Even though he'd been spooked by Li's curse and everything else we'd done, I figured John knew when to cut his losses and run taking with him his ill-gotten gains. He had enough influence, contacts and money to buy his way across any border. Birdie drove to the docklands. I took a pull from a mickey of Scotch I kept in the glove compartment. Just to settle things a little. John had gotten into my head and I wanted him out. More than that, I wanted to find my brother and maybe Jake too, alive and well. At least, that way, I could hand Jake back to Tobin with a clear conscience.
We pulled into the Blackstone's parking lot but we'd arrived too late. Half a dozen fire engines had their hoses turned on an inferno where the club last stood.
“Let's hit the warehouse where we saw him the last time,” I said. “It's not far from here. Hang on a second,” I said. I hopped out and approached the fire captain.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Kinda busy here,” the fire captain replied. His gear looked pristine, like he'd never been to a fire in his life. His helmet gleamed.
“I just need to know one thing.”
“What's that?”
“Any bodies in there?”
The fire captain took a good look at me. In contrast, I looked like I'd been engulfed in flames. Singed eyebrows, burn marks on my face, bloodshot eyes.
“No, we didn't find anyone in there yet. But we won't know until it dies down completely,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied. I could see the guy had become curious. “Carry on,” I called and hurried back to the car. “No bodies yet,” I said as I jumped into the passenger side.
“That's a mercy,” Birdie intoned, as he sped out of the parking lot. I began to think about fires and rockets and superstitions.
“Hey, you know what day it is today?”
Birdie looked at me curiously. “It's the fourth of June,” he said. “Why?”
For the first time in a long while, I clapped my hands. “We may be in luck.”
“In luck? How?”
“The fourth. The number four. Again.” Birdie gave me a blank stare. “We've been playing on his superstitions, making him feel the sting of Li's curse. He can't get away today. Four is the worst kind of bad luck. He wouldn't chance it, I'm telling you.”
“Okay, then where is he?”
“I don't know. But it gives us a little more time to look for him,” I said. “Let's hit the warehouse and see if we can find anything, if it's not burnt to a crisp by now.”
“Okay, let's think about this,” I said, as we cruised west along the Lakeshore. “John's warehouses are near the waterfront. If he's moving stuff out, where would he move it to? Somewhere close by. Somewhere that gives him easy access to the border.” Birdie pulled over. We sat opposite the harbor. He gave me a dirty look and pointed.
“Okay, so it makes sense for him to move everything by ship. That's how he came into the country 15 years ago. Seems reasonable that's how he'd leave too.”
I peered ahead. “There's a phone booth up ahead. Pull up to it.” I searched my pockets. “Got a nickel?” Birdie sighed. “I know, I know. You do everything around here. Come on.”
I held my hand out and he dropped the nickel into my palm. I climbed out and squeezed into the phone booth. I managed to get Callaway just as he was leaving.
“You got something?” he asked wearily.
“How'd it go with Maureen?”
“Not good. She took it hard. Three kids on a Sergeant's pension? Won't go far.”
“John's still in town. We've got a bit of extra time but need to move fast.”
“How do you know that?” I told him. “Superstitious mumbo jumbo,” he groused.
“Takes it seriously, believe me. You saw the fireworks. How many warehouses went up?”
“Six so far. Might be more for all we know.”
“We think he's moving his stuff out by ship, probably after midnight, once the date turns over.”
“Great. How do we find him? Must be hundreds of ships along the harbor front.”
“Check with the harbor master,” I said. “Send your guys to look for a ship that's sailing after midnight and has an eight in it, either number or name. Lucky Eight. Lady Eight, something like that. And you can have Tobin's plain clothes boys check for his car. We know it's a black Cadillac Coupe de Ville. License plate 888UVM. It's gotta be parked along the docks somewhere. Maybe we'll get lucky and someone will spot it.”
“Any sign of Eli or Jake?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I replied grimly. “I'm hoping he's been a bit too busy to get rid of them but that won't last long. We're still looking.”
“Call me back in a couple of hours. We'll work it from our end here.”
I hung up. Got back into the Chevy. Birdie pulled on to the Lakeshore driving west. “John's cleaning out his warehouses—booze, cigarettes, opium and any other contraband he's into. But he's got to move his stuff down to the ship by truck, right?”
“Uh-huh?” Birdie asked.
“You don't think that…?”
“The kid could be that stupid?”
It seemed clear from Birdie's expression that he thought it eminently possible. “Worth a try. John would be calling in all of those who owe him a favour or two.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
We made it to the warehouse, the one where we'd spotted Rance and O'Rourke earlier in the week, in less than ten minutes. I parked the Chevy away from the back alley like I'd done before and we walked in. We crouched behind the dumpster and prepared to wait a while. The bouncy GM truck with the canvas top stood quietly at the loading dock. One lone bulb lit the area dimly. Birdie held the 12-gauge loosely in his left hand. Twin .45's packed the holster at each armpit. I carried my .45 in a holster and the .38 special tucked into my waistband. We came loaded with ammo, just in case. After ten minutes, I got antsy.
“Let's take a look,” I whispered.
We stayed in the shadows. I took the left and Birdie went round on the right. He moved fast and disappeared without making a sound. Not a footstep was heard or a pebble disturbed. I crossed the alley quickly hovering by the front of the truck. I felt the hood. Still warm.
The loading dock door sat to the left. The main door locked down. I climbed the cement steps staying low. Birdie came up on the other side. I niggled the door to see if it might be open. If not, I had my set of picks with me. Birdie nodded and moved smoothly toward me. We heard voices and shrank back. A metal latch clicked over with a thunk and the main door scrolled noisily up. We faded to the wall. A large figure stepped forward. O'Rourke. Just behind him stood Rance Callaway. They hadn't seen us yet but remained focused on the back of the truck. O'Rourke bent down to unlock it. I moved in quickly behind them.
“Well, well,” I said. “We'd better stop meeting like this.”
O'Rourke straightened up quickly and whirled. Rance went to make a run for it.
“Better not,” Birdie said lifting the double barrel of the 12-gauge.
Rance froze. O'Rourke smiled grimly but raised his hands in the air and placed them behind his head, like he'd had a lot of practice. His face still bore the brunt of his encounter with Birdie.
“Come back for round two?” he asked.
“Round one worked for me,” Birdie replied.
“Working tonight, boys?” I asked.
Rance shook his head. “We're knocking off. Just heading home.”
“Really? Then maybe we should have a look in the truck, just to make sure.”
O'Rourke said nothing, just kept a wolfish grin splashed on his face.
“Down on your knees first,” Birdie said. “Don't want you to try anything foolish.” He positioned them by motioning with the shotgun. They stepped back and sank to their knees. Birdie covered them while I went to unlock the back of the truck.
“Key,” I said. O'Rourke just smiled. I cocked the .45. “I'll ask one more time.”
“Right pocket,” he replied.
“Get it o
ut and toss it to me.” He reached his hand in. “Make that slow.”
He removed his hand holding a key ring. I shifted my weight to the left, glanced at Birdie who nodded in the slightest way. O'Rourke tossed the keys high. I reached up to grab them when he made his move. For a big man, he moved fast. From his knees, he dove bringing me down in a tackle while twisting the .45 from my hand. Rance looked on slack-jawed. O'Rourke spun around behind me holding the gun to my head. He figured Birdie couldn't take a chance of shooting me by accident with the 12-gauge. He was right. The spread from the shotgun would have taken out everybody.
“Rance,” O'Rourke barked. “Get the keys and get in the truck. Start it up. Now.”
The kid jerked out of his paralysis and jumped to it. He scooped up the keys, looked at Birdie then me. Gave us his best smirk. He vaulted off the loading dock, got in the driver's side of the truck and kicked it over. O'Rourke pulled me up with him, moving me to the edge of the dock. Kept me in front. Rance pushed open the passenger door.
“So long, sucker.” O'Rourke shoved me forward roughly, landed on his feet and hauled himself into the truck as the kid pulled away. Just as they peeled out of the loading area, the .45 sailed out the window. It landed in the dirt sending up a small plume of dust. I went to retrieve it. Birdie close behind me. We sprinted to the Chevy.
“How was that?” I asked. “Convincing enough?”
“Looked good to me,” Birdie said. “Let's hope they lead us where we want them to go.”
“Good thing the .45 was unloaded. I almost expected O'Rourke to use it.” I'd forgotten to slam home the clip.
“Nah,” Birdie said. “He may hit women but that don't mean he's a killer.”
Birdie rode shotgun as we pulled out of the alley. The kid had maybe 20 seconds on us but the truck was slow and unbalanced. Only so many routes back to the harbor. The light traffic made it easy to spot him heading down Dufferin to the Lakeshore. He cut through the Canadian Exhibition grounds. I made sure to hang back in the curves of the road and drove with the headlights off. The kid headed back in the direction where we had come.
“Shit,” I said. The truck pulled into a loading area for the commercial ferry, joining a short queue. The ferry took commercial traffic to the Toronto Islands and back. Passenger vehicles weren't permitted. Still too early for the passenger ferry to begin its schedule. I checked my watch. Less than five minutes until departure. Rance and Steve O'Rourke stepped out of the truck and walked forward to the lounge on the second level. You could grab a coffee and a doughnut there.
“Let's go.”
I pulled the Chevy into the parking lot opposite the ferry terminal. We ran across the street. Trucks and buses formed a small queue to get on to the ferry. The islands ran a bus service back and forth. I pointed. Birdie nodded. We walked up to the bus and rapped on the door. The driver looked at us, shrugged, then opened up.
We each put a dime in the slot and moved toward the back of the bus. Although early, half a dozen passengers had boarded to go to the island. Once there, the bus went round a dozen or so stops. It wasn't a large bus and held perhaps 25 fares. A moment later, the bus pulled on to the ferry and the driver shut the engine off. The front and middle doors opened. The other passengers stood up and exited the bus. The driver looked around, saw us still seated and called out.
“Everyone has to leave the bus during the ride over,” the driver said.
I lifted my hand and smiled reassuringly. We stood up and stepped out of the bus.
The driver gave us an odd look, eased down the steps and closed the door behind him. A narrow walkway led forward, up a cement staircase to the upper levels. We followed the driver along. I touched Birdie's arm and we held back. I glanced behind me. The bus had been the last vehicle let on the ferry. The others in the queue would have to wait until the next departure in about 20 minutes' time.
“Can't take the chance they'll spot us,” I said to Birdie. “Especially you.”
I had ridden this ferry before and the lounge was miniscule. To get to the outer observation deck, you had to cross through it.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Birdie said.
“You know what I mean. Anyway, we should be taking off any minute now.”
Just as I finished speaking, we felt the vibrating thrum of the engine and a couple of deck hands winched the back gate into place. I looked back toward the dock as the ferry began to chug away. I lit a Sweet Cap.
“Shouldn't be long,” I said.
We walked forward and took a look at O'Rourke's truck. The springs sat low against the wheel wells with the back end shifting to the left. I gave Birdie a poke.
“Ever do any tail riding?” I asked.
He gave me a dirty look. “I've been burnt up and peed on and now you're asking me to play kid stuff off the back of a truck?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sweet Jesus, the sacrifices I make.”
“All in a good cause,” I replied.
When the bus driver came by after swigging his coffee and gulping his doughnut, I pulled him aside. “Here's ten bucks,” I said.
“What's this for?” he snarled.
“For not asking any questions or making any noise when you see me and my friend here hanging off the back end of this truck. Get it?”
The driver frowned but snatched the bill out of my hand.
“Your funeral,” he said.
The rest of the passengers made their way back to the bus and the driver opened the door to let them board. I counted on Rance and O'Rourke making their way to the cab without checking the back. Had to make certain they didn't catch sight of us in the side mirrors as we hung off the back doors.
The ferry made its docking and the engines up and down the queue began to fire up. I felt the truck's motor kick over. Almost gagged on the exhaust spewing out in the enclosed space of the ferry's parking bay.
“Here we go,” I muttered.
Hadn't done this since I was a kid. The truck drove forward following the vehicle in front of it while the bus came up behind us. I think the driver accelerated and kept the front bumper a little too close just to try and spook us. I smiled at him, then eased my jacket back to show him my shoulder holster. The driver's jaw went slack but he dropped back pretty quickly. I hoped he'd do the right thing and stop at a phone booth and call the cops. After leaving the loading area, the bus turned left toward Ward Island while O'Rourke kept us on the main track. A track that had seen better days when, once upon a time, it had actually been paved and the potholes were only a few feet deep. The terrain on the island consisted of gentle rolling hills but with the potholes, it felt like riding a runaway bull steer. Then the brakes jammed hard. I heard one of the doors open up and O'Rourke's voice.
“Just wanna make sure the doors are secure,” he said.
“Shit,” I hissed. I looked around. No time to drop off and hide. I looked up, nudged Birdie and pointed. We made it to the roof of the truck just before Rance and O'Rourke came around.
“See?” Rance said. “It's fine.”
I heard him tug at the doors. I prayed they didn't look up at the roof. They couldn't help but see us laying there, spread eagle, trying to make ourselves invisible. Fortunately, it remained a good 40 minutes until sun-up.
O'Rourke gave an extra tug. “Okay, let's hit it,” he said.
They climbed back in the cab and the truck took off with a lurch. Birdie grabbed my arm. Not too many handholds up there. The truck sped along the rutted track, twisting and turning for a good five minutes or more. The harbor faded in the background but I could see the lights of some steamers on Lake Ontario. We passed a lonely playground empty of the rambunctious kids needed to bring it to life.
The vibration made us slip and slide. I tapped Birdie on the back and pointed. He looked up. Just ahead lay a private docking area large enough to hold a small tanker. And that's what it did. Rance wrenched the truck into a lower gear. Birdie and I slid down the back.
We grabb
ed hold of the door handles and as the truck slowed further, dropped off the end making sure to keep our feet. A nearby hedgerow provided some immediate cover. We kept low and made for it. The truck stuttered forward and pulled up near the dock. Rance swung it forward, then backed it up to a lading area.
A winch had been set up and a large net attached to a steel cable lay slack, ready to receive its next load. A spotlight from the deck had been trained on the loading area. O'Rourke unlocked the back and lifted the doors out, setting them against the side of the truck.
I gave Birdie a nudge. Quan, cradling an M60, strutted down the gangplank. He engaged O'Rourke in a brief, muffled conversation then slapped him on the back and headed back up the gangplank where his head appeared bobbing along the railing as he walked the deck of the ship. O'Rourke and Rance began shifting wooden crates from the back of the truck to the net. After they'd transferred about 20 crates, O'Rourke held up his hand and the winch kicked in with a whine and the net jerked upward closing around its cargo. Slowly, the bulging bundle rose shakily into the air until it was winched over the side of the ship.
We heard some chatter coming from the deck and I supposed it came from the hands shifting the boxes so they could bring aboard the next load. A moment later, the winch re-engaged and returned, lowered near the truck where Rance and O'Rourke waited. They shifted another 20 or so crates. The air had lightened. I got a look at the side of the ship—Eight Candles—John hadn't taken any chances with the name.
The cable went taut and the third load went up and over the side. O'Rourke nudged Rance. They replaced the doors, rammed home the lock, got into the truck. The engine sputtered into life. O'Rourke raised his arm as the truck lurched off, heading back to the ferry docks. The spotlight snapped off.
“Only one way in,” Birdie said and pointed to the gangplank with the barrel of the 12-gauge.
“We don't even know if Eli and Jake are aboard,” I said.
“Either they're up there,” Birdie said. “Or they're charcoal in one of the warehouse fires.”
“That's a comforting thought,” I replied. “I can't see why John would have brought them aboard in the first place.”
Looking for Henry Turner Page 31