by Chris Laing
“You forgot your shot glasses.”
“They’re not mine. They’re Duffy’s.” Then he stomped out of my office, his anger trailing after him like muddy shoeprints.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I was shuffling through the day’s mail, looking for something that wasn’t a bill, when Frank Russo saved me with a phone call.
“I just heard from the Head Nurse on Nick Fiore’s ward. She says I can see him this afternoon. How’s 1400 for you?”
“It’s good, Frank. I’ll meet you in front of the Spec.”
After he picked me up, Frank wheeled over to Barton Street past the jail and continued east the short distance to the Hamilton General Hospital, which occupied the large property between Wellington and Victoria Streets. Through the Barton Street entrance we stepped into the two-storey lobby which had become a scene from Santa’s workshop. A towering Christmas tree was front and centre, aglow with coloured lights. Strung from the ceiling was a glittery banner proclaiming, Peace on Earth.
I pointed it out to Frank and he mumbled, “Not a helluva lot of that around here, is there?”
Beside a life-sized crèche scene, a choir of 30 or so school kids was doing its best with “Adeste Fidelis” while a semi-circle of old-timers, some in wheelchairs, were singing quietly along with them.
Frank crossed the lobby to the info desk while I waited in front of the elevators and hummed along with the choir.
“Third floor,” Frank said when he returned, “unless you want to stay for the sing-along.”
The nursing station upstairs was a hive of activity. And the queen bee was obviously the handsome woman in the nurse’s uniform who stood at the counter, nose-to-nose with a tall young man wearing a white coat and a stethoscope necklace. Whatever they were arguing about had turned the doctor’s face into a crimson oval as the nurse raised her voice. “Well, that’s not how we do it here. Run along and have a word with the Chief Resident; he’ll set you straight.”
Frank paused a moment then stepped forward, holding up his badge. “Could we have a word, please?”
The young doctor turned and made his escape. I looked at the name-tag on the nurse’s uniform – Claire Trépanier RN.
She shook Frank’s hand and said, “I’m the Charge Nurse here. You’re looking for Mr. Fiore?”
“That’s right. I was notified that he’s awake now and we could see him for a few minutes.”
“Of course. But too bad, you just missed his doctor. And he’s finished his rounds for the day.”
“So what does the doc say?” Frank said. “Is he going to live?”
“He said it could go either way. Mr. Fiore’s lost a lot of blood and he’s still in critical condition.” She took a step closer to Frank. “Now, I’m giving you five minutes tops. Then out you go.”
Frank stood a little taller, sending her his cop’s glare. “Now wait just a damn minute, Nurse. This is police business and we have our work to do.”
She made an impatient waving motion with her hand. “Yes, yes. So get on your way and do it. Room 304 on your right, end of the hall. Vite, vite.”
We hustled along the corridor toward Nick’s room. “What the hell’s veet, veet mean? Any idea, Frank?”
“Not sure, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I think it’s French for get the hell outta here.”
We arrived at 304, where an empty chair sat by the door. Frank was swiveling his head, looking up and down the hallway. “Supposed to be a goddamn guard on this door.”
Then we heard the clump-clump of footsteps behind us, moving quickly our way. Frank spun around to face a uniformed cop.
“Shit, Hubbard, where the hell’ve you been? We need a guard on this room full-time. That means you don’t wander around the halls, flirting with the nurses. This is important, goddammit – this prisoner could be in danger and we have to protect him. At least, until he talks.”
The cop was shuffling his feet, waiting for his chance to speak. “Jeez, I was just takin’ a leak, Sergeant. Gone two minutes –”
“Two minutes. That’s all it takes to snuff the guy. Next time, tell the Charge Nurse or someone at the nursing station when you’re away so they can keep an eye on this room and raise the alarm if something happens. Got that straight?”
“Ten-four, Sergeant. Won’t happen again.” He scuttled to his chair, plopped down and looked the other way.
We stepped into the room. It was much larger than I’d expected. Then I realized it was a double room with one of the beds removed. Nick lay on an elevated bed like a body on a hospital ship after Dieppe, his eyes clamped shut. His head was propped up on pillows and the tubes in his arm connected him to a couple of glass IV bottles dangling from a stand near his head. His mop of thick hair was the colour of anthracite against the Rinso-white pillows.
Memories of my long convalescence in England washed over me and it took me a long moment to shrug them away.
Frank opened the door to the washroom, went in and looked it over. I watched him rattle a connecting door, making sure it was locked.
We moved to Nick’s bedside and Frank dipped his head down beside him. “Nick. It’s Frank Russo. You okay to talk for a minute?”
He didn’t respond and Frank touched his arm. “We won’t stay long, Nick. You’re in bad shape but we need to talk.”
One eyelid lifted half-way, then the other. His lips were parched and when he moved them no sound came out. Frank picked up a glass of water from the side table and dabbed a few drops on Nick’s lips with the end of a straw. Nick opened his mouth and Frank dabbed some more.
“School,” he croaked. “Remember you from school.”
“That’s good, Nick. Max is here too. You remember he lived with my family on Hughson Street?”
He tried to lift his hand toward me but it must’ve felt like it was on fire because he winced and let it fall back on the bed. “Just a kid then … Max.”
“Yeah, I was. Not like you big guys, hangin’ out at Pugliese’s corner store, whistling at all the dames going by.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on his parched lips and Frank put a few more drops of water on them.
“Frank and I were at Bernie’s funeral. I guess you heard about his death on the jail’s grapevine, eh?”
“More news than in the paper,” his voice a weak whisper. “Most of it bad.”
“It was a sombre ceremony,” I said. “We saw your mother and father with the priest while he prayed over the casket.”
Nick didn’t try to nod but he blinked his eyes and I knew he understood how his parents must have suffered.
Frank was shuffling his feet, signaling me with his eyes to shut up and give him a chance so I backed away a step.
He lowered his head close to Nick. “I’ve got a couple of questions about you and Sal Angotti meeting that politician at Paddy Greene’s. We know things got out of hand before the guy died. I asked you about this before but maybe you can remember now. Bernie said Sal popped him. Is that how it went down?”
For a few seconds I didn’t think he’d cooperate. But I was certain that he realized he was knocking on death’s door. And he had to know that Tedesco was responsible for his brother’s death. We didn’t have long to wait before he made up his mind.
He raised his eyes to focus on Frank. “Yeah. Sal was … out of control. We were only supposed to scare the shit out of that guy so he’d vote the right way.” He paused for a moment to lick his lips and take a deep breath. “Sal went nuts and sliced the bugger up. Knocked me out … left me for the cops, the bastard.”
He’d begun to pant and Frank reached for the water again.
But at that moment the nurse bustled into the room. “You’ve had your five minutes, Gents.” She clapped her hands. “Chop, chop. Let’s go.”
Frank made
a show of checking his watch and moved toward her. “Now look here, Nurse. We just got here and we need this man’s testimony. It’s an urgent police matter.”
They stood there, nose to nose in a staring match – two big kids in the schoolyard, daring each other to throw the first punch. Nurse Trépanier snapped her left hand forward, clenching Frank’s wrist and removed the glass of water with her right hand. She turned and set it on the side table. Then she gripped Frank’s elbow, steering him toward the door. “This man’s on the brink of death,” she said, her voice lowered but Steel-City hard. “And he’s not going to testify to anything if you don’t allow him to recover.”
She swiveled her head toward me, still at Nick’s bedside. “You too, Mister. Time to skedaddle.”
Back in the hallway, Frank was about to wind himself up again but the nurse moved to calm him. “Look here, we’re sympathetic to the police. We know this is part of your job. But our patients’ needs come first; you must understand that. Mr. Fiore is a strong man; the doctors think he has a 50-50 chance to recover, so back off for now and give him some time to recuperate.”
I saw Frank’s mouth beginning to open and I linked arms with him. “Let’s go, Frank. Maybe we can see Nick tomorrow.” And I tugged him in the direction of the elevators. As we were walking away, Frank turned back and shot a black look toward Hubbard, sitting up straight on his chair by the door and wearing what might’ve been a thin smile.
I tried to relieve the tension while the nurse was marching us toward the elevators. “You wouldn’t be related to Robert Trépanier, would you? He works for Wentworth Security Services, here in town.”
“’Fraid not,” she said. “It’s a fairly common French-Canadian name.”
“Well, you speak English very well.” Sometimes a compliment works wonders.
“No surprise there, Buster. I was born and raised in Welland.”
I felt my face flush and I shut up. I was no match for this babe.
When the elevator arrived Frank passed her one of his cards. “My extension number’s on there. Give me a call if there’s any change in his condition.”
She took the card but continued to look him in the eye, waiting.
Frank paused a long beat before he said, “Please.”
A satisfied twitch of her lips, then she bustled away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Frank dropped me off in front of my building where pedestrians were moving along at a fast clip, heads bowed against a sudden squall of stinging snow pellets. In the elevator, Tiny said, “That uncle of yours has ridden upstairs twice to see you, Sarge. Reminds me of one of those yappy little dogs, running in circles, chasing its tail.”
“If you see him again, tell him I’m on my Christmas vacation.”
Tiny slid the door open on the third floor and I handed him a flat-fifty of Sweet Cap cigarettes with a red bow on it. “Merry Christmas, Pal.”
A grin on his pixie face. “Thanks, Sarge. Same to you.” And he shook my hand.
Phyllis wore a guilty look when I entered the office, a large clipping from the newspaper in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other.
“Oh, hello, Max. Please don’t think that I work on my scrapbook all the time you’re away from the office.” She held up the clipping: Police Raid Dog Fights in Hamilton East: Seven Local Men Arrested. “I’m proud of you, Boss. It’s too bad you don’t get any credit in this story. After all, you were the one who found that location for the police.”
I smiled at her. “Publicity’s good for business most of the time, Phyl. But in this case, I don’t want to be wearing a sign on my back saying, Attention Gangsters: This is the dope who sicced the cops on you.”
Her eyes opened wider, “Ah, I see what you mean.” Then she laid the clipping carefully aside.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” I said. “But let’s not make too big a deal about it.”
I glanced over at Iz’s empty desk. “Isabel have a meeting this afternoon?”
“No, something to do with her father. Here, she left you a note.”
“Thanks.” I checked my Bulova – almost 1600. “Why don’t you pack up for the day? You could do some last-minute Christmas shopping if you’re brave enough to fight the crowds.”
“Oh, thanks, Max, you’re such a good boss. I didn’t want to ask for the time off but there’s not much business here so close to Christmas.”
After she left I sat at my desk and read Iz’s note:
Dear Max,
My father’s annual Christmas do is tonight and I feel obligated to be there. (Don’t ask me why.) I knew you’d rather cut off your right arm than attend, so I didn’t mention it. I have a few other chores before that, so I’ll see you tomorrow.
Love, Isabel.
I breathed a sigh of relief, imagining her old man, J.B. O’Brien, doing his peacock strut among his rich pals and whispered, “Thank you, Iz.”
Phyllis had left the remains of The Spectator on my table and I scanned it before closing up for the day.
I read that the latest Gallup poll showed 76% of Canadians preferred to have price controls re-imposed even though their taxes would rise. Nobody asked me about that.
And the Post Office announced there would be no regular mail on Christmas Day. However, special delivery service would be provided as usual. That might be the thin edge of the wedge, I thought. Next thing you know, they’ll stop Saturday delivery.
The poor damn Brits were still under food rationing and I felt a bit guilty that we didn’t have to put up with that anymore.
Syl Apps, captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs, was now raking in seven grand a year. I probably wasn’t the only one who envied Syl Apps. Imagine, all that dough for chasing a little puck around a hockey rink. Hamilton steelworkers, who performed their dangerous work at Stelco, had bargained for a wage increase to forty-five smackers for a forty-hour week. So their annual pay was now $2,340. And lots of other workers earned less than that. It occurred to me again that “Something was rotten in the state of Denmark”, as some writer-guy once said.
I folded the paper and tossed it into the waste basket. Then I glanced at my wristwatch again – almost 1700. Phyllis was right – there wasn’t much business here when Christmas was just around the corner.
I locked up and crossed King Street to the cab stand in front of the Royal Connaught. I slid onto the front seat of the first taxi in line and I was astonished to see Lefty behind the wheel. “You remember how to drive? I thought you dispatchers never left the warmth of your cozy office.”
He bellowed a laugh. “Not during Christmastime, Max. It’s all hands on deck and the boss himself is on dispatch. Need a lift home?”
“Yep. Remember the address?”
“You betcha,” He tapped his noggin with a knuckle. “Once it goes in, it’s locked in forever. Corner of Emerald and Hunter, right?”
I entered my apartment, eased the door closed and remained still in the semi-darkness. Didn’t smell any cigarette or cigar smoke and no aftershave or perfume, so I deduced I’d had no unwelcome visitors. Hung up my coat in the closet – no one hiding in there. Tip-toed through the kitchen to the rear door and peeked out – no dead bodies, canine or otherwise.
I had a quick supper: a cheese sandwich with a bowl of Campbell’s tomato, washed down with a tall glass of Royal Oak. All the while I was thinking of Isabel at her father’s soirée; the swells in their snug-fitting evening clothes, sipping their fancy French champers and sliding those slimy oysters down their gullets. I breathed another sigh of relief for Iz’s non-invitation to that shindig.
I left the dishes in the sink and entered the living room where I put my feet up on the ottoman, leaned back in my comfy chair and picked up the newspaper. After a moment I realized I’d already skimmed it at the office. So I flipped to the back section for the radio
listings.
I caught the tail end of the news on CKEY with Lorne Greene but heard nothing I hadn’t already read in The Spec.
My favourite show, The Thin Man, wasn’t on tonight so I tuned in WBEN, one of the Buffalo stations, and listened to Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons. He and his faithful assistant, Mike Clancy, tracked down missing people by using their superior powers of deduction. Much as Max and Iz did when they were on a case.
Mr. Keen was entering a darkened room and the creepy music was growing louder and creepier when the phone rang.
My phone.
I turned down the radio, went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.
“Hello, is this Mr. Dexter?” A pleasant voice. Female.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“This is Marilyn Edwards calling. You met my son, Trevor, the newspaper boy out by the airport.”
“Of course. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, it’s fine. And I’m sorry to call at this hour but I’ve been working evenings all this week. My boys were waiting up for me when I got home – all excited about that raid on the house with the dog-fights. And Trevor is so proud of helping you. I just wanted to thank you for treating him like a grown-up; he’s at that age now where he doesn’t want to be thought of as a child anymore.”
“Well, he has every right to be proud, Mrs. Edwards. Without his tip-off the police wouldn’t have arrested those men. Trevor’s a smart young fellow and I’m sure his dad would have been proud of him. It’s obvious you’re teaching him well.”
There was a pause on the line as I heard her catch her breath.
“Thanks for calling, Mrs. Edwards. I hope you and your boys have a Merry Christmas.”
When I returned to the living room, I listened to my program for a few minutes but realized that Mr. Keen and his buddy were way ahead of me and I couldn’t follow the story. So I snapped off the radio and decided to go to bed and read.
