Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  I sighed. “Our beef isn't with John on this one. We'll wait for them back at the other place, okay?”

  Birdie thought for a moment. It must have seemed reasonable to him because he nodded. “Cleaner that way,” he said.

  We drove back the way we came. I parked the car and we waited. After about an hour, I heard the rumble of the truck.

  I had parked adjacent to a concrete abutment. The building next to it threw a deep shadow. The truck, noticeably lighter on its springs now, bounced on by. As it did, we got out and strode over just as O'Rourke backed it up to the loading bay. Neither of them noticed us at first. It had been a long night for them, especially after spending the day shifting boxes down at the docks, something I assumed O'Rourke had been doing. I hoped it had tired him out too. O'Rourke stepped out of the truck. The Callaway kid slid out the other side and slammed the door. They had their backs to us as they headed toward the loading bay.

  “Hey,” I called. Birdie and I walked toward them. O'Rourke turned. Rance poked his head around the front end of the truck.

  We moved in a little closer but not too close. O'Rourke and the Callaway kid watched us. Then Rance reached into the rolled sleeve of his T-shirt and pulled out a pack of Export A's. He fired one up.

  “Whaddaya want?” he asked.

  “Hey, bad grammar, kid. Still no manners, I see,” I replied. I could see O'Rourke staring our way and then he focused on Birdie and some light came into his eyes.

  “So, you're not salesmen,” he said. “I knew it.”

  “Doesn't give you the right to smack her around,” Birdie said.

  “Huh?” O'Rourke couldn't believe what he was hearing. “Come again, big man.”

  Birdie walked up and tapped him hard on the chest with his forefinger. “A man,” he began, “who beats a woman isn't a man. He's a coward.”

  O'Rourke's eyes lit up. “You challenging me, big man?” Like he couldn't believe his luck. O'Rourke loomed large but Birdie stood at least three inches taller. The stevedore was broader, made for the rugby pitch, arms and legs hewn from oak.

  I pulled out my snub nose .38 and motioned to the kid.

  “Hey, jerk. Over here.”

  The kid moved forward carefully circling around O'Rourke and Birdie who stared at each other. I grabbed him as he came near.

  “Your uncle's not going be happy when he finds out what you've been up to.”

  “Whaddaya talking about?” the kid cried.

  “Boosting booze is still illegal in this country, kid, haven't you heard?”

  “Who says I was doing that? I was just driving a truck, that's all.”

  “Yeah. Filled to the brim with bottles that you loaded yourself. The two of you.”

  “Shut up,” O'Rourke snarled at the kid. “Before you say something stupid.”

  “You really gonna tell my uncle?”

  I looked him over. Sweat and dirt had congealed on his face and neck but he perspired hard now. “You got a better idea?”

  The kid shook his head.” I….”

  “I said, shut up,” O'Rourke roared.

  At that instant, Birdie turned his back on O'Rourke and walking away, began to shrug off his pea jacket. Hobnailed boots pounded the pavement. As O'Rourke went for him, Birdie sidestepped, ducking in one smooth motion. O'Rourke missed completely and ate some dirt. Birdie looked down on him, shrugged off the pea jacket and tossed it to me with a wide grin on his face.

  I looked at the kid who didn't seem to be taking it all in. “Front row seats,” I said.

  Wary now, O'Rourke got to his feet slowly. He went into a wrestler's crouch with his arms out. Birdie held his fists high, under his chin, elbows in tight and peered over his knuckles. He bounced on the balls of his feet. A gleam of light came into his eyes, a saintly radiance in his face. O'Rourke lunged at Birdie but only grabbed air. Stumbling, he swung around snarling like an animal.

  “Stand still, boy, so I can get my paws on you. I'll rip your throat out.”

  “Don't think so,” Birdie replied calmly.

  O'Rourke swung back around. He lashed out with his fist with such force the momentum yanked him forward. Birdie pivoted and stung him in the side of the head with a solid right jab then a left to the jaw. The brawny stevedore went down on one knee. He put his hands down to brace himself and came up with an iron bar he'd found nestled in the dirt. He held it up like a baseball bat, ready to swing.

  “Let's see who's so damn clever now,” he sneered.

  Birdie widened his stance and parted his elbows. O'Rourke moved in cocking the iron bar. Birdie kept moving, watching O'Rourke carefully. O'Rourke swung out. Once. Twice. The bar swooshed perilously close.

  “C'mon O'Rourke, you can't hit me? I'm a big enough target. Come on, man. “C'mon wife beater,” he hissed. “Let's see you do something….” And he slapped him in the face, then again.

  O'Rourke bellowed, raised the bar above his head and charged. As O'Rourke brought the bar down aiming at Birdie's forehead, Birdie caught it in the palm of his hands. The smack of metal against his flesh made me flinch. The two of them, stood toe-to-toe and grappled, locked in a contest of strength and will. Birdie pushed back on his right leg for leverage and slowly, like a rusty wheel turning, he began to twist the bar out of O'Rourke's grip.

  For a time they deadlocked, neither moving, grimacing, face-to-face, muscles rigid with strain, sweat and saliva streaming down. O'Rourke looked maniacal, like a rabid lion baring its yellowed teeth. Birdie seemed evangelical, forcing his will on the sinned and sinning. Breathing became hoarse grunts, the sounds of animals in bloodlust. Then. You saw it in his face. O'Rourke appeared a little desperate as the bar twisted, bit by bit, out of his grip. With a final surge, Birdie stood straight, using his height and weight to pry the bar out of O'Rourke's hands.

  “C'mon Steve,” Rance called weakly. “Get him. Get him.” I clapped my hand over the kid's mouth and hissed at him, like a cobra.

  The iron bar hit the dirt with a thud. O'Rourke put his head down and charged, wrapping his arms around Birdie's chest driving him to the ground. The air choked with dust as they grappled and rolled. Birdie's torso bucked and his long legs snaked up, wrapping them around O'Rourke's neck. O'Rourke pawed, trying to break the hold. He pounded his fists into Birdie's thighs. Birdie tightened his grip. O'Rourke's face turned red, then blue, then puce. Birdie squeezed. Blood leaked out of his nose. He bore a serene, determined expression. O'Rourke's grappling weakened. His eyes bulged and his jaw slackened. Finally, O'Rourke went limp. His eyes rolled back in his head. Birdie released him. O'Rourke slumped back in the dirt. Carefully, Birdie got himself into a crouch position then slowly stood up. He glanced casually at O'Rourke sprawled in the dust.

  “Is he dead?” said the kid.

  “Just unconscious,” I replied.

  Birdie blew out a funnel of air and kicked some dirt over O'Rourke's face.

  “I should have finished it,” he said.

  “Why didn't you?” I asked.

  He shrugged, then glanced briefly upward. “Maybe I'm going soft,” he replied with a hint of regret.

  “Feel better now?”

  He grinned at me. “It was better than confession.”

  I gestured. “Come on.”

  We turned to go. The kid protested. “What about him?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  “But…but…we can't just leave him here…”

  “Why not?” I replied. “He'll come around in a while.”

  “It don't seem right, somehow.”

  I laughed. “O'Rourke's a big boy. He can look after himself. You, on the other hand, have other things to worry about.”

  The kid swallowed hard but didn't say another word. We marched him back to the Chevy and I shoved him in the back seat. Birdie, flexing his knuckles in a menacing way, got in beside him, just in case the kid decided to try some funny stuff.

  “We're going to take a little ride,” I said. “Down to the lake.”


  “Why should I care?” the kid replied.

  I started the engine. “It's always a good idea to take an interest in the things around you, kid.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Now, you're going to be a good boy and show us where this club, Blackstones, happens to be.”

  “What if I don't know where it is?”

  I laughed but it came out more like a dust-choked wheeze.

  “You saw what my friend just did to your buddy back there, didn't you? Just think what he could do to you and not even work up a mild thirst. Just point us in the right direction. It'll go better for you, believe me.”

  “Why should I?” The kid put on a brave face but the façade melted fast. Birdie grabbed his dirty bicep and squeezed. The kid winced.

  I turned around to face him square on. “Well, there's a couple of things that could happen here, kid. We could just hand you off to your uncle, that's one option. The second option is to let John Fat Gai know that you ratted out his little operation back there. How about that? Now I know which option I'd pick. What about you?”

  The kid paled. He looked like he was going to be sick. But he didn't have to think about it very long. “Drive,” he said.

  It turned into a pretty drive. The sun came up on the horizon and the water lay calm and flat. The kid took us through a rabbit warren of old storehouses then told us to pull up outside a low building with a slanted wooden roof made up to look like an elongated sea shanty. No sign or number that I could see.

  “This is it,” the kids said dully. “This is Blackstones.”

  “You sure?”

  “Course I'm sure,” he snapped. “You got my cookies in the squisher. I ain't gonna lie to you now.”

  “You better not, kid. Or it'll be more than your cookies that get squished, believe me. What time does this joint kick off?”

  The kid shrugged glumly. “Dunno. Eleven, twelve, something like that. You had to be a member. Now it's just a bar. Anyone can get in.”

  “And your buddy, Harvey Troyer, he was a member?”

  The kid made a sour face. “That dip ain't my buddy, never was. No, it was her, she was a member.”

  “Who?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer to that one.

  “Alison,” he said. “Alison Foster. She got us in.” The kid lunged for the door grabbing the handle. He kicked the door open and scooted out. We watched him tear up the street and disappear around a corner.

  “Guess we're letting him go?” Birdie said, after a moment.

  I shrugged. “He won't get far. Where's he going to hide? He's got nowhere now.”

  “He won't be talking to John.”

  “Nope.”

  “What about Callaway?”

  I thought about the stocky, volatile cop. “Yeah. There is that. Guess we'll have to say something.”

  Birdie looked at me skeptically. “We?”

  I sighed. “Okay. Me.”

  Birdie smiled. “My prayers have been answered.”

  36

  That evening I decided to take Evelyn out to a club. I heard that Blackstone's might be good–a hopping joint down by the waterfront. The scary sister agreed to babysit. She gave me the evil eye when I rolled up dressed in my best blue suit. Evelyn ignored the undercurrents and kissed her children goodnight, gave her sister a hug and told her she'd made up a bed for her in the spare room. I kept my smile low and tight. Evelyn looked nice in a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps. She wore a Bolero jacket to cover her bare arms.

  “You look swell,” I said as we descended the stone stairs of her stoop to the car.

  She gave me a look of quiet surprise. “Well, thank you. Compliments now. Ain't that something?”

  “I meant it.”

  “I know. I'm just teasing you, Mo.”

  I opened the door for her and helped her in. I caught a flash of thigh as her short dress rode up while she maneuvered her way on to the seat. “No peeking now,” she admonished.

  I grinned at her. “That's like asking a dog not to grab at a bone.”

  “I know.” Still, my gaze lingered for a moment longer. “Shut the door,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  I followed orders then got in beside her and fiddled with the ignition. “They have music at this place?” she asked.

  “I honestly don't know.”

  Not much seemed to faze her. “Well, let's find out.”

  “At your service, Ma'am.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  I'd arranged for Birdie to meet us there. Evelyn stared out the window as we drove through the docklands. “Kind of out of the way, huh?”

  “It's off the beaten path,” I replied. “If you don't like it, we can leave. Just say the word.”

  “Don't worry. I will, baby. I will.”

  I parked the Chevy in an industrial lot around the corner beside a row of silent trucks, a backhoe and a road grader. Evelyn gave me a look but held her tongue. I helped her out of the car.

  “This had better be worth it,” she muttered under her breath while she plumped her hair. She took a last look in the side view topping up her lipstick under the glare of a streetlight. I gave her my arm. She held it tight.

  “Don't be nervous,” I said. “You look great.”

  “Hhmmphh,” she snorted. Her heels clacked on the pavement.

  The entrance to the club was stacked with cars and people. The cars looked shiny and the people even shinier. A lot of glitter and gold, the flash of diamonds. The muscle hunkered menacingly out front. As we joined the queue, I felt a nudge in my back. I turned to find Birdie grinning down at me.

  “Saw you pull up,” he said and he looked expectantly at Evelyn who gave him an icy stare.

  “Evelyn, this is my partner, Arthur Birdwell. Just call him, Birdie.”

  “My pleasure,” Birdie boomed and stuck out his paw.

  Evelyn gave him a quirky smile. “Likewise,” she said and reluctantly, gave him hers to shake. It disappeared into his mitt. After he gave it back to her, he motioned to the front.

  “See who's on the door?”

  I took a better look. My good friend, John's right hand. Just a few hours earlier I'd seen him cradling a Tommy gun. “He gets around,” I replied.

  “No kidding,” Birdie said.

  “That delivery we observed earlier was probably for this joint.”

  “Seems like a good bet,” Birdie replied.

  The line moved slowly but steadily forward. I could buff my car with all of the Brylcreem the guys in line used to glue their hair to their scalps.

  “Trouble,” I said. The men were being patted down before being let in the front door. “You carrying?” I asked Birdie. He nodded. “Me too.” I glanced at Evelyn's small pocket purse.

  “Something wrong?” Evelyn asked.

  I cleared my throat. It wasn't the sort of thing you normally asked a date.

  “Er, you got anywhere you can stash a couple of heaters?”

  And I flipped open my jacket to show her my snub .38. Birdie did the same. She gave us a wide-eyed look, then shook her head, tut-tutting to herself. I was hoping she didn't think that maybe her sister had been dead right about me.

  “Give me some cover,” she said and held out her hand. I slipped her the .38 discreetly as I could. “Move in closer,” she said. “You too, big boy.” In a flash, her skirt had flipped up and the gun disappeared. “Now yours,” she said to Birdie. He handed it to her and she quickly repeated the same tricky maneuver, then tugged her dress down “You're gonna owe me a new pair of nylons,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “And garters too.”

  “Only if I can watch you try them on.”

  She slapped my shoulder but it was a kind of playful slap.

  “That your only piece?” I asked Birdie. He shook his head. “Good,” I replied. Better to let them take something than nothing. Otherwise, they'd look a little more thoroughly.

  We came to the front of the line a
nd my friend with the crumpled hat and screwy smile looked at me with amusement.

  “You,” he said. “You want to get in?”

  “That's right. I hear the beer and sauerkraut are good in this joint.”

  “Them too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm glad you could make it,” he said. “I will enjoy the pleasure of your company. Please.” And he indicated that I should hold out my arms. The goon beside him patted me down. He flipped open my jacket and saw the empty shoulder harness. He gave me a quizzical look.

  “Left it in the car. No need to carry here. I'm sure it's safe.”

  “Good thinking,” the gunsel replied. He turned to Birdie, who flipped open his jacket and showed him the piece he was carrying, a .32 that looked like a toy. The guy smiled finding the size of the piece amusing. He hefted it in his hand, then slipped it into his coat pocket. “I hold for you. You get when you leave.”

  Birdie shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said.

  The gunsel looked from me to Birdie then settled on Evelyn. He looked her up and down slowly then went for another round. It seemed to take a long time and a group behind us became a little restless.

  “Seen enough?” she asked him.

  “For now,” he replied. He stepped back and beckoned us in. “Welcome. Enjoy your evening.” His lopsided grin held no mirth showing nothing but menace.

  Inside the lighting burned low, practically non-existent. The main room opened up into a long bar sheathed in leather and zinc. Wooden pillars chopped up the sight lines in between round tables. A small stage rose to the left of the bar. Shiny instruments lay inert on their stands.

  “Looks like there's music, after all,” Evelyn said with a smile.

  We found a table toward the back, in the shadows. A cocktail waitress came up and using a battered Zippo, fired up a candle.

  “There now,” she said sweetly. “What can I get you?” I ordered a CC on the rocks, Birdie asked for a tomato juice and Evelyn went rogue opting for a Singapore Sling.

  I looked at her. She cocked an eye back at me. “What?” she asked.

  I reached my hand under the table and laid it on her thigh.

  “You can hand back the hardware now,” I said. “Must be getting a little itchy.”