When the Killing Starts

by Ted Wood

  The more I thought about it, the madder I got. A deal's a deal. I don't make many of them, not about money, anyway, but when I do, I keep my end of it, and I expect the other party to keep his. Maybe if you're rich enough, the rules don't apply. Or maybe there had been some kind of screwup and a fresh check and an apology were on their way to me right now. Maybe.

  It was already five o'clock. I'd missed the Michaels empire for this working day. Maybe I should wait until the morning and present myself at his office. I dismissed that one. They would kick me out without a kind word. No, the best idea was to go and call on him. Which left only one question. Where did he live?

  I solved that one before going any further. I called Irv Goldman in Toronto. He's a former partner of mine, a detective in 52 Division, which is in the heart of the city, down where the slums give way to pink-painted renovations. Part of his beat is the financial district. He would know where to find Michaels.

  He had come on duty at three and was in the office tidying up the paperwork on some stockbroker with sticky fingers. He stopped his running to answer me. "Michaels? It was his kid involved with those mercenaries, right? Saw it on the update when I started."

  "Right. That's my connection with him. I got the kid out, with some help from George Horn from the Harbour."

  We chewed that one over until he had enough news to take home to Dianne at the end of his shift. Then he got back to the problem at hand. "Yeah, while we were chatting here, I had my partner check out Michaels's home address for you. Rosedale, as you'd expect. Got a pencil?"

  I wrote down the address and thanked him. "I'm going to play this one by ear. He owes me the money, and George and I got shot at earning it, so I want it. But I won't do anything physical."

  "Please don't." Irv laughed. "You've used up all the goodwill there is in town, stirring up those mercenaries. I was listening to the superintendent when the news came in. He called you a goddamn cowboy. Said it was a good job you'd left the department when you did."

  "He's right there, anyway," I said. "Thanks for the information, Irv. Say hi to Dianne for me."

  "Yeah. Same to Fred. When's she getting back, anyway?" I told him, and he groaned. "Take plenny o' cold showers," he advised, and hung up.

  The doctor at Fayette had given us each a tube of salve, and I put a little on my burns, then dressed in a better pair of slacks, city clothes, pulled a light jacket out of the closet, and set out for Toronto with Sam in the rear seat.

  Now that I had no timetable, I kept my speed down to the limit, checking the changes in the city as I eased into it through its thickening waistline. It seems there are apartments out for thirty miles these days, big filing cabinets for all the human material that keeps the money pumping out of the stone-and-glass towers downtown. At seven in the evening the roads were still filled with homebound cars, most of them with a tired yuppy and a briefcase full of problems to be checked out after supper and the mandatory half hour's quality time with the kids.

  It made me think. No matter what kind of decision I came to about my job at the Harbour, there was no way I could ever be an executive. Being tied to a desk eight or ten hours a day would be worse than a prison sentence. I guess my options are narrower than some people's.

  The Michaels house was in Rosedale, the old-money section of Toronto. Most of the old houses have been split up into the kind of apartment it takes two solid incomes to afford. More reason for sweating in an office, if that was your idea of a great life.

  Sam lifted his head when I got out of the car. I wound the window down and told him, "Keep." It wasn't likely that any of the neighbors would try to rip anything off, but old habits die hard, and Sam was the only antitheft insurance I needed.

  A housemaid answered the door, and I asked to speak to Mr. Michaels. I guess he didn't get many guys with burned faces knocking on his door, so she asked snootily who she might say was calling.

  "Colonel Dunphy," I said on a hunch, and she left me standing in the hall while she tritch-tratched over a parquet floor the length of a tennis court to a front room. I heard her murmuring, and then a woman's voice answered, and the maid came back.

  "Come in, please," she said. I'd have bet most of the male guests were called Sir in that house, but what the hell. I followed her and came into a big room lined with books. A woman in her late forties was sitting on a spindly-legged couch that had been bought for its looks, not its comfort. She had a silver coffeepot and one cup in front of her. She gave the maid an automatic smile and asked her to bring another cup. Then she waved me to a seat across from her. "Sit down, please. My husband is out, but perhaps I can help."

  I sat and waited. If she was going to lead the conversation, I could learn something. She sat and looked at me and said nothing until the maid came back with another cup and saucer. She took it and asked, "Coffee?"

  "Please." I got up and accepted the cup, then sat again.

  "I assume you've come about Jason," she said.

  "Yes. I was hoping to see your husband about a financial arrangement we had made."

  "And what kind of arrangement was that, Mr. Dunphy?" Her voice was under tight control, and I could tell she had rehearsed this scene a number of times, and I wondered why. She had obviously never met Dunphy. She didn't like him, or she would have addressed me by his rank. What was going on. I decided it was time to change her line of thought.

  "To begin with, Mrs. Michaels, I'm not Dunphy. I used the name because I thought your husband would see me if I did and would refuse to if I used my own name."

  She cocked her head to one side quickly; it was almost coquettish, and I realized that she was still a very attractive woman and that staying that way took up most of her energy.

  "Why would you assume that?"

  "Because your husband has just reneged on a deal I made with his representative. I was to receive a sum of money for getting your son back from the outfit he had joined. I did that, at considerable risk and discomfort. Now I find he's stopped payment on the check I was given. I'm here to ask why and to get my money."

  "What did this representative look like?" Her voice was icy. She knew what was going on, but she was getting some kind of masochistic kick out of having me draw pictures for her. Complex lives these rich people live.

  "Is that relevant, Mrs. Michaels? I spoke to your husband this morning when I'd brought Jason out as far as a police station close to North Bay. He assured me then that our contract stood. Now I find the check has bounced, and I wonder what's going on."

  "Was it a woman?" she persisted.

  "Yes. And even if it makes you angry, I should tell you that she represented herself to be Jason's mother."

  She put her coffee cup down and clenched her fists in her lap. "Of all the unmitigated gall," she hissed.

  "Look, I'm sorry. In fact, I'm sorry I ever got involved in this whole episode. I could have put in the last couple of days far more enjoyably at the dentist. I got the boy away, under fire. I delivered him to North Bay, where your company jet was waiting, and then found I've been stiffed for my pay. I'm angry."

  She cocked her head again, defiantly this time. "Welcome to the club," she said. "There is a great deal of anger under this roof."

  "When do you expect your husband home?" The hell with her problems. She could sit here in splendor being mad. I needed the money to get George through his next year of law school and to give me a start on whatever new career I chose.

  She countered with another question. The obvious one. "If your name isn't Dunphy, what is it, please?"

  "Reid Bennett. I'm the police chief of a small town in Muskoka, currently on vacation."

  "Thank you, Mr. Bennett. And how much money are you owed?"

  She had stood up and gone over to a writing table. Good. She was about to write the check, and I was going to smile and leave. I thought.

  "Twenty-five thousand dollars. I have the returned check here if you would like to see it."

  She whirled around. "Twenty-five thousand
dollars? You expect me to write a check of that magnitude? On your say-so?"

  "I expect somebody to write it. My deal was to save your son from almost certain death in this cockamamy mercenary outfit. In doing so, I've been shot at and had people trying to burn me alive. I don't think there's a regular pay scale for that kind of task, but I wouldn't have attempted it for any less."

  She had frozen, so I stood up. "Obviously this is something I have to take up with your husband, Mrs. Michaels. If you could tell me when you expect your husband, I'll go."

  Now she went back to her couch and sat down again, glancing up and waving at me vaguely. "Sit down, please. It isn't that simple. I'm sorry."

  When in Rome. I sat and waited for her to speak. She fiddled with her coffee cup, adjusting it into the very center of the tray, then looked up at me. "I'm sure you find all this very unusual," she said.

  "Unique, in my experience. I'd like to know what's going on. Like why are you mad at Dunphy? You've obviously never met him."

  "You're very perceptive," she said, her voice just this side of sarcastic. Then she realized what she was doing and shook her head. "I'm sorry, that came out bitchy. No, I wanted to meet Dunphy because of the hold he had over Jason."

  I cocked my head as she had done. "What kind of hold? Last I saw of Dunphy he was trying to kill all of us, including Jason."

  "He gave Jason a sense of pride that was lacking." She got up again and brought a cigarette box from a table against the window, opening it and flapping it at me. I shook my head, and she took a cigarette and lit up.

  "Jason is arrogant, I grant you. But he has no sense of self."

  "You mean you encouraged him to join a mercenary group so he could find himself? Something like that?"

  "My husband did. In fact, he paid Mr. Dunphy a big bonus to take Jason."

  I frowned. Who was it said the rich are different from the rest of us. "But didn't he know the boy would be in danger? What kind of a father would do that?"

  She sucked on her cigarette with a greedy gasp. "I suppose I should explain," she said. "My husband is not Jason's father."

  FOURTEEN

  I held up one hand to head her off. "Look, Mrs. Michaels. I don't need to know any of this. I'm sorry your life has been so complicated. As soon as I've been paid for services rendered, I'll leave."

  "I wish I could do that," she said. She looked around. There was an onyx ashtray on the table by the window, but instead of getting up for it, she butted her cigarette in the saucer of her demitasse and looked up at me with a half smile on her face. "You put it very well. Payment for services rendered. That would suit me perfectly."

  I stood up. "I'm a cop, not a marriage counselor, Mrs. Michaels. If you'll just tell me how I can contact your husband, I'll take it up with him."

  "You can wait for him here," she said, and her sexuality made the hair tingle on the back of my neck. I don't have to brush women off as commonly as some men do, so I've never developed the skill. She didn't care, anyway; she had decided to play games with me.

  "I've imposed enough on your time," I said, but she wasn't buying.

  "Don't mention it. My husband won't be very long. Perhaps you'd care for a drink while you wait." She turned away to one of the lower bookshelves and moved a book, and the shelf swung open on a big array of bottles. "What will it be? Vodka, scotch. No, let me guess." She turned to look at me, her left index finger on her lower lip. "I'll bet you're a vanishing breed. I'll bet you drink rye."

  "I didn't come here to socialize. This is business, and I'd like to keep it that way."

  She lost patience. "Don't be such a goddamn tightass. Have a drink with me." She took out a bottle of Canadian Club and sloshed a couple of tumblers half full. "Come on."

  She was going to be mad no matter what I did. Better she should be mad and sober, but if I didn't make some concession, she would tell me nothing. "If you need company, I'll trade you," I said roughly. "You give me directions for getting to your husband, and I'll drink your rye."

  She looked at me with her eyes wide with surprise. "Deal," she said hoarsely, and handed me the drink.

  I didn't take it. "First, where can I meet your husband?"

  "He's at the Yorkton Yacht Club. He may sleep aboard his boat, or he may be on the last ferry. I never know."

  "Thanks." I took the glass from her and looked at it. She'd poured about six ounces. "Trying to get me hammered?"

  "You look like a growing boy," she said happily, and I knew she was an alcoholic. She would have euphemisms for everything. Drinks this size would be "family size" or "executive specials." You never got a second drink; it would always be "the other half." Boy! This was a weird family. She raised her own glass, which was just as full, and took a quick gulp. Then she set it down on the coffee table and reached for another cigarette.

  "I don't drink often," she said, "but when I do, it brings out all my vices."

  For the moment she was happy, the bubble-thin happiness of the drunk with just enough booze on hand to keep the rats at bay. Soon she would get either maudlin or murderous. I planned to be gone by then, but in the meantime I dug for information.

  "Jason told me that he's about to come into money. Would this account for your husband's trying to get him out of circulation for a while?"

  She lit her cigarette and held it in the corner of her mouth as she cocked her head back and blew smoke. She looked like a hardworking hooker when the fleet's in. "Inquisitive son of a bitch, aren't you?" she said in what she probably thought was a roguish voice.

  "If it's going to help me get paid, I'd like to know."

  "You'll get paid," she said, and laughed.

  "I mean for services already rendered." I grinned to show her I wasn't mad.

  She nipped at her drink again, grimacing slightly. Another sign that she was an alcoholic. I've never met a really dedicated drinker who likes the taste of the stuff. Moderate drinkers quit when it stops tasting good. Alcoholics punish themselves with every mouthful. "Let me tell you a story," she said, and then laughed and added, "A bedtime story."

  "Go ahead." I wasn't going to flirt with her.

  "Once upon a time there was a young debutante." She looked at me to make sure I wasn't laughing. "Really. We used to do that kind of thing in this town, once. Anyway, she fell for her tennis coach, and the next thing you knew, she couldn't button her school blazer. So her father, a tough bastard—you remind me of him in some ways—he did the proper thing."

  "Which was?" I could see it coming, but as long as she was talking, I might learn something, and she wouldn't be rushing to pour more drinks.

  "He bought her a husband." She laughed. "Really. The best that money could buy. Charming, intelligent, ambitious. And they got married, and people sent them toasters and place settings from the bridal list she opened at Birks, and six months later the baby was born."

  "Sounds like a lot of people's stories." I wanted her mad enough to brag about her problems. That way I'd get through the crust and into the truth, the facts that would make sense of what was going on.

  "You mean, and they all lived miserably ever after?" She laughed a little raggedly. "Yeah. Well, they did. At least the debutante did. The husband got to be really good at handling her father's money, built up an empire and took a mistress. The baby grew up pampered by the mother, hated by the nominal father."

  "This still doesn't explain why the father would want him killed." I pretended to sip my drink. Two ounces was all I planned to drink. The rest could go to irrigate the dieffenbachia that stood in a corner.

  "It does when you get all the facts." She was being very lucid all of a sudden. I guessed she was one of those people who need a drink to get them thinking straight. If she stuck to one a day, she'd be a genius.

  "And what are the facts, Mrs. Michaels?"

  She went coy on me. "Unless you're a lawyer or a whole lot squarer than you look, why don't you call me Norma?" she suggested, and I worked out that she must be in her fifties. The mos
t recent star with the same name was Norma Shearer, last seen riding into the sunset in the middle thirties.

  "Okay, Norma. What are the facts? This is one hell of an interesting story."

  "I'm glad you appreciate that," she said. "The facts are that my late father could see how the company he had built was passing out of his control. He'd retired, and my husband had moved in on his territory, expanding and making money but stepping on Daddy's pride." I listened and nodded, knowing now how rich she was. Only the very rich around here refer to their old man as Daddy.

  She was continuing, more theatrically now, as the rye took a tighter hold on her. "So Daddy changed his will. He locked a chunk of the company off into a trust for Jason when he turned twenty-one."

  "And Jason hasn't made a will?" Not many guys of twenty do. They all figure they're going to live forever.

  "Exactly. And with the stranglehold that son of a bitch has on everything, he'll break the trust and keep the whole thing."

  She was growing more tense, as if she were up on a high board over a swimming pool, wanting to climb down but ashamed to give in. Very good, Bennett. If the rich need analysis, they can pay some shrink. All you need is your money, remember?

  "The only thing that doesn't make sense is why this woman would come to me pretending to be Jason's mother and ask me to get him back."

  She drained her drink and reached for the rye bottle. "Beats the hell out of me," she said. "Why don't you go ask her? She lives at Prince Arthur Place. Her name is Alison Beatty."

  The idea made sense. I would probably find Michaels Senior there with his shoes off and a drink in his hand. But this woman didn't need reminding of that. I shook my head. "No, all this is irrelevant to me. I got Jason out as I contracted. Now I just want to get paid what I was promised and I'll go." I stood up. "Thank you for your rye and your time."

  She froze with the uncapped bottle in her hand and gave a little cry of distress. "You're not going? You haven't even finished your drink."

  "I've had my quota. Thank you." I put the glass down, and she picked it up, setting down the bottle and holding my glass in both hands like a magician on stage. She smiled craftily and raised my glass to her mouth and licked her lips slowly, a move that reminded me of photos in girlie magazines I'd seen as a kid. Then she drained the glass. It's a pity burlesque is dead. She could have made a fortune.