Tin Men

by Mike Knowles

  “You believe her?” Woody asked.

  Dennis took the pencil out of his mouth and shovelled in a huge forkful of pancake. Syrup hit his chin and his tongue rolled out and did a sloppy arc to collect the drip. “Story makes sense. The body was about the most fucked-up thing I ever saw. Hell, I think it even freaked out Os and he’s as cold as chocolate ice cream. A mental patient like Lisa must have had one hell of a time with it.”

  Os stood up so fast it toppled his chair back onto the floor. The sound made everyone’s head turn towards the table. Woody stood and put a hand on Os’s arm. Somehow, his fingers had gotten around Dennis’s throat. Woody pulled at the arm feeling the hard muscles that bulged under the skin. Os reluctantly backed away.

  “What the fuck?” Dennis’s voice was shrill and high-pitched; it sounded almost feminine—much different from the gruff voice he normally used. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I did,” Os said.

  “Fuck you!” The voice was lower, but it still sounded like it belonged to a lady.

  Os looked like he was going for seconds, so Woody pulled Dennis back into his chair.

  “What do you mean mental patient?” Woody asked, trying to get everyone back on track.

  “Everything alright here?” The cook was out from behind the counter. He was a fat guy with prison ink and sparse stubble. His body looked like he made a habit of eating at work.

  “We’re fine,” Woody said,

  “Any more trouble like that and we’ll call the cops.”

  “We are the fucking cops,” Os snarled. “Go flip some eggs.”

  If the cook had a reply, it stayed in his throat.

  Dennis had his arms crossed, and it looked like he was about to cry. “Fuck you, Woody. Fuck your ’roid-rage partner too.” His voice was almost back to normal.

  “Pussy,” Os said. He had calmed down enough to make half of his meal disappear.

  “I ain’t scared of you, Oswald.”

  Woody sighed. “Breakfast is on me, Dennis. Now, tell me why you said mental patient.”

  Dennis unfolded his arms. He drank some more coffee and inhaled two more forkfuls of pancake before he said another word.

  “Lisa and Owen were in a support group together for women who were bipolar. Owen and Lisa have the same doctor. A . . . Kelsey. Dr. Kelsey.” More pancakes went in. “The witness didn’t want to talk about it. Doctor patient blah, blah, blah, but she came around. I had to be a dick about it, but she came around.”

  “Hard to imagine you being a dick,” Os said.

  “Fuck you, Os.”

  “I’m going to go see this doctor today.”

  “We’re covering the job, and you’re covering her personal life. That seems like a good way to start,” Woody said.

  “What about family?” Dennis asked.

  “Only one left is her mother,” Os said, “She has Alzheimer’s and she lives in a home.”

  Woody was surprised; he hadn’t heard about Julie’s mother. “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Jerry told me,” Os said.

  Woody was about to ask when Jerry had given that tidbit of information up, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. Os wouldn’t take it well if Woody questioned him in front of Dennis.

  “Fine. So we’ll check in with each other in three hours. Whoever has time to spare will go see the mom. If she’s got Alzheimer’s, who knows what she’ll be able to tell us.”

  Dennis shovelled the rest of the pancakes into his mouth and threw the fork down. He got out of his chair and drank the rest of his coffee in one big gulp. Some of the liquid sped down his chin like a sloppy, polluted waterfall. If Dennis gave a shit about the coffee that landed on his shirt, Woody couldn’t tell.

  “Thanks for breakfast, Woody. Go fuck yourself, Os.”

  Os flipped Dennis off as he reached for the last piece of toast.

  When Dennis was outside, Woody said, “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” The toast was already gone.

  “What do you mean what? You grabbing Dennis.”

  “He was being an asshole.”

  “He’s always being an asshole. You never went off on him before.”

  “Been on my to-do list for a while. Today, I finally got around to it. What’s your problem? You don’t like him.”

  “My fucking problem, Os, is that juvenile shit slows us down. Instead of working, I’m pulling you two assholes apart like I’m Mommy.”

  Os drained his juice. “Well, Mommy, I’m sorry.” He stood up and stretched his back. “I’ll meet you down at Central. Thanks for breakfast.”

  “What are mothers for?” Woody said.

  13

  Os got behind the wheel of his Jeep. Before he started the car, he rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. The effort was useless—he was still having to work hard to keep them open. He was entering his twenty-seventh hour of no sleep. Usually, the lack of rest wasn’t a problem. Back in the day, he was doing at least two days on his feet before recharging his batteries with a few hours sleep. But he wasn’t twenty anymore. Twenty-seven hours awake was tough on days even when he didn’t see the mother of his unborn child split down the middle. It had been at least nine hours since Julie died, and the night had passed without any breaks from the Amber Alert Jerry put out. The coroner’s words about the chances of Os’s daughter living outside of an ICU diminishing every hour buzzed around in his head like an angry hornet.

  The thought of going home from the scene last night and getting some sleep had been a joke. Os couldn’t just go home; he had to keep moving. His daughter was out there, and he had to find her before too much time passed. The baby needed to be hospitalized or she would die. Os couldn’t sit at home waiting for the sun to come up and the investigation to resume. Julie worked gangs, so that was where Os would start. Usually, home life was the root cause of every crime, but most murder victims weren’t cops. And most cops didn’t work in a squad that hassled the most dangerous members of society. The body had all the markings of gang retaliation. The murder was violent, splashy, and sure to make headlines. Os needed to know who was doing the writing and what audience was supposed to get the message. Julie’s sergeant would give them what he knew, but he sat behind a desk, so he only knew what people told him. Everything that was said over a desk was filtered so that all of the rumours and theories were removed. Os wanted the facts, but he wanted the rumours too. The detective sergeant would take care of his end, and Os’s contacts would handle the other side of the street.

  After leaving Julie’s apartment, he drove downtown to a small Russian bar just off James Street. There was a sign above the door that spelled bar totally in Russian, letting everyone know who was welcome. Os couldn’t read the sign without the help of a translator, but he had business inside. He wasn’t a patron; if he had to put it into words, business associate would be a more appropriate term. The Russian mob had him by the balls, and they weren’t afraid to give them a squeeze. Of course, there was no Russian mob in Hamilton because mob implied more than one person, and in Hamilton there was only Vlad. On paper, Vlad owned a moderately successful trucking company. The business made just enough money to support the ten or so drivers and full-time secretary Vlad had on staff. The business also managed to pay for the bar, the mansion he lived in, and the Porsche he drove. The bar, house, and car came from undeclared income moving undeclared items in secret compartments in each of his trucks. Officially, Vlad’s cousins in Toronto were in the diamond business. Unofficially, they were in the “everything else that turned a profit” business. That was where Vlad came in. His trucks moved a lot of the everything else for the Russian mob in Toronto and, by extension, was a one-man satellite division sixty kilometres away. In exchange for a relaxed grip on his balls, Os gave up whatever information the Russians wanted. Every now and again when Os needed a favour, the Russians obli
ged. It wasn’t a friendly favour—the Russians knew it was in their best interest to keep Os working. They were also aware that the more favours they did, the more indebted Os was to the man inside the little Russian bar.

  Os had met Vlad the day after he put a thug in traction for “resisting arrest” outside the Russian bar. Vlad showed up at Os’s house with a video on his phone of the beating and explained that it would be the end of Os’s career and probably the cause of a prison sentence. The Russian gave Os an out—favours for silence. Os started working for Vlad, and the tape stayed out of the papers. Os was a valuable asset to the Russian, and he protected his mole often by stepping in whenever Os had gone too far with someone. There were plenty of scumbags with busted faces who would swear up and down that they were accident-prone after a visit from Vlad.

  Os hated the Russian, but there was no way out.

  The door to the bar was open, despite the late hour, and Os walked inside. The air was thick with the smell of cigarettes. The lighting in the bar was dim, and Russian music played through speakers mounted around the room. An acoustic guitar was backing a man singing a sad song. No one was at the bar. Six of the seven men inside the room were seated at a long table, playing poker. The seventh man was a bodyguard. He sat at a nearby table with only one of his hands visible.

  “Ah, hello, nigger.”

  The Russian gangster had a bowl cut that left his hair just long enough to come past his eyebrows. Vlad had an elbow on the table and he rested his forehead against the knuckles of his right hand while he examined his cards. The hand obscured the crooked nose and scarred jaw on his otherwise cherubic face. His body was doughy and soft like a baby’s, making the bodyguard a necessity. The large man seated away from the table was a constant presence, and he gave Vlad enough of a false sense of security, and swagger, to feel comfortable throwing around words like nigger in front of Os.

  The bodyguard bent to Vlad’s ear as Os got closer to the table. The Russian spoke quietly, but Os could still hear the muted Russian words. Vlad saw Os watching the conversation and switched over to loud English. “Lev, he is police. I know he has gun. But he is a loyal employee, so we will treat him like one. Leave your gun on the bar, Officer Nigger.”

  Os looked at Vlad, who was looking at his cards again, then at the other players. This was a new one. Os had shown up at the bar before, and never once had he been told to leave his gun on the bar—Vlad was showing off for someone. Os looked at the bar for a long second, and then he pulled a chair up to the table. Vlad looked up from his cards. His eyes were visible for the first time and Os could see he wasn’t happy. He nodded to the bodyguard and leaned back in his chair. He smirked—not for Os, but for the other five card players. Vlad was about to show everyone that he was top dog.

  Os let the bodyguard get close before he moved. He took one lapel of his pea coat and dragged it over far enough for the bodyguard to see the Glock and get the message: no fight here. Take the gun and please don’t hurt me. The bodyguard smiled, obviously enjoying the feeling of punking a cop. He moved beside Os and reached across his chest for the gun. It was the sloppy work of a thug who relied on bulk and intimidation to get the job done. Os waited patiently while the bodyguard’s eager hand went for the gun. When the Russian’s elbow was in front of his face, Os took hold of the dangling wrist with his right hand and gave it a tug. Os wasn’t taller than the bodyguard, but he was stronger. The bodyguard had thick arms bulked by heavy weights and hours in front of a gym mirror. His muscles were for beaches and tight t-shirts—Os had muscles made for breaking things. His arms weren’t bulky, they were lean like pythons. He had a body built on army pull-ups and special forces push-ups. He never gave up the workouts, and his body never stopped being a mean tool. The bodyguard’s arm went tight. None of the bodyguard’s muscles were of use to him when the arm was straight, and Os’s headbutt was met only with the meagre resistance the vulnerable elbow joint could muster. The arm bent the wrong way, and Lev screamed. Vlad’s smile disappeared as Os rose from the chair and planted his left foot on the ground. The judo throw known as o-soto-gari should have forced Lev’s shoulder’s back and his legs upward, sending the man’s whole body airborne, but Os altered the throw so that his leg connected sideways with the bodyguard’s knee joint. Os’s sweeping leg hit like a sledgehammer, and the screaming bodyguard went down hard. Lev writhed on the floor as his one working hand clumsily explored his two newly ruined appendages. Os eased his chair off the floor and took his time lifting it over his head. He waited until Lev noticed the eclipse created by the chair blocking the light. Lev brought his hand up to shield his face a second too late.

  Os frisked the unconscious man in under two seconds and found Lev’s gun under his belt. Os straightened and pulled another chair away from a neighbouring table. He took a seat between two of the poker players and slammed Lev’s revolver on the table. Six nervous sets of eyes watched him close.

  “Guns on the table.”

  “This is a friendly game,” Vlad said. “No guns.”

  “Shouldn’t have tried that ‘nigger’ shit, Vlad.”

  “W—what? You guys call each other that name all the time. It is cool now.”

  “Ask Lev if he thinks it’s cool.”

  “Alright, alright, calm down. I think you forget who you are talking to. Remember who holds your leash.”

  Os put his elbows on the table. “That you?”

  “It is.” Vlad sneered when he said the words.

  “That because you do me so many favours?”

  “That’s right, Officer.”

  “See, I thought it was more like a marriage of convenience. I did things for you because it was less of a hassle than dealing with you opening your mouth, and in return you did things for me to keep things even. It was about convenience, but it doesn’t seem that convenient anymore. Looks like we need to get divorced.”

  “Ahh, but you don’t want anyone to know about the things you do for me, or what I do for you.”

  Os shook his head. “I don’t. But if someone did find out, it wouldn’t be me who takes the fall.”

  “Oh, no?”

  Another head shake. “I have enough on you to go down for everything I did and still keep my pension. You walk around thinking I’m some employee and you spout off about how smart you are and the things you’ve gotten away with. I kept track of every word you said, every contact you mentioned, every crime you committed, every piece of evidence you got rid of. You rat me out, and I guarantee the Crown lawyers will let me walk. No one needs a dirty cop in the papers. And what I got on you will make every one of the lawyers happy to cut me a deal. I’m small potatoes. You’re a big stupid turnip.”

  Vlad was livid. “I’ll kill you, nigger.”

  Os had to laugh. “You need me to wait around for Lev to wake up so he can try again? Maybe you could hold up his arm for him when he pulls the trigger.”

  One of the poker players, an old man with a bald head that resembled an egg, spoke in Russian to Vlad.

  Os watched the colour drain from Vlad’s face when the message touched his ears. When he replied, his words were quiet and respectful.

  The sound of Os clearing his throat ended the Russian conversation.

  “I need to ask you a question, Vlad.”

  “You want to ask me something? Let me tell you something instead. You are dead.”

  Os took Lev’s revolver off the table and opened the chamber. He banged the butt of the gun on the table and all six bullets scattered. Os used his hand to corral them into a pile. He chose a single bullet and put it back into one of the vacant chambers. In one flick of the wrist, Os sent the chamber back into the gun, and the revolver went back down on the table.

  “I didn’t want to ruin your game, Vlad. I feel bad about that. Tell you what, we’ll play something else. You guys are all gamblers, so this should be right up your alley.”

 
; Os levelled the revolver at the bald man’s head. Whatever he had said to Vlad made the mobster look like a child being spoken to by an angry father. He was the best place to start.

  Os held the gun steady while the Russian singer wound down the end of the song. As the music faded to silence, Os pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. The noise was loud, and the old man jumped as though an electric current had run through him.

  A new song started up; this one was more upbeat.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Os didn’t answer. He swung the revolver from the old man’s head to Vlad’s, aimed it at his eye, and pulled the trigger. Another click. Os brought the gun back to the old man. The bald man’s upper lip was wet with sweat, and he fired off some fast, angry Russian at Vlad.

  “What do you want to know?” Vlad said.

  “You responsible for murdering a woman tonight? A cop?”

  “What? No!”

  Another click. The gun was back in front of Vlad. “This cop was looking into gangs. Maybe she got too good of a look?”

  “Look at yourself. Do we kill cops? No, we buy them, blackmail them. We don’t kill them.”

  “You said you were going to kill me.”

  “Not for being a cop. For being an asshole. No one kills cops these days—twenty years ago, maybe, but now that kind of thing is too much of a hassle. There are better ways of dealing with cops. Most of you are dirty, and we have lawyers to take care of the rest. The lawyers cost more than the bribes, but they are worth it.”

  Os put enough pressure on the trigger to make the hammer edge back a centimetre.

  “I swear,” Vlad said. “We had nothing to do with any cop getting killed.”

  Os eased off on the trigger and lowered the gun. “Who’s having trouble with the cops these days? Who hasn’t figured out how to deal with them like you do?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the fucking cop. Why don’t you ask them yourself?”