Past Echoes

by Graham Smith

  North’s eyes widen in fear and his head shakes. I’m not surprised he’s scared. If I were to bring the twelve-pound sledgehammer down on his finger, it would pulverise his flesh against the anvil.

  There’s also the fact that I’ve kept my tone conversational, and I’m doing everything I can to appear calm; as if torture and mutilation are a normal part of my day. In short, I’m making sure he fears me, and the hammers, more than the person he’s protecting.

  Another factor in my favour is that virtually every guy alive has hit a fingernail when using a hammer. Therefore, North will know how much it will hurt if I carry out my threat.

  A sheen of sweat appears on North’s face, and if it weren’t for Lunk’s all-pervading body odour, and a mixture of gasoline fumes and waste oil, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to smell his fear.

  I lift the small hammer until its head is six inches above his nail. ‘Who are you?’

  He swallows and I can see him trying to decide between pain and betrayal.

  I flick my wrist and land the head of the hammer square on the end of his fingernail.

  He gives a loud yelp, and curses me out until he realises I’m counting. I’ve got to eight by the time he stops cursing and says, ‘Okay. I’ll tell you.’

  Beneath his fingernail I can already see the colour of his flesh turning dark as the bruising begins to take effect. I know, from careless occasions in my own past, how much his nail will be throbbing.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Donny. My name is Donny.’

  I’m not bothered that he doesn’t give me a surname; his Christian name isn’t that important to me either. The real information I’m after, is why they ambushed me. Plus, there’s the psychological effect: now he’s broken his silence, each new morsel of information will be easier for him to release.

  ‘So, Donny. Why did you and your buddies attack me?’

  He swallows and looks from side to side as if expecting help to arrive.

  I raise the hammer six inches, and an eyebrow one.

  ‘We were paid.’

  ‘Who by?’

  He hesitates. Swallows again.

  My wrist flicks and the hammer smashes into his nail for a second time.

  I wait until he’s finished cursing, and ask again who paid him.

  ‘Benji.’

  The name comes through gritted teeth. I’m not sure whether it’s pain, or hatred for me that’s gritting his teeth. I’m not bothered either way. I just want him to tell me what I need to know before I have to hit his finger a third time. The second blow has more than doubled the discolouration and there is a trickle of blood seeping out from under his nail. It must be throbbing like crazy, and I know from my own experiences there is very little that can be done to alleviate the pain.

  I don’t need to ask who Benji is. A couple of weeks back, I kicked Benji’s ass when he was beating on a girl. The only issue I have with the memory is that I don’t actually have it, due to being flat out drunk at the time.

  A thought comes to me. ‘Was Benji here with you tonight?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He the one who had the other baseball bat?’

  ‘Yeah. What of it?’

  ‘When I dropped you and your two buddies on your asses, Benji ran away. That’s the kind of man he is. A coward who gets others to do his dirty work, then runs off like a scared kitten when things don’t go his way.’

  A look of disgust and anger overtakes Donny’s face.

  I lay the hammer down. There’s no need for further hurt. ‘How much did he pay you?’

  ‘Three hundred bucks apiece.’

  ‘How bad was the beating to be? Were you here to kill me or just put me in hospital?’

  ‘Hospital, but Benji wanted your arms and legs busted.’

  I lean against a workbench and look at Donny. He cuts a pathetic figure – strapped by the hand to an anvil. His demeanour is one of defeat, and fury at being set up and abandoned.

  ‘What will you do if I let you go? Will you raise your hands to me, or will you go off plotting to come back and try again?’

  ‘Ain’t gonna take you on again. Might have me a few words with Benji though.’

  Donny nurses his injured hand as I set him free and watch him leave Lunk’s workshop. I’ve gotten the answers I want, and I suspect that Donny and his buddies will deal with Benji for me.

  Now the threat is over, I turn my mind to the reality of the situation. A guy I’d once beaten up, with good cause, had decided to exact a spot of revenge. The price of this revenge, three lots of three hundred bucks, and maybe another hundred on gas to get them here.

  I don’t know the going rate for henchmen, but I’d like to think I deserve more than a thousand bucks’ worth of mindless thugs.

  Whatever the price, it says something that a guy whose ass I kicked has taken the trouble to hunt me down, and has shelled out his own money on accomplices.

  That it’s taken him almost three weeks to come looking is neither here nor there. It might have taken that long to track me down or to persuade his buddies. Perhaps he was saving up.

  3

  The office is typical of small law firms the world over. There’s a desk with overflowing in and out trays, a phone, and the obligatory picture depicting the lawyer’s loved ones. A potted plant in one corner looks to be in rude health and there’s a lavender smell coming from what I presume is a hidden air freshener.

  Alfonse and I take the chairs we’re waved towards and wait for the lawyer to take her seat.

  Neither of us know why we’re here, other than the fact that there has been a formal request for our presence. I can understand Alfonse being asked to come in: he’s a private investigator, and in a small town like Casperton he picks up plenty of work. The local detective squad being worse than useless means there’s always plenty of work coming his way.

  The lawyer puts down the phone and smiles at us. She’s the homely type, and I can picture her baking cakes or carrying out a huge pot roast.

  The thought of food makes my stomach rumble. It took me a while to calm down after last night’s events, meaning I didn’t get to sleep until almost four, and didn’t have time for anything more than a banana before making this nine o’clock appointment.

  When she speaks, Pauline Allen’s voice is stronger than expected, although there’s a little edge, almost as if she’s afraid of something. ‘Thank you for coming in, gentlemen. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve called this meeting.’ Alfonse and I nod. ‘I’ll get straight to the point. I’m the executor of Ms Fifine Rosenberg’s last will and testament. She made a codicil, which, I’m afraid, concerns the two of you.’

  ‘What’s the codicil?’

  It’s Alfonse who asks the question. I’m still trying to align the name Fifine with my memories of Ms Rosenberg. She was a diminutive woman with a huge personality. As the star reporter for the Casperton Gazette, her crusades kept corruption from the political offices. She had a fondness for cigarettes, scotch, and perfumes that could bring tears to a glass eye at twenty paces.

  Ms Rosenberg may have had a viperous tongue and a complete lack of social graces, but she was always entertaining to be around – once your eyes had stopped watering.

  Not being able to save her has kept me awake on more than one occasion. If she’s left me any amount of money in her will, I’ll never be able to accept it; there’s no way my conscience will allow me to profit from a death I blame myself for.

  It wasn’t right that her funeral hadn’t taken place until ten days after she’d died, but the FBI had insisted on having her body undergo three separate autopsies. I was told, off the record, by Chief Watson, that they had been done to counteract whatever moves the lawyer of the men who killed her may have made.

  I get why they did it, and technically agree with their reasoning, but I do know that according to the Torah, Ms Rosenberg should have been buried within twenty-four hours of her death.

  Her funeral was a lonely
affair. The only mourners were myself, Alfonse, Chief Watson and a small handful of people from the Casperton Gazette. The paper’s editor delivered a heartfelt eulogy and we all went our separate ways.

  Alfonse’s shoe bumps my ankle hard enough to bring my attention back to the room.

  Pauline’s voice now shows irritation. ‘As I was saying, my client left instructions that, in the event of her death, I was to hire AD Investigations and hand this envelope to the two of you.’ She passes an envelope to Alfonse. ‘And that I am to instruct you to find her sole beneficiary.’ She hands a folder to me.

  I share a glance with Alfonse and open the folder. There are two sheets of paper. The first is a photocopy of an old picture. It’s black and white and shows a young couple holding hands and wearing the goofy grins that are shared by lovers the world over. By the look of their clothes and hairstyles, I’d say it was taken in the late sixties or early seventies. When I take a closer look, I can see the woman is a younger version of Ms Rosenberg.

  The second sheet of paper holds some details about Ms Rosenberg’s former beau. His name is Halvard Weil, and the address she’s given for him is in Brooklyn, New York. I’ve never been to the city that never sleeps, but I’m guessing Brooklyn has its fair share of Jewish residents.

  Halvard’s date of birth shows him to be in his early sixties and there’s a place of employment listed.

  I shift my eyes from the page to the lawyer. ‘Why do you need us to find this guy? All the information on here should be enough for you to track him down with no more than a few phone calls.’

  ‘Read the footnote.’

  I do as I’m bidden and realise why AD Investigations are required. The footnote admits that the information on the page was correct when Ms Rosenberg left New York forty years ago. Through online enquiries, Ms Rosenberg had learned that the apartment block where Halvard had lived, had been torn down. She’d also admitted that Halvard would change his job every few months as he didn’t have any clear career goals other than making money.

  From the corner of my eye I can see Alfonse stuffing his papers back in the envelope and looking at his watch. That he’s impatient to be out of here means he wants to discuss the contents of the envelope with me when there isn’t a lawyer present. I guess the pages he’s read are self-explanatory as he’s not bombarding Pauline with questions.

  I have one or two for her though. ‘This Halvard, do we know if he’s still alive?’

  Pauline’s mouth tightens. ‘I don’t know. If you do find that he’s no longer with us, the inheritance is to pass to any children he may have.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  I say the words without thought as I’m trying to find a delicate way to ask the size of the inheritance. In the end, I abandon all subtlety and ask outright how much we’re talking about.

  ‘Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and one letter. Once her house and its contents have been sold, those monies are to be forwarded to him as well.’

  A whistle escapes my lips. I didn’t expect a six figure sum, let alone one that’s within spitting distance of a million bucks. Not for a reporter in a town as small as Casperton. She’d be well paid by the Gazette, but I can’t see her earning enough to squirrel away that much money.

  I feel Alfonse’s gaze coming my way and glance at him before looking at Pauline. ‘Where did she get that kind of money?’

  ‘Not that it’s important you know; she was an author as well as a journalist. I handled some of her affairs for that side of things as well. Mr Weil will also receive her book royalties.’ Pauline’s face takes on a gentle expression. ‘I read one of her books. It was a beautifully haunting tale of a lost romance that was never rekindled.’

  ‘Did she write under her own name?’

  ‘No, absolutely not. She had a pseudonym and she refused to do any public appearances, or have her face on any of the books. She even paid a model, so she could use her picture for any online publicity that her publishers insisted on. One or two of her books even hit the bestseller lists.’

  ‘What was her pseudonym?’

  ‘Lorna Noone.’

  The name isn’t familiar to me but, if she wrote romantic fiction rather than crime or thrillers, it’s unlikely our paths would have crossed in a literary environment.

  Like Alfonse, I have a hankering to leave, but I have a final question for Pauline before we go. ‘Assuming that you’ve passed on everything Ms Rosenberg asked you to, is there anything you should tell us that she hasn’t already covered?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’ve told you everything. And quite possibly more than Ms Rosenberg would have approved of, had she been alive.’

  Pauline’s final sentence is enough to embed a mental note never to hire her. Any lawyer who is as free and easy with their clients’ information as she has been, can’t be trusted. It’s one thing to give a little more information when pressed for answers, it’s another altogether to overshare without good reason. Ms Rosenberg may have died, but she should still be afforded the same respect as the living.

  4

  I park outside the bank and turn to look at Alfonse. As we were travelling across town from the lawyer’s office, we swapped information on the contents of the folder and the envelope given to us by Pauline Allen.

  The point I can’t get past, is Ms Rosenberg’s second life as an author. That she’d trodden the well-worn path from journalism to novel writing didn’t make her unique. The way she’d hidden behind a pseudonym didn’t mean much on its own, lots of authors do that, but when you add in the fact that she had turned down all public appearances, and had gone to the length of paying a model for an image to pass off as herself for publicity material, you have a situation that doesn’t add up.

  My experiences of her may have been limited, but I’d learned she was more of a towering sunflower than a shrinking violet. The desire to remain unknown is one that many people have, but few of these people carve out a career where they are constantly in the public eye. It would be fair to say that Ms Rosenberg’s journalistic skills hold a large amount of responsibility for the lack of corruption in local politics. Alongside the regular news articles that she contributed to the Gazette, she had a weekly column that carried her picture at the top of the page.

  Try as I might, I can’t connect the vivacious and often abrasive Ms Rosenberg I knew, with the reclusive Lorna Noone. It’s like they were twins: identical in looks but poles apart in personality.

  There’s also the envelope Alfonse was given. It contains a sheet of paper, and a key for a safety deposit box. The sheet of paper holds instructions for Alfonse and me. It tells us that we are to open the corresponding box in the Grand Valley Bank, and use what we find to unleash justice.

  It sounds melodramatic, on a bright sunny morning, so I pass her choice of words off as journalistic embellishment.

  The bank is busy. The advent of online banking has meant there are three tellers working at a counter set out for eight.

  When our turn comes, Alfonse shows the safety deposit key to the teller. She asks us to wait a moment and fetches the manager.

  When the manager comes, he’s tall, thin and wearing the kind of suspicious expression the public usually reserve for politicians.

  ‘Gentlemen. If you’d follow me, please?’

  The manager doesn’t give his name, and I don’t ask, as he leads us to a small consultation room. A whiff of expensive cologne emanates from him, but a look at the poor fit of his suit tells me he’s not a preening showbird. I guess the cologne is a gift from a long-suffering wife or lover who are doing all they can to smarten him up.

  The three of us sit down and the manager rests his hands on the table with his fingers interlocked. If I was a cynical person, I’d suspect he is using his body language to forewarn us of a refusal.

  Alfonse must have had the same thought. Before a word can be said he passes across a letter of authority from Pauline Allen, which grants us access to Ms Rosenberg’s box.

&
nbsp; The manager reads the brief letter with furrows lining his brow. Once or twice his mouth opens and closes again, as if he’s about to say something and thinks better of it.

  He can act like a goldfish all he wants in his own time. We’re here on business and the sooner that business gets done, the sooner we can get on with finding Halvard Weil, and inform him of his inheritance.

  I’m happy to try being polite first, but have no issue escalating to rude, or even intimidating, if necessary. This guy is the type of pen-pushing jerk who makes me glad I toss drunks for a living. ‘I think you’ll find everything is in order. If you’d be so kind as to fetch us Ms Rosenberg’s security box?’

  The manager scowls at me and takes another look at the letter of authority. I presume he’s trying to find a loophole that’ll allow him to refuse our request. His next scowl is aimed at the paper, and he pushes back his chair as he rises.

  ‘One moment, gentlemen.’

  Something tells me he’s going to keep us waiting as an act of defiance. I’m glad to be proven wrong when he returns within two minutes, carrying a flat oblong box – an inch or two bigger than a regular sheet of copy paper and four inches deep.

  Alfonse uses the key to open it.

  I find I’m holding my breath, but I don’t quite know why.

  Alfonse removes two standard envelopes from the box, takes a quick look at them, and hands them to me.

  They both have my name on them, written in an old fashioned cursive script. They’re also numbered 1 and 2.

  The manager’s face now has an inquisitive expression.

  I’m tempted to open the envelopes straight away but something tells me that their contents shouldn’t be advertised.