by Chris Laing
“Thank goodness you’re all right, Max. It’s not like you to be this late without calling in. We were worried about you. I phoned several times but the line was always busy.”
Phyllis took my coat and hung it up; then I sat down at the coffee table near the window where I poured some White Spot java. Both women sat beside me, one on either side, their eyes jittery as they awaited my explanation.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call; I should have. I had a busy night and then I slept in.” I told them about the tip-off from the newspaper carrier and the subsequent police raid on the dog fights and the arrests of some of those involved. I skipped the part about my nightmare; they didn’t have to know every damn thing about me.
“When I went out to retrieve my milk this morning, I found another body dumped on my back porch.”
Phyllis’ eyes bugged out. Iz grabbed my hand and squeezed hard.
“It was a dead dog this time. One of those fighting dogs, bloody and mutilated. I covered it over and called Mr. Neatby to arrange for the SPCA to pick it up.”
We sat in silence while my news filled the room with revulsion at the sickening image of that dead animal. And with a strong undertone of foreboding.
“It’s obvious that I’ve got the attention of the gangsters who profit from these dog-fights and they’re warning me off. But now I’m worried about the two of you – it’s not likely, but it is possible, that you could become targets as a means of getting at me. So for the next few days, you should be on guard and take precautions; be wary of anyone you don’t know and try not to go anywhere alone. It’s a good idea to take a cab to the office and back. And have the driver wait until you’re safely inside.”
Isabel’s eyes were riveted on mine and I noticed the knuckles of her clenched fists were white. Phyllis sat on the edge of her chair, a hand to her mouth, her eyes blinking like she’d been awakened from a bad dream.
I got to my feet. “I know we can get through this. You’re both strong women – and I’m grateful that you’re by my side.”
I entered my office and glanced at the mail but couldn’t focus on it. I was feeling like a heel for bringing the menace of those mobsters into the lives of everyone around me, especially Iz and Phyllis. But I couldn’t back off now. I felt a fiery compulsion in my core, urging me to join the battle against the Mob despite the threat to my hopes for a family life with Isabel.
I moved to my office window and stared at the brick wall next door where a grainy image of Diane Black slowly took shape. Behind her stood an army of mobsters, tommy guns aimed at me, awaiting her command to charge. She struggled to control a snarling pit-bull, straining against its leash. Then she dropped it and the beast hurtled through the window, teeth bared and drooling …
A tap-tap on my office door shattered that vision and I turned to see Frank Russo striding into my office. “Jeez, Max, you sounded crummy on the phone but you look even worse in the flesh. Like someone scared the crap out of you.”
“An overactive imagination,” I said as I waved him in. Isabel had followed him and we sat around my desk.
“Those gangsters are giving him the shock treatment,” she said to Frank. “One of those fighting dogs on his doorstep this morning. As dead as Bernie Fiore.”
He swivelled in his seat. “Damn, that’s a low blow. Guess you were right to suspect some kind of retaliation.”
I nodded, wondering why he was here. “What’s up, Frank?”
I watched his eyes flick to Isabel and back to me. “There’s been a … development.”
“You can speak freely. Iz and I have no secrets.”
He bobbed his head in her direction, then continued. “I just left the jail and thought I’d give you the news in person. Nick Fiore’s in the hospital; he was knifed in the showers early this morning, blood all over the place. He’s still alive – but barely, and was rushed over to the Hamilton General. But following jailhouse etiquette, nobody else in the showers saw a damn thing.
“I had a talk with the Governor at the jail and he’s guessing the knife artist was Bruno Spinelli. He’s one of Tedesco’s hard men who’s awaiting transport to the Kingston Pen. He was convicted on a manslaughter charge –”
I grabbed his arm, interrupting him. “But what about Nick’s chances? Is he going to make it?”
“No word yet. I won’t be able to see him ‘til this afternoon.” He hunched forward in his chair. “And I’d like you to come with me. If Nick is responsive, you could tell him about your meeting with Bernie at the Tivoli. And his funeral. Then after you’ve softened him up, I’d like to squeeze him for details about that City Councillor’s murder. So far, he’s kept mum but we have to open that can of worms.” Then he pointed an Uncle Sam finger at me. “And you could be the can-opener.”
I glanced over at Iz; her lips were pursed as she stared at me, but she held her tongue.
Frank continued his spiel, “I hope to God he doesn’t die before we get in to see him; he’s my only witness and I need that bugger.”
“All right, I’ll go with you. Let me know when you’re ready.”
I stood up and we moved to the doorway.
“Oh, about that dead dog on your porch,” he said as I opened the door, “look on the bright side. It means you’ve got those Mob guys on their toes. Keep up the good work, Pal.”
We watched him clump across the outer office, shrug into his coat and tip his hat to Phyllis with a wolfish leer. “Be seeing you, Sister. Keep an on eye on that boss of yours.”
Iz poked me in the ribs. “You two are a perfect match. A real pair of tough-talking sweethearts.”
I grasped the finger she was using to jab me. “Not to change the subject, but how was that Accountants’ Society wingding last night?”
“You should’ve been there. You’d have been the life of the party – and,” she paused to straighten a lock of hair on my brow with her fingertips. “I just noticed that you’ve had a haircut, Max. It makes you look quite … debonair.”
I lifted her hand away and held it. “Thanks. But you were saying about the party …?”
“Well, some of my former colleagues heard that I’d left my father’s firm and they thought I was crazy to go into the detective business. After listening to you and Frank talk about Mob killings and dog-fights and stabbings in the jail, well, sometimes I wonder about it, too.”
“It’s not always like this, Iz. You know that. Most of the time we’re just doing routine stuff: fact checking, interviewing people and gathering information for court proceedings. And some of that work can be downright boring.”
She reached up to straighten my tie, then snugged it tighter at my collar. “I’m worried about you, Max. A dead man and a dead dog on your doorstep could mean you might be next.” Then her arms wrapped around me, squeezing me tight against her breast. “I need you in my life,” she whispered. “And I’m afraid I might lose you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I had some time before lunch so I decided to continue my search for Iz’s Christmas present. Barely an inch of snow had fallen overnight and most of that had disappeared from the downtown sidewalks, which were again crammed with anxious shoppers. It made me wonder why some folks waited until the last minute to do their Christmas shopping. It was inconvenient for the rest of us.
My usual shortcut to James Street North was less busy and I limped across the street to Eaton’s, recalling that diamond ring display I’d seen in their window. As soon as I’d gone through the revolving doors, I was swept forward on a tide of shoppers surging toward the bank of elevators at the rear of the store. At one point, I was face to face with a big bruiser who’s accusing eyes bored into mine: I would’ve sworn it was Bernie Fiore but a few seconds later he, too, was pushed along by the crowd.
I managed to bail out at Tuxedo Rentals, where I caught my breath and slowed my breath
ing until Bernie’s image faded away. It helped to watch the elevator operators for a moment. They were dressed in smart beige army-like uniforms, complete with cap, black low-heeled shoes, stockings with seams and white gloves. I admired their parade-square efficiency as they marshalled their patrons into their elevators to be delivered to each of the busy store’s six floors. “Move to the rear of the car please and watch your step, Madam. Going up.”
A life-sized cardboard Santa figure shouldering a bag of toys was displayed near the elevators: Visit Santa in the Toy Department – 5th Floor, and the times he’d be there were listed.
I managed to catch the eye of a manager walking toward me, carrying a clip-board, an Eaton’s name-tag pinned to his jacket. I waved him down, “Pardon me, please. Which way to jewellery?”
He pointed to his right. “Two aisles over, near the silverware and clocks.”
I was lucky. Just as I arrived, two women left the counter and I stepped in, catching a clerk’s attention. She was short but well-built, with raven-black hair and skin as clear as porcelain. Her Eaton’s tag read Ann Muir.
“I thought I’d get trampled to death,” I said. “Is it always this busy?”
“This?” she shrugged. “This is nothing. You should see it the day before Christmas. It’s a Chinese fire drill.”
“Thanks, I’ll be sure to miss it. Now, I’m wondering about the price of those diamond rings in the window.”
She took her time inspecting me, top to bottom. When her eyes rested on mine she said, “You surprised me. I took you for a pearl kind of guy.”
That caught me off guard. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
When she looked up at me I noticed her eyes were as dark as her hair. “I’m not quite sure,” she said. “It’s kind of an intuition you develop after you’re in this business for a while. But if you want a diamond ring, well, you’re the customer and Mr. Eaton says you’re always right.”
She moved along the counter a few steps, bent down and removed a tray of rings just as the clerk at Birk’s had done. “Here we are, a fine selection of engagement rings. They range in price from $129 to as much as you can afford to pay. What do you think?”
I looked over the glistening array. “They all look nice. But … I’m afraid they’re a little out of my price range. What about diamond earrings? Maybe a nice diamond chip.” I threw that in like an experienced diamond buyer.
She gave me a patient look and nodded. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”
I watched her scoot around the counter behind a glistening Christmas tree sprayed with blue sparkly snow. She returned with several small boxes and set them on the counter.
From the first box she removed a pair of earrings and displayed them on a black velvet pad. “These diamond chips are in a nice setting and they sell for $89.” She removed one of her own earrings and replaced it with one of the diamond chips, then tilted her head back and forth.
Then she opened the next box. “Now, the setting is different on this pair. They’re $69. Do you like them?”
I examined both pair as she modelled them. “No, that chip is just too small.”
She opened the last box, removed a pearl earring and attached it to her ear. “This is what you really want. And they’re only $49.”
“Hmmm.” I moved my head, looking at it from several angles. The box didn’t say “Birks” on the lid and it wasn’t blue but, what the hell, it was all I could afford. And they did look good on the saleswoman. “They certainly look more … substantial than those chips.”
“Uh-huh. I thought you’d like them.”
She returned the earring to its box and left it open while she closed the other two and set them aside.
“How’d you make me for a pearl kind of guy?”
An impish smile made a brief appearance. “Women’s intuition, I suppose. You’ve got a bachelor sort of rumpled look about you – that suit and overcoat, they’re okay, but off the rack, nothing fancy. But you seem like a nice fella. When I saw you coming to the jewellery counter you looked a bit lost and out of place. So I knew right away you were looking for something nice but not too expensive, for a certain someone. Then when you asked about the diamond rings I knew it was serious but those rings would probably be too much moolah for you. And you don’t want a second-rate ring for a first-rate lady, right? But the pressure’s on you; it’s getting close to Christmas and you have to get her something, so you’re thinking about diamond earrings as your second choice but the nice ones are out of your price range too. So I figure – pearls. The perfect compromise and maybe you’ll wait for the diamond ring until you’re up in the chips. How am I doing so far?”
“You’d better stop right there or you’ll be telling me next what I had for breakfast this morning.”
She gave me that tiny grin again. “Grape-Nuts by the look of that spot on your tie.”
I paid the bill and wiped at my tie while she wrapped the pearl earrings in their tiny box with blue foil and a silver bow. Then I shook her hand and passed her my card. “Pleasure to meet you, Ann Muir. If you ever tire of this job, come and see me. I might be able to use another snoopy woman.”
As I headed for the exit, I looked back over my shoulder. She was reading my card; then her head bobbed up and she was grinning at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was lunchtime when I got back to my office. Phyllis was seated on the couch by the big window, eating a sandwich while she worked on her Barbara Ann scrap book.
“Isabel’s gone to a Christmas lunch with her Loretto Academy friends. And I got you a sandwich from the White Spot. I left it on your desk, Max.”
I thanked her, hung up my coat and entered my office where I stashed my present for Iz at the back of a desk drawer and ate my lunch.
Second thoughts about those earrings began to dance around in my head. Too small? Too impersonal? Pearls didn’t carry the same commitment that diamonds implied but I just didn’t have the dough for a diamond good enough for Isabel. And I had to accept the fact that I wasn’t in the same league as she was – and probably never would be.
But what if Iz gives me something 10 times better? She might feel that I didn’t reciprocate her feelings for me. Or, what if she just gives me one of those damn Christmas ties?
Shit – this was supposed to be a season of peace and goodwill – not some tit-for-tat businessman’s bargaining ploy.
I stretched back almost prone in my chair, feet resting on the desktop as I stared at the ceiling, still puzzling about the suit-ability of those pearl earrings. A loud thump on my door startled me and I nearly catapulted over the desk when a voice with a Scots accent bellowed, “Max, my favourite nevue. Season’s greetings.”
I jerked upright in my chair and glowered at my Uncle Scotty. He was The Spectator’s hot-shot crime reporter and was always badgering me for inside info I might have picked up from Frank Russo or elsewhere.
“Same to you, Unc, but I thought you didn’t believe in Christmas.”
“Wrong again, Laddie. Why, I’ve even brought you a little gift.” From behind his back he produced a brown Spectator envelope imprinted, Photo - Do Not Bend, and laid it gently on my desk as though he were placing the baby Jesus back in his crib.
I stared at it a moment, then pushed the envelope back toward him. “Thanks but no thanks. I hate that photo.”
“Now, now, don’t be hasty. It’s not what you think.” Then he pulled up a chair and sat across from me. From his inside coat pocket he removed a mickey of Corby’s Little Touch. From another pocket he produced two shot glasses and filled them to the brim, his veined drinker’s nose twitching with anticipation.
“Bottoms up.” In a swift and practiced motion he drained his glass and refilled it. “C’mon, my boy. ’Tis the season, after all.”
I took a tiny sip and felt my eyes widen and my sp
hincter tighten. “Ouch, that’ll get your attention.”
“Just what I wanted. Now open that damn envelope.”
I needed a souvenir 8x10 glossy of that Spec photo of me in my old clothes like I needed a night at the opera. But I opened it anyway. I slid it from the envelope and found myself gaping at an enlarged, grainy shot of Isabel and me looking across the table at Diane Black in Robert’s Restaurant.
“Where the hell did you get this? It’s an invasion of privacy.”
He waggled his head. “You can’t be private in a public place. Now, come clean. Why were you and your girl assistant meeting with a big-time mobster lady from the U.S. of A.?”
“How do you know we were? This woman in the photo could be Isabel’s aunt or my landlady.”
He reached for the Corby’s and drained his glass. “No, no, no. Don’t give me any of that malarkey. I’ve got a few pals on the police force so I know she’s a player from the Miami Mob. But why in hell would she be meeting with you?”
I leaned back in my chair, breathing easier now because he hadn’t recognized his sister-in-law. In fact, he’d probably never met her. When my father was killed and my mother skipped town, Scotty hadn’t yet immigrated to Canada. It was years after my mother left Hamilton that Scotty had met and married her younger sister, Flo. When I’d eventually asked her, Flo claimed she knew nothing about my mother’s whereabouts and, furthermore, she wasn’t interested in finding out.
“I’m really sorry, Unc, but I can’t tell you. I had to swear an oath of secrecy.”
“Bullshit!” He slammed his fist on my desk and our glasses jiggled, spilling some of that panther piss onto my desk blotter.
I got up slowly from my desk, giving him my hard look. Then I crossed the room and held the door open.
He got to his feet, gulped down my drink and stuffed the mickey into his coat pocket, leaving the shot glasses behind. At the doorway, his face was alight in a crimson glow and his voice a coarse growl, “I’m disappointed in you.”
