A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  “Then we’ll leave and that’ll be the end of that.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sleet and rain from this afternoon had given way to clear skies and a dip in the temperature when Iz picked me up at my apartment. I slid across the front seat of her 1947 Studebaker coupé and pecked her on the cheek. “How’s my apple dumpling?”

  Her lips were pursed but there was a glint in her eyes as she shook her head. “You’re something special, Max.”

  Then she drove straight down King Street to Sanford Avenue where Robert’s Restaurant was kitty-corner from the Hamilton Street Railway’s car-barns.

  She found an empty parking space beside the restaurant and I took her arm as we navigated the shadowy lot. We were walking alongside the building toward the entrance when two burly figures darted from the shadows and grabbed us, pinning us both against the wall.

  The taller thug twisted my right arm up behind me, smacking the side of my face against the rough bricks, knocking my hat to the ground. The other guy had his left hand clamped over Isabel’s mouth after dragging her over beside me. She faced in my direction, her right cheek pressed hard against the building. And she had fire in her eyes.

  “If it’s money you’re after,” I said, “you’ve come to the wrong bank.”

  “We ain’t looking for dough, wiseacre. Relax – it’s just a friendly pat-down.”

  My guy did thorough work – he ran his hands up and down my arms and legs, checked my waist for a gun stuck in my pants, then my coat pockets.

  The left side of my face was grinding against the building as I watched the other guy checking Isabel’s coat, then her purse.

  “She’s clean,” he told his partner.

  A wave of relief rolled over me when my face came away from the wall. Then the guy spun me around. He snatched up my hat from the ground, brushed it off with his coat sleeve and plunked it on my head. “Pardon the delay,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Isabel shivered in my arms as we watched them slink away and slip into a long black Fleetwood parked at the rear of the lot.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I had mixed feelings about this meeting. Now I’m convinced it’s a bum idea.”

  Wearing her high heels, she was the same height as me and we huddled there at the side of the building, eye to eye without speaking for a moment. “Not a chance, Max. We’ve come this far and undergone this humiliation. Now we’re going to follow through and meet your mother.”

  I took a step back, my hands on her shoulders, as our eyes locked. “I hadn’t realized just how determined you can be. My apple dumpling has a thicker skin than I thought.”

  We entered the restaurant lobby from King Street; I glanced to my right where a wide curving stairway wound its way to the second floor. A vibrant banner suspended at the top of the stairs read: Welcome to the Rainbow Room. One of Ontario’s Smartest Ballrooms.

  The coat check was on the main level and a flirty young woman batted her eyes at me as she took our coats and my fedora. But first I had to do a better job of brushing it off than the guy in the parking lot had managed. She passed me the check stubs and a smile. “Here you go, Big Fella. Have fun tonight.”

  Isabel rolled her eyes at me then excused herself and entered the ladies’ restroom to “repair her makeup after that bit of business outside”.

  I stepped into the gents’ and looked myself over in the mirror. I straightened my tie, removed some lint from my jacket and combed my hair with my hands. But my shaggy mop refused to lie flat. I needed a haircut but I never seemed to make time for it. I hated to admit it, but I saw a strong resemblance to that guy in the Spec photo. So I made an early New Year’s resolution to take better care of my appearance.

  Back in the lobby, I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked around as I waited for Iz. There was an air of relaxed anticipation here as chatty couples mounted the staircase to the Rainbow Room while others strolled toward the dining room on this level. I noticed a poster on the wall near the coat check – smiling people wearing party hats and blowing horns, confetti in the air. The copy read:

  Reserve now for Gala New Year’s Eve in the new Rainbow Room Dancing to Chris Lovett’s Orchestra. Party Favours and Midnight Buffet. Only $6 per couple.

  When Isabel joined me, we entered the Marine Room where a dapper gent in a tux with a leather-bound menu under his arm was making his way toward us. At that moment, I heard the mellow tone of a tenor saxophone and turned toward a small bandstand nearby where a placard on an easel announced: The Gord Brown Trio. They’d just eased into a bluesy version of “White Christmas” and it was a relief not to hear those lyrics for the umpteenth time.

  The maître d’ welcomed us and I gave him my name. He led us toward a quiet corner table where a stylish woman in a form-fitting black dress rose to greet us. Her long ebony hair curled about her shoulders – a dark version of that slinky femme fatale, Veronica Lake.

  I felt my heart pounding in my chest as we reached the table and I stopped in my tracks and stared, searching her face – those deep, dark eyes – observing her posture and looking in vain for the slightest resemblance to the woman I’d known as my mother. I saw no similarity to the features that looked back at me when I shaved every morning. Was there some mistake here? Maybe we’d been brought to the wrong table.

  Maybe we should leave right now.

  I was speechless as this sleek woman moved forward and placed her left arm around my shoulder, then planted a cold kiss on my cheek.

  She leaned back to give me the once-over; I believe I saw a look of satisfaction on her handsome, unlined face. “Not bad,” she said, almost to herself. “Not bad, at all.”

  I could have said the same about her but I held my tongue. She was only 19 when she gave birth to me so that would make her about 50 today. But she looked a good 10 years younger – I could hardly believe my eyes. In addition, she had that certain movie-star allure about her. But I’d be damned if I’d tell her any of that.

  She turned toward my partner, appraising Iz with a cool smile. “So this is Isabel O’Brien. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her eyes flicked up. “And I’m jealous of your ravishing, red hair.”

  The two women locked eyes, their facial expressions calm, almost casual. But beneath that façade I saw a pair of Amazon gladiators, sizing each other up, preparing for battle. While they were shaking hands I wondered what my mother had heard about Isabel. And who the hell had told her?

  “I’ve been curious about meeting Max’s mother,” Iz said. “But what should we call you?”

  “I changed my name to Diane Black after I left Hamilton years ago. For … practical reasons. So please, call me Diane. Both of you. Now sit down, won’t you? Max and I have some catching up to do.”

  Boy, was that was an understatement.

  After we took our seats I continued to fight with myself, attempting to keep my anger in check. What could I say to my mother, this glamorous stranger now throwing me off kilter? I could ask her why she left me; if she ever thought about her son; if she had other children – my half-brothers or sisters.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I fixed her with my hard look and let my anger speak. “We didn’t appreciate your welcoming party in the parking lot. Having us frisked by a couple of gangsters was” – I fumbled for the right words – “rude and unnecessary.”

  Her gaze didn’t waver as she heard me out. “I agree. I didn’t know that would happen and I apologize. You know, some men never do grow up. They can’t stop playing cops and robbers; it becomes a habit.”

  I thought about Tedesco and his gang of thugs and I believed she was right on that score. They really were playing cops and robbers, but with live ammunition and deadly consequences.

  After we’d settled at the table, the waiter arrived and we ordered the featured prime ri
b and a bottle of red wine. Then Isabel turned to Diane Black. “Do you mind if I ask why you’ve come back to Hamilton?”

  “Not at all. Of course, you understand I can’t go into detail, but I’m a financial management specialist. Let’s just say I’m in town to advise some of my associates on a few procedural problems they’re experiencing.”

  Sounded like gobbledygook to me, but this was Isabel’s field so I kept my lip buttoned and sent her an encouraging look.

  “Financial management,” Iz said. “Are you an accountant?”

  “Indeed I am.” She seemed pleased with my partner’s interest and flattered enough to continue. “When I moved to the States I worked with a group that wasn’t …” she waggled her right hand back and forth in a see-saw motion, “developing as well as it might. And I realized I wasn’t properly equipped to improve the situation. So I returned to school and earned my Certified Public Accountant’s degree.”

  I watched Isabel’s right eyebrow lift. “Well, we have something in common after all. Besides Max.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Those gladiators I’d sensed earlier were beginning to move around the arena now.

  “Have you heard of Bessie Starkman?”

  Iz shook her head.

  “Well, Bessie was Rocco Perri’s common-law wife. She was the financial brains of Rocco’s territory during the 1920s. A very smart woman – she negotiated with Rocco’s biggest customers in the U.S. for liquor sales during Prohibition. And certain other transactions as well. I met her a number of times before I moved away.”

  She paused a moment; a faraway look in her dark eyes. “I guess you could call her a role model of sorts in my later life. She did the type of work I’m doing now; however, my focus is on channeling our resources into developing the real estate market along the Atlantic coast. We’re slowly abandoning the old ways of doing business in favour of equity participation in mainstream North American markets.”

  I gaped at this woman whom I didn’t recognize, surprised that she referred to Bessie Starkman with such admiration and thereby admitting that she, too, had devoted herself to a life of crime. I glanced at Isabel who had covered her mouth with her napkin, her eyes wide.

  Two waiters arrived at our table; one poured the wine and the other prepared a Caesar salad on a small cart alongside the table and served us.

  I ate my salad without tasting it, stealing glimpses of Diane Black from the corner of my eye without drawing her attention. My mind still awhirl with her frank admission that she was an important criminal figure in the U.S. – managing the money for the Florida Mob and, no doubt, other activities I could only guess at. And I began to question again if she really was my mother – this elegant, clever woman who looked nothing at all like that feisty and angry younger version I remembered from my childhood, the one who hated living with my father and didn’t show any interest at all in me. I was having a helluva time trying to reconcile this new image with my jumbled memories.

  She set her fork down and turned her attention to me. On her face was that expression, long-buried in the bottom drawer of my subconscious – her upper lip curling slightly at the right corner of her mouth – and it struck me like a shock wave. In that brief moment I was back in the dingy apartment on Hughson Street and she was dismissing my complaint about no supper as she dressed to go out for another evening of dining and dancing and whatever else she did.

  And now she was waving her hand in front of my face. “Max, did you hear me? I said that was quite a picture of you in The Hamilton Spectator.”

  While my mind was shifting back to the present, Isabel answered on my behalf. “He prefers not to talk about that.”

  Diane Black darted a sharp look her way, then turned back to me and changed the subject. “So you’re a private detective. Is it interesting work? Do you like it?”

  “Yes to both questions. But I’m more and more suspicious of the people I meet these days.” I paused, letting that sink in. “There’s often such a chasm between what they say and what they do.”

  Her eyes held firmly on mine. If she’d taken my remark personally, she didn’t show it. “You know, I find the same thing in my line of work.”

  She turned to Isabel. “How about you, my dear. What’s your interest in this detective business?”

  Iz didn’t respond until the waiter had removed our salad plates. “I’m quite interested in the field of investigative accounting.”

  Diane Black leaned toward her and spoke with a schoolmarm edge in her voice. “In the U.S. some C.P.A.s refer to this area as ‘forensic accounting’, meaning it’s suitable for use in a court of law.”

  “Yes, I’ve been reading up on that. I learned that it’s proving to be useful in criminal cases where witnesses are intimidated from testifying. Or they simply disappear. Did you know, for example, that with the help of forensic accountants who specialized in tax fraud, Al Capone was finally prosecuted and sent to jail in 1931 – not for his criminal activities, but for income tax evasion?”

  My ears sizzled when I heard Iz mention Al Capone. I had no idea she even knew the gangster’s name much less the details of his conviction. And I wondered if she might be sending a not-so-subtle message to this sleek stranger sitting between us.

  Diane Black looked closely at Isabel but she didn’t respond. When the waiters served us the main course our conversation slowed down to strained exchanges about the weather in Florida compared to Hamilton and other small talk while we ate.

  After the coffee was served, my mother turned to me and placed her hand on my arm. “I want you to do something for me.”

  I couldn’t think of a single damn thing I’d want to do for her and my long-simmering anger came to the boil again. I lifted her hand from my arm and pushed it away. Then I leaned toward her, my voice a snake’s hiss. “You’ve got a helluva nerve, Lady. Barging back into my life after an absence of 25 years. In all that time you didn’t even send me so much as a goddamn postcard. And now you want me to do something for you?”

  My outburst drew the attention of diners at nearby tables. Iz was staring at me. But Diane Black remained as unperturbed as if I’d complimented her on her appearance.

  She continued in a hushed tone, ignoring my outburst. “I’m in a very risky business. It’s rooted in a culture of violence and I don’t believe that will change for a long time. We have a situation here in Hamilton that requires the retirement of Mr. Tedesco. Certain excesses have occurred which have focused unwanted attention on our various enterprises. These things happen from time to time and it’s necessary to take corrective action.”

  She spoke in a flat, dispassionate tone; a business analyst’s description of a minor problem that required an adjustment. When she said “excesses”, the image of the dead and mutilated body of that City Councillor flashed through my mind. And, of course, Bernie Fiore’s punctured and bloodied body dumped on my doorstep. “Excesses” indeed. It was like calling Vesuvius a bonfire.

  And now, “corrective action” was on the horizon.

  “As you may know,” she said, “Mr. Magaddino in Buffalo now controls this territory and arrangements for Mr. Tedesco’s successor are underway.”

  My eyes flicked to Iz; she was staring at my mother, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed and, barely noticeable, her right forefinger tapped lightly on the table.

  I was well aware of Stefano Magaddino because I’d worked in the organized crime unit in the RCMP’s Toronto office before the war. Magaddino – known as “The Undertaker” – was the long-time Mafia Don who controlled the upper New York State area from his headquarters in Niagara Falls, and later in Buffalo. But it was news to me that he’d taken over the operation in Ontario as well.

  I could feel sweat forming in my armpits. Could this really be happening? I was staring at my birth mother, a woman I didn’t know and di
dn’t want to know. She was describing a gang war about to erupt: one in which she was squarely in the middle.

  “Why are you telling us this?” I said. “You know damn well we’ll have to go to the police.”

  She held my arm again, this time in a tighter squeeze. “Listen carefully, both of you. Tedesco won’t relinquish his power easily. He’s the type of man who’ll try to take down as many of his enemies with him as he can. And he still holds a grudge against you two for interfering in his business; especially you, Max, for shooting his driver a few months ago. He told me about it, before he knew that I was your mother.”

  I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  She continued to grip my arm, her voice just above a whisper and I caught the frantic look in Isabel’s eyes as she leaned in toward us. “I can help you with Tedesco, but I’ll need something in exchange.”

  We waited for her tit for tat as she turned her full attention to me.

  “I want you to have a word with your police friend, Russo, because he’s in charge of the Fiore investigations.”

  I could feel my nerve endings tingling and I wondered what else she could know about Frank.

  “We need 24 hours to complete our arrangements here and it would complicate matters if the police were to interfere. Now, I understand that Sergeant Russo and his wife have one-year-old twin boys and she’s expecting another child. Also, he’s got a hefty mortgage which he’s just able to cover on his salary. So a family man with his obligations …” she paused and shrugged her shoulders as though that movement had delivered her message.

  When I continued to stare without comment, she said, “He might appreciate a little help with his finances.”

  Her gaze was steady, watching me for some reaction but I continued to give her nothing in return. She took a sip of her coffee before continuing. “I’m also informed that he has a certain amount of influence with the police brass. So we’re prepared to offer Russo a generous Christmas bonus in exchange for delaying his investigation for a couple of days.”