Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Mrs. Turner,” I wheezed. “I don't know that this—incident–is related to Henry at all. Could be something completely different. I've ticked off a lot of guys over the years.”

  “Nonsense. This makes me responsible for you. Mr. Birdwell was right about that. You'll stay here until you're feeling better.”

  “Since you put it that way…” She kept talking but I didn't hear much more of what she had to say since I'd used up just about all the reserves I had left and slipped back into the black hole.

  The next time I came to, I wore someone's pajamas. I knew they couldn't be mine because they smelled strongly of mothballs. Expecting to see Aida Turner, I was surprised to see her niece, Adele Rosewell, at the other end of a spoon. In her neatly manicured hands, she held a bowl.

  “Hungry?” she asked. I nodded. “Well, open up then.” I opened. “This sort of thing happen to you often, Mr. Gold?”

  “All the time.”

  “I see,” she replied, clearly not seeing at all.

  “How're your ankles,” I mumbled.

  She snorted and for a second I thought she'd dump what I took to be chicken soup from the aroma, all over me.

  “Please,” she said. “No jokes. I don't want you to make me spill this on you.”

  “I don't think I'd look very good wearing chicken soup either.”

  “How is it?” she said, shoveling more in.

  “Salty. That's how I know it came from a tin. Homemade soup isn't salty at all.”

  “I wouldn't know,” she murmured looking at me with a pair of lovely brown eyes. “I've never made soup.”

  She fed me a few more spoonfuls and then asked, “Does this mean you're getting close to something?” Always business with this woman.

  “Not necessarily. All it means is that I've ticked off the wrong people.”

  “Oh.” More soup came my way. “You know, I almost became a nurse.”

  “What happened?”

  She frowned, then actually smiled. “I realized I didn't have the aptitude for it. Not enough empathy and that's why I went into banking instead.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Do you think I lack in empathy, Mr. Gold?”

  “I just think you've grown a thick skin, probably for good reasons, Miss Rosewell.”

  She looked down at the bowl. It was empty.

  “Now I should pinch your cheek and tell you what a good boy you've been for finishing all your soup.”

  “But you won't. The empathy thing.” She didn't say anything but kept looking at me in a probing way. “Er, these pajamas…”

  “Yes?”

  “How did I…?”

  “Well, it was my aunt and I who changed you, if that's what you're asking.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And so did I,” she replied with a wry twist of the lips.

  I cleared my throat. “See anything interesting?”

  She grinned. “I've seen men naked before, Mr. Gold.”

  “White men?”

  She pursed her head and shook her head. “No comment.”

  “White, Jewish men?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “They're nice lips.”

  “Thank you, Mo. That's sweet of you to say. Now…” She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “I should let you get some rest.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About seven-thirty.”

  “At night?”

  “That's right.”

  “What day?”

  “Tuesday.”

  It had been two days since the beating. “Where are my clothes?”

  “I don't think you're going anywhere, Mo.”

  “The clothes, Adele?”

  “Well, the shirt was ruined–covered with blood–and other things. The jacket was pretty mangy too but Auntie managed to get most of the stains out. One knee was ripped out of your pants.”

  With a Herculean effort, I managed to get propped on my elbows but the room rotated a bit and the pain crackled and radiated the way nature intended–from the centre. Adele stood in the doorway with her arms crossed holding the bowl and soup spoon, an amused expression on her face. “You really like to be the man, don't you?”

  “Last time I looked, that's what I was.” I glanced down then back up again and swore she blushed.

  “You're staying put. You really don't have a lick of sense. I'll be in the living room and believe me, you won't get by me, not when I'm on watch, okay?”

  I knew that I couldn't get to my feet without help and clearly no help would come from her quarter so I decided to give in for now and lay back down.

  “I take my work very seriously.”

  “So do I,” she said and closed the door.

  After that exchange, I was exhausted. But the soup wasn't half-bad.

  Three more days and I could move better than an 80 year-old with two canes. When I had some conscious moments, I began reading The Invisible Man. I know how he felt. Birdie brought some clean clothes from my flat. I used Mrs. Turner's shower to clean up and managed to cut myself only a dozen times with a disposable razor. It only hurt when I dropped the soap and had to retrieve it. Birdie waited patiently while I got dressed. Mrs. Turner fretted in the front room.

  “Are you sure about this, Mr. Gold? I don't believe you're well enough.”

  “I've overstayed myself, Mrs. Turner. It's time to get back to doing what I do best.”

  “I hope that doesn't include any more beatings,” she said. Birdie guffawed.

  I shot him a dirty look. “I wouldn't worry about that.”

  Friday night and everybody celebrated the end of the work week.

  “We'll be in touch,” I said.

  On the front step, Birdie said, “Want me to carry you to the car?”

  “Wise guy. I'm pretty sure I can make it. Just give me a couple of days.”

  I took a deep breath. I felt pain but it didn't knock me over. I felt hungry. Hadn't eaten a full meal all week. In the car, I said, “Let's go to Shopsy's. I could murder a corned beef on rye and a cold beer.”

  “Now you're talking.”

  He fired up the Chevy and bolted from the curb.

  “Hope you been busy,” I said.

  “Hmm-mm,” he replied in a neutral way while keeping his eyes on the road. Dusk trickled in.

  Although it hurt to chew, it was the best corned beef I'd ever tasted. Piled as thick as a giant's fist, slathered with French's mustard and the rye freshly baked with seeds, just the way I liked it. The deli hopped but then it always had clientele. The beer had the right amount of bubbles and a frosty temperature. More than that and I didn't care. I managed to down two in short order. I sighed. Nice to feel human again.

  After demolishing a plate of smoked meat and three pumpernickel bagels along with half a dozen dill pickles, Birdie heaved a deep sigh. I lit a Sweet Cap and shared his contentment. We ordered coffee and Danish. He poured cream into his cup and added half a dozen sugars. I drank it black. That way I could taste the coffee.

  “I found Ricky Garcia,” he said.

  “Who?” I'd lost a few facts along with brain cells as a result of the conk on the noggin.

  “Henry's pal from Flit Construction.”

  “Where'd you find him?”

  “He's a big macher at the union now,” Birdie said. “Vice-President of the local.”

  I liked it when Birdie used Yiddish expressions. Made me believe in the universality of language.

  “Is that so? Seems odd that Deans wouldn't know him. The guy must be in his face every time there's a big job and Flit only gets the big ones.”

  “We're meeting him at the union hall in 30 minutes.”

  18

  Local 183 of the Construction Worker's Association had its HQ on Cecil Street, just down the block from Ying's flat less than five minutes from Shopsy's. The union hall looked like a low-slung bunker where they held bingos and chintzy dances on Saturday nights and meetings of the young soci
alists early on Sunday mornings.

  My mother had been a socialist. My dad had only pretended, just to see what graft he could get out of it. Some of his union buddies had been commies just after the war. When it came out how many Stalin had butchered, a few changed their tune. Didn't stop the rackets though. Politics went hand-in-hand with corruption. Always did and always would. Birdie parked the Chevy on the street. I stepped gingerly out of the car and only groaned once or twice. I took a good look at Local 183.

  “Not exactly good advertising for the industry, is it? I wouldn't hold a funeral in that joint,” I said.

  Birdie merely grunted. He felt the same way. The main doors remained locked so we rang the bell. After a few moments, a light clicked on inside the foyer and a stocky figure came to the glass door–one reinforced with heavy wire mesh. That's when I noticed the windows had been done up in the same motif. The guy unsnapped half a dozen locks and finally, swung the door open. He looked up at Birdie. It took a while.

  “You the guy I spoke to?”

  “That's me. And this is my partner.”

  Garcia turned his gaze on me. “You better come in. I was just closing up.”

  “You expecting trouble?”

  “I always expect trouble,” Garcia said and ushered us in then re-set the bolts and chains. I watched him for a couple of minutes. “My office is this way.”

  We followed him down a dim corridor, through a meeting room, down a shorter corridor that led to an open work area with offices on the perimeter. Only one office had its lights on.

  “Please,” Garcia said and gestured to two battered chairs opposite his desk, the surface of which, boasted papers in teetering stacks. “Contracts. It's always contracts.”

  Judging by his girth, Ricky Garcia hadn't worked a construction site in a while but you could tell by the condition of his hands–swollen fingers like they'd been broken, the palms callused–that he'd done heavy lifting. He wore his graying hair slicked back and sported a Pancho Villa moustache. The skin around his eyes gleamed tight and shiny, testament to a pockmarked youth. He looked older but I figured him to be in his mid-thirties.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” I said.

  “What happened to you?” he asked. “That's a pretty nasty bruise. You're also not walking too good.”

  I shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”

  Garcia put out a thin smile. He reached down beside his desk and brought out a baseball bat. “I keep this in case of unexpected company.” He hefted it then smacked it into his thick palm before setting it back on the floor. “You wanted to talk about Henry Turner?”

  “That's right. What can you tell us about him?”

  Garcia leaned back in his chair and the joints creaked. Not sure if it was the chair or him. “We worked together at Flit Construction during the subway contract. We got to be friendly, went out for a beer that sort of thing. Henry was a good guy.”

  “Was?”

  “I heard he disappeared.”

  “Henry make any enemies while he was at Flit?”

  Garcia gave that some thought. “Don't think so. If anyone made enemies, it was me.”

  “How so?”

  “I was the union steward back then. I had run-ins with management at the time.”

  “Frankie Deans?”

  “That's right.”

  “Deans told us he liked Henry. Wanted to train him as a site engineer, that he had a lot of potential.”

  Garcia snorted. “Deans said that?” I nodded. “What a two-faced bastard.”

  “Why you say that?” Birdie asked in a deep rumble.

  “Why?” Garcia repeated. “I'll tell you why. Henry got a stinking deal, that's why. How do you think that accident happened in the first place? Deans knew the crew shouldn't have been pouring concrete when it was so wet. That it wouldn't harden and couldn't support the weight of the overhead beams. He sent our crew down into the pit knowing an accident could happen.”

  “Why?”

  “Deans was cutting corners to save money. Wherever and whenever he could cheap out, he did. Flit made sure he was handsomely rewarded, a bonus based on how much money he saved. You know the old man went to jail right?”

  I nodded. “He's due out in September. But five years is a long time to be out of circulation.”

  “He deserved more than that but there's justice for the rich and a different type of justice for the poor.”

  I didn't want to get into a political debate with the guy. “Deans told us he fought with Flit over compensation money for Henry. That Flit didn't want to give Henry anything.”

  The thin smile reappeared. “Henry was in hospital for almost four months. Then he was bedridden at home for another three. That's seven months without being able to work not to mention the hospital bills. And when he was, he couldn't do half of what he could before. You call that fair? You think five hundred bucks can make up for that? The medical costs were three times that. It was the union anted up for that, not those pricks Flit or Deans. Don't get me started,” he muttered.

  “So you don't think Deans was looking out for Henry's interests?”

  Garcia shook his head. He didn't have much of a neck I noticed. “Deans is a sonofabitch. Between him and Flit, they figured the five hundred was enough to keep Henry quiet. Henry wasn't a fighter. He just took it, you know?”

  “Not like you, you mean?” Birdie said.

  “That's right, big man. Not like me. I went after Flit and Deans for breaking the labour code. I filed grievance after grievance but it came to nothing. Flit had his lawyers all over it. I'm surprised the damn tunnel hasn't collapsed by now. You won't find me taking the Yonge Street line.”

  “Hundreds of thousands do every day,” I said.

  “Well, one day it's going to cave in on them.”

  “Then you'll be happy?” Birdie growled.

  “Hey, I didn't say that,” Garcia said. “I'm no ghoul. I hope it doesn't happen.”

  “You and Henry stay in touch after?” I asked.

  “Yeah. For a while. I visited him in the hospital. Saw him at his mother's once or twice. And then we both moved on.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  Garcia rubbed his chin. “Maybe 1950 or 1951 sometime? I'm not sure.”

  “He say anything about getting married?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about working as a chauffeur for a wealthy family.”

  Garcia's expression brightened. “Yeah. I remember something about that. Can't think of who though.”

  “He say anything else about this family he was working for?”

  “Yeah. He said there was a daughter, a teenager and she was pretty wild. Part of his job was to babysit her. Make sure she didn't do anything stupid. Sounded like a full-time occupation.”

  “He mention anything?”

  Garcia ran a wide palm over his fleshy chin. “Some joyriding, maybe. Nothing too serious. That's all I remember, honest. The next thing I heard, Henry was gone.”

  “So Henry wasn't active in the union?”

  Garcia shook his head. “Not really. I mean, if there'd been a strike I'm sure he woulda walked the line like everybody else. But he wasn't an active member. Paid his dues and that was about it. I don't even remember him coming to any of the meetings.”

  “You got a city map?” I asked.

  Garcia gave me a curious look. “Yeah.” And he opened the top drawer of his desk. “Right here.”

  “Can you show me where the collapse happened?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Garcia turned the map around so we could see it. The subway ran north from Union Station. He plunked his stubby forefinger on a spot just above Queen Street near City Hall and diagonal to the law courts. “Right about there.”

  “Just the one tunnel?” I asked.

  Garcia shrugged.

  “Just the main one but there's a few spurs that the trains don't really use anymore. They're kept for storage mostly, spare track and
occasionally some cars are stowed there but mostly they're dormant. They keep everything up at the marshaling yards now. But when we were building the tunnel, it didn't exist then.”

  “So there are other tunnels that aren't used for anything?”

  “That's right.” Garcia rubbed his fleshy chin.

  “Thanks.”

  “Does that help?”

  “I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “I don't get it. You guys looking for Henry?” Garcia asked.

  “That's right. Why?”

  The shop steward shrugged. “Well, either he don't want to be found or…”

  “You think he's dead?” Birdie boomed.

  Garcia paled. “I don't know. I just think it's strange that he just disappeared like that. I mean, who does that? My mother would kill me if I did that to her.”

  I stood up. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Garcia.”

  “Sure. You find out anything, lemme know, okay? I always liked Henry. He was a good guy. Honest, you know? Not many like that left in the world.”

  “Amen,” Birdie boomed again. Garcia shot him a curious look.

  “We'll do our best,” I said.

  19

  Birdie dropped me off at my flat. I let him keep the Chevy and he drove off into the night. Although it wasn't early, I felt restless, edgy and found the walls to be closing in on me. I limped up and down and back and forth for a while but that didn't do it for me. I hadn't invested in a television as yet finding most of the programs idiotic. The radio held no interest for me although there was a big band program I occasionally picked up that broadcast Friday nights out of New York City. It came in on a clear night.

  Outside on King Street, I hopped a cab and gave the driver Aida Turner's address. I paid him off then noticed no lights were on and it occurred to me that maybe the old lady was in bed. Throwing caution to the wind, I rang the bell. After a few tries, nothing stirred and I figured she wasn't home, which for a detective, made pretty good deducing. I wasn't looking for her anyway. I headed down the walk and unlatched the gate, then carefully latched it back up.

  Bloor Street lay only a few blocks north and even though it felt like a balmy night, I needed to feel some heat, some life. Chasing ghosts chilled the soul. A block up, I found a phone booth and looked up her name but couldn't find a listing. Stymied again. Reaching the brighter lights of Bloor, I hailed a cab and told him to take me to the Colonial Tavern, one of the city's premier jazz spots. I'd never been a rabid jazz fan like Birdie but occasionally they had some big band music. The Colonial spoke of the land of the living and that would do.