Evil in Hockley

by William Buckel

  “I’ll write out a deal for my lowest price on that sedan. You can either take it or leave it. Meanwhile I need a cheque for five thousand down.”

  “Go on,” said Harry.

  He made out the cheque and Sandy gave the manager her identifications.

  “The car has to be ready in two hours,” said Harry.

  “It’ll take longer than that to clean it,” said the manager.

  “Then don’t. I’m writing a cheque for the balance so the deal can be completed.”

  “Look, I have to verify you’re good for this amount. I mean it’s irregular.”

  “No you don’t because while you’re changing the ownership I’ll go and get a Bank Draft. It’s like cash buddy. Then give me back the cheques.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Yah, so finish with Sandy. I’ll get the draft.”

  Harry returned from the bank and an hour later the plates were being screwed onto the sedan. They had two service boys wiping it down and vacuuming the interior. Sandy had a week to inform her insurance broker she’d upgraded her car. He’d be one happy camper bringing in four times the premiums on the new one as opposed to her old. Harry had already volunteered to pay the first year’s premiums.

  “We’ll call this an early birthday present, okay?”

  She kissed him on the mouth.

  “Not so early. It’s in a month.”

  “So how old will you be then?”

  “Do the math. I was Jarrod’s age, remember?”

  “That means you’ll be…”

  She held her hand over his mouth.

  “Never say a ladies’ age in public.”

  Harry drove to Tony Moore’s house in Tottenham, a half hour east on Highway 9, then five minutes north on Tottenham Road. He’d inherited his parents house outside of town, an old wood siding house in disrepair. At least that’s where he lived three years ago. Sandy did exactly as she was told and followed at a distance almost out of sight, armed to the teeth with hair spray and a Swiss army knife.

  There was only one car in the lane and he wondered if it belonged to Karma or Tony. As he drove by he noticed the rusty fenders on the old sedan and knew Karma would never drive a car like that. She was a whore but a classy one. Harry scouted the area while Sandy hung back.

  He found a grassy lane and parked his Cuda then slipped under and grabbed his weapon from the metal case. He snuck along the woods to an empty field one hundred yards from the house. He stuck his Beretta in his pants and pushed his jacket over it. He crossed the open space as though on a nature walk, eyeing the house for signs of movement.

  Harry walked around the back of the house and peeked through a break in the curtains then repeated it at every window. Tony was dead to the world on the living room sofa. The back door was locked but a key was in the old hiding place near the eves. He searched the house finding no one inside then stood over the sleeping Tony.

  Harry pulled his weapon then tapped Tony across the cheek. He woke, stoned, and through squinting eyes stared at the gun.

  “Hey bro, how’s it going?”

  Bang. Harry fired a shot through Tony Moore’s knee.

  “You fucking bastard!”

  Tony rolled off the couch onto the carpet.

  “I did that to get your attention. Now tell me what’s going on or I’ll take out the other one.”

  Tony rolled over in pain groaning but aware.

  “I don’t know a fucking thing. You got to believe me. I was told you had to be eliminated, that’s all. Sorry buddy but old Joe’s holding all the aces. I follow his orders or I’m a dead man.”

  Harry knew Moore didn’t have the resolve to stand against anyone or anything including the Beretta in his hand. He’d talk if he had anything to say. He was weak before he started using but even weaker now. Karma would be the driving force that kept Tony out of the gutter. He almost felt sorry for his old friend and would have, had Tony not been so adamant in killing him the night before.

  “We’re even for the swim you made me take, old buddy. Stay out of my way. If you don’t I will kill you Tony.”

  Harry left the house knowing he was no closer to solving the mystery surrounding his brother’s death. Sandy was waiting at the end of the lane in case he needed to make a quick getaway. She was a natural at this backup business. Harry wanted to wait for Karma but then he decided there would be nothing to gain. If she did tell him anything he would only put the emphasis on her and that could mean a beating or worse. If she did know anything Joe Sharky would have her dealt with in his own way.

  At least Harry knew where Joe dumped his bodies. He called the local police and told them he’d seen two men in a boat throw a body into the reservoir last night, anonymously of course. He hung up hoping there’d be more corpses and they could be tied to Sharky. What a thing to hope for he thought.

  The next stop was Shelley’s apartment in Alliston only ten minutes north. He’d simply looked in the phone book for a Shelley Rosella. Harry had hidden his Beretta under his Cuda again in case Moore reported him to the police. Tony wouldn’t do that of course without checking with Joe Sharky first. Joe would know better realizing that lawmen rutting through his affairs could never be a positive move. Moore would be told to report a gun accident. It would, in all probability, end there.

  Harry claimed Joe Sharky had sent him to deliver Shelley’s pay cheque. Shelley’s room mate told Harry she’d moved out last night leaving no forwarding address. He believed the woman because of her constant bickering about being left with the full month’s rent. She showed him the empty bedroom and closet. He was given her cell phone number which was something at least.

  In the car he dialled her number but got nothing. It had been a long day without collecting one scrap of information. He dialled Sandy’s cell and told her to head home. She was out of sight but knew she’d be watching from some cubby hole.

  The following morning Sandy shook Harry awake.

  “It’s on the news. They found two bodies in the reservoir yesterday.”

  Something all of a sudden dawned on him. Although they hadn’t actually seen Sandy, Sharky would connect her to him. Who else would it be?

  “You have to watch your ass Sandy. You can tie Moore and the bouncer to me and the reservoir. They work for Sharky. It would be a hard case to make but it would put unwanted heat on Joe.”

  Sandy shook her head.

  “There’s nothing his legal eagles wouldn’t flush down the toilette. He keeps himself distant from the criminal end of his operation. I watch reality TV Harry. I know my stuff.”

  She laughed.

  Chapter 10

  Joe Sharky paced as he stared at Tony Moore.

  “I send you and a team of four to take out one man and you blew it. Not only that but he shot you the next day. Un-fucking believable.”

  Joe paced while Tony hung his head.

  Bobby Mercer, Joe’s right hand man said,

  “Boss.”

  He waited for permission to speak because when Joe Sharky was in a sadistic mood you’d best go out to the tool shed and get a shovel.

  “Go ahead Bobby.”

  “I think we need professional help with this Tanner. One don’t survive in the Middle East where he’s been, on luck alone. From what I hear he’s used to dealing against the odds.”

  “Is there an end point to this Bobby, cause if there is get to it.”

  “The preacher’s in town. I can have him here tomorrow. He’s expensive but he always gets results. This Tanner could stir up a lot of crap for us. He has already. I got to keep my head down on account of the law’s buzzing all over the place. Two dead bodies and people want answers. One was Terry Marshall and you know he ties in to us.”

  “So? He worked for me, so what? There’s no smoking gun.”

  Joe paced and thought then eyed Tony Moore.

  “All right Bobby. Get Reverend Dean after we finish with Tony.”

  “Boss. Not meaning to tell you y
our business but the preacher likes things untouched. He says he needs the mood of the moment or some kind of crap. He’ll deal with Moore, his own way.”

  Bobby swallowed then added,

  “If that’s okay with you boss?”

  At a time like this when Joe Sharky had to call in a professional there was a short fuse burning somewhere inside the man. He was liable to shoot anyone in the room not excluding the bar tender.

  It was the last thing Bobby expected. Joe laughed.

  “You handle it Bobby. I got a business to run.”

  Bobby Mercer drove to Toronto along Lakeshore to an abandoned building on Front Street. At the truck entrance he pressed the button on the intercom, gave his name, and asked permission to enter. The door opened and he drove in then stopped his car and stepped out. Sitting at a desk in the abandoned warehouse was Reverend John Dean.

  Reverend Dean stood: he was a formidable height, over six feet tall, and had a solid frame sporting wide shoulders. He wasn’t black yet he wasn’t white, his skin tone somewhere between two extremes. He had jet black hair that hung to his shoulders in ringlets. Bobby guessed he was about thirty years old. The man was awe-inspiring especially when he spoke. He had a low bass voice that seemed to vibrate through a room and could be felt as well as heard.

  “You honour us with your presence. Is your visit business or pleasure?”

  The Reverend had another quirk Bobby liked: a slight French accent that added class to the already astounding figure.

  “Business today. We got a problem and need professional help. A man by the name of Harry Tanner has…”

  “One man?”

  “One man. Some kind of Terrorist assassin so I hear. Deadly as shit.”

  “All right, but one man or ten the price is still the same.”

  “No problem. I know the drill. Just give me the account number and I’ll wire the money.”

  Bobby had seen her before but she always took his breath away. She was almost six feet tall and had a figure like a statue. She had the same skin colour as the Reverend and black hair that hung to her shoulders in ringlets. She wore a black halter top and a short black skirt. Over it all was draped a black robe, open in the front, that fluttered as she walked.

  She was Lenea, a Voodoo priestess.

  Bobby knew they were both originally from New Orleans. They were Creole, a mixture of French and African with a little American native thrown in.

  The reverend said,

  “We’re taking a little detour north, to help Bobby with a problem. We leave immediately. Is that satisfactory?”

  In a low soft voice she said,

  “I don’t like polar bears.”

  The Reverend gave a low throaty laugh.

  “Not that far north.”

  She left again probably to pack.

  “Same place?” asked John Dean.

  “Yup. No change.”

  “Until tomorrow then.”

  With that John Dean turned and walked away and Bobby got back in his car then drove home.

  Bobby Mercer stood beside Joe Sharky and they watched as a limo and a black sedan entered the parking lot. A long motor home made it’s way to the south end of the lot and parked on the grass. Bobby knew this model was worth a half a million. Two men climbed out of the sedan and directed a truck to a spot near the motor home.

  The drivers of the motor home, truck, and two workers unloaded a large tent then pitched it on the grass. Tables, chairs, and a barbeque were set under the tent which was about fifty feet square. The entire process took two hours. Finally John Dean and Lenea climbed out of the limo. Lenea went to the motor home and the reverend walked into the bar.

  John Dean paced: not the nervous way Joe Sharky did but a deliberate sizing up of the room. It was as though he was visualizing every detail, sniffing the air at different spots, and delicately touching surfaces. He would touch a tabletop then smell the ends of his fingertips.

  He finally asked for Tony Moore.

  The room was silent as Tony was escorted from a backroom into the tavern. He was tied and gagged. The reverend released him from his bonds and led him to the motor home. Bobby knew that Tony’s life would take a desperate turn for the worse.

  It was early in the day. Staff and customers had not yet come to work. A blood curdling scream came from the motor home loud enough to frighten birds from their sanctuaries in the trees. Bobby knew it was the sound created when a soul was torn from the body. He turned to Joe and said,

  “I think the reverend is letting you know he’s on the clock.”

  Chapter 11

  Harry Tanner drove south on Airport Road from Mono Mills to the sleepy town of Caledon East. Halfway there he stopped at a set of lights in the middle of nowhere, only farmer’s homes and fields on either side of the road. Not only were there traffic lights but other flashing signals in amber or red to alert drivers that there indeed were traffic lights in the middle of this desolate stretch of highway: Traffic lights as majestic as ones found in any city.

  There existed a side road that connected to Airport Road and ran west toward Caledon. Caledon East was five kilometres south of the lights and Caledon so why did they called it Caledon East?

  A stranger question to answer.

  Why the lights?

  It was a three road intersection. On the east side, of the side road, was a steep downhill that led to a swamp. If one were headed east from Caledon on the side road and if one wasn’t paying attention one would overshoot the intersection travelling on a road that didn’t exist and be vaulted into the swamp a couple of hundred feet below. No matter how many amber warning lights and speed bumps the town installed a few people every year seemed to merrily drive through all warning signs into the swamp.

  Tow trucks would be called and the police filled out reports. Rumour had it that a police officer put a cruiser into the well travelled swamp one night. Which seemed to justify calling it a dangerous intersection and thereby a need for extra cautionary lights.

  Clive Willowby had told Harry that the intersection was so well lit at night a small plane pilot had landed on Airport Road thinking it was a runway at Pearson International. Harry didn’t believe it although it was a hilarious tale, one only Clive could tell.

  Harry paid his house taxes at the Town Office in Caledon East then stopped at the grocery store to stock up. He also made a pit stop at the local LCBO and picked up a badly needed bottle of whiskey. The circumstances around his brother’s death would surely drive him to drink.

  He passed his house on the way home to get a coffee for himself and Sandy at the local donut shop. He passed a shop built while he was in the Middle East. They tore down an old historical site (with permission of course) that used to be an old General Store. In its heyday they sold everything from nails to bread and for over a hundred years was the entire shopping centre for the area.

  Across the road from the General Store used to stand a hotel. It burned down half a century ago and Harry wondered about the story behind that. There was a mill at the river across the highway where they ground flour but that too was abandoned over fifty years before. Unfortunately over a hundred years ago the railway ran through Orangeville bypassing Mono Mills. One flourished, the other dwindled.

  Harry found it amusing that people had lived and died buying all they needed from that single General Store and today two hundred acres of shopping mall in Orangeville wasn’t enough to satisfy everyone. People drove to the Toronto and area shops.

  Harry picked up coffee and gassed up his Cuda then went home to Sandy. She was busy surfing the net, searching for every reference in regards to Joe Sharky and his enterprises. He had several businesses, some rather unusual, having nothing to do with his exploits north of Hockley.

  Harry dialled Shelley’s number. A male voice answered, low and authoritative.

  “Hello Mr. Tanner.”

  Harry wondered how he knew. Shelley wouldn’t have his number or caller ID.

  “You seem to kno
w me. Who am I speaking to?”

  “A friend. I have information you’d like to speak to Shelley.”

  There was a pause as though the other party wanted Harry’s confirmation.

  “That’s right.”

  “I can arrange it Mr. Tanner.”

  He called Harry mister but it sounded a tad sarcastic the way he said it.

  “Where and when?”

  “Anytime. She’s at Tony Moore’s house.”

  Harry chuckled.

  “My mother didn’t raise idiots. If you think I’m walking into that house, you’re nuts.”

  “I guarantee your safety Mr. Tanner. Drive to the house: Tony, Shelley, and I will be waiting. You will come to no harm. We would like to show you we have nothing to hide.”

  “Who the hell are you and why would you care?”

  “My name is John Dean and I’m working for Joe Sharky to resolve a misunderstanding that seems to have developed between you and my client.”

  Harry knew a bullet between Joe’s eyes would be the only resolution he was likely to accept.

  “Mr. Tanner, are you still with us?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Let’s suppose for a moment that Joe didn’t kill your brother. The murderer, if in fact there is one, will go free. What evidence do you have that he was indeed killed by Mr. Sharky? The police seem satisfied that it was an accident.”

  Harry realised his evidence didn’t amount to much. The bumper mark on the bike could have been there a week before Jarrod hit the ditch. But Joe had tried to drown him in the reservoir for merely asking a few questions.

  “Mr. Tanner, we’ll be waiting. Come and check us out. You’ll see it’s not a trap and we’ll talk. Just you and I, and Shelley of course.”

  John Dean hung up.

  Sally asked who called.

  “No one you know. I’ve been invited to a bull session at Moore’s house.”

  “It’s a trap. You can’t go.”

  “I’m going to check it out.”