Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Why?”

  “Well, he's got some guys and I know they carry a lot of weapons with them and he wants John just as much as you do, maybe more. And he wants Jake real bad. Besides, not a lot of guys you can trust around here, is there?”

  “You don't care what happens to your old man?” And gave me one of his truth or dare looks.

  It was a good question. “Jake made his own mess. He belongs in the slam and it doesn't matter to me who puts him there. It could be you or Tobin. Same difference. He's a felon and needs to serve his time just like any other con whether he's related to me or not.”

  “Very noble.”

  “I thought so.”

  “You got Tobin's number?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said. I slipped a folded piece of paper across the desk to him. Callaway picked it up and scrutinized it. “There's seven numbers. I counted.”

  Callaway grunted. “Smart guy. That's why you got busted outta here.” He looked up at me. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Is Dewey still working robbery?”

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  “You need to call him too.”

  Callaway sighed. “Better let me get to work. Don't go too far.”

  I stood up. “We don't have much time.”

  “How you gonna get John Fat Gai to show up?”

  I smiled. “Just leave that to me.”

  I lounged in Interview room number two–one of the classier rooms in the building. Over the years, handprints, face prints, puke, dried blood and grime built up from sweaty prisoners and cops had turned the décor a fashionable greenish-gray. A room of no hope for losers. Didn't matter about guilt or innocence. A place where everybody who came to that room suffered. Today wasn't going to be any different.

  Birdie poked his head in. “He's on his way up.”

  “Good.”

  Birdie stepped inside and found a spot further down the wall without touching it. Didn't want to ruin his suit. I leaned up against the bare, metal frame table. I didn't think too much about what I leaned against. There was always the Chinese laundry next door to the office.

  Bare knuckles rapped on the door and it opened. Roy Mason stood there tentatively.

  “Come on in, Roy. Shut the door.”

  He took a breath, squared his shoulders and stepped inside closing the door behind him.

  “The desk Sarge said Callaway wanted to see me.” He took a long look around the room. It wasn't a big room. No Callaway. “What's this about?”

  I stood up and took a leisurely stroll over to him. “Drop your pants.”

  Mason looked confused. “Huh?”

  “I said, drop your pants. That's easy enough to understand, isn't it? Even for you.”

  Mason looked at me like I was crazy and the beginnings of a smile creased his thin lips. “This is some kind of joke, right? There a bet going round the bullpen?”

  I smiled back at him. “No joke, Roy. Either you do it voluntarily…or…” and I shrugged.

  The smile hardened. The eyes narrowed. “Now wait a minute. I'm not going to put…”

  Birdie grabbed him from behind clamping one big mitt over his mouth while wrapping him up with the other keeping him immobilized. I undid his belt, flicked open the button, unzipped his fly and yanked his trousers down to his ankles. He wore braces on his socks. Flashy. Inside each one he'd stashed a .22 caliber throw away. I removed them. I reached inside his jacket and took the police issue .38 and from his waistband, Birdie removed a pearl-handled .45. He handed it to me.

  I piled all the gear on the rickety table.

  “Jesus Roy, you got enough weaponry to start a small war. You worried about something?” Mason struggled in Birdie's grip but we both knew it was futile. “Well, you should be.”

  I lifted his shirttail and took a look at the puckering wound I found on his left thigh. Pronounced bruising turning deep purple with tinges of green.

  “Looks like it missed the bone. That was too bad. I really hoped I'd plugged you good when you coshed me in Ying's flat. You wanna tell me what you were doing there, Roy? What was it you were looking for?”

  I think he uttered some choice obscenities but they came out muffled. His breathing labored.

  “Okay. Maybe you wanna tell John where the girl is and the baby? How about that? Not to mention the money Ying skimmed from him? You see, Roy. I have it on good authority that the girl had been looked after by a cop. That's why we couldn't find her. She wasn't anywhere in the Chinese community. Now I know that cop was you. How do you think John would react knowing that bit of business? Don't think he'd be too pleased, do you?”

  Mason's eyes went wide and he began to shake his head. Birdie uncovered his mouth but kept his arms pinned behind his back.

  “You'd give me over to John Fat Gai?“ he asked.

  “What were you doing at Ying's flat?” I asked. “Make it snappy.”

  Mason stared at me. I'd characterize the look as one of extreme hatred. “I was making sure nothing tied her anywhere, that nobody could trace her.”

  “Ying's sister?”

  He nodded, reluctantly. “Yeah, that's right.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Come on, Roy, don't play dumb. One call to John and it's over.”

  He held his hands up. “Honest, I don't know. A couple of nights ago she ran off with the kid–that's all I know, I swear.”

  “You helped her get away from John in the first place?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  Mason visibly slumped now. He hated having to tell and in particular, he hated even more saying it to me. “Because of the kid.”

  “What about it?”

  Mason looked away. His voice went small and quavery. “It's mine, that's why.”

  Birdie and I exchanged looks. Mason was married with three kids of his own. “Who killed Ying Hee Fong?”

  Mason turned and looked at me. This time I saw fear. “Does Callaway know?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you have to tell him?” I shrugged but didn't answer. “Yeah, okay. I get it. Fine. It doesn't matter anyway. She's missing and so's the kid. She ran away after she found out what I'd done. I don't know where she's gone. Guess my career is down the toilet. My life too.” He sighed. “I set Ying up. I admit that but I didn't kill him. I swear. I'm not a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “Who killed Ying?” I asked.

  Mason shook his head. “I can't tell you that.”

  “Come on, Mason. Don't hold out on us now.”

  “He'll kill me too. He's crazy. You can't make me talk,” he spat.

  “Oh yeah?”

  I put my hand over his mouth and leaned in real close. I took the barrel of the .45 and rammed it into the gaping wound in his thigh. Mason arched his back and screamed into my hand. “Now tell me who killed Ying.”

  Mason, eyes wide, shook his head. I rammed the barrel in again, harder this time, using my knee to up the pressure. His body felt like a piece of steel and his silent scream deafened me. “Feel like talking now?” I pulled the barrel away.

  Mason slumped down. Birdie held him up. His breath came labored, a ragged whistling through his nose. “I can't,” he gasped. “Jesus, that hurts.”

  Once more the barrel went in. I pressed my forearm across his face. Mason convulsed like a guy dancing in the electric chair. When I finally released him, he crumpled to the ground, panting.

  “What's it to be, Mason?”

  He lifted his head, face drained of colour and spat. “You're a bastard, Gold. A fucking bastard.” I made a move toward him and he shrank back. “Okay. Okay. I'll talk. But I want protection, you understand? The guy's a maniac. He'll kill me and probably kill you too.”

  “That's not up to me. It'll be up to your boss, Callaway. Now give.”

  So, Mason told me what I wanted to know. I looked down at him. “You can pull your pants back on now,” I said.

  “I
t's not what you think,” Mason said.

  I scratched my chin and smiled mirthlessly. “You mean, you're not just some cheap shyster on the pad?”

  “You know I'm not the only one,” Mason retorted. “How'd you figure it out anyway?”

  “I had a look at a bunch of old case files Callaway kept at his house. Five times you had John dead to rights and each time it all went away. That was no coincidence.”

  “Once you're in, you can't get out even if you want to. I made a mistake, that's all.”

  “So that makes it right? Other guys jump on the gravy train and suddenly, it's okay?”

  “John threatened my family. My old man was a cop. He's retired now. I couldn't have him find what I'd been doing. It'd kill him.”

  “Who's got the money?” I asked.

  “He does,” Mason replied.

  “Okay.”

  “So what now?” Mason asked.

  “You're going to help us out.”

  “And?”

  “And if you're lucky, you'll end up only with jail time. Stay with him. Make sure he doesn't go wandering,” I said to Birdie.

  I hurried down to the main desk. “You got the duty roster?”

  “You don't work here anymore, Mo,” the duty Sergeant replied.

  “Come on, Wayne. It'll just take a second.”

  Wayne sighed then slid over the clipboard. I went down the names, found the one I wanted and headed out the back.

  “Hey,” Wayne yelled.

  “Thanks.” I waved as I tore out.

  I scanned the parking lot. Shift change. Guys getting into patrol cars. Doors slammed. Engines started. I spotted him on the other side of the lot. He jawed with another cop then removed his hat, opened the driver's door and tossed the hat inside. Had to be careful, how I played this one. But I had to work fast. As I crossed the lot, I eased the .45 out of its holster and held it down by my thigh, out of view. I slipped around cars and cops.

  “Officer? Officer?”

  He turned, leaning against the open door. With the angle of the sun, the crease at his hairline stood out like a throbbing red line. Less than 10 feet now. I smiled.

  “Hey. Remember me? We spoke earlier?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Kernahan said. “The chauffeur.”

  “Right. Good memory.” I stuck the .45 in his abdomen and pressed him against the car but he collapsed into the interior and I fell in with him. He head-butted me and I saw stars. Although my weight forced him back, he went for the gun and began to twist it out of my hands. A wiry guy and stronger than he looked. He wriggled around and I fell off the seat onto the floor, my hips trapped by the steering wheel. He had both hands on the .45 now wrenching it out of my grasp. That was fine. I reached around with my right hand and grabbed his service pistol. I stuck it under his chin.

  “Let go or I'll blast you,” I said.

  “You'd shoot a cop in a parking lot full of cops?” he hissed.

  “Try me,” I replied. “Now ease back”

  Kernahan grinned. He pushed his weight off me. “Take it slow or I might just slip on the trigger here.”

  “Sure. No sudden moves,” he said. He backed out of the car and I followed him.

  “Turn around.” As he turned, I shoved his .38 into my belt and spun him around against the car. I pushed my knees into the back of his and he buckled. I unlatched his handcuffs from his belt and snapped them on him. I stepped back.

  “Now, let's go. Inside.”

  He turned around with an amused look on his face. We'd drawn some attention from the other cops. “I'm not saying nothing,” he said.

  “Fine by me,” I replied. “March.” I pushed him forward keeping the .45 trained on his back and did my best to ignore the hostile looks around me. I figured John would find out what happened in about a minute or less. Someone here would put in a call.

  Callaway seethed. We put Kernahan in a holding cell. Birdie continued to keep Mason company.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Callaway asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “We proceed with the plan but we take Mason with us.”

  “Why?”

  “By now, John will know that we've got Kernahan, even if he isn't talking. But he might not know about Mason spilling his guts yet. Even still, John will be spooked. He'll figure his operation could be rolled up anytime. It means we've got him on the run.”

  “I admire your confidence,” Callaway spat. He shook his head. “Never figured on Kernahan. If that don't beat all.”

  “He fooled me too,” I replied. Callaway had let me take a peak at his employee file. “You know the guy turned down promotion three times? That was smart. Wanted to keep his head down low. Nobody would suspect he ran the show inside the precinct. That he was John's main contact. It's only natural to think it's someone higher up, like Mason. Someone who's got some authority.”

  “At least we've got Mason's statement,” Callaway said. “That will help us get the ball rolling against Kernahan and John eventually.” Mason had ratted out the other guys on the pad; six others taking backhanders from John, all of them patrolmen. Faces in the background.

  “Well, we can live and hope,” I said. I glanced at my watch. “Now, we've got an appointment to keep.”

  46

  Dusk approached. The day slipped into the nether world between light and dark.

  For the past week, I'd been worrying John. I sensed his edginess and thought I could help send him over with a little bit of help. As a gangster, John was protected. His men surrounded him and guarded him at all times.

  Sometimes, it's the simple things. One method rarely failed. The postal service. Each day I'd mailed John a different card; a black one to symbolize death, one adorned with ghosts and eerie figures from the grave, a number four card, a red card representing blood. The last one had come from Mr. Li or at least, someone I had pretend to write a note as if it came from Mr. Li, in Mandarin. The note ragged on about ghosts and spirits and haunting him forever. I hope it cracked his seething brain wide open.

  Quan and a couple of goons came out of John's mansion. Quan pulled a Zippo from his pants pocket and lit a kerosene-soaked torch set into a holder by the front door. He took it down and lit the other one opposite. Quan kept the torch with him and walked the perimeter of the grounds lighting torches on his way. A private drive led to the entrance of John's house—a dead end in a cul-de-sac. An iron gate sealed it. The gate featured some nasty spikes at the top.

  Adjacent to the gate spanned a solid brick wall. The bottoms of broken bottles had been set into the mortar at the top.

  Birdie and I sat in the Chevy opposite watching Quan do his rounds through a set of military binoculars I found at the local Army surplus store.

  I counted 20 torches ablaze. The same thing every night. You could almost hear the flames flapping in the wind. The effect looked eerie, like a brace of witches and goblins would swoop down and gambol and cavort on the carefully manicured lawn. The house had been built up a slope some 30 yards from the front gate. I hoped Eli and Jake were in there somewhere. I checked my watch. Just gone 9:30 p.m. The meet to exchange the ledger, along with Henry Turner and Ying's sister had been set for midnight at Christie Pits. We'd get Jake and Eli in return.

  I thought we'd hit John's house a bit earlier and see what we could find. Callaway, Tobin and some of his boys had parked two blocks up, waiting for John to emerge. About fifteen minutes later, John showed. Alone.

  Earlier that night, Birdie and I had seeded the yards of the neighbours with doctored steak, hoping their dogs would feed on it. We'd laced the steak with hot chilis–guaranteed to get a reaction. And it did. The dogs in the surrounding houses yowled like a runaway storm. Howling dogs. A portent of evil and bad luck to come.

  Surrounded by his henchmen, they moved in tight formation to a dark sedan. John flinched and covered his ears. He looked around in bewilderment. Bent his knees to the ground. Quan opened the back door and pushed John in. Quan went around the front. He
pulled the passenger door closed, stuck his hand out the window and banged on the roof. The car started up followed by another filled with his goons. They trundled down the drive and waited for the electric gates to open. The lead car pulled out followed by number two. Quickly, Birdie and I sprinted across the street and squeezed through before they closed completely. Birdie just made it. Tobin and Callaway would follow John to see where he headed.

  I had a buddy in the planning department at City Hall who owed me a favour. Through him, I got a copy of the plans for John's house. Didn't matter if you were a crook or not, if you built a house, you had to file plans with the city. No ifs, ands or buts. Or the city would halt the construction, charge a hefty fine or both. After studying them, I had a good sense of the layout.

  A brace of Dobermans streaked towards us. Didn't know about the dogs. They moved swiftly and silently. Birdie and I stood dead still and let them sniff us. When I moved a muscle, I heard deep growling in anxious throats and saw the baring of sharp teeth.

  “Now what?” Birdie murmured. In effect, the dogs held us prisoner.

  “We could run for it.” He gave me an incredulous look. “Okay, maybe not.”

  “What if we shot them?” he asked. Now I gave him an incredulous look. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silencer. “See? I came prepared.”

  I had a thought. “Hey, you remember, Gomer?” A guy we knew in the service, grew up on a farm where they kept a lot of dogs.

  “Yeah, so?” Birdie replied.

  “He told me this thing once.”

  “What thing?”

  “Well, it goes like this. Just do as I say. Take off your jacket and carefully drop it at your feet.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me. We've got to do something. We can't stay here all night.”

  Birdie shook his head and muttered something incomprehensible but shrugged out of his suit jacket and carefully lay it down at his feet. I did the same. We straightened up and waited. The dogs had assumed a sitting position and watched us. One by one, each of the dogs stood up, ventured over to each jacket and snuffled around, poking its long nose in the pocket and sleeves. Then each dog lifted its leg and peed.