by Warren Court
“Soos’s guy called me. Wants you to go see him. Right away,” Don said now.
“You tell him I’d go?”
“No, I just said I’d pass it on.”
“You could have told him I was out of town.”
“I didn’t realize I was your secretary.”
“You think I’m going to give my cell number to Soos?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go see him right now.”
“I’ll be fine. The Scallas and Soos hate each other.”
“Money has a way of transcending hatred,” Don said.
“Anyways,” I said, and raised my eyebrows.
Don dropped something heavy wrapped in a greasy rag on his desk. I unwrapped the Browning Hi-Power from the rag, racked it and checked the magazine. The gun was well oiled. I’d forgotten what it was like to hold such a nice piece. It was heavy and well balanced. There was a second magazine in the rag and I put that in my pocket.
I’d picked the Browning up on a drug raid years before. It had been hidden between the mattress and the box spring. Most of the guys on the force kept a keepsake or two from the job. Some went a little overboard. The thing with keeping a gun you pick up on the job is you don’t know what it was used for or who it was used on. Maybe it was used to kill someone and the ballistics are on file. So, you could keep a gun, but you could only use it once and that was to defend yourself. It would be impossible with my history to get a permit to buy a handgun legally now, so I was glad to have it. I’d loaned it to Don when he had a disgruntled customer, a Hells Angel, after him. The biker was now in jail and I needed the gun more than he did.
“You still going to take my truck off me?” I said.
“What did you want for it?”
“We said two thousand.”
“I’ll give you fifteen hundred for it.”
“Two thousand,” I said.
“When do you leave?” Don said.
“End of the week.”
“Should probably get out before the weekend, beat the rush.”
“You think they’ll come for me that soon?” I asked Don.
“You still got that place up north?”
“Nope. But I’ve been thinking about it. Where I could go.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“I’ll need that two thousand.”
“Come by in a day or two.”
I thanked Don, tucked the Browning Hi-Power into the waistband of my jeans and left the greasy rag on his desk.
I pulled over down the road from Don’s and sat there with the motor running, thinking about Doc Soos and his summons. You could not refuse him if he owned you. And man, did Doc Soos own my ass. He hadn’t called me in a while and I’d mistakenly thought he’d forgotten about me. Revoked our verbal contract. Foolish mistake. This was all I needed, what with the Scallas figuring out their next play with this whole Garigue thing.
When they had gotten hauled in five years ago for questioning, so had I. The cops wanted to know if the Scallas had used my boat, Wave Dancer, to dump the body. They knew I had a close relationship with the Scallas. They didn’t know the half of it.
They’d exercised a search warrant on Wave Dancer and asked all kinds of questions about the night of Garigue’s disappearance. My being an ex-cop only made things worse. The fact that I was disgraced and was tied in with the Scallas and guys like Soos infuriated the investigators. I’d even thought I was in for a trip to The Chelsea, but in the end, they let me go. I was under surveillance for about a month, then they just stopped. That was why my name had been mentioned in the Spectator right under the Scallas’. I guess the story of a disgraced ex-cop who was tied in with organized crime is always newsworthy.
I put the truck in gear and headed for Soos. The skies opened up on the drive into Toronto, slowing the traffic down to a crawl, and after it was over the humidity soared. A news guy on the radio was talking about Hurricane Ernesto reaching Florida by nightfall. The next story was about Garigue. Thankfully, it was short and sweet, and my name was not mentioned. The Scallas were not mentioned, either. I hoped that would put some of their anxiety at bay.
Soos’s office overlooked the waterfront. I parked in a public lot across from his six-story building and left the Browning Hi-Power under the seat. Soos’s man would frisk me and confiscate it and probably box me around the head for trying to bring it in. I knew the rules.
As I rode the elevator up to the sixth floor, I thought about what I’d said earlier about the Scallas and Soos never doing business together. I admitted to myself it was a dangerous assumption. And when Soos calls you, you don’t say no. But I figured I wasn’t going to get whacked here in this building. That wasn’t Soos’s way.
Soos was a real estate mogul. He owned several properties in Toronto and one in Montreal, and he had recently gotten into nightclubs. That was his public-facing persona, and it paid quite well. It amazed me that with the success he had in that field, he chose to delve in the illegal stuff—drugs, guns, pussy, whatever. I guessed the nightclubs were a good venue to move his merchandise. He kept himself insulated at various levels and he punched his image up with philanthropy.
Louis, an ex-boxer that Soos had backed at one time, was there on the sixth floor to greet me. His tight grey sport coat bulged at the arms, and a bead of sweat trailed along that massive brown dome. His eyes were permanently scrunched together in a scowl. He grunted and motioned for me to raise my arms. When he got through frisking me, he pushed me towards Doc’s office. You called him Mr. Soos when you were in his presence and The Doc behind his back. You called him Doctor Seuss at your own peril, whether you were in his presence, behind his back or on the planet Mars.
Soos didn’t stand up as I entered his office. Louis followed me in.
“Sit down, Jack.”
I sat in one of the plush leather club chairs and waited patiently. Soos was drinking scotch out of a Baccarat Crystal double rocks glass while fiddling with some cufflinks. He was half-dressed in a tuxedo with just the shirt and pants on. The suspenders and tie were on his desk and the jacket was hung up on a coat rack in the corner. I guessed Soos to be in his fifties, but he was in good shape. He could take you apart no problem, having done some boxing of his own when he’d first arrived in Canada. Golden Gloves ’61. When he was through with the cufflinks, he took another sip of his drink. The whiskey decanter and more glasses were behind him on a sideboard, but I wasn’t offered any.
“Still got that boat?” he asked. His eyes bored into me. It was a dangerous question. Soos didn’t like to be lied to, but he also didn’t like answers that disappointed him.
“You bet,” I said.
“Good. Got a job for you. Call this guy.” Soos pushed a sticky note across the desk to me. “I got something for him; he has something for me. The usual spot. I want it by tomorrow. Come by here first and pick up Louis.”
I looked out Soos’s window to the impressive view of the lake. A steady beat of rain was hammering the glass. Out in the distance, a finger of lightning jabbed the lake’s surface. By “regular spot,” Soos meant the middle of Lake Ontario. A nice quiet place to do a transaction or bury a body.
“You got a problem?” Soos said.
“No, Mr. Soos.” I couldn’t keep the hesitation out of my voice. I could hear Louis shuffling behind me. “It’s just with this whole Garigue thing, there might be a lot of eyes on me. I expect the cops will pick up the Scallas and then probably me as well.”
“Unless the Scallas get to you first, right, pal?” Soos said, and laughed. “I ever tell you how I got here, Jack? To Canada?”
“No,” I said.
“I was nine. The communists were in Budapest. The Russians. It was bad. My father was a banker. Had nothing after the war. Lost it all. He was just starting to get some of it back when the Russians came in. He wouldn’t leave, though. But I wanted to. We had nothing. We were starving. We had half a roast left. Then that was it. We were going to eat it for Sunday dinner; it’
s what you do, right? It’s the same here or there.
“I took it. Took the roast and our dog and I went to the border. Two days’ walk in the rain. Slept in the woods. Anytime a car came, I ran into the woods with the dog. We got to the border. Not a checkpoint; just a fence. And land mines. I dug under the fence, and me and the dog went through. On the other side I took the roast out. I was hungry, you understand. But the dog was hungrier. I cut a piece of the roast off and threw it into the mine field. The dog went to go get it and came back. I followed where he walked. Cut another piece and threw it. Dog goes out, comes back. I move forward. That’s how I made it out. As far as I could throw, maybe thirty feet. Thirty feet at a time through a mine field. We made it. Me and the dog. You know what I did then?”
“You ate the dog,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. Soos even laughed, but I heard Louis’s chair scrape as he stood up, ready to pound my insolent head in. Soos waved him off.
“Very funny, Jack. You’re not the first person to say that, but still funny for you. I set the dog free. He went to run back to his master, my father. I no longer had any roast, and that dog and I never liked each other. He got blown to bits halfway across. You know why I told you that story, Jack?”
“No,” I said.
“I want you to know what kind of person you’re dealing with. How determined I am to get what I want. In that case, I wanted freedom, I wanted my life back. In this case…Well, you know what I want.”
Chapter 3
The sky cleared on the way back to Hamilton and ribbons of cloud were streaming over the city. I was crossing the bridge over Coote’s Paradise, an unnavigable protected bird sanctuary at the far end of the harbour, when I picked up a cop. He followed me for a couple of blocks. I had a gut feeling he was going to light up his roof and he did. He had run my plates and seen who I was. It happened all the time.
The Browning Hi-Power was still tucked under the seat. If this was just a traffic thing, it would be okay. My license and insurance were fine. If this was something else and they went through the car, I was going to lose the gun and wind up in jail, where I would be easy pickings for the Scallas.
The cop took a long time getting out of his car. He was talking on his radio a lot. Eventually he came up beside the truck. I already had the window rolled down on account of the humidity, and I handed him my stuff and he took it back to his car. Then I waited. And waited. Sweat running down my face. Pooling at the small of my back on the hot vinyl seat.
The cop must have radioed me in and been told to hold and detain me. It was close to twenty minutes before the unmarked pulled up behind the cop’s car. My ex-partner Rico got out, along with another man. They were both in plainclothes and they approached my truck on either side, Rico on the passenger side, his partner on the driver’s. His partner stopped short at the rear of my truck. Rico opened the passenger door and slid in.
“Hey, Jack.”
“What’s with this bullshit, Rico?” I said. I slid the heel of my right foot under the seat, knocking the gun further out of sight.
“Just wanted to talk. You hear about Garigue?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that rat faggot. He got what was coming to him.”
“Easy, tough guy. They found his driver’s license in his back pocket. Can you imagine that? They’re running DNA now, but it’s him. Maybe there’s some physical evidence the homicide guys can use. Maybe the Scallas will roll for it. Who knows?”
“So?”
“I’m sure the Scallas read the paper.”
“I doubt it.”
Rico laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Those two dumb wops. But they’ll know about our friend.”
“Say what you gotta say, Rico, so I can be on my way.”
“You still going away?”
“What?” I said. Did everyone in this town know of my plans to pull a Jimmy Buffet and sail south?
Rico took off his shades and looked at me hard. “Don’t fuck with me, Jack. You were my partner and I respect you, but you ain’t on the job no more so don’t jack me off.”
I held up my hands. “Hey, I’m just an honest citizen trying to go about my business. You had them pull me over. Some might consider that police harassment.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to look out for you. We should get together, go over old times.”
“Have a nice day, Rico. Be safe out there.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “You do likewise.” Rico slid out of my truck and he and his partner walked back to the unmarked. They roared off, and the uniformed cop gave me back my stuff and he left too.
I pulled the Browning Hi-Power out from under my seat and put it beside me.
Chapter 4
I walked into the club with the Browning Hi-Power tucked down the front of my shorts. My shirt covered it. Cindy had taken Marty’s place behind the bar. He was off work now and sitting at a table in the back with the yachties. I went up to the bar. Cindy put a short mug of beer in front of me. Little bits of ice were dripping down it.
Cindy was in her mid-twenties. Her tight, tanned body made me feel old and young at the same time. I liked what we had together: no strings attached. Fun times. But it was just a fling and I wanted to let her down gently for her own good.
My intentions were to sail my boat to the Caribbean alone. Start a new life. Taking Cindy along would complicate things. We would get along for a while, it would even be fun, but eventually I would start to feel guilty. About taking her away. She was bartending part time and taking journalism courses at Mohawk Community College. I knew she had a future in that.
“Marty, can you cover for me? I’m taking a break.” She pulled her smokes off the back bar and I followed her out to the patio.
“Thought you were quitting,” I said.
“Having a rough day. Give me a break.”
“Okay. Just worried about you. Those things will dry your face out like sandpaper.”
She leaned back against the wood railing of the outside porch and lit the smoke, looking at me.
“Yeah, in about twenty years. I’ll quit before then.”
“Right. You got all the answers. You don’t look glad to see me,” I said.
“Not sure I am,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“You still leaving next week?”
“If the weather’s right, I want to at least make it to the Carolinas before winter. Maybe as far as Georgia.”
Cindy took another drag and looked despondently out to the harbour. She was rocking her legs back and forth quickly and her whole body shook.
“Hey, babe. You want to come with me to the Caribbean? Fine. You could find work there. I just think you’re going to be bored.”
“Bored. Yeah, I’m such an adrenaline junkie.”
“Place I’m heading to there’s nothing going on. You want to get woken up by roosters every morning? Most exciting thing they got going on down there is stepping on sharp coral.”
She exhaled smoke and shook her head.
“Hey, look, Cindy. What do you want from me? I’m being totally honest with you.”
“Yeah, honest. You’re telling me in a week’s time you’re leaving for good, sailing down south on some goddamn Jimmy Buffet pilgrimage. You say I can come along but you don’t mean it.”
There was a set of stairs that led down to the car park, and I put down my beer and went for them. She blocked my path. She got in close and grabbed me around my waist.
“We need to talk, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I get off at seven. You could pick me up.”
“Yeah, sure, hun.” She was looking up into my eyes and I kissed her hard. She tasted of nicotine and coffee. “You gotta get back to work and I got stuff to do.”
She must have felt the bulge of the Browning Hi-Power tucked in my shorts.
“What’s this?” She pulled back, and before I could stop her, she had my shirt up, exposing the butt of the pistol.
“Y
ou’re carrying a gun?”
I pulled my shirt out of her gasp and she stood back, shocked.
“It’s just something I carry from time to time.”
“What the hell for?” She got all motherly. “What trouble are you in?”
I guess she didn’t read the newspaper.
“Nothing, hun. I was just picking it up from Don. I loaned it to him.”
“Why the hell do you have a gun in the first place?”