by Chris Laing
I took a quick look around at the handful of patrons up here but none seemed interested in us. Bernie paused in the aisle for a few seconds, brushing the popcorn from his coat, the kernels bouncing off his shoes – a spiffy pair of black and white wingtips that seemed to glow in the hooded light illuminating the carpeted stairs.
After he left I stretched out my legs and stared at the screen, trying to make sense of our meeting. Bogie and Bacall were still sparring with each other, not affected in the least by what Bernie had told me.
But what had I really learned about my mother’s arrival in Hamilton, apparently to meet with Tedesco? Bugger-all. Bernie’s information could fit neatly into a thimble, with room left over. She was here. They were meeting.
And what had he told me about Nick’s involvement in the murder of that politician? Also bugger-all. Nick met the chairman. He died. Nick didn’t do it. It must’ve been the other guy.
It made me wonder if Bernie had picked up a few pointers from the “Bullshit Baffles Brains” chapter in the Gangsters’ Handbook.
I closed my eyes for a moment, wondering how my life could have changed so quickly. Just last night Isabel and I were snuggled together in her living room, sipping hot toddies, Nat King Cole on the radio serenading us with “… chestnuts roasting on an open fire …” as we tip-toed around the possibility of sharing a life together. Iz had recovered well from her injuries in October, when one of Tedesco’s thugs had run her off the road. She was fortunate to escape with only a broken ankle. And I’d gotten over my civilian’s heebie-jeebies after I was forced to shoot one of his men who had tried to kill me. In addition, Max Dexter Associates was doing better with a number of new accounts and the prospect of breaking even for the year.
But now, along comes Bernie Fiore saying my mother was back in town and bringing with her the possibility of another unwanted encounter with Dominic Tedesco. I wondered what I’d done to deserve this bounty. I think it was some guy in the Bible who said, “Sometimes life ain’t fair.”
I pulled myself together, picked up my hat and coat from the seat beside me and made my way downstairs where I watched Bob delivering his sales pitch to an old guy with one of those wiener dogs on a leash. I didn’t think it was actually unpatriotic to own a German dog but still, so soon after the war …
I hung back a short distance until Bob had finished with his customer. “Thanks for keeping watch this afternoon. Lots of business?”
“Not bad here, Sarge. But look at all the folks across the street.” He was aiming his chin toward Eaton’s department store which occupied the entire block from Merrick Street all the way up to City Hall. Shoppers were crowded in front of the Christmas display windows and the brass revolving doors were in constant motion.
I turned back to Bob. “Did you see Bernie when he left?”
“Yeah, I watched his reflection in the glass surrounding the ticket booth so he wouldn’t notice me. Then I wheeled onto the sidewalk and saw him heading north. He kept looking around like he was afraid somebody might be keeping an eye on him. But the dumb cluck didn’t even notice the two guys who stepped out of Peace’s Cigar Store and tailed him.”
I peered down at him, admiring his observation skills and thinking that he might’ve been a better military copper than an infantryman. “What did they look like, these followers? Mob guys or plainclothes police?”
“Oh, they were gangsters for sure. Cops ain’t sharp dressers like those Mob mutts.”
I chuckled as I passed him the pencil he’d sold me. “Here. I’ve got a lifetime supply of these things. Thanks again for your help.”
He wheeled away, heading up James Street, waving his arm over his head without looking back at me. I glanced in the direction Bernie had taken – the two guys tailing him no longer in sight. I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity for him; he seemed so certain he’d been flying under the Mob’s radar by meeting me here in the darkness of the Tivoli Theatre. Too damn bad he wasn’t as smart as those wingtips he wore on his big feet.
CHAPTER THREE
I crossed over James Street to Eaton’s and joined a group of shoppers gawking at a window display of women’s jewellery arrayed beneath a Christmas tree. A Santa mannequin appeared to be arranging these baubles; beside him a spangled banner proclaimed, Santa knows what women wish for. My eye was drawn to the diamond engagement rings and I wondered if Santa knew what Isabel wished for. I hadn’t gotten her a Christmas present yet but a ring like that could change a guy’s life.
I kept walking.
When I got back to the office Isabel peppered me with questions before I got my hat and coat off.
“Hold your horses, Iz. Let’s go in and sit down.”
At my desk, I rested my leg across an opened drawer, stretched back in my chair and let out a long breath as the dull ache in my right knee subsided.
Iz was watching this performance with a wry smile and I half-expected her to comment upon my manly ability to tolerate pain. Instead, she said, “Your mother. Tell me everything.”
So much for half-expectations.
“Bernie says she’s back in town. Meeting with Tedesco.”
“But why? What’s she up to? And why would she be meeting with criminals? I don’t understand.”
I held up my hand, waiting for her to run out of steam. “Scout’s honour, Iz. I don’t know much about her. Years ago I’d heard that she might be connected with the Mob in Florida but nothing more than that. Bernie wanted my help to get his brother out of jail in exchange for info about my mother. But he came up short on both counts.”
A frown crinkled her features as she thought about that. “But is she really here? Maybe he was lying to you.”
“Not Bernie, it’s not his style. His job is to put the squeeze on the Mob’s slow-paying customers. Period.”
“But he was smart enough to come to you for help with his brother. And he used your mother as bait – and that’s not so dumb.”
She was right, as usual. “That occurred to me too. But he was so worried about his brother, well, I was convinced he was being straight with me. And he was desperate enough to risk going behind Tedesco’s back to meet with me.”
Her eyes held mine and I couldn’t tell whether she thought I was on the right track or not. “Tell me about his brother,” she said.
“His name’s Nick. He’s older than Bernie and he’s been a gang member since he was in high school. Now he’s in the Barton Street Jail – arrested for the murder of that Board of Control member last week.”
“Holy Doodle, Max – that was such a gruesome crime. Why would Bernie think you’d want to help him?”
“Like I said, he’s desperate and he can hardly go to the police for help. He remembers me from the old neighbourhood and he knows that I’m a detective now, so …”
She reached across the desk, placing her hand on mine. “You’re such a soft touch, Max. It’s one of your best qualities.” Now she was squeezing my hand. “But sometimes it can get you into trouble.”
I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. She knew first-hand how dangerous it could be to rub up against the Mob. And if you were lucky, you might only land up in St. Joe’s emergency ward instead of the morgue.
“I’m worried that you might be in danger again, Max. I want us to be together for a long time.” She withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair. “But I still think it’s important that you see your mother.” Her voice with some spine in it now. “And if that means we might be involved with Tedesco and Company again, then I’ll be with you all the way.”
I was sitting on that proverbial fence: a happily-ever-after life with Isabel on one side – and a congregation of alligators snapping at my ass on the other.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was closing time and I was looking out my third floor window at the traffic snaking along King Street; mo
st of the cars had their lights on as the shortest day in the year approached. The downtown stores were decked out in seasonal trappings but I’d read in The Hamilton Spectator that Ontario Hydro had banned all outdoor decorative lighting, even in display windows, in order to conserve electricity for industrial use. It made sense, I supposed, because The Steel Company, Dofasco, Westinghouse, all those big factories were able to increase production now that the labour force had swelled with the return of the veterans from overseas. But I missed seeing the trees in Gore Park dressed in their traditional glow of Christmas lights.
Isabel was wearing her long red coat with the Persian lamb collar when she joined me at the window. She held a pair of black leather gloves in her left hand. “Looks strange without the trees lit up, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does.”
As I turned from the window I noticed our secretary, Phyllis, waiting in the doorway. No fur collar on her coat, but she wore a matching green hat with a sprig of ivy pinned to it. And on her lapel a tiny pair of white figure skates dangled from a silver clip. “Isabel and I are off to do some Christmas shopping, Max. The stores are on extended hours so you’re welcome to join us.”
I grinned at Phyllis. She was Hamilton’s biggest fan of Barbara Ann Scott – Canadian figure skating champion and Canada’s best hope, so Phyllis said, for a gold medal at the Olympic Games in Switzerland in February. A picture of “Canada’s Sweetheart” was taped to the filing cabinet beside her desk and she kept a scrapbook filled with newspaper and magazine clippings chronicling the young skater’s rise to fame.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’re shopping for a pair of Barbara Ann skates.”
She blushed. “Maybe Santa will bring me a pair. But what about it, Max? Come shopping with us – it’ll be fun.”
I caught the fleeting smirk on Isabel’s face. “Maybe next time,” I said. “But thanks for asking.”
After they’d gone, I returned to my desk and called Frank Russo at the Central Police Station. “How about a beer at Duffy’s?”
“I thought you were barred from that joint?”
“A barrel of monkeys, that’s what you are, Frank.”
His voice became muffled as he covered his phone to speak to someone in his office. He was back a moment later, “See you there in 15 minutes.”
As I was locking my office door I heard the bing of the elevator bell and hiked down the hallway on the double. The doors were about to close after a tall guy in a black coat got out and was heading for the offices at the far end of the hallway. He wore a pair of galoshes with the buckles undone and they jangled like a pocketful of loose change as he hurried along.
“Hold that car,” I called out and Tiny the operator stuck his head out the door, waving me aboard. As I entered I caught a whiff of Old Spice in the air; must’ve been from the guy who’d just gotten off because Tiny wasn’t a cologne kind of guy. And neither was I.
“Looks like you’ve got a spring in your step, Sarge.” He slid the doors shut, cranked the handle to put the elevator in gear then turned toward me with a smirk on his pixie face. “Must be meeting someone special, eh?”
“Not who you think. It’s Frank Russo – remember him from your time in the RHLI?”
“Yeah, a good guy. A buddy of mine was in his platoon overseas.”
Tiny stopped the elevator on the main floor and was searching his pockets for something. “Hang on, Sarge. Some guy came by and passed me a note for you.”
He slipped me a small piece of grey cardboard folded in half – it looked like it had been snipped off one of those dividers you find in a box of Muffets cereal. Scrawled on it was, Forgot to give you this, and a phone number. It was signed, B.
“Who dropped this off?”
“I didn’t know the guy. Some big palooka, all dressed up like Fred Astaire, but he wouldn’t give me his name.”
I supposed it was Bernie Fiore’s idea of covering his backside. And I couldn’t blame him for trying.
Wispy snowflakes danced in the air as I stepped onto King Street; a gusty wind had passersby holding onto their hats and I turned up my coat collar. My office was in the building beside The Hamilton Spectator and I joined a small knot of people scanning the leading news stories that the newspaper posted in its large front windows. A picture of a gigantic Christmas tree in downtown New York with its lights aglow was splashed across the first page. But a headline on the following page evoked a darker image, “Arabs fighting Brits in Palestine against the Holy Land partition.” It made me wonder if the conflict between the Arabs and the Jews would ever be settled.
Duffy’s Tavern was in the next block. I breezed through the doorway and brushed the snowflakes from my coat with my gloves. I spotted Frank at a table away from the crowded bar where the regulars laughed and gossiped in raised voices. A tree decorated with tiny coloured lights blinked beside the juke box – Bing Crosby crooning, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” – a nice tune but since its release in 1942, you heard it everywhere at this time of year, and I mean everywhere.
Liam shot me a big salute from behind the bar and pointed toward Frank’s table where I dumped my coat and hat on an empty chair and shook his hand before I plunked myself down. Two bottles of Peller’s Ale sat in front of him and he slid one toward me with the middle finger of his right hand.
We clinked bottles and glugged some beer. “Haven’t seen you for a week or so, Maxie. Been keeping out of trouble?”
“One man’s trouble is another man’s recreation, as Al Capone used to say.”
He leaned forward to deliver a light punch to my arm then slouched back in his chair. “Doesn’t surprise me you’re a fan of Capone’s. The way you thumb your nose at the law.”
“Not me, Frank. I’m as law-abiding as the next guy.”
“That’s not sayin’ much. Not in this town.”
I laughed at his joke that wasn’t a joke and we drank our beer as Bing Crosby now gave way to Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers singing “Winter Wonderland”.
The spicy aroma of corned beef teased my nostrils and I envied the guy two tables away as he popped a French fry into his mouth then reached for his mile-high sandwich. “You got time to eat, Frank? Or something else planned?”
He waved my suggestion away. “Angie and I are going to the neighbours’ for dinner tonight and the guy’s wife makes the world’s best Stracotto al Chianti so there’s no way I’m going to miss that.”
“I don’t know that dish.”
“It’s beef braised in a wine sauce.” He bunched the fingers of his right hand together and touched them to his lips. “Magnifico.”
Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You sounded serious on the phone. So what’s on your mind?”
His black eyes held mine in their grip, just like the old days. After my father was killed and my mother left town, Frank’s family, who lived in the apartment above us, had taken me in to live with them. That’s when Frank became my big brother, a relationship that continued to this day. I took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “My mother’s back in town.”
“What?” That news seemed to hit him like a punch in the gut. “After twenty-some years? Who the hell told you that?”
“Bernie Fiore.”
“Shee-it,” he turned up his nose and made a fanning motion with his hand as though he were shooing away a nasty smell. “That dumb bugger doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. How would he know anything about her?”
“He says she’s meeting with Tedesco.”
A scowl now on his Calabrian features, accentuated by his five-o’clock shadow. “Even if that’s true, why would he risk telling you about Mob business? If Tedesco found out, he’d eat Bernie alive.”
“I know. But he thinks he’s making a trade with me. He tells me about my mother and I’m supposed to help him get h
is brother out of jail.”
Frank tipped his head back and guzzled a long swig of beer, then set the bottle down in its condensation ring. “Let me guess.” He covered his mouth and burped. “Bernie told you his brother didn’t do it. Nick’s in jail for somebody else’s crime – he was in Montreal at the time. Hang on – better still, he was at his dying mother’s bedside. And he’s got five witnesses who’ll swear to it.”
I gave him a theatrical sigh, waiting for him to finish his routine.
“Bernie knows you and I are friends because we all grew up in the same North End neighbourhood. And he gets this bright idea to make up a story about your mother so you’ll come to me for help to get his brother out of jail.” He pushed his beer aside and leaned closer. “A crazy idea, isn’t it? And that’s just the kind of dumb-ass plan Bernie would come up with.”
His chin was jutting out, challenging me. “What about it? I’m right, eh?” Then he sat back, picked up his beer and I saw that familiar smug expression on his puss which said, You don’t know shit from shinola.
That look – he was wearing it when he came to my rescue during schoolyard fights, and when he forged his mother’s signature on my not-so-good report cards. And especially when I signed up with the RCMP right out of high school in 1934 instead of joining him on the Hamilton Police Force.
I stood up and waved at Liam and when I got his attention I held up two fingers for another round; then I pointed to the guy two tables away and mimed eating a sandwich and held up one finger. I waited for him to nod his head. Then I scooted my chair closer to Frank’s. “You could be right about Bernie but I don’t think so. He was jumpy as hell when I met him this afternoon, so scared he might be seen with me that we met in the balcony at the Tivoli. But when he left the theatre a couple of torpedoes slipped out of Peace’s Cigar Store and tailed him. Something’s going on, Frank, and I don’t think Bernie’s making it up.”
“What did he say about your mother?”
“Not much. Just what I told you.”
