Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Funny,” I said. “I heard the same thing but somehow I think John will come across for us. He likes us. We get along swell. Besides, we've got strong survival instincts and what with God on our side, well…” I shrugged.

  “Sure you do,” Callaway said. “If you find out anything interesting about John that you think I should know, you can reach me any time. I'll always take your call.”

  “We work odd hours.”

  Callaway glanced at his watch, it was going on ten p.m. Neither Birdie nor I made a move. “No kidding.”

  He sat back for a moment, grinding his teeth with gusto.

  “This Mrs. Turner. She on the level?” he asked.

  I said, “Why would she start to steal after all these years? And then, take items of little or no value? Doesn't add up.”

  The Irishman nodded. “I'm with you but still, I've got to take it seriously when we get a complaint from a prominent citizen.”

  “I understand completely,” I said, thinking the Super must be breathing down his neck pretty hard. “We're gonna have to talk to Mrs. Lawson, just so you know.”

  “I ain't responsible for you,” he said to me. “Or you,” and swiveled toward Birdie who smiled at him.

  “That's the last thing I want,” Birdie said. “I report to me and to God, no one else.”

  Callaway rolled his eyes. “Where'd you get him, anyway?”

  “I didn't–he got me–some foxhole in Holland I think it was. We had a few bodies piled up around us.”

  “Oh yeah, that. I forgot.”

  Callaway pushed himself out of the chair, stared nostalgically at the empty tumbler for a moment, then put on his fedora. Callaway had been in the Navy, a lieutenant commander and flew Corsairs. He had that roll when he walked as if the deck still heaved beneath him. At the door, he paused. “Remember, you find out anything about Ying, you let me know.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “God bless,” Birdie intoned and Callaway shot him a funny look. Then I shot Birdie a funny look but he remained oblivious.

  After Callaway pulled the door behind him, I turned to Birdie. “Let's start with Aida's list. We can tackle Mrs. Lawson later. She's not going anywhere.”

  “What about Ying?”

  “We'll start with his digs, see what we can find.”

  Birdie rose to his full height and gave me an evil grin.

  “I haven't been to confession in a while. It's time to do something that might make me feel a little bit guilty.”

  “Time for Eli to take a little trip. Lay low until this mess blows over,” I said.

  “Think he'll take much convincing?”

  “Leave it to me. C'mon, I'll drop you on the way.”

  6

  I drove Birdie to the corner of King and Spadina where he hopped out and disappeared into the gloom. I kept going east on King Street through the centre of town, out the other side to the east end. Eli lived in a walk-up on Hamilton Street, a one-way rabbit warren of rickety attached houses built before the war that looked like they dated back to the Middle Ages.

  The third floor. Naturally, he had to live on the third floor. I parked the Chevy and hoped not only the hubcaps but the wheels would still be on it when I returned. After the sixth set of stairs, I began to wheeze a little. Okay, more than a little. I took a moment to catch my breath then banged on his door. I knew he'd be home. I heard the radio playing some big band number. He didn't have any dough so finding a card game wouldn't work. He had markers all over town.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said as the door swung open. He stood in the middle of the frame with his mouth open, a fag dangling from the corner of his lip. Every time I looked at him, it got me how closely he resembled the old man, Jake. Fired me up. The same loud mouth. The same stupid ducktail. The same cocky stance. I reared back and socked him one, knocked him back into the decrepit room he called home. He staggered backward, crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. He sat there stunned for a moment. Then he felt around his jaw line and squeezed out a grin.

  “Nothing's changed,” he said. “Hello Mo. Good to see you too. Come on in, why don't'cha?”

  “Thanks. Don't mind if I do.” I kicked the door closed behind me, reached under his bed and pulled a battered suitcase out from under it. I set it on the rumpled mattress, flipped the lid and started throwing whatever clothes I found within reach, into it. He watched me with an amused expression.

  “You're taking a little trip.”

  “Am I? Where am I going? Somewhere nice, I hope.”

  “I hear Florida is lovely this time of year. Or maybe, Chicago. You might even want to try the west coast. Beautiful sunsets.”

  Eli pushed himself up. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

  “You're leaving town. Your little buddy, Ying, is dead. I figured the two of you worked together to skim the table.”

  That shocked him. He paled slightly.

  “Ying? Gee, that's too bad. What happened?”

  “Shot in the head. Brains splattered in a back alley in Chinatown. And if you don't get outta here, the same thing's going to happen to you,” I snarled. I slammed the lid of the case shut.

  “Who's got the money?”

  Eli protested. “What money?”

  I stalked over to him and yanked him up to his feet by the front of his shirt. I stuck my face close to his. “Don't get stupider. I'm talking about John's dough. The dough Ying skimmed.”

  “I had nothing to do with it, I swear it. Does it look like I got any money? Besides, I haven't had a game in days. Does that sound like me? You know if I had any cash it would be burning a hole in my pocket.”

  Eli talked a good game, just like Jake. I let go of his shirt. I wanted to believe him if only because he was my kid brother.

  “We're wasting time. John's gunsels could be on their way over here any minute.”

  “What if I don't wanna go?” Full of bravado at the worst possible time. I wanted to smack him again.

  “I'll take you to John Fat Gai myself and dump you right on his doorstep trussed up like a turkey, how's that sound? If you're going to commit suicide, I might as well give you a hand.”

  “You'd do that,” he said.

  “Try me.”

  Eli put his hands up. “Okay, okay. How long do I have to be gone?”

  “Until I figure this mess out and let you know it's okay to come back. Although if I had my way, I'd like to see the back of you for good.”

  “Spoken in the true spirit of brotherhood,” he sneered.

  I grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “You're not him, you understand. So don't even try. Why you'd even want to be like him is beyond me.” I pushed him down hard. He sprawled over the suitcase.

  “Jesus. You're in a mood. Okay, so I've got a little gambling problem. I can handle it.”

  “No you can't,” I replied. “Here,” I reached into my pocket and tossed him a wad. “There's 300 bucks. All I could spare on short notice. I'll drop you at the bus station and you grab the first one out of here. Once you settle somewhere, you let me know the address and I'll give you the all clear, understand?”

  Eli eased himself off the bed and went to the coat stand.

  “Yeah, sure I understand.” He shrugged into a threadbare raincoat and picked a crumpled fedora from a nearby coat hook. “I'll be okay.” It sounded to me like he tried to convince himself. He took a quick look around. “Let me grab my shaving kit.” He disappeared into the toilet and re-emerged a moment later with a small, leather pouch. “Ready when you are, skipper.” That was an old joke between us. When we were kids, we used to pretend we owned a yacht. I'd take the helm and Eli played first mate. Not much has changed.

  I nodded. “Let's go, sailor.”

  Chinatown oozed steam and sweat and the sharp aroma of salt mixed with rotting garbage. The main drag, Spadina Avenue, teemed with life as pedestrians squeezed along the narrow sidewalks. Down the alleyways, coolies dumped and hosed out trashcan
s in the back of the fruit and vegetable markets. Kitchen boys took cigarette breaks in the humid air, their soiled whites turned gray in the yellow pools of light spilled out by the streetlamps. Away from the crowds and traffic, the streets stayed closed and dark, the narrow houses shut tight as a battered tin can.

  Ying lived three doors down from the old synagogue on Beatrice Street in a ground floor apartment. It was just back of eleven when I pulled the Chevy up in front, coasting to the curb. I rolled down the window and lit a Sweet Cap staring at the front door. No lights. The place looked deserted. John Fat Gai owned the house and a dozen others up and down the street. He warehoused his workers and charged them exorbitant rents. Calling them workers seemed a sick joke, more like indentured slaves paying off their servitude over generations. The debts passed on like a malignant family heirloom. I didn't blame Ying for ripping John off, I might have done it myself in similar circumstances.

  I flipped the stub out the window where it disappeared down a sewer grate. I checked my holster for reassurance, grabbed a torch from the glove box and got out of the Chevy, closing the door quietly. Peered up then down. Too many one-way streets in Chinatown. You could end up where you began facing in the wrong direction going nowhere.

  The main entrance was communal and unlocked. The interior light had burnt out. I took a sniff and gagged, assaulted by the stale, waxy odor of peanut oil used and reused a hundred times. The walls sweated grease. Gut lurching, I switched on the torch and made my way to Ying's door–it opened to my touch. I unholstered the .45 and prodded the door open a crack, thinking that someone had gotten here ahead of me. Well, Ying had been dead for all of a day and he'd stolen something people wanted.

  The narrow beam of the torch lit up a jumble sale. Ying's modest flat had been thoroughly done over and the perpetrator didn't seem too concerned about leaving a mess. I tutted under my breath. Ying may have been careless but not entirely stupid. He wouldn't have left John's cash hidden here. Didn't stop the intruder from ripping up floorboards and punching holes in the walls, just in case.

  Like a lot of these older houses, the rooms were well-proportioned with high ceilings and large windows. Ying covered them over with a sheet. Well, his decorating taste didn't add up to much. The joint consisted of a room, a kitchen and a toilet. The living area comprised the one room. Against the far wall, Ying had shoved a single bed that had been dumped over. Opposite it–another single bed. Each mattress had been viciously slashed with the guts left hanging out.

  Ying had a roommate and the lodger had a young child. A small crib lay flipped over on its side. An old coal fire stoked the flat. The rest of the furniture consisted of a rickety table and two chairs where they took their meals. That was it. No sofa, bookcases, end tables, bureaus or lamps.

  A door opened to a small closet with some of Ying's clothes, a rumpled grey suit with the pockets ripped out, the sleeves slashed and the shoulders torn away. Not much of a legacy. I wasn't sentimental but I felt some pity for a guy living like this with practically nothing to show for it. I wondered what happened to the kid and presumably its mother. Sticking around didn't seem like an option not with John Fat Gai on the scene.

  I shut the closet door and crouched down by a pile of debris in the middle of the floor and began sifting through the junk. My knees hurt and that told me I'd been kicked around a few too many times. Sifting through, I found a snapshot of a young Chinese girl taken with a cheap Brownie box camera. The photo had perforated edges but no date. She was pretty in a simple, unaffected way with a smooth complexion and long hair flowing down her shoulders. I pocketed the snap then trod carefully over to the kitchen area. The icebox screamed empty; a rancid slab of butter, half a bottle of butter milk, an orange and a piece of cheddar that would have been a challenge for a mouse with very sharp teeth. So, Ying wasn't a gourmet chef, no surprise.

  I shut the door and the icebox began to hum. I turned toward the cabinets when a sap cracked me behind the ear. I sagged to my knees. I hadn't heard the guy come in and cross the floor. I grabbed on to the counter and tried to pull myself up and the sap cracked me again. I know I wheezed or gasped as the back of my head exploded in pain. Before hitting the floor, I pushed myself away from the counter and the sap whistled down my cheek thudding against my left shoulder. I fell on to my back and before he could bash my brains in, I brought the .45 level and squeezed off a shot. There came a yelp and a mighty curse.

  “Son of a bitch!” a voice growled.

  “There's another one coming your way,” I hissed to the scrabbling of feet and hands. The guy made plenty of noise now as he beat a retreat slamming through the door. I heard his footsteps thudding on the landing. I lowered the gun and lay there panting, my head feeling like an egg with a thin shell. I blacked out.

  The torch lay by my side. I still held the gun. He hadn't come back or I'd be in much worse shape. I worked my way up to my knees and grabbed the counter for leverage heaving up to my feet. But the world tilted and I had to steady myself for a minute. Bending over the sink, I ran the cold water over my handkerchief, wrung it out and pressed it to my throbbing head. I may have retched once or twice but managed to keep it off my suit jacket. Small mercies. When I could stand without falling over, I flicked the torch around. Seems like I winged him. I saw fresh streaks of blood on the dirty linoleum. Hope I shot him in the nuts, the bastard.

  Suddenly, the room seemed a lot wider and reaching the other side required real effort but I made it in under an hour or two. Once outside, I closed the outer door behind me. I'd expected the cops to show up but apparently the sound of shots was familiar in that neighbourhood. I managed to square up and stagger to the Chevy looking like a mug who'd had too many. I fumbled with the keys and only dropped them twice. Once behind the wheel, I slumped back for a second and closed my eyes. I probed the back of my head and felt a hard boiled egg. The skin didn't feel broken and there wasn't any blood but the pain had spread down my neck into the shoulder. The guy had done a good job. I'm glad I returned the favor. I started the engine, put it in gear and drove slowly home, praying I hadn't emptied the trays of ice in my freezer.

  7

  “What's this guy's name again?” Birdie asked early the next morning. He'd noticed the lump on the back of my head and the wobbly way I moved, like an old man with a bad hip and two decrepit knees. He raised his eyebrows but didn't bother making a remark. I'm sure he guessed what had happened, that I'd been surprised by somebody at Ying's place. He seemed more embarrassed for me than anything else.

  I placed the photo of the Chinese girl on the dash where he flicked a glance at it while I wheeled the Chevy to the east end.

  “Leon. Leon Jackson. High school chum of Henry's. If it'll make you feel any better, I winged the other guy.”

  “That's reassuring,” Birdie replied. “What's this Jackson do?”

  “Drives a hack. I called the dispatch and they told me where to find him”.

  I drove east on Wellesley, watching as the street narrowed and turned from a busy commercial thoroughfare into a quieter residential area with neatly trimmed lawns, crisp flower beds and freshly painted fences. Like some deity had walled out the city and turned it into a pastoral garden. I turned south on Sherbourne. Rising like a shimmering blight on the landscape, I saw the turrets of St. Jamestown in the distance, warehouse for the poor, the depraved and most of those who'd plain run out of luck, where the junkies crawled into dark corners to die. Half a block down, I pulled into a taxi stand.

  “Don't think they'll mind,” I said. I took a moment to cast a scarce thought toward my father since we happened to be a stone's throw from the Don Jail, his current residence. My old man, that goniff, that hard-hearted crook, held a tight place in my heart for reasons I couldn't begin to fathom.

  Ruby's Coffee Shop had put its best foot forward this morning. A guy in stained coveralls washed the scummy plateglass window; filthy from the chimneys blowing coal dust all over creation. Just inside the door stretched a long, Formic
a counter with cracked leather swivel stools and beyond, half a dozen moth-eaten, brown velveteen booths. A black man I took to be Leon Jackson sat in a booth at the back sipping coffee, dragging on a cigarette, scanning The Racing Form. I nudged Birdie, who turned heads as we walked through. Birdie cast a long shadow across his table.

  “Leon Jackson?” I asked.

  Jackson resembled a stocky fireplug in a leather vest and neat denim shirt rolled up to the elbows. His forearms bulged like he'd been used to doing something other than driving a cab, hammering concrete with a sledge maybe. Calluses coated his thick hands. He wore a closely shaved goatee and his front teeth reminded me of a crooked picket fence. “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

  “Got your name from Aida Turner, man. Can we sit down?” Birdie asked him.

  “Mrs. Turner?” Leon's face cleared. “You cops?”

  I shook my head. “We're working for her, trying to find out what happened to Henry.”

  “Now,” Birdie repeated. “Can we…?”

  Meaning eluded Leon Jackson for a second, then he smiled, the crooked teeth beckoned. “Oh sure. Help yourself. You want coffee?” We nodded. “Hey Ruby,” he hollered. “Two more coffees here for my friends.”

  “And a hard-boiled egg,” I shouted, mimicking a favourite line from the Marx Brothers. Leon's face dropped, Ruby's brow knit and Birdie guffawed.

  “Ignore him,” Birdie said. “He has a strange sense of humour.”

  I shrugged. It came out before I could clamp down.

  Leon looked at us with a sincere uncertainty.

  “I feel bad for her, Mrs. Turner I mean.”

  “Meaning?” I asked him.

  “Cause Henry, he ain't coming back, that's for sure.”

  Birdie always seemed bigger in close quarters and I thought if he filled his lungs with air, he'd send the table flying. “Why you say that?”

  Ruby brought the coffees, setting them down carefully in front of us along with a metal container of cream and another for sugar. She watched me carefully making sure I didn't dump some sugar in my pocket or palm the tableware.