rest of the day working our way up and down both sides Spadina Avenue and then along Dundas Street, the heart of Chinatown. We flashed the picture of the young Chinese girl I'd found in Ying's place in markets, laundries, corner stores, dim sum joints even a steam room. But it was a closed trap. No one knew anything. No one saw anything. Most didn't even bother looking at the photo, just turned away when we approached them, waved their hands then ignored us. Even though Birdie is hard to ignore, the merchants weren't cowed by him. They looked up, blinked, then turned away. We didn't exist.

  14

  I drove us back to the office. We'd stopped off at Fran's for a burger and a slice of apple pie with pomelot sauce. They did pomelot sauce better than anybody at Fran's on College Street. The usual moneyed crowd hung out there. Working stiffs and their families came for the blue plate special and ate their fill for a buck and a quarter. Later on, the winos and rubbies took over the booths in the back slumped in front of murky coffee waiting for nothing to happen. Ashtrays overflowed with butts they'd bummed or picked up from the street.

  I admired the smooth operation–well planned and executed. I'd just turned down the alleyway to the office when a large, dark sedan closed off the entrance crossways. The other one hunkered in the lot facing our way when it hit us with its brights. Blinded, I hit the brakes. We were sitting ducks. Couldn't get out of the car because the alley was narrowed toward the back lot. Two guys in front and two guys in back approached. Each guy wore a dark raincoat and hat pulled down over his face. They carried some serious looking weaponry in the form of M60 machine guns and for fun, a couple of sawn-off 10-gauge shotguns. Looked like they expected a war. One of the guys in front pointed an M60 in our general direction while his buddy motioned us forward. What the heck, better to go forward than back, I thought. Apart from putting the Chevy in gear and inching ahead, Birdie and I remained motionless.

  “What's with the hardware?” I asked getting out of the car. No reply. They leaned us up against the Chevy, hands behind our heads and frisked us. Both of Birdie's .45's were slipped into the pockets of a raincoat while my .38 snub-nosed followed quickly after. “Deep pockets,” I said.

  “Shut up,” the guy frisking us said casually with only a slight hint of menace. He crouched down and felt Birdie's ankles then yanked his back-up piece out of its holster—a pretty little .25 with a mother-of-pearl grip–and held it up with two fingers like he handled someone's dirty underpants. He tsked under his breath and gave each of us a disapproving look.

  I shrugged.

  “Sorry Dad, I forgot. No guns on Sunday.”

  “Shut up, I said,” the guy growled. I wanted Birdie to slap him silly but there were three other guys with weapons pointed our way.

  Apparently, the others had lost the power of speech.

  “Get in the car,” the first guy said and jerked his head sharply.

  “Say please.”

  “Huh?”

  I figured that only two outfits acted this way, all tough and mysterious and wore long raincoats when it wasn't raining and brandished M60s. Had to be the feds or the military. Since the military didn't have a beef with us, at least not at the moment, it occurred to me these guys must be on the federal payroll. I decided they weren't going to give us each a couple of bursts and leave our bodies to the mercy of the unnatural surroundings. Even the Mounties weren't that crude.

  “A little courtesy goes a long way,” I said. Birdie guffawed.

  One of the other guys started to move in and by the angry expression on his face, I gathered he didn't like being sassed but the first guy put out a dense arm and stopped him before he could get too close and make a bigger mistake. He made a sweeping motion with his hand a
nd grimaced.

  “If you wouldn't mind, gentlemen.”

  I nodded. “That's better. See? That wasn't so bad.” I patted his cheek as I passed on by. I looked up at Birdie. “Your tax dollars at work.”

  Birdie grunted. “Yours maybe.”

  They bundled us into the back seat of an aging Ford Fairlane. The suspension sagged on Birdie's side. His head pressed into the roof. One of the seams on the seat had split, the door handles had been removed along with the window cranks and the interior smelled like someone had barfed limburger all over the moth-eaten carpet. The guy on Birdie's right looked like a midget. Two others rode in the front while the last guy drove the other car, also a black Ford Fairlane.

  “Nice wheels,” I said. “Don't suppose you could crack that window open? It smells like last year's lunch in here.”

  The driver smiled into the rear view. “One of our previous guests,” he said nastily. “Had a bit of an accident.” Nonetheless, he wound his window down a full inch to show he wasn't such a bad guy after all.

  “You never showed us your ID,” I said. “All law enforcement officers engaged in their duties are obliged to identify themselves when encountering the public–and that's a quote.”

  No response. All quiet in the cab.

  Birdie turned to the guy beside him. “Show me your shield,” he said.

  The guy looked at him, flicked his gaze to the driver who shook his head slightly and back at Birdie. “No,” he replied.

  “I can ask you again politely,” Birdie said. “Or I can ask you again–period.”

  The guy licked his lips, swallowed hard and gripped the M60 a little more tightly. “You gonna shoot that thing off in here–a moving car?” Birdie asked him and his eyes went big and wide like he narrated a ghost story. “Chances are you'll take out your pals first spraying bullets all over the place, and by that time I'll have that itty bitty thing wrapped around your throat. So, what's it gonna be?”

  Beads of sweat peppered the guy's brow. The coats hung long and heavy, the hats the same. He swiped at the sweat with his sleeve.

  “I'm reaching into my breast pocket,” he said. His hand came out with a leather badge holder. Clearly visible, I saw the red crown and the Maintiens le Droit motto in the center surrounded by the laurel of golden maple leaves. The big giveaway though–Royal Mounted Canadian Police on the scroll at the bottom.

  “Always liked that badge,” I said. “Classy.”

  “Now you can shut up and stay that way,” the driver said.

  “I'll get your names later,” I said. “No rush.”

  Within about ten minutes we'd pulled up in front of the King Edward Hotel on King Street near Jarvis, an inn of former grandeur. It looked like a massive Brownstone that had seen better days. The exterior looked grimy and the ratty blue awnings hadn't been cleaned since Queen Victoria's coronation. Named after King Edward VII, the King Eddy had been a class place once with a spacious marble lobby and one of the swankiest bars in the city. They used to let in only the high-class call girls who worked the lounge after 10 pm when all of the respectable customers had retired to their rooms. Now, you found them working the bar and the lobby from noon onward. Somehow, the management hadn't got the message that the joint had gone down market since the room rates remained among the highest in the city.

  Occasionally, they'd find a body in one of the rooms, usually a suicide. People seemed to like the idea of spending their last day on earth in a hotel where they could order anything they wanted from room service knowing they wouldn't be paying the bill.

  The M60s and the sawn-offs disappeared behind the folds of the long raincoats as we marched through the lobby in a ragged phalanx to the bank of elevators. The King Eddy led the trend toward self-service elevators in the city. The hotels found it easier and cheaper to let guests punch the buttons. Two couples checking in lined up ahead of us. Our minders let them take the first car that showed up. When the second car came along, the guy bringing up the rear turned around and barred the door preventing a couple of conventioneers from boarding.

  “Sorry, private car,” he rasped in what he hoped sounded a menacing tone and punched the doors close button. The businessmen stared. One started to protest but his companion wisely tugged him away.

  “Smooth,” I said. “Bet you can scare little kids too. What're you doing on Halloween? I could stick you in a hole on my front lawn and you could jump out and shout, Boo. How about it?”

  The guy clammed up. Birdie shrugged.

  “See what I get for trying to be sociable? So much rudeness in the world today.” And I shook my head sadly.

  The guy behind me said, “You've got a smart mouth. No wonder you didn't make it in the force.”

  I turned and looked at him, feeling the weight shift as the car ascended. He stood about my size, maybe a little taller with a lot more girth. He looked soft, even under the coat. Like the others, he wore his hair cut short, military style, down to the bristle and he'd shaved carefully that morning. Red patches blotted his cheeks and even though he might have been a couple of years younger, he had the blotchy look of a boozer. Under the brim of the fedora, his eyes had a yellowish tint.

  “Better watch it, sonny, or you'll be singing soprano,” I said.

  The guy snorted and tried to smile but then the elevator doors swished open. We'd made it to the fourteenth floor in one piece, despite my trying to provoke something. We filled up the corridor and somehow, found our way to room 1410. Blotchy Face knocked. A sound like a grunt responded and we went in keeping better formation than the Argos when they took the field. I noticed a tartan sofa and a couple of loungers.

  The floor was covered in grey carpet that had probably started out as beige. At the far end of the room, a man sat behind a desk, his back to the windows. The curtains had been drawn. He had a fag going in a mammoth cut glass ashtray, smoke curling to the ceiling. He'd placed his dark jacket carefully over the back of his chair to preserve the creases and his shirt looked crisp and white. He wore a bowtie and slicked back hair parted in the middle. He bent his oily head over a pad where all of his attention seemed to be focused on some dissertation he appeared to be writing. I cleared my throat. That drew a vicious look from Blotchy Face but I didn't care. The guy behind the desk glanced up for a second, then bent over his task again. We watched for a few moments. It was fascinating. Like a countdown to death by boredom.

  “I can give you a hand with that,” I said. “My penmanship is pretty good.”

  The guy didn't respond, just kept writing for a few more minutes, taking his time. Finally, he paused, sighed, reread what he'd written and set the pen down. He pushed back from the chair and stood up. He yanked the jacket off the chair back and slung his arms through it neatly, tugging the lapels to make sure it sat just right, and shot his cuffs precisely. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a leather wallet and allowed it to fall open, almost carelessly.

  “I'm Inspector Tobin,” he said. He waved his hand. “Please, gentlemen, take a seat.”

  “Mind if I take a closer look?” I asked.

  Tobin swallowed hard then thrust his ID in my direction. I took a long look. I saw the insignia and his name, rank and badge number, then handed it back.

  “And these goons?”

  “Work for me,” he said.

  “That's very reassuring. So we weren't kidnapped by gangsters.”

  Tobin laughed but it was a little bit nasty.

  “Kidnapped? I wouldn't think so. I believe you accompanied my men voluntarily.”

  “If that's how you want to describe it. Having an M60 jammed in your gob doesn't leave you much choice.”

  Tobin showed a few teeth.

  “That's exactly what I call it. Please,” he said and indicated the chairs. We sat. Tobin sat. Everyone else remained standing. We waited while Tobin scanned the pad again. It was never a good idea to volunteer anything especially with the feds. Learned that in the military. Birdie took the same course. Tobin took a lo
ng pull on his fag and appraised us through squinting eyes as he exhaled. Just to make him feel at ease, I smiled.

  “You're related to Jake Gold, am I right?”

  So, that's where we headed. I shrugged.

  “You already know the answer to that. It's common knowledge. Is that all you wanted to know?” And I made to get up.

  “That must have been difficult,” Tobin said. “Known gangster with a cop for a son.”

  “Uh-huh.” I'd heard it all before.

  “Is that why you left the force?”

  I'd been asked that one too.

  “No. I left the force because I happened to punch the wrong guy.”

  Tobin nodded and consulted his pad briefly. “That would have been Superintendent Murphy?”

  “That's right.”

  “You decked a superior officer?”

  I pointed at him. “Right again. Batting a thousand, Inspector. My god, you feds are good.”

  “Now you're old man is up on a murder beef in the second degree.”

  “So I hear.”

  “You're not close?”

  “I spoke to him about ten years ago. We had words.”

  “Nothing since?” He had an amused look on his face like I'd been kidding or tried to make him look like an idiot.

  “My old man and I travel in different circles. We always have. Now, if there isn't anything else…?” I started to rise when Tobin barked.

  “Sit down. You'll leave when I say you can.” He sounded like my old fusspot geography teacher, Mr. Flook.

  I sighed and looked over at Birdie who gave me his amused look. I stayed on my feet.

  “It's like this, Inspector. Unless we're under arrest, you can't hold us. So, either charge us with some sort of fake crime, like I know you guys like to do, or unless you've got something meaningful to say, I think we'll be going.” I turned toward Blotchy Face.