Buffalo Jump

by Howard Shrier

  “So the challenge you present me, as I understand it, is to delay that truck for at least one hour without arousing suspicion.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “No?”

  “It’s a pharmacy,” he said. “They got rubbing alcohol and whatnot on the shelves?”

  “Sure.”

  “They got a sprinkler system?”

  “One would think.”

  He took out his slim gold lighter, flipped open the top and rolled the flint wheel until a steady flame appeared. “Then I got everything else I need.”

  I sat in Ryan’s Volvo watching Laura Silver through my field glasses as she pulled weeds from a bed of pink and white impa-tiens in front of her house. Lucas was on the same multicoloured tricycle I had seen in Ryan’s surveillance photo, riding up and down the mutual drive between the Silvers’ house and their neighbour’s. Laura was wearing jeans and a light denim shirt, a worn straw hat perched atop her hair. Her work gloves were muddy, so whenever sweat began to run down her face, she wiped it away with her bare forearm.

  She stopped to take a long drink from a bottle of spring water and then called Lucas over. “Come have a drink, honey.”

  He pedalled up the drive toward her, helmet askew atop his dark curls, bare tanned legs pumping as fast as they could, making vroom vroom sounds with his mouth and sounding at least as good as my Camry. When he reached Laura, he got off the tricycle and drank greedily from her bottle until water spilled down his chin and the front of his shirt.

  I got out of the car and walked slowly, casually, toward the house. Lucas was squatting beside Laura as she pulled up a clump of spiny weeds, digging a trowel into the earth to make sure she got the roots.

  “What are you doing?” I heard him ask.

  “Getting rid of weeds.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they won’t let the flowers grow if I leave them there.”

  “They look cactusy.”

  “That’s why Mama wears gloves, honey. So those little thorns won’t prick me.” Lucas picked a small trowel from a set of coloured plastic tools and began copying his mother’s movements.

  “Mrs. Silver?”

  She twisted around, still on her haunches, a startled look on her face.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

  She stood up and placed herself squarely between me and Lucas. She had sea-green eyes and smooth tanned skin and a light spray of freckles across her nose. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Is your husband home?” Not the single smartest question, perhaps, to ask a woman standing alone with her child.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Jonah Geller. I’m a private investigator.” I held out my photo ID for her to look at. She glanced back at Lucas, then took off one glove and came close enough to reach for my card. After examining it, she handed it back and asked again what I wanted.

  “Just something I need to discuss with Jay.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “We met the other day.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not feeling well.”

  “I know. They told me at the store.”

  “And you came anyway? What’s so important that you’d disturb a sick man at home?”

  “That’s between me and your husband.”

  “I don’t think so. Tell me what it’s about or get off my property.”

  Her steady gaze told me two things: I wasn’t going to get past her; and she might be the right person to talk to. Someone who might make Jay come clean better than I could, and without having to punch him in the mouth.

  I plunged in. “In the course of a recent investigation, I came across information that suggested there was a threat against your family.”

  Any hint of pleasantness left her features. Her brows lowered and her mouth tightened into a thin line. “What kind of threat? To harm us? Is this some kind of … of blackmail?

  “I’m trying to save your lives.”

  “From what?”

  “It involves your husband,” I said, which drew me an even darker look. “Anything more, I’ll just have to repeat to him, so why don’t the three of us sit down for a minute—or stand out here if we have to—and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  She backed away from me, holding the trowel in front of her. Clumps of black soil dropped from it onto her deck shoes. “Lucas,” she said. “Go ring the bell and ask Daddy to come out. And tell him to bring his phone—can you remember that?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Call Daddy.”

  “And?”

  “Ask him to bring his phone.”

  “Good boy,” she said. “Then you can watch a show if you want.”

  His little face lit up with delight. “Already?”

  “Honey, you’ve been such a good helper, you can watch an episode of Thomas.”

  “Yay!” he cried and skipped up the walk to the door.

  “Let me see your licence again,” Laura Silver said, holding out her bare hand; the other still gripped the trowel. I handed her my ID and she looked at it intently, checking my face against the photo. When she gave it back, she said, “I’ve memorized your details, Mr. Geller, and I’m warning you: if this is some kind of sick attempt on your part to generate business, I will have your professional association and the police all over you.”

  “Laura,” I said, “it’s nothing like that.”

  She was startled by my use of her first name—which was why I had used it. “Well, what is it?”

  I said the one thing I thought might get her past the idea that I was the one posing the threat. “Tikkun olam.”

  “What?”

  “Oh. I thought you’d know—”

  “I know what it means. But what does repairing the world have to do with my family?”

  Jay Silver chose that moment to make his entrance at the front door, a cellphone in one hand and a golf club in the other. He started fast down the walkway.

  “Hon? What’s going on?” he called. “Lucas said I should come out with my phone. Who is this guy? Is he bothering you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Laura said.

  “Get away from my wife, you.” He sounded sterner than he had on the loading dock of his store, when Frank had slapped him for talking back. I moved away from Laura and held my hands up in a surrender position, trying to appear non-threatening.

  Silver was wearing a loose sweatshirt and baggy khakis and hadn’t shaved. He might well have been ill. His eyes were red and puffy and his skin had a sallow cast to it. He shaded his eyes with his hands and looked me over.

  “Wait a second. I know you,” he said. “The loading dock. You knew my name.”

  “Lot of good it did me.”

  “I was afraid—I thought—”

  “You thought Claudio got rid of me.”

  “He said he knew you, Jay,” Laura said. “That you met at the store.”

  The simple fact that it was true seemed to throw Silver off.

  “What is going on, Jay? Who’s Claudio?”

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s do this inside.”

  “Do what?” Silver demanded.

  She walked over to him and spoke quietly, her hands clenched into fists. He leaned his head down so she didn’t have to strain upward, an old habit between spouses with whispered secrets to share. Then his head snapped up at something she said and he glared at me hotly. I centred my weight and let my limbs go loose in case he took a run at me. He handed the phone to Laura and hefted the golf club in his hand. An iron, at least, not a wood; if he connected with my head he wouldn’t be able to drive it more than thirty, forty yards tops.

  “What’s this bullshit about a threat to my family?”

  “It’s not bullshit and you know it.”

  “Get off my property,” he said.

  “Who told you to stay home today?” I asked.

&nb
sp; “Nobody,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Was it Frank?”

  Laura’s head was swivelling back and forth between us as if she were watching a tennis match. “Frank who?”

  “Was it Steven Stone?”

  He gripped the club more tightly, trying to maintain a fierce glare, but I could see it ebbing little by little.

  “Put the club down, Jay. Let’s talk while it can do you some good.”

  “You think I’m afraid of you?”

  “No reason to be,” I said. “I’m here to help.”

  “I don’t need your help. Now get in your car and drive away before I cave your damn head in.” He drew the club back and took a few steps toward me. He was way out of shape. Probably had never been in any shape to begin with. His weight was too far forward and he had the club too far behind him for a short swing. He should have been thinking baseball, not golf.

  “Claudio couldn’t handle me, Jay,” I said. “You really think you can?”

  He didn’t answer. He charged like a demented bull and took a swing that would have taken a divot out of my skull had I stayed where I was. Instead I did what he least expected: I charged back at him. With his long, looping swing, I was able to get inside its arc, grab the shaft of the club and pull in the direction of his swing. The club stayed in my hand. A three wood. He tumbled over my hip and onto the grass. I snapped the club over my thigh, but only after confirming it was graphite, not steel; it was the club I wanted to break, not my leg. I tossed the two pieces under his car and went over to Silver. Laura was already huddled over him.

  “Now can we talk?” I asked.

  “Call the police,” he groaned. “Tell them I was attacked.”

  Laura flipped open the phone he had given her.

  “If you’re going to call the cops,” I said, “try Homicide. Ask for Detective Sergeant Hollinger.”

  Laura asked who at the same time that Jay asked why.

  “They’re investigating Kenneth Page’s murder.”

  “Now I know you’re full of it,” he insisted. “Ken wasn’t murdered. It was—”

  “A carjacking? By a guy who didn’t want the car? I don’t think so. And neither do the police, by the way. It was a professional hit, Jay, just like the one that’s been put out on you. And Laura. And Lucas.”

  Laura Silver looked absolutely stricken, as though she were about to collapse to the ground. But she didn’t look nearly as bad as Jay. He knew what I was saying was true. She leaned over her husband and spoke in an urgent whisper. I couldn’t hear a word she said. But Jay Silver did. And when she was done talking he got up and walked over to me slowly.

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

  “The Internet was the best thing that ever happened to my business,” Silver said. We were sitting in my car with the engine off, a slight cross breeze blowing through the open windows. Laura had gone inside to stay with Lucas. Silver had promised to tell her everything when he got inside.

  “Something like ten thousand people turn sixty every day in the U.S., and most take at least one medication a day. Their parents, if they’re still alive, might need five or ten a day. Do you have any idea how hot that market is? They’re starving for affordable medication. We couldn’t fill prescriptions fast enough. The higher prices, the U.S. dollars, it made a huge difference to my business. When the law changed, I stood to lose that entire segment. Go back to counting margins in pennies, not dollars. Then I got a call from this fellow I’d gone to school with at Western.”

  “Steven Stone.”

  “Right. He asked if I wanted to keep the U.S. business going. I told him I couldn’t order large enough quantities without drawing attention.”

  “Unless you had a chain of nursing homes as a client.”

  “Yes. Steven said the Vista Mar group would justify any quantities I ordered. So I agreed.”

  “As did Page.”

  “Yes. Steven said the more pharmacists were onside, the more money we’d make. Economies of scale and so on. He asked me to get some of the other independents together for a presentation. You should have seen it. Everything was so professionally done. He wowed us, Mr. Geller. I guess he emphasized the opportunity and minimized the risk.”

  “It’s not minimal now.”

  “God, no.”

  I remembered something Winston Chan had told me. “Page was hit with an inspection, wasn’t he? That’s what got him killed.”

  Silver nodded. “He had a hearing coming up and he’d already been disciplined once by the college. A second suspension could have cost him his licence.”

  “So he wanted out.”

  “Demanded would be a better word. Ken had a temper. Thought he was pretty tough.”

  “He had no idea who he was up against.”

  “None of us did.”

  “You knew his death was no carjacking.”

  He nodded. “As soon as I saw the news. The timing was too coincidental. I told Stone I wanted out too, but he said forget it.”

  “He threatened you?”

  “Not at all. He was as scared as I was.”

  “Of whom?”

  “His partners. He told me they’d bought into the operation as silent partners, then took over. He said I should wait until the fuss over Ken died down. And I tried. I swear I tried. But I started waking up in the middle of the night with my throat closing in on itself. I could barely breathe. I was lashing out at Laura, at Lucas. Every time the phone rang, every time someone rang the doorbell, I jumped. I didn’t want to go to work in the morning and I’m someone who loves to be around people. So I called Stone. I thanked him for his advice but I told him I was done and if anyone came near me or my family or my store I’d call the police and tell them about Ken. He told me I had to set up one more delivery.”

  “The one I interrupted.”

  “Yes. And that was the last I heard until this morning when Frank called. He said if I came into work today he’d burn the store to the ground.”

  “Stone never said who his partners were?”

  “Only that they were brothers. I didn’t know if he meant brothers as in family or as in … you know, black guys. And that’s all I know. Now what about you? How serious is this threat?”

  “Dead serious,” I said. “The only reason you’re still alive is the man who got the contract couldn’t stand the thought of killing your wife and son too.”

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Oh, my God, what do I do? What the hell do I do?” He shut his eyes tightly but couldn’t stop tears from snaking down his plump cheeks and dropping down onto his thighs. “My family is all I care about. I got into this to provide better for them, not get us killed. I’ll go back to working in a shitty franchise if I have to. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just when the Internet business took off, for the first time in my life I had breathing room. We could move out of our starter home. We could consider private school for Lucas—and the way the government was driving the public system into the ground, that was no small priority. I’ve never committed a crime in my life, Mr. Geller. I’ve never even cheated on my taxes. How does someone like me wind up with a price on my head?”

  He was the only one who could answer that.

  “Listen to me, Jay,” I said. He didn’t respond. “Jay!”

  He looked up, his eyes red and his cheeks glistening wet.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get your wife and son and whatever you need for a few days and leave town. Now.”

  “But the store—”

  “Forget the store. Your insurance will cover it. Be out of here in half an hour.”

  “But where …” He drifted off, unable to finish the question.

  “Somewhere no one would think of looking for you. Not a cottage or a friend’s place. Just drive at least an hour or two in any direction but south and check into a motel. Take plenty of cash so you don’t have to use credit or debit. If there is anything you need to b
uy on credit—gas, whatever—do it before you leave the city.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until I know if the contract’s still on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to your store. I’ll follow the truck and see where it goes.”

  “Buffalo,” he said. “I don’t know where exactly, but that’s where they all go.”

  I gave him my home, cell and office numbers and wrote down his cell. Silver held out a big hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t help you,” he said. “On the loading dock, I mean.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

  As he got out of the car, I asked if he was going to tell Laura everything.

  “No one tells anyone everything,” he said.

  CHAPTER 39

  Three fire trucks were pulling out of the Med-E-Mart parking lot when I got back. Dozens of people crowded around the front entrance, peering through the plate glass windows, looking like they were waiting for the all-clear to re-enter. A number of them were smoking, including Dante Ryan.

  “You missed quite the show,” he said as he got in the car. “Complete and utter chaos.”

  “Just the way you like it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Alarms going off. Sprinklers sprinkling. Sirens blaring, fire trucks barrelling. Everybody running out of the store except Claudio, Frank and their boys, who were running in.”

  “Maybe arson is your future.”

  “No way,” he said. “Look what the sprinklers did to my shoes.”

  As we spoke, one of Frank’s men rolled a dolly stacked with damp cartons onto the loading dock, followed by Sumita Desai, whose waist-length hair was soaked through—as were her clothes.

  “She’s not half bad,” Ryan said, “except for the miserable look on her face.”

  “When did they start loading again?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  I gave Ryan a synopsis of Silver’s story: how he, Page and other independent pharmacists had been drawn—suckered?— by Steven Stone into the cross-border scheme.

  “Makes sense,” he said. “You can’t scare the shit out of an organization. You can’t make a head office wet its pants. But independent operators are different. They’re the stragglers we cull from the herd. They always have the option of saying no. But will they say it to someone with a gun?”