“Go ahead and ask,” he spat.
“Man, what's eating you?” Birdie said with a hint of menace.
“Take one more step and I'll have you up for assault,” Kernahan said.
I was puzzled by his hostility.
“Something on your mind, Kernahan? We haven't even had time to say a good morning yet.”
Kernahan worked his thin lips then took a long pull on the fag.
“You guys in the service?”
“Yeah.” I told him where and when. His cheek twitched a bit and it was then I noticed the crease on his forehead, near the hairline. He'd grown his bangs to cover it up.
“I guess that's all right then. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
I looked around at the other neat little bungalows and the tidy lawns and the trimmed hedges and the whitewashed shutters. I guess we were talking on the lawn. He hadn't made a move to ask us in.
“About eight years ago, you pulled over a bunch of kids who had been joyriding. Took them down to the station and booked them. They called their parents who got them bailed out. You remember that evening?”
Kernahan snorted, then something that resembled a grin appeared on his face.
“I pulled over lots of joy riders mister. Too many to count. Especially kids out for a good time.”
“These were four kids, some from wealthy families. You remember an Alison Foster and her boyfriend, a kid named Harvey Troyer? They would have been about 16 at the time. There was another couple, Gayle Sorenson and Rance Callaway.”
At the mention of the names, his face went slack.
“Yeah, I remember them.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Kernahan took a final drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it out on the bottom of his sneaker. He put the fag end in his pocket.
“Got a call about a stolen vehicle. Brand new Caddy. I just came out of Fran's after picking up a coffee and a piece of pie. Spotted the Caddy going east on Wellesley Street. Hopped in my patrol car and pulled them over between Church and Jarvis.”
“They drinking?”
Kernahan allowed himself a small grin.
“Well, the open mickey they were passing back and forth led me to believe so. The driver was an uppity little shit, the kind of kid who was made for slapping around, you know what I mean?” I nodded. “I never touched him, didn't lay a finger on his precious sleeve. Didn't stop him from getting his daddy to file a complaint against me. Got suspended over it too. After a week or so, I was cleared though.”
“Any charges filed?”
“All dropped. The Caddy belonged to old man Troyer. He knew his kid had taken it without permission and wanted to teach him a lesson. Waste of time,” he muttered.
“You knew this kid?”
Kernahan nodded. “Yeah. Pulled him in once before, same beef.”
“Was he on his own?”
“No, the girl was with him that time too.”
“Alison Foster?”
“That's the one. A real looker. What she was doing with that kid, Troyer…” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Any charges that time?”
Kernahan actually grimaced. “Well, I brought them both in but the charges were dropped. They were given a warning, that's all. Wasn't my call, believe me. On both occasions.”
“Whose call was it?”
Kernahan shrugged but didn't answer. I prompted him again.
“Not sure. I heard the word came down from the Chief Super but it was Inspector Callaway who told me to kick'em loose.”
“I guess that must have bit some, especially after the second time.”
Kernahan looked at me. His eyes went hard. “Yeah. It did. Rich kids,” he spat. You could see what he thought. That he busted his hump for everything he'd got. Nothing handed to him. It was all down to him not like those spoiled rich kids he'd pull in on a Saturday night.
“You remember who came to pick them up?”
“Troyer's old man picked up his son and a chauffeur came for the girl.”
“He a coloured man?” Birdie asked.
Kernahan nodded. “Yeah. Didn't envy him that's for sure.”
“Why's that?” I asked.
“Both times–the girl tore a strip off him because he'd kept her waiting. She'd no call to talk to him like that. No call to talk to anybody like that. But the guy didn't say anything. If it were me, I'd have put her across my knee and let her have it good.”
Birdie grinned. “Me too.”
Kernahan looked up at him and his expression softened. He'd found a kindred spirit. “Damn straight. No kid should ever sass an adult. That's what I was taught.”
We saw that in action as the little tyke through the door had frozen in fear at his father's words. I wondered what kind of punishment made a little kid so afraid.
Suddenly, the day soured. “Anything else you can tell us?” I asked.
“Don't think so. It burned me a little but out of my hands, like I said.”
“Okay, thanks.” We turned to go.
“What's this about, anyway?”
“The chauffeur.”
“What about him?”
“Right after you ran those kids in, he disappeared. Hasn't been seen since.”
I could tell he was confused. “Thanks again for your time.” He watched us pick our way down his drive to the Chevy.
21
Birdie pled hunger so we sat at the counter of the Avenue Road Coffee Shop and munched fried egg sandwiches. I drank black coffee while Birdie guzzled a couple of malteds. The counterman watched Birdie with awe as he demolished the food in seconds. I ate slow. I pushed the greasy plate away and lit a Sweet Cap.
“You said you'd been busy,” I said.
Birdie nodded. “Dean's list from Flit,” he said.
“What about it?”
“Half the guys were casual and disappeared. Eighty-seven of 'em are still on the rolls working different construction jobs. Six died. Seven unaccounted for. That's it.”
“What else you been doing?”
Birdie snorted, gave me a look then sucked his second malted dry.
“Not much, 'cept…” And he let it hang like laundry fluttering in the breeze.
“What?”
He broke into a wide grin.
“Tobin's boys. I know where they're at.”
I thought about that long and hard.
“You're twitching,” Birdie said.
“I know.” They were Mounties but then I decided I didn't care. “It's a date.” Birdie kept his grin. Revenge was a concept he understood.
“What now?”
“Callaway's nephew. Let's see if he's mowing his lawn.”
I put down five bucks and the counterman gave us a wave. I looked at the address Callaway had written out. Callaway's sister lived on Caledonia close to St. Clair.
It turned out to be a white clapboard house that listed so badly I thought it would fall down. I rang the bell, holding the buzzer down for a long time. It echoed into emptiness.
“Should I knock?” Birdie asked.
I stepped back. “Be careful,” I said.
Birdie knocked and the frame vibrated from the force of his blows. I expected to hear creaking and wood snapping and the whole shebang tumbling into the neighbor's yard but somehow it held. Birdie shook his head and smiled.
“You're slipping,” I said. “Let's try around the back.”
We sidestepped down the narrow corridor between the two houses, threaded around a low bush and found him. He lay in a hammock strung up between two spindly maple trees, saplings really, a fisherman's cooler by his left arm. He swigged from a Black Label stubby when we entered the yard, although calling it a yard was a compliment. He didn't hear us at first or pretended not to, but I could see the breadth of Callaway in him and the fair hair and ruddy complexion. He'd tuned a transistor radio to Dave Mickey, the rock and roll jock at CKEY. Buddy Holly sang Rave On.
“Rance Callaway,” I said.
Birdie moved quickly. I saw the flash of his polished toe. The kid tumbled on to what was left of the lawn.
“Hey,” he shouted. “What was that for?”
The stubby rolled away oozing foam. The kid fell on his knees and would have made it to his feet if Birdie hadn't put a paw on top of his head.
“Manners,” he boomed. The kid tried to pull Birdie's hand away but he might as well have been flailing at a steel hawser with a toothpick.
“Awright. Awright. Lemme up already…” Birdie looked at me and I nodded. The saucepan of a hand slid away. “Whaddaya want?” Birdie took a step forward and the kid shrank back. I picked up the stubby and handed it to him.
I pointed at the transistor. “Turn that down for a second.”
The kid reached down and clicked it off. Buddy cut out mid-wail. “I'm Mo Gold and this is my partner, Arthur Birdwell.”
“So?” He plonked himself down in the hammock but stayed upright digging his heels into the dried turf.
“Just want to ask you a few questions.”
“What about?” The kid pulled a packet of filterless Export A's from the roll in the sleeve of his T-shirt and fired one up. Made me want to give up smoking.
“You were friends with Harvey Troyer?”
“Yeah?”
“Used to go joyriding in his daddy's Cadillac?”
The kid grinned. Cute. He had dimples. “That was a long time ago. It was just kid stuff, that's all. Nothing serious in it.”
“You got pulled over by a cop named Paddy Kernahan?”
“I never knew his name but yeah we got pulled over, what about it?”
“Who else was with you?”
“Couple of girls, that's all.”
“Names?”
“Alison Foster—she was Harvey's girl and Gayle Sorenson. I knew her in high school.”
“She wasn't your girl?”
The kid shook his head, even grimaced a little. “No, not really. It was just one of those high school things, you know?”
“And Alison Foster?”
The kid's expression hardened. “I told you, she was Harvey's girl.”
“But you tried her on, am I right?”
He took a long pull of the cig smoking it down to the nub. “She was a stuck up bitch, if you must know.”
“Turned you down, huh?” Birdie said.
“Like I said…” the kid sneered and ground the butt with his sneaker into the dirt.
“What else did you get up to, Rance?”
“Huh?” That threw him and suddenly I wanted to know why.
“You were joyriding, we know that. What else did you do for kicks?” The kid busied himself with peeling the label off the stubby. “Rance?”
“Nothing. I told you. That was it.” But he stared at the ground, not looking up.
“Kid,” Birdie boomed. “We're not cops so we're not going to turn you in for something if that's what's eating at you but we can still give you a whupping if you don't tell us the truth.”
“You guys know my uncle is a cop, right?”
I nodded. “And if you don't talk to us right now, Rance, your uncle is my first call. We used to work together in homicide. I imagine he can make your life unpleasant if he wants to. So do yourself a favour.”
The kid made a show of thinking. Expected to see steam coming out of his ears. “This doesn't go any further, right?” I nodded again. “Okay. Sometimes we'd go to this club. Harvey knew a guy at the door and they'd let us in.”
“What kind of club?”
“I was told it was private and to get in, you had to have connections.”
The kid fired up another Export.
“Why?”
“Because of what went on there.”
I was getting exasperated and I thought of having Birdie just squeeze it out of him. “So, what went on in there, Rance?”
“I don't know.” He must have seen the expression on my face. “Honest, I don't know. They had these private rooms upstairs. All I saw was the bar and the bandstand.”
“So who went upstairs in this club?”
“Alison and Gayle.”
“Just them?”
The kid nodded. “Yeah. Just them. Then after an hour or so they'd come back down and they'd be different.”
“Different how?”
The kid shrugged. “I dunno, sorta quiet. I figured they were doing some kind of dope up there but I don't know for sure.”
“What did you and Harvey do while you were waiting?”
“We'd have a couple of drinks and listen to the music.”
“And you never talked about it, what was going on?”
“I tried once but Harvey shut me down. Told me not to say anything and not to think anything because it could be dangerous. So, I didn't. I kept myself to myself. Then we got busted by that cop and that party was over. Haven't seen any of them since.”
“What was the name of the club and where was it?”
“I think the club was called Blackwells or Blackstones, something like that. There was no sign, you know? It was all hidden. Down in the docks somewhere. I never drove so I didn't pay much attention to where it was.”
“You think you could find it if we took a little drive?”
The kid shrugged. “I don't think so. It was a long time ago. I've never been back since.”
“You remember Alison Foster's chauffeur, Henry Turner?”
Rance's face brightened. “Oh, you mean the ni…” and then he stopped himself and glanced fearfully at Birdie. “I mean–the coloured guy? Yeah, he came to bail Alison out those times. Her parents were away somewhere. He seemed decent.”
I nodded because I wanted him to think I believed him. The kid was being economical with the truth but how much remained anybody's guess.
“When was the last time you saw Harvey Troyer?”
“I told you, years, since the last time we got busted for joyriding.”
“Where you working?” I asked.
“Etobicoke. Haulage. I pick stuff up and deliver it where it needs to go. Warehouses, factories, that sort of thing.”
“Company name?”
“Eagle Trucks and Cargo.”
I shook out a Sweet Cap and lit it. “Okay, Rance. Thanks for your help. Sorry to disturb your Saturday.”
“Hope it was useful,” he said and the dimples came out again.
“We might have to talk to you again.”
The dimples disappeared. Birdie pointed at him just to let the kid know we had him covered and a frown emerged. We left him sitting in the hammock. A moment later, the transistor radio came back on.
“Well?” I asked as we walked back to the car.
Birdie snorted. “Half truths, maybe.”
“Which half?”
“That's the big question,” he replied.
I really didn't know if any of this would get us any closer to Henry Turner. Ying's sister and her baby were still out there somewhere too.
22
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked.
Birdie grinned and nodded. We sat in the Chevy watching the entrance to a bar on Queen Street called the Ratskeller, some fantasist's idea of a German beer garden complete with whitewashed walls and wooden shutters painted black. I thought the name appropriate since Tobin's boys had gone in a couple of hours ago. Saturday night. Yowling time. I knew it wasn't a cop hang-out but then the Feds didn't like to mix–not by choice. Nobody on the municipal forces liked them. I could think of a few good reasons. I shifted in my seat and winced. We drank coffee from paper cups.
A few minutes before midnight, the four of them poured out of the bar. They weren't falling down drunk but they didn't look cold sober either. We followed along. Two blocks east, two of them peeled off and got into a black Ford Fairlane parked at the curb in front of a hydrant. Pure arrogance. We heard some loud goodbyes and slaps on the back and the Fairlane pulled o
ut and screeched its tires. The other two guys kept on walking.
I pulled the Chevy over and we got out. The street had settled for the night. Only the rumble of a passing streetcar and the singing of its steel rails split the quiet air. It seemed a good night for sitting on the back porch and hoisting a few, if you had a back porch. Most of the places in this part of town had a stoop or a steel-ribboned staircase. We followed them across Yonge Street, then Church and finally at Jarvis, they slowed. Birdie gave me a big grin. We both knew what that meant. They ventured into hooker alley to pick up some cheap tail. Real cheap. Some cops would pick up a girl, go back to her place and let her do him. After it was done, he'd flash his badge and threaten to run her in and what could a working girl do? Of course, she'd go along with it. Not much choice. Some guys had that princely quality and it didn't surprise me that these two, especially Blotchy Face, would pull that scam. Cops had all kinds of ways of making extra money and receiving any number of services. Certain kinds of cops, that is.
Two ladies of the night melted out of the shadows and approached the two Mounties. I heard them murmuring, negotiating the deal in the oblique way that they spoke so nothing incriminating was said. All stated with nuance and suggestion. Blotchy Face and his pal laughed. They enjoyed themselves in anticipation of more joy to come. Birdie and I came up. I lit a Sweet Cap and the click of the lighter caught their attention. One of the girls stared at Birdie and not without admiration.
“Maybe you'd like to dance with us, instead?” I blew some smoke.
Botchy Face turned toward me. “Well, well, well,” he said, the articulate type. “Didn't expect to see you standing so soon.”
I smiled. “You're not as good as you think you are and I'm a lot tougher.”
“So you say.”
I nodded at him, still smiling.
The other slob put a hand on his arm. “Phil, this isn't a good idea.” Botchy Face shook him off.
“Girls–you better beat it–take off,” I said.
They didn't need much prompting. They could smell the danger. Their high heels clacked in the night as they hurried away, their shoulders touching in a tight phalanx.
“Hey,” Blotchy Face said. “Don't run away. This will be over in a minute and then we can have our own little party.” The girls didn't even glance back.
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