by John Farrow
“Where’re your clothes at?” Mathers asked.
“Pig Puke.”
“Where?” Sticking an edge of his gold shield up the man’s nostril, he lifted.
“Upstairs.”
“So let’s go there.”
On the way up, Mathers wiped his shield on the shoulder of the man’s robe.
In an untidy lump, Okinder Boyle lay on his bed, the knock reverberating in his head like pistol shot. “Who’s there? What the hell do you want?”
A young woman’s voice replied, “I’m looking for Mr. Boyle.”
“Can it wait? I’m not up.”
“It’s important. I need to speak to Mr. Boyle.”
The act of swinging both feet off the mattress onto the floor started his head spinning like a wonky gyro-scope. Groggily, Boyle hoisted himself upright and tied the sash of his dressing gown. “Are you a bailiff, a rent collector, a bill collector, or an employee of any government branch whatsoever?”
The pause intrigued him, as though the visitor needed a moment to reflect on her choices. “None of the above. It’s urgent that I speak with you, Mr. Boyle. Whether it’s right this instant or in five minutes won’t make or break me.”
Urgent. The need to talk had been moved from important to urgent. Boyle dressed hurriedly and did his best to tame his morning hair. About to admit his guest, he decided that brushing his teeth and gargling with mouthwash might be prudent, if for no other reason than to oil his Sahara tongue, the result of a wretched hangover.
He checked his look in the mirror again. Life is hard and then you die. He was the author of his own calamities. He just couldn’t come up with enough good daytime stories. The interesting people came out at night, and he hung out where they did. He knew why so many of the older reporters down at the paper were drunks. He was determined not to follow that path, believed he didn’t have whatever it took to be a real drunk. But he was a night owl, and loved that part of his life. Finally prepped, he flung open the door.
Before him stood an attractive, severe young woman, fair, trim, with delicate features, a large mouth, and smallish green eyes.
“Mr. Boyle? Okinder Boyle, the reporter?”
“Half in spirit, barely in body.” He held on to the door for support.
“My name is Heather Bantry.”
“Who?”
“You wrote a story on my father, Carl Bantry. You said he lived in a tunnel.”
“I wrote a story on Carl Bantry—”
“The Banker, you called him.”
“That’s right.”
“I saw your piece a couple of weeks ago. A friend sent it to me. My mother and I live in Seattle now, but I go to school in Vancouver. Since I was coming to Montreal with my debating team, I waited until now to get in touch.”
“I know who Heather Bantry is,” Okinder Boyle told her.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve met her. I’ve met Carl Bantry’s daughter.”
“Mr. Boyle, I’m sorry. I’m Heather Bantry. We’ve never met. I’m Carl Bantry’s only daughter.”
He suffered her accusatory gaze a few moments longer and found that the uncompromising nature of her regard obliged him to be civil. “Come in for a minute,” he invited. “We’ll talk about this.”
The night had been feral, a fact that was evident as he viewed the detritus of his room. Boyle scooped underwear off the chair he offered his guest, raked clothes from the desk and floor. Part of the mess he bundled up on his bed, and the rest he chose to ignore.
“Mr. Boyle—”
“Call me Okinder.”
“—my father does not live in a tunnel.”
“Few fathers do. However—”
“Why would you write such unadulterated crap?”
Time to sit up and take notice. The young woman’s rage was becoming apparent, her ability to fight equally obvious.
“I have to tell you, I had a rough night. You’ve taken me by surprise.” He grinned in his best sheepish, teddy-bearish manner.
“I don’t give a shit.” She sat pin straight in his office swivel chair. “You’ve caused my family embarrassment, pain. We’ve suffered on account of my father’s illness, then you come along and exploit it. You embellish what he’s gone through. You take a grain of truth and out of that concoct ridiculous lies. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Wait a minute. Hang on here. I don’t know who you are—”
“My name is Heather Bantry—”
“I know Heather Bantry. I have met Heather Bantry!”
In a trice the young woman was on her feet fishing through the pockets of her coat. She pulled out a billfold and scattered several pieces of identification, many with photos, across his desk.
“There is only one Heather Bantry who has a father Carl Bantry who was a banker in this city and that’s me. I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but let me tell you something, if there’s any way I can sue, I’ll do it. You can’t get away with this crap.”
She was up and headed for the door with her bits of identification in hand.
“Stop,” he urged.
She opened the door.
“Heather!” he called. She paused, turned, a hand on the door. “Hey, look, I’m confused. If I made a mistake, it was out of ignorance. Please. Stay a minute. Help me understand this.” The young woman wavered for only a moment longer before venturing back into the room.
She returned her identification to her wallet. “Why did you write that my father lives in a tunnel?”
Her razor anger impressed him. He could detect no guile in her. “Tell me something, Miss Bantry—Heather—how did you find me?”
“I asked for you at The Gazette. They said you’re not usually in the office, and they don’t hand out home addresses. I asked around but nobody could help. Then I found out you used to work for another paper, that alternative rag thing? They had no qualms about passing out your address.”
A better story, Boyle considered, than the one provided by the first Heather Bantry, who had merely followed her nose and been guided by strangers on the street. “Heather, why do you think your father doesn’t live in a tunnel? When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday. I come up from time to time. He lives outside the city, way out. He’s in a nursing home on the south shore.”
He sat back to absorb the news. He needed help here, guidance. If the woman proved to be who she claimed to be, he might have been responsible for a serious breach of conduct. He’d have to own up, and the potential for public embarrassment was extreme, but a different concern contested for attention. If he’d been duped, the question arose, why? Who had claimed to be the tunnel-dwelling Carl Bantry? And why? Who was the woman who had posed as Heather?
“The nursing home—who pays the bills?”
“His old bank. The one he worked for.”
A contradiction, as the bankers he’d consulted to verify the original story hadn’t mentioned supporting Carl Bantry. Still, neither her conviction nor her identity could be readily dismissed.
“Miss Bantry, do you have a number where you can be reached?”
She did. She was staying in nearby Westmount. The original Heather Bantry had made an excuse not to offer an address. She had promised to keep in touch but had not.
“If what you say is true, I’ve been duped. I’ll apologize in print, submit to a stoning, jump from the Jacques Cartier Bridge, whatever you decide. Suing me, well—look around you. Not much future there. Suing the paper means fighting lawyers who win those suits every day. If you can give me a little time, a little latitude, I’ll get back to you.”
Mollified, the young woman scratched out her address in Vancouver, her numbers there and locally, and provided the address where her father could be found. After she said good-bye, Okinder Boyle turned back to the cramped, dreary confines of his room. “What the hell?” he whispered aloud, and shut the door. “What the hell?”
Kaplonski came down the staircase dressed,
cuffed, and grim. The uniform held his arm above the elbow, Mathers followed, and as he reached the bottom step Cinq-Mars sauntered over to the front door, hands in his pockets, jiggling his change. He peered around the lace curtains. A few curious Nellies were milling about outside, attracted by the squad car. Turning back, the policeman regarded his captive.
“Pig Fart,” the man said.
“Mind your manners,” Cinq-Mars warned him. “You’re better off if I’m in a good mood. I mightn’t do you any favors otherwise.”
“What?”
“People are on the street. I bet your neighbors assume you’re respectable. Probably young girls babysit your children. Now we can lead you down those stairs in cuffs, Mr. Kaplonski, wreck their illusions about you, or we can protect your public image.”
Kaplonski looked at Cinq-Mars. “Like how?”
“Déguire,” Cinq-Mars directed. “Take your uniform and drive the car away. Straight down. Two blocks. No siren, no flash. Wait for us there.”
Déguire hesitated, his bulky forehead knotted in a frown, then he left with the uniform.
“We’ll give that crowd time to clear,” Cinq-Mars explained. “I’ll take the cuffs off before we leave. I’m guessing you’re too fat to run.”
“What do you want from me?” Walter Kaplonski asked, his anxiety apparent.
“Peace and quiet. I have a headache. Don’t give me a hard time.”
The prisoner still could not believe his good fortune and remained stiff at attention, his cuffed hands in front of him. Mathers checked the window after a few minutes and nodded to indicate that the bystanders had dispersed. Cinq-Mars unsnapped the cuffs, and Kaplonski rubbed his wrists.
“We’re going out now,” Cinq-Mars prepped him. “Put your coat on. Check the pockets, Bill.”
Mathers went out first, looking in both directions. After giving the all clear he walked on ahead, and Cinq-Mars opened the door for his captive. They strode down the steps and along the sidewalk in tandem toward his car.
“How come you do this for me?”
“That’s my business, Mr. K. I’ll tell you something. I don’t think you have a clue what I’m really doing for you.”
They kept walking.
“What you mean by that?” Kaplonski asked.
“I have a job to do. Today it’s my job to arrest you. But when your friends find out the charge, I wouldn’t take a bet on your chances.”
They reached the car and Kaplonski crawled into the rear. Cinq-Mars went around and surprised the other two by climbing into the back as well. Mathers, flummoxed, wedged himself behind the wheel and turned the engine over. “Straight down?” he asked. “Pick up Déguire?” Enough oddities had accompanied the arrest that he was not about to assume anything, least of all the obvious.
“Call him on the radio first. Tell him to fall in behind when we pass by. Don’t let any cars between us. Tell him to keep an eye out. Tell Déguire to write down everything he sees. If Kaplonski gets his head bashed in, tell him to write down the details.”
“What?” Kaplonski asked.
“If he gets bumped, tell Déguire to write everything he sees. It’s for your own protection,” Cinq-Mars assured his passenger. “I’m not betting on your chances to live a long life. If you go down, I don’t want anybody saying I had something to do with it. That’s why you’re not cuffed. In case you have to run.”
The detective did as instructed, then started driving.
“I don’t got to talk to you,” the man declared.
“After I do you a big favor?”
“We didn’t make no deal.”
“Hey, you got me there, Kaplonski. At least you’re not calling me Bacon Breath to my face or any of those ugly names. I guess if I’m civil to you, you’ll be civil to me. Is that how it goes, sir?”
“Sure,” the man said. “Why not?”
Cinq-Mars smiled in such a way that his prisoner was curious.
“What’re you grinning at?”
Cinq-Mars continued to smile. Déguire’s car tagged in behind them, and they stopped at a red light. This was the start of the commercial district for the area, with a bank and a pharmacy on two of the corners, and competing small grocers on the others. “Go west, Bill. Take the expressway. I was just wondering,” Cinq-Mars said.
“About what?”
“About what you know.”
Kaplonski smiled himself. “I don’t know nothing.”
“Maybe you’d like to rephrase that, sir. Think about it.”
Kaplonski qualified his statement. “I don’t know nothing special, is all.”
“How come you rate a Mafia lawyer?”
He rocked his head from side to side. His breathing was raspy, as though anxiety aggravated his windpipe. “He’s my lawyer, is all.”
“You’re a big shot?”
Kaplonski shook his head. “I’m not talking to you.”
“Course not,” Cinq-Mars agreed. “Nobody says you are. Hey, Bill, do you hear Kaplonski talking to me?”
“Sorry.” Mathers tapped one ear. “I’m stone deaf.”
“You see? You’re not talking to me and I believe you. Let’s hope your friends believe you. That’s another matter, but I’m here and I believe you.”
Kaplonski maintained silence, but he was looking at Cinq-Mars, hoping the policeman would continue.
“What do you say me and you reach an agreement?”
The prisoner shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“You don’t know what it is yet. It’s simple. I’ll talk, you’ll listen. How’s that? You don’t want to talk to me? Fine. Don’t. All I ask is that you pay attention all the way down to HQ. Do you have a problem with that?”
He shook his head and put his fist to his mouth to cough.
“Good. This is how it looks to me. You’re running a stolen car ring. No, wait. It’s not my intention to offend you, sir. Stolen cars were discovered on your property. How’s that? That’s fair. I haven’t accused you of anything, just restated the facts as they’re known. Okay, so, in the blink of an eye, you bring in a Hell’s Angels slash Mafia lawyer to plead your case. Now, why’s that? I have to ask myself. How come the Mafia cares about you? You’re not Italian. You’re not one of the Angels, are you? I don’t see any tattoos. You don’t ride a Harley. Maybe you contribute to their enterprises, you’re a cog in their machine, who knows? What I do know is that the company you’re keeping interests me more than you do.”
Kaplonski turned back to face him, but Cinq-Mars had looked away.
“Now, they’ll defend you on grand theft, auto, charges. They might even back you up on the murder rap. The question sticks, though—how come? You must know something. They’re not protecting your ass because they find it cute. They don’t give a royal fart if you go down for murder one. Better your ass than one of their own. What is it you know, sir? Why are you so important?”
Kaplonski had returned his attention to life on the street.
“I just hope you don’t know too much,” Cinq-Mars added.
Kaplonski did not respond, so Mathers asked the question on his behalf. “What do you mean, Émile?”
“It’s like this, Bill. If he knows too much they’ll blow him away. That’s what they do to anybody who gets too close to their business. If I were you, Kaplonski, I’d be worried they’re defending you to make sure you stay dumb. Show any inclination to strike a deal—kaboom! If I were you, I’d get somebody else to start your car in the morning.”
“What you’re saying is,” Mathers interjected, “the Mafia and the Angels will look like they’re on his side, they’ll put up their lawyer for show, to keep them informed, but they won’t really stick their necks out for him. In fact, they might be happy to see Mr. Kaplonski’s chopped off.”
“You might have something there, Bill. You might be on the right track. All along he’ll mind his manners, talk to no one, thinking he’s got this power lawyer, then—whoosh!—the rug’s pulled out. In a wink he’s do
wn on all fours doing serious time with a bat sticking out his rump.”
“You guys,” Kaplonski said.
“What?”
“You think you break me? Don’t make me laughing. You’re Boy Scouts to me. You’re Girl Guides. You should be wearing the dresses.”
“Now, that’s what I don’t understand, Mr. Kaplonski. That’s what I don’t get. What’s with the cracks? Here we are, enjoying a pleasant conversation, going over the facts as we see them, and you start with the cute remarks. Sir, I think you have a serious problem. I think you’re incorrigible. You know,” the detective ruminated, “it’s too bad about cops going down to your garage and getting their cars fixed for free.”
“That’s how it goes. I don’t see nothing wrong with it. Me, I like to help out public servants.”
Cinq-Mars chuckled along. “Hear that, Bill? The man’s a philanthropist. He’s a generous soul. I was surprised LaPierre had his name on that list, weren’t you, Bill? That disappointed me. I always thought he was a good cop. I guess when he interrogated you, sir, he remembered favors you’d done him in the past. I guess your lawyer was counting on that.”
Kaplonski stared straight ahead.
Cinq-Mars jerked his head toward the rear. “Guy in the car behind us was his partner. Do you think he’s dirty too?”
Kaplonski wasn’t interested.
“Yeah, I don’t know either. I’m pretty sure he talks to LaPierre on a regular basis. Who knows what he tells him? Does that bother you?”
“No skin off my nose.”
“Mine neither. Be interesting to find out, though, don’t you think? If he told the wrong people that you and me had a conversation in the backseat of a car, that we looked friendly, what do you think the wrong sort of people would think about that?”
The prisoner looked back at the squad car and then at Cinq-Mars. “What you talking? You arresting me. That’s all. I didn’t talk to you. I never said nothing.”
“That would be true except for a couple of things there, Walter. You don’t mind if I call you Walter, do you? You can call me Émile. You’ve been talking a lot to me this morning, that’s pretty obvious to the guy behind us. On top of that, I’ve decided that you’re not worth arresting.”