by Howard Engel
“Sit down,” the man said in a friendly way, although I felt the invisible hands of his minions pushing me down by the shoulders into an arrow-backed chair not far from the big partners desk in the middle of the room. He extended a hand with two rings flashing gold. There was an abundance of black hair extending from his starched shirt-cuffs to his fingers. I’d seen his watch in a Tiffany’s ad in the Toronto paper. He retreated behind the desk when I rejected his greeting and sat down.
“My name is Abram Wise, Mr. Cooperman. You may have heard of me …”
The voice went on, the mouth continued to move, but I could only hear the name “Abram Wise” booming back and forth between the hemispheres of my brain. I would have been less overwhelmed if he’d said “I am Count Dracula,” or “I am Al Capone.” Heard of him? Is there anybody in this country who hasn’t heard of Abe Wise? Even Time magazine called him the biggest crook in North America who’s never been in prison. I blinked and tuned in again to what he was saying.
“… I won’t apologize for the manner of this meeting. There’s no excuse for it that you would accept. So, let’s forget about it.” I looked him in the eye trying to withhold any promise of absolution in my expression. No sense throwing away the few weapons in my possession. For a moment he seemed to be having trouble finding a place to put the hand I had not taken in mine. He was having a new experience and he wasn’t liking it.
“Mr. Cooperman, let me assure you right off the bat that you are in no danger here. I can guess that you’ve been imagining all sorts of things.” If that was his idea of how to break the ice, he should try being awakened in the pre-dawn by a bunch of murderous-looking hoods sometime. I make him a gift of it. He was now staring at the assorted rings on his tufted fingers. He was still feeling rejected. “My men do as they are told. They don’t ask questions. My methods may be crude, but they get results, which is what I’m really interested in.”
There was a muffled knock at the door. It was the woman I’d glimpsed on my way in. “We’ll have some tea, Victoria. You’ll have some tea with me, Mr. Cooperman?” It almost sounded like an invitation. And when he added: “since you’re here,” I could no longer keep a straight face without blowing my nose. I nodded assent and heard the door close behind me. Wise sat back, as though the woman’s departure signalled the beginning of a new chapter in our relationship. He was playing at building an alliance between us against a hostile world behind my chair. He even attempted a smile. It sat awkwardly on his mouth, but became his eyes well enough.
“Mr. Cooperman, I’ve heard a lot about you. I know about the pictures you located for Arthur Tallon’s Contemporary Gallery. I remember about that Larry Geller business a few years ago, and your part in the murder in the sauna investigation—”
“Why not cut out the flattery, Mr. Wise, and come to the point.”
“I’ve got a job for you.”
“I have office hours, Mr. Wise. Most people do business with me without scaring me to death beforehand.”
“Yes, I understand. But there was a certain urgency in this case.”
“Everybody’s case is urgent. There are no other kinds.”
“Are your other clients about to be murdered?” he asked, and I could feel my back coming away from the chair. He could see that he had finally succeeded in impressing me.
“What makes you think that your life is in danger?” Wise got up from his chair and walked slowly towards the door. He opened it and closed it without saying anything.
“The mechanic at my garage,” he said, at last, certain of my attention, “reported to me that the drive belt to the power-steering pump of the Volvo had been cut almost through. Somebody who knows I like to drive in excess of the speed limit did it. I went down and saw the car myself. I could see it was cut; it wasn’t wear or any other normal problem.” He let go of the doorknob and walked towards the window behind his desk, where he found a cord hidden behind the curtains. When he pulled it, the curtains parted revealing two twelve-pane windows letting in the first light of day. “You see this?” he asked. I got up and walked around the desk. He was pointing at a small hole in one of the glass panes. It was a medium-calibre bullet-hole. “I was sitting in that chair when the shot was fired. It came that close,” he said, holding a hairy knuckle an inch away from his left ear. “That close!” He looked right at me to make sure I hadn’t missed the significance of what he had told me. Standing beside the bullet-punctured window, Wise looked very small. Sitting, he looked taller, but this was an illusion too. Our eyes were almost on the same level.
“The bullet landed in the pine hutch across the room,” he said. “Maybe you can dig it out with this.” He handed me a jewelled paper-knife and closed the curtains once more. The room had a warmer feel to it with the early light locked out. I placed the paper-knife on the desk and returned to my chair.
“Look, Mr. Wise, ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,” as the Irish say, but I can’t see how I can help you. I don’t even know that I want to help you. I don’t much like the way you have of getting a person’s attention. With your lifestyle, you must run into this sort of thing all the time. Violence begets violence.”
Wise nodded as I talked. The green lamp made his white shirt shine and still maintained his face in shadow. The brass on his desk glinted. “There are a couple of things, Mr. Cooperman. One is that I value my life and I don’t want to lose it just because I refuse to take the right precautions. The other is that you come highly recommended. I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Naturally, you’ll be well paid and—”
“I don’t give a damn about the—”
“Now you listen to me!” He was leaning over his desk, his face dark and the tendons in his neck tight as bowstrings. “If you like living, you’ll shut up and listen when I’m talking! You hear? What kind of a man are you? I tell you that someone’s trying to kill me and you want to walk away from me when I’m talking? I won’t hear of it!” He subsided into his chair again and lowered his voice. He had made his point. He didn’t like interruptions when he was talking.
“Look,” he said, showing his open palms under the green light, “I know all about you. I know where your parents live. I know where the Abraham girl lives and I know you don’t want them getting hurt. Right? I also know that you value your own life, which, by the way, is hanging by a thread right now. A call from me, and you could join Larry Geller and all those other people who became parts of bridges and highways after midnight. They’re building a new piece of the canal over near the Forks Road. You wanna become a lasting part of it? I don’t think so. What I’m tellin you is that you haven’t any choice. You do your job and you’ll go home with a tidy sum of money to put in your mattress. What could be more reasonable?”
“If I take on this case—”
“We’re not talking ‘ifs’ here!”
“Okay. ‘When.’ When it’s over, I’ll know too much. How do I know you’ll let me go?”
“Mr. Cooperman, I’m a businessman, plain and simple; a lot smarter than most of them. I’m just a little impatient, as you may notice, with rules and regulations. I know this about myself. Now, you may not think that the word of someone like me is worth much, but it is. Even in my business you gotta build trust. Trust is all I’ve got! I can’t write contracts. I can’t make letters of agreement. I’m the board of directors. Everything is an understanding that is never written down. Never a word on paper. That means that trust means more to me, my word means more to me than it has to mean to the president of your bank, in your case the Upper Canadian on St. Andrew Street. Do you understand? I give you my word that you’ll walk away from this when you’ve done your job. The threats against your family and Anna Abraham will become null and void. You’ve got my word on that and my word is my bond.”
“Mr. Wise, that’s all very well for you to say now, but what kind of assurance do I have? How much do your men know about your reason for bringing me here? Whoever is trying to kill you can just as easily start by killing
me.”
Wise shrugged. My life was only worth that to him. For a moment, I thought he was going to say something about making omelettes without breaking eggs. My shell was feeling fragile. But my mind had been made up for me. I thought of Anna. Even if all that talk about his word of honour meant nothing at all, or that on second thought I couldn’t be allowed to walk away from Wise with a cheque and a handshake, any way I looked at it, I didn’t have a choice.
“When do you want me to get started?”
“Good! That’s what I wanted to hear!”
At that moment, Mickey came through the door with an old-fashioned tea trolley on rubber wheels. There was a silver tea service, the first I’d seen for years not covered in Saran Wrap, and china cups and saucers. There was a basket of fresh rolls and cinnamon buns. I found that the conversation had awakened in me a sizeable appetite.
“Why don’t you let Mickey do this for you?” I asked, after Mickey had left us alone again. “You don’t seem to be understaffed.” Wise shook his head as he poured the tea.
“My people all know their jobs. I keep them on because they are good at them. When I want an outside view, Mr. Cooperman, I depend on the likes of you. As an outsider, you’ll not make foolish assumptions. That’s important.”
“I suppose I don’t have to tell you that I’m a one-man band? I don’t have operatives standing by waiting for my orders.”
“I know exactly what I’m getting.”
“And that doesn’t include security. I’m no bodyguard. I don’t carry heat. I—”
“I said ‘I know what I’m getting,’ Mr. Cooperman. You find out who’s trying to kill me. That’s your end. Leave the security to me.”
Wise filled his cup and we stopped talking while we took a few sips.
“How are we going to make this work?” I asked, putting my cup down in its saucer noisily. The tea was excellent; a factor I was obliged to take into consideration. Wise looked at me over the rim of his cup.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he said. “I could put you up here and have all your meals sent in to you, but that would tend to put some people on their guard. It would also upset my domestic arrangements. I want to know you’re on the job, Cooperman, but I don’t want to run into you every time I turn around. Besides, you have too many friends at the Niagara Regional Police. Your temporary disappearance would only cause trouble. Pulling you out of your own life would only serve to create unwanted publicity.”
“So, I’m getting a lift back to town after this conversation is over?”
“Did you ever doubt it? But don’t for a minute think I’m taking my eyes off you. I’m putting three shifts of my boys on your tail. Just like the cops do. They’ll keep me posted about your movements and will get very upset if they see you with a suitcase in your hand. If I were you, I would avoid travel agents for the time being. And, don’t forget about Manny and Sophie. Such lovely parents, a son can be proud of! Not that Anna Abraham is someone to be ashamed of. Nobody wants to see them get hurt. That’s your department. As long as you are working for me and not trying to disappear, they got nothing to worry about. You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded, then shrugged. “I can’t see how I’m going to help you, Mr. Wise.” I tried to look as serious and straightforward as I could. “I told you I don’t have a band of faithful followers who go out and do my jobs for me. That means that everything I do takes time—”
“You don’t have to worry about money. That’s taken care of.”
“Who’s talking money here? Look, Mr. Wise, I may be suffering from an inflated reputation. I’m only human. I can’t get blood from a stone. I can’t always get milk from the fridge. I’m limited. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
“Go on.”
“Apart from your reputation, I don’t know anything about your business. How am I going to discover who your associates are? Where am I going to learn who’s who in your life? None, or very little, of this is on the public record. You see what I mean? If I’m going to get a line on who’s trying to kill you, I’m going to have to get firsthand knowledge of everything you’ve ever done and everything you’re doing right now. Personally, if I were you, I wouldn’t want anybody, even me, knowing that much about my life.”
“I see the stories I’ve heard about you aren’t exaggerated. I like that.”
“Hello? Are you listening? Enough with the congratulations! Let’s be frank with each other. I won’t butter you up and you do me the same favour. The truth is our only friend, Mr. Wise. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to about me, but you’re going to see that I’m the wrong man for this job. That’s my professional opinion, no hype.”
Wise shook his head, as though he wanted to put whatever was in my head out of it. When he spoke, he was reading from a prepared text. “There’s a man in Grantham named Rogers. Dave Rogers. His name used to be Rottman, but he’s been Rogers now for forty years. We’re about the same age. Dave and I went to public school together. We did time at the Collegiate too. Why don’t you start with Dave. He can give you all you want to hear about me in the old days. When you’ve talked to Dave, let me know and we’ll take another step from there.”
He passed me a slip of paper with Rogers’ name, address and telephone number printed out for me. What kind of investigator did he think I was I couldn’t find a Dave Rogers in a town the size of Grantham?
“I’ve got another number for you,” he told me, getting up, indicating that it was time to end the conversation. “This is the number for me when you need it. I don’t want it to leave this room. I value my privacy.” He held out another, smaller, piece of paper. I took it from him, glanced at it and put it in my mouth and began to chew. When your head’s on the block, you might as well crack wise.
“Okay, now I can get in touch with you,” I said. “But I’m going to want to talk to people who’ve known you more recently. Rogers knows the older stuff. Who should I see about recent history?”
“I’ll think about that. You’ll probably have to talk to Paulette and Lily. I can’t see how you can avoid it. Yes,” he said, rubbing his large nose, “Paulette and Lily, if they’ll see you, of course. Give me a few hours to talk to them.”
“You want to tell me who they are?”
“My wives, Mr. Cooperman. My two wives. In tandem, of course. My matrimonial life has been a model of propriety, if you overlook the fact that they both ended in divorce. Paulette and Lily will help you to see Hart and Julie, my children. They wouldn’t give you the time of day if I asked them. May I wish you a safe trip home, Mr. Cooperman? Mickey will see that you get back safely. And remember, Mickey Armstrong or another of my associates will be near you at all times. I don’t want you to forget that. Good-morning.”
THREE
I’d awakened for the second time that Monday morning holding to the notion that I’d just escaped from a particularly realistic nightmare. God knows I’ve had enough of them. Usually they have all sorts of personal dangers in them. This one spread the dangers to Anna and my family with me not being able to do much about it. I tested my dream theory by pulling myself out of bed and looking down to the street through my rain-streaked window. No wonder my bare feet felt cold as I recognized the car from the nightmare. It was parked across the street and although I couldn’t see the driver, I was willing to guess that he had old acne scars on the back of his neck.
This time, when I got dressed, I shaved. When the hoods of the early morning thought to discourage my delaying tactics, I thought that they were just being practical: a well-turned-out corpse in a ditch or left in the trunk of an abandoned car doesn’t need a fresh shave. As I stood there looking at my chin in the mirror, I was suddenly aware of the luxury of time that had been given to me.
* * *
Installed in my favourite booth at the Diana Sweets and with breakfast and yesterday’s paper in front of me, I could again believe in the rationality of the world. The coffee was what I needed and the familiar go
lden surroundings of antique wood bandaged me from the evil that lay in wait for me outside.
Other people had problems too, the paper told me on every page. Good! I needed their troubles to buy back my own. I read an account of a hit-and-run case that had been on the front page for three days. The old man who had been tossed by a car through a plate-glass window had finally died and the police were no closer to finding the bastard who did it. A group of former patients of a psychiatrist named Clough were trying to get his licence since he had, they said, taken regular advantage of them in the sanctity of his consulting room over a period of seven years. The patients had all suppressed the memories of these assignations and had tumbled, if that is the word for it, to the fact that this was sex only when they saw similar cases described on television. I tried to imagine the dialogue as they consulted their diaries: “Twelveforty-five is out, I’m afraid, but eleven-fifteen is possible if you can fit me in.”
I was in a bad mood! On the bottom of the first page was an account of the accidental death of a former deputy chief of police and a tribute to him. I looked for the name: Neustadt. I remembered him slightly. The picture of the serious frowning face of a man in uniform was so old it was no help to me at all. I must ask Savas and Staziak about him. But I had no patience to read the details of how, where or when he had died.
