Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

“Okay, Mrs. Turner. We'll need that list of names if you've got it.”

  While Aida Turner went into the living room to write out the list, Birdie and I poked around in Henry's room. I heard a distant knock on the front door, it opened and there came the murmur of voices, female voices. Company.

  Birdie pulled out a dresser drawer. “Didn't take much stuff with him. These drawers are full.”

  I stopped. “You thinking that, maybe, he thought he wasn't going too far or for too long?”

  “Well, if I was fixing to take off, I'd want my stuff with me, my good clothes. I wouldn't leave all this behind unless I be coming back.”

  I grinned. “Good point, Sherlock. Maybe something took young Henry by surprise, something he wasn't expecting.”

  We continued to search methodically but found nothing of consequence, no diary, no letters, no notes, no indication of his innermost thoughts. A few record albums–Nat King Cole, Johnny Mathis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Satchmo–seemed like our boy Henry was a jazz fan. Birdie stared at the records. And I found a copy of Ralph Ellison's, The Invisible Man. I had read it but wondered what attracted Henry to it. The copy was dog-eared. I slipped the book into my pocket. Jazz and Ellison. Interesting.

  “How many jazz clubs in town?” I asked. Big band was more my thing. I liked classical, opera and rockabilly too but I could never really dig jazz.

  Birdie shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “Only five or six good ones,” he said with regret.

  Downstairs, Aida Turner worked on the list and read it over. She perched on the sofa. A young black woman sat beside her. She gave me a hostile glare and fired another one, even hotter, at Birdie. We each took a chair.

  “I write slow,” she apologized. “This is my niece, Adele Rosewell.”

  “Miss Rosewell.” Miss Rosewell didn't answer at first. She wallowed in anger or resentment.

  She spoke in a well-modulated tone. “I told my auntie this is a crazy idea, hiring the likes of you.”

  “Adele.” Aida Turner looked alarmed.

  “I take it you don't approve?” I asked.

  “That is the understatement of the decade, Mr–whatever your name is.”

  “Gold. Mo Gold. And my associate, Arthur Birdwell but call him, Birdie.”

  I said, “Do you have any idea where your cousin might be, Miss Rosewell?”

  “Of course I don't,” she said.

  “Then what do you suggest? Don't you want to know what happened to Henry?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Naturally, I do. I just don't have the confidence that you or your associate, Mr. Bird Brain, can put my auntie's mind to rest.”

  I stood up and Birdie stood up with me. “Well, Miss Rosewell. That's fine. We'll happily return the dough Mrs. Turner gave us and be on our way.”

  Her expression changed, clouded. She hadn't expected it to be so easy.

  Aida Turner had put down her pen. “Now Adele, I know you mean well but this is my business. I need to know what happened to Henry. And I think these gentlemen can find out for me. Goodness knows, the police haven't done anything these past eight years, now have they?”

  “I don't want to see you get hurt,” Adele replied.

  “I've already been hurt,” Aida Turner said. “There's nothing much more can hurt me now. I need the truth. That's the only thing that can help and if these men can deliver it, then it's worth double the price. Triple even.” The pen resumed its scratching. “I'm sure these gentlemen would like a cup of tea, wouldn't you?”

  “That would be swell, thank you.” I liked a cup early in the evening. Reminded me of when I was a kid, before the rough times.

  Adele rose from her perch stiffly, threw out another minesweeper of a glare. “Very well.”

  Then moved purposefully into the tiny kitchen. I took a look. Nice figure. Conservative skirt and jacket, well-cut. Sensible shoes with a bit of a heel. Muscular but nicely shaped calves. The rattling of crockery took on a shrill tone.

  “Don't mind her,” Aida Turner said. “She's just looking out for me. She and Henry were close. Adele has a good job. Works in a bank downtown. Graduated from university too.”

  “Maybe I should apply for a loan,” I said.

  “Now you,” Aida Turner admonished.

  “Mrs. Turner, did Henry keep a diary or ever write letters to anyone, have a notebook maybe?”

  She looked at me sadly.

  “No, not that I know of. Henry wasn't much for writing, he knew how to write, don't get me wrong but he just didn't express himself much, if you know what I mean.”

  “Quiet sort?”

  “Sometimes,” she replied. “But when he was happy, the words flew out of his mouth.”

  “And was he happy those last few days,” I asked her.

  Aida bit her lip, then shook her head.

  “It's too far back,” she said, “and so close.”

  “We need your help, Mrs. Turner. Was something bothering Henry those last few days?”

  “I asked him what was wrong but he wouldn't say anything. Just smiled and put his arm around my shoulder and said not to worry, that everything would be fine.” She buried her face in her hands. “I should have made him tell me but you can't make a grown man do anything he doesn't want to do. It was hard enough when he was six or seven but then, in the end I couldn't do anything to get him to tell me what was wrong.”

  “Don't blame yourself, Mrs. Turner,” I said. “We'll find out for you.”

  Adele Rosewell brought in a tray stacked with tea things. I went over to help her but she ignored me. The tray thumped down and the crockery jumped. Some tea slurped out of the pot. Aida Turner suppressed a sad smile.

  “How do you take it, Mr. Gold?” Adele asked.

  “Just as it is–no sugar.”

  “And you?” she asked Birdie.

  “White,” he said. “Extra white.” That got him a glare.

  We all sat there awkwardly and sipped for a moment.

  I held up the dog-eared copy of The Invisible Man. “Ever see this book before?”

  “I know it was in Henry's room,” Mrs. Turner replied

  “Ever read it?”

  “I'm not much for reading, Mr. Gold, except for the bible, of course.”

  “I read it,” Adele said.

  “And?”

  “It's a masterpiece. I think he's a genius.”

  “So do I.” Adele's eyes widened. She softened for a moment then caught herself and lowered her face into the teacup.

  “Mind if I keep it?” I asked Aida Turner.

  “No, I don't mind.”

  I knew what I wanted to say and I hated the thought of saying it.

  “Mrs. Turner–I'd be derelict if I didn't mention this and I'm sorry to have to say it. But we,” and I glanced at Birdie who frowned, “believe the likelihood is that something happened to your son and he's dead. I can't think of another way to put it.”

  She surprised me.

  “Oh, Henry isn't dead, Mr. Gold. I'm sure of it.”

  “I'm not sure I understand.”

  She stood up. “I'll show you.”

  She moved like a woman with aches and pains but too proud to let them show. We heard her rummaging around in a closet. She returned holding a large, beat-up box. She set the box down on the coffee table.

  “He leaves me things,” she said with a smile.

  “What sort of things?” Birdie asked her.

  Aida reached into the box and pulled out some objects–a small doll without a head, a white rose made out of cloth, looked like it had been snipped from a dress or an ornamental pillow, fragments of letters, a pair of dice, a piece of copper wire.

  “Where did you find these objects?”

  “Why, outside my front door.”

  “How do you know they were from Henry?”

  “I just know,” she replied. “These things have some kind of meaning but I haven't been able to figure out what yet. I found two of
them on my birthday.” Adele Rosewell looked embarrassed but held her tongue. I could see she thought her aunt had lost touch with reality.

  I examined each object carefully, then set it back in the box. With due respect for their preciousness.

  “Thank you Mrs. Turner.” I stood up. Birdie rose. “We'll keep you informed of our progress. Thank you for the tea. It was nice meeting you, Miss Rosewell.”

  Adele Rosewell nodded curtly but didn't say, likewise. Her mouth pinched tight as if she bit her tongue. I expected to see blood any second.

  Aida Turner shook each of our hands firmly but imbued with an indescribable sadness. I loved and hated my work. The hope I saw in Aida's Turner face caused me pain and it would make me sick at heart to disappoint her. In my experience, however, disappointment was an all too common occurrence. But I thought, maybe this time it would be different. People didn't come to us because they were happy or even hopeful. Usually, they were scared or angry and needed to be doing something because doing nothing just wouldn't work for them. I knew it wouldn't work for me. Aida Turner's love for her son now became my burden, mine and Birdie's. I couldn't wait to get it off my back.

  As we left the flat, the presence of Adele Rosewell stayed with me, even though I didn't want it to. Maybe the fear, even revulsion I saw in her eyes, the disapproval on her face, the hard lines of a sensual mouth, moved me. Birdie had already forgotten her but I couldn't shake her from my mind.

  5

  Birdie and I had some legwork to do, catching up with people, following a trail over eight years old. We stirred dead ashes in the grate of a fire that burned out long ago.

  Holding Aida Turner's list, I got in the passenger side of the Chevy Biscayne, white paint job, red leather interior–a large, comfortable car with enough under the hood to keep me happy. Birdie slid in behind the wheel then fired the ignition. The Invisible Man pressed against my kidney.

  I looked over the list that Aida Turner had written out so carefully in her neat hand and then took another peek at the graduation photo. The hint of a smile touched on Henry Turner's handsome face, an earnest expression, honest and sincere, almost guileless. I noted the strong jaw, the even white teeth–a good-looking kid and I thought about the young Alison Foster and her influence on him. Maybe she'd been one of those good-hearted souls who was color-blind and saw only a person's inner qualities? Maybe. But that wasn't the brash sex-bomb who'd sashayed into my office.

  “Time to pay Mrs. Lawson a visit,” I said.

  “Now you're talkin'. Let's rattle her manicure.” Birdie guffawed loud enough to make me roll the window down. After he subsided, he added, “Man, there's a lot going on there.”

  I had to agree.

  Birdie pulled around the back of our building sluicing through the alleyway. There might have been two inches of clearance on either side. If you parked here, you had to have a ragtop or else, shinny out the window. Neither of us had put a nick on the Chevy yet and I wanted to keep it that way. Two parking bays sat between a dumpster and a rod iron staircase. I used my key on the back door and we pounded the stairs. We found visitors waiting for us on the landing outside the door, still rattling the knob.

  “Hey,” I said. “You'll crack the glass if you shake it any harder and it'll cost you eight bucks to have it fixed.”

  Detective Sergeant Roy Mason straightened up, frowned, and dropped his bony hand to his side. Inspector Harry Callaway snorted. He chewed on a toothpick, something he did regularly, ever since his wife forced him to give up cigars. Callaway was a large, smooth Irishman, with graying hair slicked back from his forehead, a lantern jaw and cold, blue eyes. He wore a grey suit to match his hair and fiddled with a grey fedora in his right hand, rotating it along the brim through his thick fingers. Roy Mason stood tall and skinny in a caved-in way. A taciturn man given to sniggering. I couldn't stand Mason, considered him to be the worst kind of cop. A prick who stepped on the face of the next guy to make himself look good. But Callaway was okay.

  “Allow me,” I said, shaking out a bunch of keys and fitted one into the lock. Callaway dropped into the half-wingback while Mason lounged in the corner watching. “What are you having?” I asked.

  “The usual,” Callaway replied.

  I poured the two of us a belt of Canadian Club each. Birdie didn't drink much and I wouldn't give Mason spit if my life depended on it. We clinked water glasses.

  “Slan,” Callaway said.

  “L'chaim,” I replied.

  Callaway hesitated, then took a sip of the Scotch. I sat behind the desk, Birdie rested in his usual spot on the credenza and swung his leg in a long arc. I could see it annoyed Mason to no end. I shook out a Sweet Cap, snapped my lighter and took a long drag.

  Callaway ran a stubby forefinger around the glass rim. “Had a call,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Good for you.”

  Callaway ignored me.

  “A guy named, Lawson. Some big shot industrialist. He complained to me loud and long about the treatment of his wife by one Mo Gold. Wanted me to throw the book at you. I told him you hadn't broken any laws recently but since we were acquainted I'd have a quiet word. That seemed to pacify him for the moment. And that's why I'm here. So, humor me, Gold, and tell me a story, one that I'll like, all right?”

  I laughed. “This is getting comical.”

  “Put me in the joke,” Callaway replied and Mason sniggered. I shot him a look and he stopped.

  “Mrs. Lawson,” I began. “Young, beautiful, sexy, born rich, married rich and trouble from the tips of her toes to the tip of her nose and all those curves in-between. If I were her husband, I'd be on the floor barking if she blinked at me.”

  “Well,” Callaway drawled. “Maybe that's just you.” Birdie guffawed.

  “Maybe.”

  So I filled him and Mason in on what happened, more or less. Told him I'd refused Alison Lawson's dough and that put the peeve into her and she must have run to hubby and complained about how rude I'd been when I'd been very polite, excessively polite in my opinion.

  “She just doesn't like to hear the word “no,” I said. “Probably the last time was when she threw Pablum at her nanny during snack time.”

  Callaway rolled more of my Scotch around his tongue.

  “Think there's any proof to the pilfering beef?”

  “Not a chance. I told her it was a matter for the police. She said they didn't want the unnecessary publicity and also didn't want her husband to be bothered with this. Said she wanted it to be handled discreetly. Offered us a hundred a day.”

  Callaway whistled. “That's pretty good scratch.”

  “We can't be bought. We have our principles, don't we Birdie?”

  “I was thinking about a new suit I saw in the window of George Richards,” Birdie boomed.

  “There you go,” I said. “We're incorruptible. Besides, I didn't like her attitude. So what are you going to tell the husband?”

  Callaway yawned.

  “Nothing to tell. I told him I'd look into it and that's what I did. End of story. I don't care for these big shots, either. They piss me off to tell the truth.” Callaway glanced up at Mason, who, studiously, examined the hair on his skinny knuckles. Callaway cleared his throat and stood up reaching for the door. “What's this I hear about a stiff in Chinatown?”

  “We tried calling you,” Birdie said. “But you were off-duty.”

  “He was a card dealer, wasn't he?”

  “That's right. Ying Hee Fong,” I replied.

  Callaway chewed his lip. “You guys found him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “John Fat Gai was looking for him–said he was skimming the take from his table.”

  “That so?” Callaway chewed the toothpick for a while, then looked at Mason. “Roy, step out for a moment. I need a quiet word with these two.”

  Mason looked surprised and hurt but covered it fast. “But…” Callaway jerked his head, then turned away from him.

  Mason
left reluctantly pulling the door closed behind him, none too gently.

  “The walls have ears,” Callaway said. “You guys working for John Fat Gai?”

  “He asked us to find Ying, that's all. And we did,” I replied. I decided to keep my brother out of the picture for now.

  “You kill him?” Callaway's voice went low, descending into a husky whisper.

  I sighed, sat back in my chair and stubbed out the Sweet Cap.

  “I'm surprised you'd ask me a question like that. You know me better. That's the way we found him. He was dead in the alley, all right?”

  Callaway nodded and examined his fingernails for a while.

  “He was one of my guys.”

  “What? A cop?”

  Callaway shook his head. “A snitch. He was giving us good info on John Fat Gai's operations. There's at least half a dozen murders we figure John is good for.”

  “That's all? I think you're miscounting,” I said.

  Callaway slammed his meaty palm on my desk.

  “We were making good progress until this. Now it's all gone to shit. Someone fingered Ying to John. Then he hires you two to find Ying? Ach…” And he swiped at the air raising a breeze. “It all stinks.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I glanced at Birdie who'd remained stridently impassive. “What're you gonna do about it?”

  Callaway glanced up at me sharply.

  “That's just it, to the department, Ying's just another dead Chink in Chinatown. I kept this one to myself, no one else knew and he still took two slugs in the head.”

  “Maybe you talk in your sleep?”

  Callaway smiled ruefully. “Yeah, maybe. You guys hear anything, I want to know about it first.”

  “Sure, sure, you got it, Callaway.”

  “Why you working for that gangster anyway?” Callaway asked.

  I shrugged. “It's a job, nothing more, nothing less.”

  Callaway snorted. “I thought you had some scruples, Mo, what happened to 'em?”

  “Well, it beats going hungry.”

  “Sure,” Callaway replied but I heard the disappointment in his voice.

  I looked over at Birdie who studied the polish on his shoe tops.

  “Anything else?”

  Callaway said, “The way I hear it, you'd be hard pressed to collect anything from John Fat Gai. Most of his associates end up dead.”