by Jack Batten
“His nickname back in the day was Basso Profundo,” Georgie said. “This is the story Pop’s been telling me since I was a kid.”
“A natural nickname for a guy named Profundo,” I said.
“Basso, yeah,” Georgie said. “He came from the Brooklyn mob. He was the number one enforcer type guy. So when Willie took Pop for the hundred grand twenty years ago, Pop went down to Brooklyn and asked Basso as a favour to come up here and speak to Willie. That’s all he needed to do. Just speak to Willie. Not beat him up or anything involving blood.”
“Basso was a man who made a large physical impression?”
“No, as a matter of fact, he was a smaller guy,” Georgie said. “But he was so crazy he could scare the bejesus out of anybody. You remember Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, Pesci’s ranting and raving like he’s gonna tear the other guy’s head off? That was what Basso was like in real life, a complete over-the-top-menace type of person.”
“The characters Pesci played in movies got actually murderous from time to time.”
“Basso never did.”
“I can understand why Willie might have yielded to Basso Profundo’s threat and returned the hundred grand of yours he scammed,” I said, turning to Jackie. “So do I understand correctly you brought Basso up here the second time you wanted to get the two million back from Willie for your friend?”
“That time,” Jackie said, “all I had to do was mention Basso’s name to Willie. He gave back the money the same day.”
“The power of the man’s name was enough?”
“I couldn’t bring Basso up here in person that time on account of he was dead.”
“But Willie wasn’t aware of Basso’s deceased status?”
“He wasn’t.”
“But what about right now? Today? Does Willie know the man he feared above all others is no longer around to terrify him?”
“He knows.”
“Listen, Jackie,” I said, “why are we talking about Basso Profundo if the man isn’t going to be of any help in recovering Flame’s eight million?”
“Basso’s got a son carrying on the family tradition.”
“The son’s as effective as the father?”
“Even more ferocious,” Jackie said. “Calls himself Profundo. Just plain Profundo. That’s very popular these days — entertainers and athletes and so forth with just one name. Madonna, Ronaldo, Pele going back further.”
“Liberace.”
“Not fucking Liberace, Crang,” Jackie said, showing a little temper. “You want me to help you, you better take this thing serious.”
“Believe me, I would appreciate you interceding with Profundo,” I said. “You need to bring him up here?”
“The name’s enough,” Jackie said. “But he charges a fee for us using his name.”
“That’s like a copyright payment,” I said. “Though I don’t know if copyrighting what is essentially a piece of extortion is entirely legal.”
“Who cares, legal or not legal,” Jackie said. “It’ll cost you ten thousand. That would be my guess.”
“Seems a fair price.”
“You want,” Jackie said, “I can arrange that Willie pays the ten grand.”
“He’s probably earned a lot more than that out of the eight million he’s had his hands on the last little while, even if it wasn’t doing anything except collecting interest.”
“Probably,” Jackie said, sounding mildly pissed off. “But so what? The eight million is what’s important here. Am I right?”
“Right as rain, Jackie,” I said, my hands up in a defensive signal.
“Pop,” Georgie said, his hand on his father’s arm, “don’t get worked up. You’re gonna be seeing the heart doctor in a couple minutes.”
“Get me one of them wheelchairs,” Jackie said.
Georgie got up and walked over to the rows of wheelchairs by the door.
“Georgie’ll deliver you the eight million any time tomorrow,” Jackie said to me.
“Tomorrow?”
I thought about the timing for a moment and the place for the money’s delivery. While I was thinking, Georgie came back with a wheelchair.
“Let’s make it nine Wednesday night for Georgie to come around with the money,” I said to the two Gabriels. “He can bring it to Carnale’s house in the Beach.”
I gave Georgie the address.
“And whatever form the reimbusement’s in,” I said, “make it payable to the Flame Group.”
“No problem,” Jackie said. “Pleasure doing business with you, Crang.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Jackie.”
“Just to show we’re on good terms, Georgie’s gonna order you another one of those nice iced chai tea lattes.”
“No need for that, Jackie. Please.”
Jackie waved off my objections. Georgie wheeled his father away, and as they passed the Starbuck’s counter, Georgie stopped long enough to put in the order for more of the dreadful tea concoction. The damn stuff tasted like it was made from a blob of chemicals. I waited until Georgie and Jackie disappeared into an elevator. Then I got up and beat it out the University Avenue door.
In the background, I could hear the barista at the counter calling, “Somebody for this iced chai tea latte?!”
Chapter Forty-Three
I was in the office making enough coffee for one cup when Archie Brewster’s wife phoned. Her name was Ruth, and she had a chipper voice.
“Archie asked me to call you, Mr. Crang,” Ruth said.
“He’s still busy in the lab with the project I brought in?”
“He’s busy grabbing forty winks is what Archie is,” Ruth said. “We finished the job for you. Now he’s catching up on his sleep. It was very exciting, comparing the metal work on the briefcase with the wound on the deceased man’s head.”
“And the result was what?”
“I worked alongside Archie all night, but I react differently than him. I get so pumped up I might not sleep for days after we’re done.”
“The metal grooves in the briefcase match the marks on the Reverend’s skull?”
“Reverend? Was the victim a man of religion? Archie didn’t say anything about that.”
“Ruth, what was the result of the matching process you and Archie performed?”
“I hope this Reverend wasn’t killed because of his religious beliefs. There’s such a lot of that in the world today.”
“No, it wasn’t a religious killing. Nothing like that. But what I am interested in is the nature of the killing instrument.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Ruth said. “Archie has done a full written report. It’s waiting here for you to pick up.”
“I can hardly wait to learn the result.”
“Archie wrote the report before he settled down to his sleep.”
“I can just bet it was exciting to reach a conclusion, whatever it might be.”
“The report isn’t very long, only four parts,” Ruth said. “And of course I contributed my few paragraphs. They’re in part four where we present our final result.”
“Which is what, Ruth?”
“Pardon, Mr. Crang?”
“The conclusion you reached, what is it?” I realized I was shouting.
“The briefcase is what killed the poor man. Didn’t I say that? Not a doubt in the world about the weapon.”
I thanked Ruth, and told her I’d come by the lab in about an hour to pick up the report and the briefcase.
My coffee had gone lukewarm in the time it took me to winkle the test result out of Ruth. I made a fresh cup, sipped from it, and phoned Arthur Kingsmill.
“You have news for me, Mr. Crang?” Kingsmill’s voice had a guarded sound.
I mentioned the guardedness to him.
“Of course I sound that way,” Kingsmill said. �
��People pay accountants to project a sense of defensiveness. I’m not having second thoughts about what I told you and Gloria. I’m just nervous about whatever it is you’re arranging for the next steps.”
“If you’ll join in a meeting at Roger’s house, nine tomorrow night, I’ll do my best to see you emerge from it a happier man.”
“Let me judge that, Mr. Crang.”
“I want you to draw up a document for Roger to sign. In it, in this document, he surrenders all his signing powers in the Flame Group’s financial dealings. You with me on this?”
“You’ve got the leverage to make Roger actually sign such an extreme document?”
“Leave that part with me, Arthur.”
“This puts the Flame Group in a position where it’s financially moribund.”
“Moribund, huh?”
“Well, who’s going to sign the invoices and other documents that go in and out of the business?”
“Alice Desmond.”
“Flame’s mother?”
“The very woman,” I said. “I want you to draw up another document that gives Alice all the signing rights that Carnale used to have.”
“I can’t believe this,” Kingsmill said. “But supposing I prepare such a document, it needs to be signed in approval by two people who are designated to okay such major changes.”
“Both of them friendly to Alice, I’m sure.”
“Flame and myself.”
“See, I was right” I said. “Who could be friendlier?”
Silence once again came from Kingsmill’s end. But I was willing to take the non-reply as his agreement to what I was asking for.
“Excellent, Arthur,” I said. “Now on another matter entirely. Is Lex the chauffeur on the premises at this minute? I’m assuming I reached you in your office at the Carnale mansion?”
“Anin Mahuda isn’t here,” Kingsmill said. “Or Lex or whatever you want to call him. I’m alone at the office. You need to talk to Mahuda? He’s at a Cadillac dealer in the west end getting the car detailed. That’ll take all afternoon. Mahuda wants the car looking smart when he picks up Mr. Carnale at the airport at 7:45 tomorrow night.”
“What I want, Arthur, is to avoid Lex today,” I said. “I’ll be driving over to Carnale’s place an hour or more from now.”
“Is there a serious reason why you’re coming here?”
“I want to drop off something I borrowed from Roger’s office. That’s reason number one. And, number two, I need to make sure you’re okay with the program.”
“You borrowed something?”
“Okay, I swiped it. But this is the object that clinches the case against Carnale.”
“Oh lord, why did I mix myself up with you?”
“That’s a laugh, Arthur. You got yourself in a pickle and virtually begged me just yesterday to extricate you. Which is what I’m in the process of accomplishing.”
Kingsmill had no answer to that.
I hung up, and sipped my coffee. It had gone lukewarm again. Damn, I definitely wasn’t leaving the office until I’d enjoyed a jolt of caffeine. I made another cup, and thought about the errands and chores I needed to get done. Pick up the briefcase from Archie’s lab. Put the case back in its regular spot on the shelf in Carnale’s office. Invite Flame’s mother to the Wednesday night session at the Carnale mansion. Set up one more meeting with Wally Crawford.
I checked my watch. It was just past one o’clock. I had plenty of time and a cup of hot coffee in my hand.
What more could a man on a mission ask?
Chapter Forty-Four
The sun was dropping in the sky, and the time was coming up to 6:30. I sat with Wally Crawford in the same booth at the Second Cup where we met a few days earlier. Wally wore a beaming expression, the sort of look Homicide detectives didn’t usually display to the civilian world.
“My girls are ecstatic, Crang,” he said.
“Fleur and Sandrine.”
“Flame went way beyond anything I hoped for.”
“A generous guy, no question.”
“You know what Flame did for the girls?”
“I’m sure I’m going to be thrilled,” I said. I was feeling a tad impatient. The afternoon of driving out to the Beach, getting stuck in traffic on Rosedale Valley Road, spending an hour with the nervous Arthur Kingsmill guaranteeing he was onside for the Wednesday night meeting, getting stuck in traffic on Rosedale Valley Road on my way back from the Beach, all of this had put me on edge.
“On each girl’s Facebook page,” Wally said, “Flame left a personal message with a piece of a new song on each one.”
“Sounds nice,” I said to Wally. “Really, it does.”
I imagined me as a teenaged kid if I got something personal from my favourite singer, from someone like Sarah Vaughan. But what would qualify as personal back in those days of no technology to speak of? Undoubtedly something that involved the mail. Maybe a signed note and Sarah’s version of “Tenderly” on a 45 rpm, all in a large envelope with a lot of stamps on it. That would have thrilled fourteen-year-old me.
“Here’s the essential thing,” Wally said. “Each girl’s package is different from the other.”
“Variety is the spice of life, that’s what you’re getting at?”
“The point is, it indicates Flame’s thoughtfulness. For each girl, he gives a different message and a few bars of a different new song.”
“So Flame has come through big time as far as Fleur and Sandrine are concerned?”
“They’re the envy of their friends on Facebook.”
“That makes you a hero in your daughters’ eyes?”
“I’m riding high.”
I leaned forward over the table. “With all of that in mind, where do you and I stand in the matter of giving and receiving favours? In your view?”
“Even Steven,” Wally said. “I leaked you the medical report on the Reverend Alton Douglas, and you delivered Flame’s incredible presents for my girls. We’re square.”
“That’s where I disagree.”
“Thought you probably would.”
“The favours in this particular matter,” I said, “are part of a flowing entity. It’s not one for you and one for me and then, wham, bam, we’re done.”
“Given that attitude, the way I see it, you’re going to ask me something that’ll mean I have to cut corners. In other words, I’m going to run the risk of my ass getting booted sideways by my superiors.”
“Let me just get back to the flow I was speaking of.”
“My guess is you flowed over to Archie Brewster’s lab and showed him the medical report on the Reverend.”
“You have anything against Archie?”
“I got a ton of respect for Archie and his wife, even if the wife is a screwball and their lab isn’t technically legit.”
“Not a screwball, Ruth Brewster. More a person who’s tardy at getting to the point.”
Wally drank from his cup of coffee. So did I, even if the cup was probably my fifth of the day.
“What you should know,” I said, looking Wally in the eye, “is that Archie and his good wife have identified the murder weapon.”
Wally held my gaze for a moment or two. “That’s impossible unless you gave them an instrument of some kind that you aleady suspected of being the murder weapon.”
“I admit to that.”
“You were being a bit of a snake in withholding information from me.”
“I can think of other ways of phrasing my actions.”
“You’d prefer to leave ‘snake’ out of the defintion?”
“I was proceeding with caution,” I said. “That’s what I was doing when I took the object in question to Archie.”
“Without telling me, you snake.”
Wally was wearing his cop stare, but I thought he was
kidding. Maybe just a little.
“Where’s the murder weapon at this moment?” Archie said to me.
“Restored to its owner’s office where it normally sits.”
“Nice move, Crang,” Wally said. “This means, as long as nobody says otherwise, the weapon in question has never left the owner’s possession.”
“Archie and his wife aren’t going to say otherwise. Neither am I. Nor can I think of anyone else who might utter a peep about the weapon’s recent movements.”
“All of which,” Wally said, “sets the stage for me to take out a search warrant and seize the weapon as soon as you tell me what it is and where it is.”
“It’s a briefcase,” I said.
Wally flipped his hands in the air. “A briefcase’s too soft on the edges to do the damage I saw on the Reverend’s skull.”
“A briefcase with metal edging.”
Wally paused. “Maybe I’ll withdraw my doubts.”
I took a notebook out of my jacket, wrote Carnale’s name and address on one page, ripped out the page, and handed it to Wally.
“Who’s this Carnale?” Wally asked, reading from the page. “A mobbed-up guy?”
“He’s Flame’s manager.”
“Oh shit, you’re not gonna tell me Flame’s involved in a murder.”
“He’s a victim in the story,” I said. “The manager tried to dupe him out of eight million bucks.”
“Where’s the money come into the murder story? It’s part of the motivation?”
“Roughly, yeah,” I said. “But let’s you and I concentrate on the briefcase.”
Wally looked again at the piece of paper. “The briefcase is the reason I’m going to this address, wherever it is.”
“Out in the Beach,” I said. “Come there tomorrow night at 9:30. You’ll walk away with the briefcase and the killer in cuffs.”
“It’s going to be a civilized business, this meeting of yours? The alleged killer — when I show up, he’ll come peacefully?”
“I think the murder was probably committed in a moment of madness. The killer isn’t normally a violent person.”