by Warren Court
Melanie had been right about the weather, it was a beautiful fall day for a ride. The big bike took to the gentle turns of Highway Six with ease. He admonished himself, he should really get the big bike out more often. She was easy to maintain. Regular oil changes to keep the gaskets fresh and a pump up of the aging tires was all she required.
He knew the tires, probably originals, had to be replaced at some point lest he have a blow-out. Melanie had looked up a supplier in the states for him but they were expensive what with shipping. She had suggested a road trip – they could go down to the warehouse in Ohio to pick them up, but Armour had not picked up on the obvious signal Melanie had thrown his way and instead said it didn’t seem economical and besides he didn’t have a passport.
It was only a week later that Armour had clued in to Melanie’s overture but when he had called her up and ham fisted the talk of the proposed trip into a conversation, she had replied that she agreed with him on the uneconomical viability of it, what with the price of gas and cost of hotel rooms and so on. It didn’t make sense. Armour dropped it, realizing that Melanie had taken offense to his first dismissal of her suggestion. He had vowed at that time, after he’d hung up, not to take another of Melanie’s subtle suggestions that they move their relationship up a notch so lightly.
But now things had changed again. As much as he adored Melanie and from time to time seriously considered making a romantic overture of his own, there was now another woman in his life – Cathy. A relationship that had gone from zero to sixty in a very short time. He’d shared her bed, defended her at gun point and comforted her afterwards. Nothing like the threat of violent death to bring two people together.
He had the highway pretty much to himself until he saw a glare of light in his small handle bar mirror just as he was going over a hill. Then he saw a mass of black and greys come up over the same hill. He kept calm and steady. Heard the roar of the beasts behind him over the sound of his own engine and soon they were on him. Harleys. A whole gaggle of them. At least a dozen roared past him, coughing out their unbridled exhaust and that distinctive throaty sound. Only one or two of the bikers glanced at him and his vintage two-wheeler. They looked heavy these guys, all dressed in denim with leather cut off vests on which were proudly displayed the gang they were a part of. Armour had trouble making out the name. They certainly were the Hells Angels or Outlaws, gangs he knew were international and very dangerous. Probably some farm team for those bigger gangs, equally as dangerous and ready to prove themselves. What the heck was he getting himself into?
About half the bikes had women on the back who clung to their beefy escorts. Then they were gone, up and beyond the next hill and Armour had the road to himself again. But again, not for long, an OPP cop car, its lights and siren going, came up on him fast, at least a hundred and twenty KPH on this 80-kilometre marked road. The car crossed over into the opposing lane to give Armour a wide berth and nicked the gravel shoulder sending up a kick of dust before disappearing.
When Armour came down the last hill into the seaside town of Port Dover, he realized Melanie had been right, there were motorcycles everywhere. Not a single car. They were lined up with their backs pointing to the edge of the road, their front tires all facing out into the road in unison at a forty-five-degree angle as far as the eye could see. Armour slowed down to a crawl and came up behind a number of bikers, youngsters clad in tight colourful leather outfits driving what looked like the fastest machines on earth with huge oversized gas tanks. The bikes were labelled Ninja.
He noticed a group of leather and denim clad bikers standing on the sidewalk, clutching cans of beer, despite it being only nine thirty in the morning and against the liquor bi-laws. They looked at the brightly coloured gang of bikers Armour was trailing with derision and the stares were returned. Then the beer swilling group saw Armour and looked puzzled. Some smiled and pointed at him and talked to one another. One or two gave him a thumbs up. He nodded in return.
The streets of Port Dover were full of people, most looking like the motley crew who had passed him on their Harleys earlier. Armour crawled at five kph through the centre of town until the throng of people impeded his progress and he had to park his bike.
Armour backed it in expertly between a Harley fat boy and a slimmed down Indian Chief with side car – nice looking rides the pair of them. He left his helmet on his bike. Everyone else was doing the same thing and he doubted anyone would want his seventy-five-dollar special that he had gotten for half price at a yard sale. He put a newsboy hat on his head and begrudgingly left his bike.
He started off in the direction of the Grahams’ house, admiring a few vintage pre-war bikes like his own as he went. It was slow going what with all the people. When he had driven through this town in previous days he hadn’t really done a lot of sightseeing. He was too busy going from house to house, trying to fit in as many as he could in a day.
Now that he was on foot and forced to go slow, he recognized some of the shops his wife Bess liked to stop at every time they visited Port Dover together. These shops lined main street and they were all closed up. Most had blinds drawn but in a few he could see the shop owners in the back, standing guard. That made sense, not like these bikers were going to poke their heads in and check out some Victorian era doilies or a complete collection of spoons celebrating King Edward the VII’s coronation. But a window or two might get smashed if there was a brawl.
But for every shop closed two more were open. He noticed that there were several surf, skateboarding and motorcycle themed shops open and the bikers mingled around them and inside. There was the sound of breaking glass somewhere back the way he had come, and a cheer went up.
Armour unbuttoned his dispatch rider’s coat and took off the large matching leather gloves he’d been wearing. Those were valuable. He had picked them up at John Vivian antiques for two hundred dollars with a ten percent “friend” discount. That was as low as John would go on them and Armour had to have them. They completed his look perfectly, at least in his mind.
There were a few cops scattered around the crowd, all in pairs. They looked friendly, most of them were chatting with the bikers. Armour recognized Sergeant Kenny but not the cop Kenny was with, it wasn’t young Luke. Kenny was swivelling his head back and forth watching the action. He only glanced at Armour then did a double take as he approached.
“You have your work cut out for you,” Armour said, extending his hand and felt glad when Kenny shook it. He wanted no hard feelings with this officer.
“I’m used to it by now. I’ve lost track of how many of these I’ve worked. I’ll be here all night but it’s a good gig.”
Some unseen biker, shielded by a hundred of his compadres, let fly with a string of expletives.
“Is it?” Armour asked.
“Yeah for the most part. We got more guys coming on duty in an hour. Things don’t really heat up until after nightfall but it’s supposed to rain tonight, that’ll dampen the spirits. At least keep them indoors.”
Armour and Kenny were standing close to the Norfolk tavern and there was a line-up to get in. Armour wondered if it was for the washroom then he saw down a side street a dozen blue portable toilets all of them with line-ups of their own.
“What about the drinking in the streets?” Armour said.
“As long as they don’t piss in the street or break anything, they can do what they want. What brings you here?”
“Still following that case. Foreman for the steel factory lives here, at least I think he does.”
“Who?”
“Graham, Lester P.” Armour read the name off the folded-up list he pulled out of his coat.
“That old dodger, yeah I think he’s still around. Used to come into the legion every once in a while.”
“But not now?”
“He had a stroke last I heard. You won’t get much out of him, but good luck.”
“Okay thanks.”
Armour watched the two cops disappear into the
crowd and started off again for the Grahams’ house.
The crowd thinned out as he got to Lester Graham’s street. The house was at the end of a side street that ran down towards the lake. It had a nice view of the beach area of Port Dover and the lighthouse in the distance. There was a white picket fence and a Ford Bronco in the driveway. Great someone was home. At least it wasn’t another wasted trip. Either it would pay off or he could scratch it off the list. He doubted given all the activity in Port Dover, that he would run down anymore addresses out here today.
There was a sign that said Grahams on the fence, flowers lined the walkway. The two-story house was very well kept. Armour could see a woman walking around the living room on the ground floor as he got to the door. She saw him and got to the door before he could knock.
She was an attractive older woman, Armour guessed late fifties. She wore a tight pair of white slacks and a blue blouse that had the top two buttons undone showing Armour more tanned and freckled skin. On her head was a matching scarf. She was holding a feather duster.
“Nice coat,” she said and Armour looked down at his canvass dispatch rider’s coat. With his leather riding boots, he reckoned it gave him a swashbuckling look he rather liked.
“Only way in to town today was on my motorbike.”
“Where is it?” she asked looking over her shoulder.
“I had to leave it back there with the…”
“The hooligans. If you’re going to ask to use the bathroom I’m afraid the answer is no. I let one in I’d have to let them all in.”
“I wouldn’t advise letting that crowd in,” he said and they laughed.
My name is Armour Black and, no, I don’t need to use the facilities.”
“Cynthia Graham,” she said and they shook hands.
“I wanted to speak with you. Well this is kind of awkward, with your husband. Lester Graham.”
“Really. What about?”
“About his time at the steel plant over in Nanticoke. Eastman Lake Steel.”
“Oh.”
“Is your husband still–”
“Alive? Yes he is.”
Armour looked relieved. “I’m glad to hear that, so many people who worked there are no longer living.”
“Yes, cancer. It is prevalent but so far we’ve been lucky. Well to a point.”
Armour looked puzzled.
“Les had a stroke two years ago. He has not fully recovered. He’s in a wheelchair. Would you like to come in?”
“Yes.” Armour followed Cynthia in.
“I was just cleaning,” Cynthia said. “Lester is in the den. He hasn’t rested yet so I hope you won’t be too long.”
“No, I shouldn’t be.”
Cynthia lead Armour down a short flight of wide steps to a sunken room at the back of the house. There was a man sitting in a leather club chair turned at an angle facing a large rectangle window. There was a wheelchair close by the chair, hooked onto the side of which was a wooden cane. Cut into the stairs down to the den was a short elevator that could raise the disabled Graham up and down so he could use his den. Must have cost a pretty penny but it was nice, Armour thought.
“Les, honey, this man wants to speak to you about Eastman.”
The house was situated on a low cliff and afforded a fantastic view of the lake. To the west, Armour could see thousands of dark-clad people, the bikers, crowded onto the beach.
“Look like ants, don’t they?” Lester said and turned slightly as Armour approached.
“Mr. Graham. I would like to talk to you about…”
Lester Graham pushed himself up off the club chair and grabbed at the wheelchair. Armour moved to help but Cynthia grabbed his arm and held him back. She shook her head and pursed her lips no and then smiled. Armour understood. Her husband was independent and wanted to do it himself. He waited patiently while Lester got himself situated in his chair and wheeled it around so he could see who was addressing him.
“What about Eastman?” Lester Graham said. He was wearing a canary yellow cardigan and dark brown pants. Brown slippers. The cardigan reminded him of the one Johnny Pops was wearing the other day. Armour wondered if this former steel worker was packing. Probably not.
Armour could see the ravages of the stroke on the man’s face – the left half of his face drooped down slightly.
“Take a seat,” the man said. His words slightly slurred like someone fresh out of a dentist’s chair with a mouth full of novocaine. Armour took a matching leather club chair on the other side of a surfboard-shaped teak coffee table.
“If you need anything just ring. You need to take a rest soon.” Cynthia told her husband as she ascended the short flight of stairs. There was a dinner bell on the coffee table.
Graham watched her go. Armour took out his notebook.
“Sir. You were a foreman at the Eastman plant.”
“Yes.”
“You were there in the eighties and nineties, specifically around 1991.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the Truscott case. The murdered girl?”
“Yes,” Graham said, without pause. This told Armour the man’s mind was intact.
“Do you remember a detective Burke coming there and questioning some of your staff, perhaps yourself?”
“No, I do not.”
“Oh.” So much for an intact grasp of the past, Armour thought. “I know for a fact he came out to the plant. To look for a certain car. One that was seen the day of the girl’s murder out on the Scotch Line road. Brown, two-door, small one. Compact I believe you would call it. Possibly foreign.”
“Nope. No memory of that. Oh wait. The Truscott girl. Yeah. They came out. A couple of cops. They wanted one of my men for it. Talked to him for a bit.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Bill Powers. I think that’s who they talked to. But then they arrested that kid for it and locked him up.”
“He was later exonerated. Well at least they released him.” Armour said remembering what Dale Macintyre had said about not reversing the judgement, only releasing their son because there was no longer sufficient evidence to hold him. That had implied that there was evidence out there to be had. A possible reason for Burke taking those files home. Maybe instead of trying to find the real killer he was using the case files to find more evidence against the Macintyre boy?
“You don’t say,” Graham said.
“You never heard of that?”
“Son, I don’t watch the news anymore. There’s too much bad stuff going on in the world.”
There was a thump and a metal screeching sound above them from the second floor.
“That’s my daughter, she has her baby girl up there, my granddaughter. They’re visiting.”
“You must be proud.”
“We are.”
“Les, it’s time for your medication,” Cynthia said appearing at the top of the stairs. Armour got the impression that she had not gone too far away from her husband and his visitor. Armour didn’t begrudge her that.
Armour consulted the paperwork from the mill and got a jolt of excitement when he found Bill Powers name on it. He was listed as a junior tradesman. As it was under P for Powers, Armour hadn’t even thought about going to see him yet, he was still only at the Gs.
“Where’d you get that?” the man said and he extended his hand across the coffee table. His eyesight was evidently not affected by the stroke.
“Someone who worked there.”
Graham snatched it out of Armour’s hands who was a little shocked at the sudden surge of movement and strength the man had. “Well I’ll be. This is a whole list of everybody I used to work with. Hey, there’s Junior Smitty, that guy used to make me laugh harder than anything. He’s dead now.”
“Mesothelioma?” Armour asked.
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“I’ve contacted a lot of the people on that list, all I could find were widows or their children, grown now of course. They all say
the same thing, that the Eastman plant had killed their husbands, fathers. Most of them from Mesothelioma. Must have been a lot of asbestos out there.”
“There sure was. That’s one of the reasons the plant closed down. Price of steel fluctuated and we got a lot of pressure from steel plants in the states but when they ran the numbers on clearing out all that asbestos is made more sense just to shut her down. And then fight like hell against anyone who got sick, try to keep as much money in their pockets and out of ours.”
“Are you…?” Armour didn’t know how to phrase it.
“I haven’t got it. Least not yet. That’s all I bloody well need right now.”
“You’re one of the lucky ones.”
“I was a foreman, I wasn’t doing the heavy lifting. I came in from the other plant in Hamilton when it closed down in ’79. I was already a foreman and they transferred me out here. But if I had been in doing the heavy stuff I’m sure I would have had problems. Still not everyone got it.”
“What can you tell me about Bill Powers?”
“Miserable son of a bitch. Just a youngster but thought he knew everything. Was smarter than all of us. I was glad to see the back of him when they closed the plant.”
“When did they do that?”
“Ninety-seven. Paid us all off, there were no other jobs in Hamilton, out here or anywhere else. Cynthia and I retired. She was a school teacher. She had her years in and I had my package. I see they’re hiring again out in Nanticoke, those fools. Get yourself hooked in there for fifteen years and then they’ll go under just as we did and you’ll have another generation of steelworkers with non-transferable skills on the dole.”
“Well you have a lovely home, I’m envious of the view,” Armour said changing the subject.
“Les, seriously, you need to lie down.” Cynthia called from the upstairs living room. Armour knew that second reminder about the nap was directed at him. Lester smiled and Armour stood up to leave.
