Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “What?” Clearly, this was not the answer she was expecting.

  “I'm a sucker for ankles. Yours are of a superior variety.”

  “Is that so?” Perhaps there was the hint of a smile, a twitch at the corners.

  “Buy you lunch, Miss Rosewell?”

  “I don't have time for lunch.”

  “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I've only got thirty minutes,” she said.

  I nodded and gestured for her to take the lead. You see, I could read women pretty well. She didn't hesitate.

  Adele Rosewell led me to a tiny café off Wellington called The Cosmopolitan. She commandeered a table at the back, away from the windows. I followed behind so I could continue to observe a pair of perfect fibulas make music in the air. I knew the place. In another life, it had been owned by a good citizen named Pinky Zukerman, an erstwhile associate of Jake Gold.

  In those days, it had a chrome counter and leather banquettes and was an active place where graft and corruption opened as easily as a jar of pickles. Its proximity to city hall yielded convenience and opportunity. Fat cats of all stripes used to take a cup of Joe here and lie about the contracts on offer. Pinky had died at least ten years earlier. He'd been five years into a fraud beef at Kingston pen when his heart, never the most reliable instrument, coughed its last on the greasy food and overheated atmosphere in the prison laundry. They'd found him stuffed behind one of the industrial washers with a shiv buried in the folds of his work shirt. Those in the know assumed one of Pinky's deals had come back to haunt him in a terminal manner. I looked around the place. The chrome and leather had disappeared. Rod iron and checkered tablecloths had taken their place.

  “You like your privacy,” I said.

  She settled herself into the rattan seat and removed the glasses giving me the once over. “I need to be aware of the company I keep,” she said.

  I ordered two coffees and a Danish for me since I felt peckish.

  “Prying eyes?”

  “Something like that.” She paused. “Where's your gargantuan friend?”

  I shrugged. “In church probably.” Her eyebrows went up. “Birdie is a very religious man, Miss Rosewell, and he takes his faith seriously.”

  “Well, Mr. Gold, life is indeed full of surprises and I see you've had one yourself.” She gestured to the lump I was nursing.

  “Yes, it is and yes I have.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You deal with customers like this?”

  “Like how?”

  “With a curt, business-like manner.”

  “I'm a professional so I do professional when I'm at work. I'm not there to be anyone's mama, you understand?”

  “What about when you're not at work?”

  “That's off-limits and besides, you'll never know.”

  “You've got something against the Jews?”

  Her face hardened. “I never said that.”

  “White men, then?”

  “I thought you wanted to talk about Henry. Is this all just a joke to you, Mr. Gold?” The undercurrent of anger felt alive.

  “I did and do. Relax. I know when to be serious, Miss Rosewell and I do take my work seriously. What can you tell me about him, Miss Rosewell and I want the unedited version, okay? I don't want to hear about Henry the choir boy, if you get what I mean.”

  “You think all colored people are up to no good?”

  “Now who's being touchy? I just want the full dimension. If I don't know him, I can't understand him. If I can't understand him, then how the hell can I find him?”

  “I think you are a strange man, Mr. Gold. How will you find Henry?”

  “I don't know…yet. And I'm sure you didn't mean that in a negative context.” I glanced at my watch. “I think we're down to 27 minutes.”

  She sat back and shook her head. Her hair had been straightened and had auburn highlights. “Ask your questions,” she sighed.

  “Okay. What do you think happened to Henry?”

  “I don't know. I've been asking myself that question for eight years.”

  “When your aunt first told us of Henry's disappearance, experience suggested to me he was dead. Sorry to be so blunt but that is usually the case.”

  “And now, Mr. Gold? Do you still believe that?”

  I hesitated.

  “It's still the most likely possibility but I have to wonder how and why that would happen. Was he involved in something dangerous? Did he owe the wrong people money? Did he have a quick temper? Would he have gotten into a fight with someone?”

  Adele shook her head.

  “Henry would never get involved in anything illegal or dangerous knowingly. He just wasn't made that way.”

  “I think that's the point, Miss Rosewell. Something happened to him maybe where he couldn't help it. Didn't see the danger of the situation.”

  “I can't think of a thing like that. Henry always stuck to the straight and narrow, always did the right thing.”

  “Maybe his sense of righteousness got him into trouble?”

  Confusion swam into her luminous eyes. “How so?”

  “Maybe, he was the kind of guy who charged into a situation without thinking. Being the good Samaritan.” I smiled grimly. “Rescuing the damsel in distress.”

  “Do you believe my Auntie could be right? That Henry is hiding somewhere?”

  I hesitated. False hope is a powerful trap.

  “I have no reason to believe it one way or the other. There's no evidence yet to suggest he's dead or alive. Only the absence of time suggests he is dead.”

  “But he could still be alive. It is possible,” she said.

  “I found your Aunt's conviction surprising. Sometimes, instincts can be very powerful. It is strange for people just to disappear completely without leaving a trace. At some point in the past eight years, some indication that Henry was no longer with us should have come to light.”

  “So you think he's hiding somewhere?”

  “It's only a possibility. I'm willing to expand my thinking on that score.”

  “And if he's hiding somewhere, could it be near by?”

  “I don't know, really. It all needs a much closer look.”

  Adele took a sip of her coffee.

  “I guess I never really figured that was a possibility. Like you, I thought he'd had an accident or something terrible had happened to him and he wasn't coming back.”

  “Well, could be his mind snapped and he's just out of his head,” I said. “But from what you and your aunt said, Henry seemed to be pretty level-headed.”

  “Things like that just don't happen,” she replied. “Not to people like Henry.”

  “You know a Rochelle Dodson?” I asked.

  In a dainty way, she drained her coffee cup. Meanwhile, I had wolfed down the Danish, then wiped the apple smear from my chin. She didn't blink but I felt her disapproval. “Certainly, what of her?”

  “She seemed to think that she and Henry were an item. To the extent that they were supposed to get hitched even though there'd been no formal proposal; on Henry's part, that is.”

  “I wouldn't know about that.” And her voice took on a frosty tone.

  “You didn't approve?”

  “Well, I think Henry could have done better for himself, if that's what you're asking. She's nice enough, I suppose but I think she might be somewhat delusional.”

  “So, she was making it up?”

  “Maybe she was. Do you think Rochelle's got something to do with Henry disappearing?”

  “Have you seen the man she's living with?”

  “No.”

  “Well, a Wildebeest is better looking and he'd scare the fringes off Roy Rogers' rawhide elbows plus he's got the temper of a constipated bear. Word is, he likes to use his fists.”

  Her eyes widened. “On her?” I nodded. “Children?”

  “They've got a small herd, so who knows?”

  “Oh, I do feel sorry for her.” I half-believed
her. She didn't emote like a Sarah Bernhardt but she didn't come off like a Freezee either. “So, you think this man…?”

  “It's one possibility to check out, that's all. He seems like the possessive type.” “I see.”

  I sniffed the air. The pungent smell of ground coffee. “It's an angle, that's all. So, you have no ideas on that score?”

  “No, I don't.” She glanced at her wrist. “I really must go. My boss places a lot of emphasis on punctuality.”

  “I bet.”

  “It's not that bad.”

  “Well, maybe we can pick this up another time.”

  “Only if you have more questions about Henry.”

  “Naturally. What else would I have questions about?”

  I paid the bill and walked her back to the glass enclosed tomb known as a bank. We said our goodbyes and she shook my hand in a brisk manner, then took those fabulous ankles away from me not hesitating or glancing back, not even once. That hurt. Then I thought, a Jew and a shicksa, a black shicksa yet. Can't happen. Not in this lifetime. Which is why it almost made sense. The world, I told myself, was made up of infinite possibilities but maybe not my world.

  11

  “What do you think happened to Henry Turner?” I asked Birdie. We headed to the Foster's place. They had a swanky address: 56 Burnside Drive. Birdie was one of the most thoughtful, intelligent men I'd ever met, which is why he didn't say much. He knew better.

  As usual, Birdie took his time answering and that told me he really didn't want to say. “Not sure,” he said finally.

  “You think he's dead?”

  Birdie shrugged. “No body anywhere.”

  “I'm sure they were counting on that,” I said. I didn't elaborate on the who. That was what we were supposed to be finding out.

  The Fosters house on Burnside Drive stood at least 60 feet back from the curb. It boasted a wide, sweeping drive with a small roundabout, an imposing three-story building fronted with faux stone and pillars where plaster lions posed snarling.

  “Nice digs,” I said.

  Birdie snorted. “Five or six families could live here, easy.”

  I parked behind a maroon Caddy convertible; you could do shish kebab on those fins. Birdie and I went to the door and I rang the bell. A long moment later, the bell echoed throughout the house, a Negro houseman opened the door.

  I said hello, as politely as I could and handed him my card. The man took it and read the fine print several times, then slammed the door in our faces. I removed my hat and sighed. A moment later, the door opened and the houseman beckoned us in.

  “This way,” he said, studiously ignoring Birdie. “Mr. Foster is on the terrace having his breakfast. You may join him there, gentlemen.” And he eyed Birdie suspiciously, who, in turn, stared back until the houseman twitched and backed away.

  We strode through an expansive living room. It had a well-manicured wool carpet and heavy brocaded furniture. Then we entered a library with stuffy looking leather wing-backed chairs and built-in oak bookshelves that ran from the floor up to the ceiling and all around leaving only gaps for the windows.

  The houseman slid open a glass door and we stepped on to a patio that overlooked a sculptured lawn, a sparkling pool and flowerbeds bursting with color. Some people knew how to live. Others just have the means to and I figured that the Fosters had a lot of the latter.

  A thickset man with iron-grey hair sat with his back to us. He hunched over a glass table.

  “Mr. Foster?”

  Without turning around, the man waved to us like he summoned a waiter or barman at his club. Exchanging looks, Birdie and I walked around the table where we could face him square on.

  Dickson Foster shoveled eggs and toast into his face while slurping coffee. He had a wide head and jaw that jutted out defiantly. A thick rib of bone subbed in for a brow and his face remained hitched into a permanent scowl. You could dredge Lake Ontario and fill the trench between his eyes and cross the bridge of his nose. Small, grey eyes and like the rest of him, filled with suspicion. He looked us up and down but didn't invite us to sit or offer a cup of coffee but kept us standing while he continued to eat. He had dressed casually in slacks and a blue cotton shirt, open at the throat. His skin resembled the color of brick. On his feet, he wore a ragged pair of slippers.

  “What do you want?” he barked and flicked his eyes over Birdie, then looked down at his plate. Nothing appeared to come between Mr. Foster and his grub. Unless he wanted it to.

  “We're looking into the disappearance of Henry Turner,” I said.

  Foster hesitated for a second, then kept eating. Finally, he finished up by swabbing the plate with the last shred of toast and bit down on it hard.

  “I don't know anything about that.” He sucked back the dregs of his coffee. He jangled a bell that sat on the table tray. “One day he was here and then he wasn't. Just took off. Disappeared. Didn't even have the courtesy to give notice.”

  “You sure about that?” Birdie asked.

  Foster glared at him. “Perfectly sure.”

  “Can you tell us about the last few days he was here, Mr. Foster?” I asked.

  “You're asking a helluvalot, mister. That was eight years ago. I don't have much to do with the hired help,” he replied without hesitation and I marveled at how practiced some were who spoke with such pure arrogance

  “Even so. Henry Turner was your private chauffeur. He drove you, your wife and your daughter, didn't he?”

  Foster glared at us in turn. “That's what chauffeurs do, in case you weren't aware.”

  “Uh-huh,” I replied coolly. I shook out a Sweet Cap and lit it, taking my time, blowing a thin stream of smoke, somewhat in Foster's general direction.

  “I don't care for your manners,” Foster said.

  “That makes two of us,” I replied. “But the fact is, Henry Turner used to work for you and he disappeared while he was in your employ. One night he was driving your daughter and the next thing anyone knew, he was gone. Your daughter, Alison, I believe, had been picked up by the cops around that time, maybe even the night Henry disappeared. I think the charge was joyriding. That's no big deal. Lots of rich kids have nothing better to do than terrorize the streets in their Daddy's cars. Lots of them get picked up by the cops too. Usually, they get a slap on the bum and get sent back to mommy and daddy. Sometimes, but not always, booze is involved. Anyway, your daughter came home safely and no one has heard from Henry since. Any thoughts on that?”

  Foster laughed harshly just as the houseman hurried over and cleared up the table. No one moved. Foster waited until the servant had taken the breakfast things back into the house and closed the patio door behind him.

  “Okay, so, you think you're a tough guy, do you? You and your friend both. I resent your implications about my daughter.”

  I took a pull on the fag. “I've met your daughter, Mr. Foster.”

  The chair scraped on the patio stones as he tried to stand up but managed it awkwardly catching his foot on one of the legs. His brick complexion had turned puce. The back of the chair thwacked the stones hard. Foster yelled a little bit. He had spittle in the corners of his mouth. Bits of egg and toast flew out. I felt like taking cover.

  “Now you look here. You think you can barge into my home and talk to me this way?”

  I wanted to point out we had been announced and allowed to enter but Foster didn't seem in the mood to listen. He shook a forefinger at my nose.

  “One phone call from me and I can have your license pulled, you get it? I could crush the pair of you–like that.” A dramatic snap of the fingers, a bit weak, in my opinion. “But I'm not going to. You know why?”

  I shrugged. Birdie remained impassive.

  “Because of Henry's mother, Mrs. Turner, that's why. She's a God-fearing, church-going woman and I know she's been torn apart since her son disappeared. I'm a deacon myself and for that reason, I'm not going to just kick you outta here.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  Fo
ster looked a bit exhausted from the tirade. He picked up the chair and set it upright, then sat down gratefully.

  “You sure know how to get a fella riled up, Gold.”

  “You look like you've had plenty of practice,” I replied.

  Foster wheezed and it took me a moment to figure out he was laughing.

  “Maybe you're right about that.”

  “You were saying, Mr. Foster?”

  He rubbed a paw along his grizzled jaw line.

  “My daughter did get picked up for joyriding around that time. As it turned out, my wife and I were away–Palm Springs–some resort out there, can't remember the name–Rancho something. Alison called me. Explained she'd gotten into a little trouble. I called Henry to go pick her up. Then I called the stationhouse and got it all squared away. The next day, we flew home. But by then, Henry Turner had left. But when he didn't show up by the next day, I spoke to Mrs. Turner and she said he hadn't been home. I advised her then to call the police, which I believe, she did.”

  “You know anything about some items gone missing from your daughter's house, Mr. Foster?”

  Now, he really looked flummoxed. “You've lost me.”

  “Your daughter, Mrs. Lawson, came to our office earlier. She wanted to hire us. Said some items had gone missing and accused Mrs. Turner of stealing them.”

  “Mrs. Turner? I don't believe it. Why would she? That doesn't make any sense at all, does it?”

  “No, it doesn't,” I agreed. “Any idea why your daughter might want to put Mrs. Turner in the frame for it?”

  “I can't think of any reason and that's the God's honest truth.” He looked from me to Birdie and back again. “Now, is there anything else I can help you boys with?”

  I shrugged.

  “Not for the moment, Mr. Foster but I'm sure we'll be speaking again.”

  The lines around his throat tightened a bit.

  “Listen, I'd like to know what happened to Henry, too. For his mother's sake. She doesn't deserve to suffer like this. Like I said, she's a God-fearing woman and deserves better. I hope you do find Henry for her just so she can ease her mind.”

  “You think Henry's dead?”

  Foster's eyes went stony.

  “I just don't know, Mr. Gold. These are things better left in the hands of God.”