Hazardous Goods aatd-1

by John Mackie

  “I thought that was a real no-no in the drug world.”

  “No kidding. The whole idea is to maintain cut-outs, not rely too much on any one player in the game. The guys up the chain stay off the street to reduce their visibility. If Kuzmenko really is a distributor, then he’s in for a heap of shit. We’re squeezing him like crazy, trying to climb the chain.”

  “Any links to Legenko?”

  “Nothing. But we’re going to keep searching. If he’s a supplier, there may be some leads from the surveillance. If we’re lucky, his tracks will lead us to Legenko.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Hard as it is to believe, the next few days were quite pleasant. The thought of Niki’s ass lodged in jail was of tremendous comfort to me. Not only that, but Amy had been calling me every night, to update me and just to chat.

  That gave me a chance to sort out a few things back in the office, including following up on our suspicions regarding Bindings, Dr. Galt and the fearstone. I had Kara make an appointment for me to meet with Dr. Galt, and I dropped by their offices at the end of the day on Thursday.

  Bindings was located in the Theatre District, which was hopping at this hour. The mid-day trickle of suits had been replaced by casual blazers, open collars and ladies in evening wear.

  The store was open for business, and several customers were milling about. Galt spoke with two men in suits who looked like bankers, and one of his associates checked in with the other shoppers, pulling out a book for examination by one fellow, and reviewing the history of another text with a younger couple. The receptionist was the same blonde I had met on my first day — Mary O’Connell, according to Kara.

  I’m pretty sure the good doctor registered my polo shirt when I entered, but it still took a good ten minutes and three reminders from the receptionist before he excused himself and gestured for her to lead me in. Not so much as an insincere apology.

  Ms. O’Connell led me to a small sitting room tucked in an alcove I had not registered on my last visit. Galt lowered himself into a wicker chair in the corner, and I opted for a matching chair facing him. I eased myself down, conscious of my long-standing view that wicker is a fragile substitute for oak or metal. The checkerboard strips creaked as my weight settled in, and I tried to hide my wince.

  “…was saying this was about a lost package?”

  “Yes,” I drew the trench coat out of the gift bag Kara had provided for the trip. “I guess last year this coat was left with us to deliver to your offices, but your receptionist at the time,” I referred to my notes, anal fellow that I am, “Ms. Morgan? I guess she told Clay you hadn’t ordered any coats.”

  He extended a manicured hand, and I passed him the coat. He turned it over in his hands, checked the label and length, and even sniffed the damned thing. I took the opportunity to observe my customer. Omega watch and bespoke suit. Apparently old books were good business. His motions were precise and delicate, with the fine dexterity I associated with a dentist. Or a pianist. I suppose that made sense for someone handling antique papers on a daily basis.

  “Well, this appears to be one of my own coats. I thought I had lost this some time back. But you’ve had this for several years now — why did you take so long to contact us?”

  Prick. “Well, as I said, we tried to effect delivery, but your receptionist refused to accept the package. The file indicates we called on several subsequent occasions, as well.”

  “Well if you had spoken to me, I would have confirmed immediately that it was my coat.”

  He sniffed. “Unfortunately it is now ruined. Stained here, and here.” He gestured to two areas of discoloration. I figured if he kept this up, there might be a few more stains on that coat.

  “As I said, we did attempt delivery. We don’t maintain goods in long-term storage, particularly when we have no idea of ownership.”

  “I presume our account will be credited with the cost of a replacement?”

  He stared at me with his weasel eyes, and I debated driving my thumb through his larynx. Nervy bastard, for sure. I had no intention whatsoever of crediting him one damned dime, but I wasn’t up to the fight. So I took the chicken route.

  “Let me take that into consideration. I’ll see what we can do.” Cluck cluck.

  He obviously wasn’t satisfied, but seemed intent on returning to his customers.

  He stood as though to see me out, but I could see he was lost in thought. His right thumb and index finger stroked the cloth of the coat as though it were a soothing stone.

  It was a good fifteen seconds before he noticed I had not risen from my seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he sat once again, “was there anything further?”

  “Your receptionist must not have recognized it.”

  “No — no reason for her to do so…” That seemed to get him thinking again.

  “Maybe a good Samaritan found it somewhere?” That one was a bit of a setup, and even in his distracted state, Galt seemed to know it.

  “No. No name tag. And how would they know to call your offices?”

  “Maybe something in the pockets?” No reaction.

  “Unlikely.” He sifted through the pockets as we spoke. “I make it a rule not to keep anything in my coat pockets. Fouls the hang of the garment. Just as leaving a jacket hanging from a cheap metal hanger for an extended period will do irreparable damage.”

  I wondered to myself whether anyone had ever beaten the mouthy little bugger to a teary-eyed mess when he was a child. I thought not. No one would talk that way if they had any idea what a punch to the face felt like.

  I concluded it was time to get out before I committed a criminal act. But as I stood to leave, I spotted a photo resting on a mantle above the faux fireplace.

  “Your wife?”

  The picture was of Galt and a woman at some southern resort. He wore a Tommy Bahamas top and beach shorts. She wore a spectacular fluorescent green two piece, spectacular primarily because of the engineering required to suspend the enormous boobs jutting from her chest. The grin on his face made him look like the guy in the Saturday paper who is photographed holding the winning ticket from the prior night’s lottery.

  “Oh no. That’s Dianne, my girlfriend. We’ve been dating for a few years now. Quite the little minx, I must say.”

  The guy was an insufferable twit. It was pretty apparent to me that the bathing beauty in the picture was Dianne Morgan, former receptionist at Bindings and now apparently number one girlfriend of the owner. I did not want to hear about his rolls in the hay with Ms. Morgan and her silicone twins.

  “No plans of marriage?”

  “Oh, well I’ve been that route, and it wasn’t much fun.” As usual, I had managed to insert my entire foot into my mouth. “The woman was insufferable, and a bore in the bedroom.”

  With that, Galt dismissed me as though I was the hired help (which in a sense I was). He turned to face a client, leaving me staring at his back. I considered grabbing him by the neck and driving his head through one of the glass cabinets, but common sense prevailed. I was going to head home, see if Ted had managed to leave me any Guinness in the fridge. Maybe nine or ten beers would help put this buffoon out of my mind.

  “Calling his ex names again, was he?”

  “Hmm?” It was Galt’s receptionist. The new, icy one.

  “Acts like he’s hard done by. He was the one having the affair.”

  With Ms. Massive Mammaries, no doubt.

  “You think the wife knew?”

  “Not at first. But I think she found out.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “When she figured it out she went after him big time, but he lawyered up with one of the biggest names in town. Ended up keeping it all, and leaving his wife in the cold. If I were her, I’d want to kill the bastard.”

  Interesting. I mulled that over for a moment.

  “Any chance you have her address?”

  “Yup. Hang on for just a moment.”

  I took the address from her and headed
out the door. Ms. Veronica Galt. I could see her being angry enough to plant the fearstone. After spending just five minutes with her ex, I was surprised she didn’t just poison him and get it over with.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Visitor for Donnie.”

  I sighed and put my sandwich back down. BLT on brown, not toasted. It would have to wait.

  I entered Reception to find Niki waiting for me. Again. I had expected it to take two, maybe three weeks before he got a little edgy. This was way beyond my greatest expectations.

  He looked like bran cereal after it has hardened to the bottom of the bowl. Dark shadows under both eyes, his hair unkempt with some gummy wad knotted up in a clump just above his temple. His clothes were rumpled and smelled, though it was hard to tell if that was unusual or not.

  Kara was eyeing him warily, obviously recalling the threat of gunplay during his last visit. The smell of cheap cigarettes emanated off Niki like steam off a pile of fresh dog shit.

  “You! You are going to tell me what this goddamnable thing is.” He thrust his hand at me, emphasizing the curse ring wedged onto his fat pinky finger.

  I said nothing for a moment, taking it all in. Nicotine fingers now with nails chewed past the quick — angry red marks where he had broken skin. His hand trembled. Fury on his face, but fear too. That was what I had wanted to see. Between the ring and a few nights in jail, Niki was feeling the squeeze big time.

  “I leave here, and get into an accident not three blocks away. With a police car.” I snorted, he growled. “Then I get home to find someone has broken in, stolen my TV and stereo. That had better not have been you, Donnie Elder.”

  “Right. You’re the mugger, pal, not me.”

  “Nyet? Well, Donnie Elder, with the week I have had, you will have much to regret.”

  I smirked. For once I was enjoying one of these impromptu get togethers. That is, until the gun came out. Again.

  “Oh!” Kara cried out, and dropped into her chair with a thud. I tried to catch her eye, to let her know it would be all right, but she was clearly terrified.

  “What did you do to me, you shit?” I could see anger, fear, and uncertainty in those eyes. He pushed at the ring with his gun-hand, trying to lever the thing off his finger. Then he waved his hand like a grade school girl trying to fend off a bee.

  “You wanted it, you got it, asshole. Now let’s see you get rid of it.”

  In hindsight, it was maybe the stupidest thing I have ever done. Maybe. I’ve done a lot of stupid things. Still, it’s a good thing he acted before I had chance to consider the implications.

  With a quick jerk, he jammed the pistol into my shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  Behind me I heard Kara gasp. But I didn’t utter a sound.

  Click.

  I kept my face calm, and held back from clocking the son of a bitch.

  Click. Click.

  “Got a problem there?”

  He jerked at the trigger again, then pulled back and swung the pistol at my head. I simply reacted, thrusting my hand up and out. Grabbed the pistol, and twisted hard.

  Crack.

  “Aaauggghhhh!”

  He held the pistol awkwardly, but I could see the finger holding the trigger guard had bent like a straw. Niki dropped to one knee, cradling the gun and hand.

  I crouched down, and lifted his chin.

  “Hey.”

  His eyes were wet with tears, focused on his badly broken finger.

  “Hey.” That got his attention.

  “You tell anyone, and it’ll just get worse.” It was another gamble, but my hope was that he wouldn’t tell anyone how he had screwed up. If he did, and they could break the curse, I was in for a serious ass-whooping. At best.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Bring me the package you stole, and I’ll take the ring back.”

  “Mother-.” He tensed to come at me again, but must have seen something in my eyes. He may also have been learning. With that ring on his finger, nothing was going to work out well for him.

  “I cannot. Maxim has it.”

  I curled my hand around the back of his neck, and steered him to the door.

  “When you get the package, drop by.” Shove to the back. “Until then, keep your head down.”

  Veronica Galt lived in a tenement building north of King, west of Dufferin. Some would say the area was undergoing a revival with a thriving arts community. I was somewhat more cynical. My hope was that I could get back to the van by sunset.

  Parkdale was once a neighborhood with a bit of cache, named to reflect its park-like setting by the lake. But with the construction of the Gardiner Expressway in the 1950s, the view of the lake was replaced by a view of traffic smog and highway tarmac. The closure of psychiatric institutions in the area in the 1980s, part of the move away from so-called “asylums”, didn’t help. Cheap rooming houses sprung up across the area, and the drug trade thrived. Nowadays, the name Parkdale was a cynical joke.

  Ms. Galt lived in a twelve story apartment building that may have seen better days years ago. Maybe. Balconies lined every floor, littered with all manner of things. Bikes, furniture, flags, barbeques, laundry — you name it. Most of the balconies also seemed to be missing chunks of concrete, which is always a reassuring sight.

  A script lettered sign over the main entrance identified Galt’s building as The Empress, suggesting a regal flair which the structure did not possess. A few kids were sprawled on the concrete out front, drawing hopscotch grids with colored chalk. They stared at me as though they had never seen a man my age without tattoos or piercings.

  Veronica buzzed me up and I took the elevator despite my reservations. The choice was personal safety or five vertical floors, so I chose the easy route.

  Safely ensconced on the fifth floor, I turned left and marched down the hall searching for Apartment 508. A moment later I turned and headed the other way when she called me from the opposite end of the hall.

  Veronica greeted me at the doorway, shook hands, then slipped her hand back into her sweater sleeve. She was not what I had imagined. In light of her husband’s apparent interest in top-heavy, leggy trophies, I would not have guessed her to be a somewhat tired looking lady in her fifties with pleasant manners and an entrenched British accent.

  I followed her into the small apartment and instantly felt the crushing grip of claustrophobia settle over me. I considered jamming my foot in the door to prevent it from closing all the way, just to preserve some sense of space — or an exit route, in the event of a fire.

  The place was all books, as though the walls themselves had been fashioned from hardback covers, their spines serving as layered bricks. We crossed the front sitting room to a small sofa and recliner, the only free surfaces I could spot in the room, and I stepped carefully to avoid an avalanche.

  “Wow.”

  “Oh, the place is such a mess I’ve just given up. Can’t even be bothered to dust anymore. It’s overwhelming.”

  I saw now that the walls were lined with wooden shelving, each shelf so packed with books — standing side by side, stacked one on top of the other, squeezed into every open space — that each row sagged like a rope bridge.

  “Is this your personal collection?”

  “Most of it. I really shouldn’t have them here. Too humid, temperature fluctuates up and down. I can’t even open the drapes in my bedroom, for fear the light will damage the collection. But since the divorce I barely have the money to pay rent and utilities, let alone storage costs.”

  “That must be very hard.”

  “Life is hard, as my father told me. So, how can I help you, Donnie Elder of Arcane Shipping?”

  “Transport.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well,” I pulled the tiger’s eye from my pocket and placed it gently on the table between us. “I’m wondering if this stone is familiar to you.”

  Veronica Galt may have been a bit eccentric, perhaps even nuts. But she was a damned poor liar. The pause wa
s as good as a screaming confession, despite her next words.

  “No. Should it be?”

  I let the stone rest on the coffee table, watching her eyes as they flitted from mine to the stone and back again, like a squirrel trying to decide whether to cross a roadway.

  “It seems that this stone was found in a coat owned by your ex-husband. A coat that was left with us to deliver to his shop. Unfortunately, delivery was never completed, and we’ve had it in our storage room for some time now.”

  Her cheeks were flushing a blotchy red and white, and her eyes had widened to the point that I could see white above and below the light blue iris of each.

  “Last week we were moving some items off-site,” (a bit of embellishment on my part). “When one of our staff made to pack the coat away, we had a rather strange incident.”

  “Oh Lord, no one was hurt, were they?”

  It was almost comical, how she blurted it out. It was like a bad Jerry Springer episode, with LaWanda revealing she had slept with Cletus the night that Ricky Bob’s truck stalled at the town carnival.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Thank God.” Her shoulders sagged, and I flinched as a massive calico cat hurled itself from a hiding place on one of the shelves, landing with a thump on the back of her chair. She picked up the cat, stroked its back and scrubbed the fur behind its ears while the big bugger stared at me with suspicious eyes. I tried not to make eye contact.

  “Why was it never delivered?”

  “We tried, apparently. But the receptionist at the time,” I pretended to refer to my notes, “Ms. Dianne Morgan, would not accept the package. Said it wasn’t theirs.”

  “That lying bitch!” The cat sprung from her lap, knocking over a pile of texts and hurtling down the hall. “She knew damned well it was his coat.”

  And she was off to the races.

  “I just wanted to scare that S.O.B. Fifteen years of marriage, me setting up his store, hunting the province for garage sales, estate auctions. Then one day his coat is delivered to the house by a bellhop from the Royal York. Says my husband must have left it the other night when he attended a client dinner. Remind me again what night that was, I said. Last Thursday. Well, that Thursday he and I had lunch at the King Eddy. It was our anniversary. It was also the night he called to say he would be staying late at the shop. An estate valuation. Didn’t come home until past midnight. How stupid did he think I was?”