I've had injuries before, but this one was slightly embarrassing. I had been shoved down a flight of stairs by a short fat stockbroker, who was in his fifties. Normally I'm sharper than that.
It started with a call from a Charles Hudson, senior partner of Hudson, Mercier and Lowe, a brokerage firm in the old tradition. They had been having a hard time locating some of their clients' cash apparently, and it was obvious something was going on. The first order of business though, was to keep it all in the family, and out of the papers. When you're spending other peoples' money, it's not good to let them know you're losing track of it.
I told him we could probably manage that one. I was able to trace it for him. It turned out that two of the brokers working for his House had placed some bad numbers at one of the roulette wheels in Atlantic City.
That in itself is no big crime. Their mistake had been in thinking that the best way to correct the problem was to play some more numbers. They left the next day with a new respect for the term 'losing streak', and their marker in the hands of Mr. Tomaso Rosali, better known to some as Tommy the Rose.
Their fear was compounded daily on a thirty-day ticket, and as time began running out, they just seemed to lose their minds, taking the money wherever they could get it. Anything to pay Tommy the Rose on time. Consequently, some investors' accounts started being converted to liquid assets, then siphoned off into holding accounts, to which our intrepid gamblers had access, of course. These funds were then, in turn, being relayed to a most appreciative Mr. Rosali. Neat, but very traceable.
If they had bothered to check around, they would have found out that Tommy was one of the nicest guys you could be into for sixty grand. He always extended the deadline, and he always let you play again.
The rules changed a bit, though. When you owed, you had to play with cash, and it was mandatory to pay all accumulated interest—at current bank rates plus three points—on your outstanding amount, plus ten percent of the principle first. Then, if and when you won, the first thing you did was pay what you owed. Not many won. This changed a potential welcher, and all the hassle that implies, into a cash cow. Smooth.
Novices are usually not too hard to figure out, and these guys were no exception. The data trail was so extensive that a school-kid could have tracked it, but they don't get offered these kinds of jobs.
On that particular day, a few hours of hacking on my trusty IBM clone had revealed everything that needed to be known. The guys with the highest expenditures, and the least amount of liquid assets popped out on top of the inquiry list. The rest was like shooting fish in a barrel. Hudson, Mercier, and Lowe, brokers to the masses, were pleased.
The problem came when I arrived at Hudson’s office to deliver my report, and the hard-copy evidence to support it.
Hudson wanted to confront them, and have them escorted from the building, apparently never to return and etc. He had them paged to report to his office immediately, together. Well, they were both right out there on the edge by this time, and that's all it took.
I was standing in the doorway of Hudson’s office looking out on the trading floor when the page was broadcast through the room. They both jumped up out of their seats, and I got my first look at these high rollers. They didn't match the picture in my mind, that's for sure. They were both middle-aged and very ordinary looking. I couldn't have picked them out of a crowd on a bet. I knew their names, but not which one was which, although it seemed irrelevant at this point.
Suddenly one of them broke. Like lightning, he grabbed his suit jacket and bolted for the stairway. I don't know where the hell he thought he was going, because we were on the forty second floor, and I knew for a fact that even if no-one came after him, he'd never make it to the lobby. He was just too fat. I decided to save him the effort.
I got to the top of the stairs at the same time he did, grabbed him by the arm, and got a big surprise. He couldn't have topped five foot five, but he must've outweighed me by seventy-five pounds. He just yelled and shoved me down the stairs. It would've been hard to say whose look of astonishment was more impressive, his or mine.
I got up slowly from my position of pain on the lower landing and gave him a long hard stare. It worked fine and I wondered why I hadn't tried that first. Frank Rollins' name had been on the majority of the cheques draining the holding accounts, and I figured this one must be him.
"It's over Rollins, let's not get overly excited here, OK?" My voice sounded very deep and authoritative, even to me, but I think it had something to do with the acoustics of the stairwell. Whatever.
He transmitted his acceptance of the situation with body language, seeming to slump in on himself, just enough so that I knew. He stood quietly in place on the top landing as I climbed back up the stairs.
We walked back to Hudson’s office through the crowd of secretaries and gophers who were abuzz with the thrill of it all. Most of the brokers hadn't left their computer consoles and telephones, other than to glance our way momentarily. All doing big deals I suppose. Rollins' buddy Leslie Church was already with Hudson. His attitude was a little different than Rollins'. He seemed almost relieved.
Hudson assured me that he could take care of it from there, and thanked me for my help, and hoped that I was alright, after-all, that was a nasty fall…. I had left before I lost what remained of my pride.
I lay in bed for a few moments collecting my thoughts. It didn't work so I got up instead.
I rolled slowly to my feet, and looked at my watch. It was still on my wrist, but I couldn't see well enough to tell the time yet, so I gave up and wondered if I should take a pain pill or a hot shower.
I decided to do both. On my way to the kitchen table, where I had left the pills Doc had given me yesterday, I unplugged the telephone. It had been ringing incessantly for hours I'm sure, although it had only intruded into my consciousness within the last few minutes or so.
In my part of town one tends to be conscious of the little things in life from which pleasure can be gleaned. I have heard this referred to as claiming "little victories.” Actually, Bob Seger wrote a song about it once. He called it "Little Victories.” The premise is that when you find yourself in a situation where nothing you could possibly do would make any difference whatsoever, and you still maintain your cool, you have gained a little victory. I always have felt that it applied to things that happened outside of your control, which had no tangible impact on your life, but could affect you in a positive psychological sense, if only you had the ability to see them in that perspective.
Right now, I was looking at the sunshine streaming through my kitchen window, and thinking, little victory.
It had been raining for three weeks straight, give or take a day. Maybe today would turn out better than yesterday. Then I wondered what bloody day it was in the first place? I hadn't had my shower yet, although I had taken my pills. Onward and upward.
I climbed into the shower thinking of the woman I would like to be taking in with me. She was tall, five foot ten—I'm six foot three and one quarter inches tall—and honey blond, with a father as rich as you could imagine, and he actually liked me. At least that's the way I imagined it.
Of course, in real life I've been living a somewhat more austere existence romance-wise. I haven't had one in over two years. A romance I mean. The hot water was very hot, and I reveled in it, feeling the muscles in my back and my shoulder starting to uncoil.
My apartment sat at the corner of Castlefield and Devonglen, second floor, five rooms. I had an office, a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom with limited hot water. The furniture was reasonably tasteful in my opinion, which was much too high for my income range, and the paint and paper decor would have pleased most competent interior designers. That's the easy part, as paint and paper doesn't cost much if you do it yourself. I'd been doing it myself for about three years now.
My idea of priorities didn't necessarily match with other people's idea of priorities. I did love my black leather recline
r though.
The day was finally beginning to intrude on my mind, and I decided to go downstairs and get some breakfast. As it turned out, it was eight thirty in the morning, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. On my way out, I plugged the telephone back in.
The Parthenon restaurant had a classic name, but it's menu was classic only in the sense that it served typical diner food, Greek style. Which is to say, with Mediterranean overtones. I liked it. It was also on the first floor of my building.
I never dabbled in the oddities that appeared on the handwritten section of the menu reserved for special customers. It always sounded like a deep-sea adventure, and I get queasy just thinking of waves. Phil Triadofolos owned the place, and apparently, he came from a part of Greece that was right next to the sea. He was only twenty-eight years old, and already married to the most beautiful Greek girl in town. He was a bit reminiscent of Omar Sharif actually, except taller, much taller. I had to look up when I talked to Phil one-on-one. Not much mind you, but some. He carried it well, and never had any trouble with the public. They wouldn't dare.
Phil never tired of enticing me to eat things like squid, deep Freid in hot oil, with obscure leaf-wrapped vegetable items on the side, and wine that tastes like trees to wash it down.
I think he was so persistent because he was so young, and hadn't learned how to let it ride yet. He also hadn't been living in Canada that long, and felt a strong urge to share his culture with all of his good Canadian brothers. I constantly let him down.
As I walked in I picked up a paper from the bin near the front door and waved hello to Maria, the one and only waitress, Phil's adoring wife. She always managed to look out of place in her uniform, like a high fashion model, miscast into shooting a coffee commercial, slim, olive skinned and gorgeous
I took my usual table in the back, and Maria brought me coffee, hot and sweet, just the way I like it. She looked me in the eyes, and my day got a little brighter.
"You look tired today Jeffry. You've been working too hard. Why don't you have something good for breakfast, it'll make your day."
"Give me a steak and eggs special, and I'll love you forever.”
"Coming right up.” She smiled as she walked away.
I was too out of it to savor the view, so I opened the paper and sipped my coffee. The headlines jumped out at me, like being caught by surprise. It read "BANKERS SHOCKED IN MIDTOWN DEATH DRAMA", and that was as far as I got.
Sailing through the door at full speed ahead was the good ship George.
"Ahoy cap'n. How's your morning?" I said.
"Don't you 'Ahoy' me, Jeff. Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you for hours.”
George Belnor was the only person I knew who still called me that. Jeff. It reminded me of the years of long ago, and far away. When the future didn't look like it turned out to be. Some days I could be so somber I scared myself.
George sat down in the seat across the booth from me. I looked at him and asked "What's up?"
"Are you awake? Can you take this in?"
I nodded over my cup of coffee.
"Alright, I think you have a good opportunity coming up sometime today, but you'll have to be ready for it. I'll fill you in on what we know and you can take it from there."
George was always trying to steer business my way. Hoping no doubt, that one day I would become solvent and cut back on my use of his refrigerator. Maybe Sarah had a hand in it as well. Sarah was my sister, and she had a large amount of influence with George, being married to him and all. This actually worked out quite well, as George, in turn, had influence with almost everyone else. He was the current Chief of Detectives for our fair city, and he did it well.
"Have you read the papers this morning? Oh, you've got it right here, well never mind, they don't have the whole story anyway. I've got a feeling that this could be the kind of case you've been looking for. We don't have much to go on ourselves yet, but the lab-work is still in process and when it comes back we'll know more. I've never had one quite like this. It's very intriguing, and I thought of you right away."
Maria came back with fresh coffee for two. She smiled at me again, and nodded casually in George's direction before moving off to serve another table. George stared for a moment, until he caught himself. I couldn't resist feeling smug. It's funny how possessive you can be about things that aren't yours.
"Opportunity, George?"
He got right back to it. "OK, here it is. I've recommended you to the chairman of the board of Citecorp, Weldon Marsh." He almost held his breath. I think George was more excited about this than I was. So far. I nodded noncommittally, "Go on."
"Well, he wanted someone from the private sector to dig into the financial side of this case, in addition to the official police homicide investigation. He asked me if I knew of someone totally discreet and reliable. This isn't just a money matter, I know, and that's normally what you deal with, but we're going to handle the homicide angle. Marsh has had some concerns about operations for a while now, and this has really focused his attention on it. He needs answers, and he's anxious to get them asap. The thing is, this may not be connected in any way to the murder, which is good for you, of course."
While George was talking, I was trying to picture myself in the middle of a murder case. My work hadn't taken me down that road yet, but one thing I had learned, when money is involved, people can and will do anything to be the ones to get it. What I do is, I'm a private investigator. I do strictly commercial work. If you're not dealing for a company, don't call me. It works out ok, but in my three years of Industrial Security Consulting, I had managed to elude the big time handily. My client list was getting better, but it didn't have names like Citecorp on it.
Maria interrupted my reverie by bringing me my breakfast. Priorities again. I ate fast, but more because of my hunger than my lack of table manners. Yesterday had been one of the hard ones, and I needed the protein. While I ate, George filled me in.
One of the young Turks in the mid-echelons of the bank hierarchy had gotten himself killed, and he'd had the bad taste to do it in his office. Late at night, apparently. With the usual massive display of conservatism one would expect from bankers, Weldon Marsh was outraged, as well as a little shocked and dismayed. He was also nervous, and that was the key part for me. He wanted to know exactly what had happened and why, not just who and when. There was some mention of curious events, involving a very sensitive financial proposal being handled by none other than our young Turk. Now deceased.
I began to see what George was going on about. Bankers are less inclined to air their dirty laundry in public places than most other forms of life on this planet. Enter the PI. Dealing with people on a personal basis will often net more info than any official type could hope to gather. That's the basis for my work.
George wrapped up about the same time I finished my breakfast. It had taken me six minutes to wolf down a New-York steak with two eggs on top, home fries, green beans and four pieces of whole wheat toast. When you're six foot three, you've got to feed the machine.
"That's what I know at this point in time Jeff. I'm sure that Marsh will call you sometime today, and by this afternoon, the preliminary reports will be coming in from the coroner and forensics. We might have more to go on then. In the meantime, I'm late for a meeting so I've got to run. Touch base with me later, OK?" George looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
The implication was, that if Marsh hired me, we would pool our resources. It wouldn't be the first time, and we'd done well with the same tactic in the past.
"Right", I said, "You're on." I dropped some bills on the table and we made our way to the door. I looked out the window in the front, into Castlefield Road. Parked at the door was a big Ford Crown Victoria, light grey, with black-wall tires. Behind the wheel, one of the quietest cops I've ever met, Lenn Anderson sat and waited, ready at the drop of a hat to take the Chief screaming around town at speeds in excess of match one. I've always felt tha
t anything over the speed of sound was too quick for me, but I have to admit, Lenn was a good driver, just a little crazy is all.
George was usually too busy with the telephone and remote-connected laptop computer he kept in the back seat to notice. I never knew whether he was working the Dow-Jones financial report or checking files on known felons. Actually, he had a bundle in the market, and enjoyed moving it around. He said that's how he got the bundle in the first place.
I began to feel better, and wondered idly if it was due to the pills, or if I was in better shape than Doc gave me credit for. That almost started me laughing out loud, so I guessed it must be the pills.
As we left Phil was calling out an encouragement for me to show up for the dinner special tonight, indicating through various hand-signals and Greek food-names how much I would like it. I waved and escaped.
As we came down the few steps to the sidewalk, Lenn held the car door open. George got in and dropped a hat, figuratively speaking, and Lenn took off like a rocket.
I glanced up at the sky. The sunbeam that hit my kitchen window earlier this morning was beginning to look like a momentary delight prepared especially for my benefit. The cloud cover was complete, and there wasn't a sunbeam in sight. At least it wasn't raining.
I went through my front door, and pushed the elevator button, a concession to my semi-invalid status. The big brass covered doors were polished so you could see a fair reflection in them. A job I was sure Wayne, the building super, had little to do with. He plumbed and plastered with great finesse, but he wasn't much on polishing. That was relegated to Jean, his wife. She did a lot of polishing. They were part of the reason this place still had class. It was one of the few remaining buildings in town that had been built during the thirties, when art deco was all the rage. Five floors of stone, marble, and artistic over-indulgence. The owner had picked up the building for a song because of the location, about ten years ago. His first move was to install Wayne as the building super. He'd been spending money on it ever since. Just last year he had redone the black and white checkerboard marble floor in the lobby. The result was striking. Of course, the current cost of living there reflected all the care the place was given, but it was worth it to me. I liked it.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 4
