by Warren Court
“I have to. Don’t know where else to go. Besides he owes me.”
“That’s what scares me. Let him know you told me you were coming for a visit.”
“Why?”
“He won’t be so quick to kill you and leave you in a ditch if he figures someone else knows about it.”
“Melanie, come on. Don’t be silly.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Melanie said in return, moved in quick for a hug and was gone.
15
Johnny Pappanillo’s house was impressive, Armour expected no less. Like Armour’s, Johnny Pops’ house had a commanding view of the city. It was situated on the edge of the mountain on a very well to do street. On either side were houses, mansions really, of equal stature. Mature maple trees lined the street and several driveways had impressive looking shiny black foreign automobiles in them.
There was a tall wrought iron gate at the entrance to Johnny’s house. It was open so Armour drove up and parked behind a silver Cadillac. Armour rang the doorbell, stood back and waited. It was opened seconds later by a young girl who looked to be sixteen, had braces and dark black hair that was pulled up in tight in a ponytail.
She giggled a bit and put her hand to her mouth. “Can I help you?” She giggled again. Armour thought it must be his appearance. He had on his finest herringbone three-piece suit and bow tie. Maybe it was his bowler, that usually threw people when they saw him wearing it. He thought he looked quite handsome. What did this young thing know?
“What are you? A singing telegram?” she asked.
“Um no Miss, I’m here to see Mr. Pappanillo. If he’s in, of course, and can spare a minute.”
The girl turned her head and said “Nona” and stepped back in but did not allow room for Armour to enter. “There’s someone here to see you,” she yelled.
“Who is it darling?” an unseen man said. Armour recognized the raspy voice of Johnny Pappanillo, head of Hamilton’s Pappanillo crime family. He saw the aging man come to the door and open it cautiously and peer around. He reached around his granddaughter’s waist to pull her away if need be.
“You,” Johnny said, eyes widening.
“Mr. Pappanillo,” Armour said and he took his hat off and held it in front of him.
“This ain’t a good time, kid. And you come to my house uninvited. Not a smart move.”
“Just need a moment of your time, Mr. Pappanillo.”
“We’re busy. My granddaughter is rehearsing for her play.”
“Oh really. What play?”
“It’s a musical,” the girl answered. “South Pacific.”
Armour broke out into Bali Hai and saw the girl’s eyes light up and Old Man Pappanillo cracked a grin.
“Nona, he knows it,” the girl said.
“Of course he does. Get in here.” Pappanillo opened the door to let him in.
The home was gorgeous, huge winding staircase and grandfather clock in the hallway. Vase planters with eight-foot majesty palms reaching up to the raised ceiling. The interior smelled amazing too, something tomato and garlicky coming from the kitchen.
“Papa, who’s that?” A female voice came from another room and a woman about forty, long dark hair and spitting image of the young girl, came around wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Don’t worry about it, Sylvia. Friend of mine, he’s come to watch the rehearsal.”
The woman frowned and returned to what Armour presumed was the kitchen and her delicious smelling sauce.
“She’s worried I might get whacked, stranger coming to the door.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Pappanillo, if I caused you any stress.”
“Stress? Don’t worry about it, kid. If you was coming to get me, it would be you who would get all stressed.” The old man was wearing a light blue cardigan and he pulled it up to reveal a shiny pistol stuck in his belt.
“Come on into the sitting room.”
Another gorgeous room, this one with a white baby grand piano in the corner. Huge gilt framed photos of Johnny and his wife, whom Armour knew had recently passed on. Sylvia must be one of his daughters.
The young girl was fiddling around on a device similar to what Melanie was always on.
“Come on sweetheart, show time,” Johnny said.
“Grandpa, your wifi is down again.”
“What?”
“I can’t connect. I was going to play the song off YouTube.”
“What are you going to do on opening night if the why fy at the school is down?”
“Nona.” The girl sounded exasperated. “I can reboot the modem. Where is it?”
“Damned if I know.”
“What song were you going to rehearse?” Armour asked.
“Wash that man right out of my hair,” the girl replied.
“May I?” Armour motioned to the piano.
“Be my guest.” The old man took a seat in a cream coloured chair.
Armour took off his jacket, laid it over another chair, cracked his knuckles and sat down at the piano. He looked up at the girl and she put her phone down.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“Hit it,” Johnny said.
Armour started to play the intro and saw a surprised look come over their faces. The girl missed her cue so Armour sang it and she laughed then joined in and he dropped off. She sang the song flawlessly and started dancing around the sitting room. Johnny Pops clapped his hands in time and Sylvia appeared, her mouth open in astonishment. Armour ended off with a flourish and the girl was spinning around and almost collapsed on the floor. The old man and his daughter clapped enthusiastically, got up and both hugged the girl. Johnny Pops then remembered Armour was still in the room and nodded at him and smiled.
“Come on, Carm, help me in the kitchen,” Sylvia said to her daughter and they left Armour with Johnny Pops.
“Offer you some anisette?” Johnny said.
“Sure,” Armour said, not sure what it was. The old man had a bottle and two small glasses and poured them both some. As he handed Armour his glass his cardigan rode up and Armour caught a glimpse of the shiny pistol again. Armour sipped his drink and looked up at the paintings on the wall.
“I was sorry to hear of the passing of your wife.”
“How’d you know?”
“It was in the papers. I don’t normally read them, that is to say I don’t normally read current papers but I happened to see you on the front page of one in a store by my house.”
“Bastard photographers. They hounded us at the funeral. Vultures.”
Armour saw the photo he’d given Johnny the first time he met him in crime boss’ social club downtown. That had been the key to getting in the club, and avoiding getting beaten up by his youngest son and the toughs who were guarding the place.
It was a photo of Johnny’s grandparents standing on Pier One in Halifax the day they arrived in Canada. Armour had purchased it in a bulk of old photos at a yard sale one day, and put it aside and months later went through it and knew immediately who it was, there was such a strong resemblance. He’d given it as a gift and now here it was in a small frame in a place of honour in Johnny’s home.
“Mr. Pappanillo, I wanted to ask you… Your last name, it sounds more Greek than Italian.”
“It is, or was way back. Ancestor of mine was from Greece. But I’m Napoli through and through, don’t doubt it.”
“Oh I don’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, sir.” Armour sipped the anisette.
“Spit it out, kid. I don’t think you came here to play the piano.”
“No, sir.” He made to sit down but stopped before his bum hit the cushion. “May I?”
Pappanillo nodded.
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“Unions. Local 451 to be exact.” Armour had looked up a book on union labour in Ontario at his home and knew that local 451 was active in the Nanticoke area, the industrial zone t
o the west of Port Dover where Eastman Lake Steel was located.
“What about it?” Pappanillo eyed him suspiciously.
“Well, sir, I know that you have connections to that local.”
“Like to see you prove that. They tried in court two times.”
Armour knew what he was referring to. Johnny had been indicted two times over racketeering and violence associated with the steel unions in the seventies but the crown had never pressed home a conviction.
Armour looked uncomfortable, he stared down at the floor and then back up at the paintings.
“Out with it, kid, ain’t got all day.”
“I need information on the members of that local. From the eighties, specifically ones who worked at the Eastman Lake Steel company outside of Nanticoke. It’s shut down now. They closed it in the late nineties.”
“Why do you need that?”
“I’m working a murder case.”
“Working? You a private dick now?”
“No, strictly as an amateur. Just interested in figuring what really happened to a young girl out there. The Truscott girl. Maybe you remember it?”
“Nope. And I don’t have any of that info that you’re talking about. Why would I? That was a long time ago, kid.”
Armour stood up and put the drink glass down on the fireplace mantle.
“That picture looks good in that frame,” Armour said.
“Yes, it does. I guess you think because you gave me it that I owe you?”
“No, I would never -”
“Cause let me tell you something, kid, I learned a long time ago not to be in people’s debt. People get in debt to me. Not the other way around. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now I think you should leave.”
“Certainly Mr. Pappanillo, sorry to intrude.”
16
Armour’s latest encounter with Johnny Pops had shaken him up for a bit but he stopped for a bottle of cherry Coke at a convenience store and, after baulking at the two-dollar price tag, got back in his car and felt better.
The next day Armour phoned Melanie who had nothing new to report. She complained about relying on phone calls, things would be so much easier if they could text. That was a non-starter for Armour. She asked how things went with Pappanillo and he said that it had come to naught, it was a dead end but at least he got out unscathed. They agreed to call each other if they found anything out.
After he hung up he went outside. The sky was cloudy and getting cool, ideal weather to put a coat of wax on his Model T. He was doing it by hand, putting the Mother’s carnauba wax on with a foam applicator then using a soft cotton cloth to wipe it off and buff it up. It was coming along nicely but it was a big job. He’d have to tackle the chrome afterwards with metal polish he had in a tin in the garage. There wasn’t much chrome on the car, it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle.
Wiping down the trunk of the car he heard tires on the gravel road. He was half expecting it to be Melanie, maybe she’d found something and had not been able to reach him. It was windy out and the trees were rattling their leaves and he might not have heard the phone. He would welcome a surprise visit from Miss Fabes any time and might even tell her what really happened at the Pappanillo’s home. She’d get a kick out of his performance.
But it wasn’t Melanie. It was a large black four door Mercedes. Its grill looked like a mouth full of razor sharp teeth as it swung into Armour’s driveway and stopped ten feet from the Ford. A man with jet black hair wearing a tight-fitting sport coat and a turtle neck sweater under it, got out. No smile, no grimace, no expression at all.
“Help you, buddy?” Armour said, the only thing in his hands a waxy cotton cloth. He instinctively turned his body sideways into a blade, ready to put his hands up. The man approached, he was monstrous and came right at Armour.
“Are you Black?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Armour Black. How can I help you?”
The man reached into his jacket. Armour didn’t even have time to blink. What the hell, what is this? Instead of a gun the man pulled out a manila envelope that was folded in half, length wise. He handed it to Armour, who stood there immobilized for a second then grabbed it.
“Mr. Pappanillo says you and him are even. He said you have to say it too.”
“What?”
“You have to say it.”
“Oh right, yeah tell him we’re even. And thank–”
The man spun on his heel and got back in his car. Armour stood there holding the envelope until the cloud of dust the man kicked up with his car had blown into the brush.
He looked down at the envelope, opened it and pulled out a quarter inch thick stack of papers held together with a paper clip. There were names on it and addresses, phone numbers. It was a list of members of Local 451, Eastman Lake Steel. Armour smiled and took the treasure trove indoors to read.
17
Armour realized he couldn’t make all these phone calls from home, the long-distance charges would start to add up and this little adventure had already cost him plenty. Besides he figured he would eventually have to go see anybody he found, anybody who worked at the steel plant at the time of the Truscott murder who might remember Burke coming out to look for a brown car. What he should have by his side is the Burke case notes, those files hidden in his widow’s crawl space. Damn! He wondered if he asked her would she let him take them? What use could they be to her?
Armour made a list of things to do in his notebook. First on the list was gas up the car, check its oil and fluids. He couldn’t afford a breakdown out there. When that was done he headed down to his bank, withdrew four hundred dollars in twenties and tucked them away safely.
He looked across the street at the library where Melanie worked but couldn’t see her. He didn’t know if she was on today or just away from her desk. She might be out to lunch with her friend Brad or maybe in a meeting. No worries, he’d check in with her in a while and see if she had an update on Barbara Housen. Hopefully he could find out what that girl’s connection to this case was. Maybe she was a friend of the Truscott girl? Although Housen was two years older, that might be the case. Maybe they lived across the street from each other or met at brownies or something like that when they were young. Then again, she might be a friend or acquaintance of the killer. That prospect got Armour’s imagination twirling.
With the list of former ELS employees by his side, Armour set off again for Port Dover. He didn’t bother going home to put his bank card away and he felt it in his pocket the entire way out there.
The list was alphabetical and Armour had used his map of the area to plot out the first five people he wanted to see. It wasn’t the first five people on the list – some of the streets listed on the document Johnny Pops had sent his way were not on his map so he took the first five he could locate and marked them out.
Port Dover had a river that ran through it that spilled out into the harbour which was bordered by piers on both sides. One pier was for tourists, it had the benches that were dedicated to people and was meant for tourists to stroll. The other was a working pier and up alongside it were tied several of the Port Dover fishing fleet boats. Long box type vessels that resembled drawings of Noah’s ark with holds fore and aft for fish. On stilts in the yard were more fishing boats and half a dozen sail boats.
The first two homes on his list were on the main street side of the river, two on the fishing pier side of the river where there were new developments being put up. The fifth was up top of main street near the outskirts of town on the way to Turkey Point.
Armour started on the fishing fleet side of the town first. The houses he called on were occupied by young families and had no connection to the defunct steel plant. One told him they were probably the fourth or fifth owner of the house and had only lived there for two years.
He crossed over the river and sought out the next two houses on his list. The first one was a bust, no one home but he could tell it was a young family by the t
oys in the back yard and was probably a waste of time. He wrote a quick note next to this address and got back in his car.
The next house was a hit, sort of. The woman who answered the door said her father had worked at the plant. But that he was deceased.
“That damn plant.” the woman had said when Armour inquired.
“Why do you say that?”
“That plant killed him. And all his friends.”
“How, an explosion? What?”
“No, a lot slower than that, lot more painful I think. Cancer. Mesothelioma.” Armour had to confess he didn’t know what that was, cancer for sure but not that meso something.
“You can get it when you’re exposed to asbestos,” she explained.
“Really.” Armour furrowed his brow and remembered that asbestos, a fire retardant, that seemingly miracle product at the turn of the century was now a bad word. The town of Asbestos in Quebec where there was a huge mine back in the day, Armour’s pretend day, had kept the name and the stigma and doggedly kept on with it. Everyone else shunned it.
“Yeah, he got a ten-pound tumour in his gut. The doctors took it out but he died of a heart attack on the table. I still think that plant killed him but the pension fund managers refused to give us proper compensation, saying cause of death was not related to the running of the plant. My ass it wasn’t.”
“I agree,” Armour said, shocked at the woman’s choice of words.
He scolded himself for not being the world’s greatest detective. He should have pressed home on the Truscott case with her but Armour could tell the woman was now in a bitter mood, the last thing he wanted to do was bring up the death of the Truscott girl and whether or not her father knew anything. With hat in hand he bid her farewell and left. He made a note to go back if needed.
These four visits took the better part of the day. Armour stopped in at a convenience store and bought a premade sandwich and a bottle of Coke. His next name on the list was that house on the outskirts of town but that was too far away to get there in the remaining daylight. It was the supper hour and he didn’t want to disturb anyone. He always hated it when there was a knock on the door at his house in Hamilton. It got his anger up that people didn’t respect the supper hour. Plus, there were dozens of other names on the file that Johnny Pops had given him. He could simply start out with this house tomorrow and maybe add a few more to it to make it a worthwhile trip all the way out here.
