“She's something, isn't she?”
“I'll give you that,” I said. “We were talking about Alison.”
“Yeah, right. She was just kind of wild, you know?”
“In what way, Harvey?” I felt like smacking him around a little to hurry things up. The waiter still hadn't brought our beers.
“Drinking, going out to bars. It was her idea to boost my old man's Caddy that night we got stopped. She dared me to.”
“And you fell for that?” Birdie asked him quietly.
Troyer grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. I guess I did. I mean, you've seen her right? She knew how to get her way. She was good at that. Always got what she wanted.”
“Anything else happen that night?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me. You were hauled into the station. Alison called her old man in Palm Springs. Do you remember who came to pick her up?”
“Yeah. It was the chauffeur. Henry, I think his name was. Geez, I felt sorry for the guy.”
“Why was that?”
Harvey glanced nervously at Birdie. He confirmed the story about Alison and Henry told to us by the cop, Kernahan and Rance Callaway.
“Alison says she broke it off with you after that night,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Well, she would, wouldn't she?” Troyer said. “Pride and all that. No. I definitely told her we were quits.”
“How'd she handle it?”
“Not good. Threw an ashtray at me. Lucky for me, it missed.”
“What can you tell us about a club down by the docks?”
Troyer reared back. “You know about that?”
I nodded. “Blackstone's wasn't it?”
“Who told you? That little fink Callaway?” I didn't answer but it didn't stop him. “I should have known. It was a mistake hanging out with him. The guy's a deadbeat. Drives a truck for a living.”
“And what do you do for a living, Harvey? When you're not lounging around the pool getting a nice massage, that is.”
“It's my day off. I'm a stockbroker at Chisholm's. I handle some big league clients too.”
“That's swell. Now about Blackstone's. Exactly what went on there?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The girls, Gayle and Alison used to head upstairs while you boys stayed at the bar. What were they doing up there?”
Troyer mashed his cigarette out in the onyx ashtray. He slurped the melted ice in his drink crunching the cubes between his molars.
“Don't know a thing.”
“You mean, you aren't going to say.”
“Take it anyway you want, okay? I don't have to answer your questions. I don't have to talk to you. In fact, I should have you thrown out of here. Maybe that's what I will do.”
“Just try it,” Birdie said.
Troyer gulped. “Hey, just kidding, okay?”
“Right,” I said. “Now that we know you've got the spine of a garden snake, just answer the question.” Troyer clammed up. He shook his head. “What was it? Pills? Reefers? What was it Troyer?”
He resembled a little kid now getting a tongue-lashing. He bowed his head and rocked in his lounger. It made creaking noises as he shifted in the canvas seat.
“We could beat it out of him,” Birdie suggested.
“We could.”
I stood up and saw Alice giving us a look. Three guys were huddled around her as she sat by the edge of the pool.
“Looks like Alice has got some company, Harvey. You might lose another one.” He went to say something but stopped himself. We never got the beers.
30
I had parked the Chevy on Prince Arthur just around the corner from the back of the Plaza. It was a one-way. When we got back to the car, we were blocked in–a two-toned Buick Roadmaster front and back–touching the bumpers. Four of them waited for us in their baggy suits and floppy hats, flashing their .45's. One of them sat on the Chevy's hood. Birdie and I strolled up making sure to keep our hands in the open.
“I'd appreciate it if you didn't do that,” I said.
The gunsel grinned then slid down the hood dropping on to the pavement like a gymnast, light on his feet, good balance.
“John want his money,” he said. “John say you not looking hard enough.”
“Is that right?” I replied.
“That's what he say,” the gunsel repeated keeping the grin going.
I turned to Birdie. “What do you think of that? We're not trying hard enough.”
“Others have made that mistake,” Birdie said.
“What else did John say?”
The gunsel removed his hat, then shrugged off his jacket and handed it to one of his associates. The leather straps of his harness rode high on his chest. He slipped that off too.
“John say that I give you a reason to try harder.”
I watched him as he rolled up one sleeve then the other. I glanced at Birdie, who shrugged. The other three gunsels grinned now too, sharing the same joke. This was a quiet street in one of the posh areas of town, not the time or place for gunplay. But not many people about either. The block remained practically deserted. I sighed. I handed my hat to Birdie and then my jacket. I unstrapped my harness with my left hand and held it up while John's men watched me warily. Just as Birdie hooked it in his big paw, I pulled the handle of the .45 and aimed it at the gunsel's chest. The others flinched but didn't move.
“I could just plug you here and now,” I said. “Maybe John would get that message loud and clear.”
“You wouldn't do such a thing,” the gunsel sneered.
“Try me, sport. It's nice and quiet. We'd be gone in no time and so would you.” I cocked the trigger and he flinched. From under my coat, the barrel of Birdie's cannon poked out. “Up to you but if you're smart, you'll go back and tell John we got the message and understand. We are trying our best to find his money for him.”
“You won't find it here,” the gunsel said, pointing at the hotel. Then he spat.
“Don't be so sure,” I said, and motioned with the .45. “Tell him we've got lucky number eight horseshoes up our backsides. Him, he's a number four. Get it?”
The gunsel grimaced and gestured for his hat and jacket.
“Okay, we leave it for now but we are watching. You will hear from us again.”
He barked in Mandarin. The four gunsels got into their two-tone Buicks, fired up their engines then screeched away from the curb. We gazed after them as the cars peeled down Prince Arthur tires squealing.
“No need for that,” I said sadly.
“John's nervous,” Birdie said.
I nodded. “That's the way I like it. Let's keep pushing his buttons, keep him off-balance.” Then I had a thought about hotels and who they employ. We'd been to the penthouse to jaw with Troyer but a small army labored behind the scenes, sometimes in the basement. Ying's sister might have found a refuge in one of them.
I snapped my fingers to wake myself up. “Come on. We might have missed something back there.” Birdie looked at me in surprise, just for a moment.
We walked back to the Plaza, pushed through the revolving doors and made our way up to the main reception. A nattily attired young man with enough Brylcreem in his hair to grease a watermelon, pretended to be busy.
Finally, he decided to look up and acknowledge us. “Yes, gentlemen. Can I help?” he asked in a nancy-like drawl.
I drew the girl's picture from inside my breast pocket and laid it flat on the counter in front of him.
“Just wanted to know if you've seen this girl in here.”
He glanced at it. “I don't think so.”
“Are you sure?”
His dark eyes flickered up at me. “Yes, quite sure.”
“Do you have any Chinese on staff?” Birdie asked.
The young man smirked. “Only in the laundry area but no one under the age of 50.”
“What about guests?” I asked.
“I should think not.” And he actually wrinkled h
is nose.
“You're sure?”
“Yes. Quite sure. Now, if there isn't anything else?”
“Stringer around?”
Stringer was the house dick. He'd been turfed off the force for drinking on the job. Seemed like he just forgot when his shifts were and hedged his bets by drinking during the day and the night.
“Of course. I believe he's in his office.” He picked up the house phone. “Whom shall I say…?”
“Don't sweat it,” I replied. “I know where he hangs his hat.”
Ray Stringer's office, if it could be described as such, lay at the far end of a corridor through a doorway opposite the incinerator. You could smell the burning garbage. Showed how much management thought of Ray. I didn't knock but went straight in. As usual, Ray drank his lunch.
“Hey, hey, Mo,” he said and nearly tipped his chair over. His size 12 brogues were propped on the scarred surface of his desk and he hung by his scuffed heels. “You startled me. Don't get many visitors down here.”
I looked around. No windows. Single overhead light. Wobbly desk and rickety chair. No kidding. “I can't imagine why. This place is swell.”
Stringer waved a meaty paw at the air. “It's a dump but it's my dump. Hello Mr. Bird.” For some reason that's what he called Birdie. A sign of respect, I imagined.
“Ray,” Birdie replied.
“Drink?” He held up the bottle. Bell's Whiskey. Not my tipple.
“No thanks, Ray. A little early for me and you know that, uh, Mr. Bird, rarely imbibes.”
Ray nodded. “Okay.” And poured himself a generous measure. “To what do I owe the pleasure,” he said, tilting his snap brim further back on his head.
“Looking for someone, Ray. Thought you might have seen her around.”
I took out the girl's photo and placed it on the desk in front of him. Ray shifted his weight bringing the chair forward. He lifted his feet off the desk and placed them on the floor to get a better look.
“Chinese, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You're looking in the wrong part of town, boys.”
I sighed. “Thought she might have worked here at one time or another, Ray.”
“Couldn't tell ya.”
I scooped up the photo. “Thanks anyway.”
“Hey,” Ray said affably. “I'm not finished, but I know who might.” He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed an extension. “Hey, Barry. Can you do me a quick favour? Come on down to my office for a minute, will ya? Thanks.” He hung up. “Barry might know,” he said.
A minute later, discreet knuckles rapped on the door. A middle-aged Chinese man with Buddy Holly glasses, poked his head in. He was pudgy with iron-grey hair buzzed close to his scalp. He wore whites, like an orderly in a hospital. Even his slip-ons were white.
“Barry, c'mon in,” Ray said as he gargled more booze.
Barry nodded at me and Birdie. “Barry Wong,” he said and put out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Barry. Mo Gold and this is my associate, Arthur Birdwell,” I replied and shook. Then Birdie did the same.
He blinked at Birdie, then at me. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
I held out the photo. “We're looking for her.” Barry adjusted his glasses and took a good look. “You know her?”
Barry handed the photo back to me. “I'm not sure. Maybe.”
“Either you know her or you don't.”
Barry swallowed and looked uncomfortable. “I could say they all look alike to me.”
I gave him a sour look. “Come on, Barry. Don't be cute.”
“Why are you looking for her?” Barry asked.
Birdie leaned toward him. “I think you know why, Barry. You do, don't you?”
Barry's round face took on a baleful look. “I might,” he admitted.
“Look, Barry, we don't mean her any harm. We think she might know the whereabouts of something quite valuable that's gone missing. We just want to talk to her, nothing else. Ray will vouch for us. We used to work together on the force.”
Obligingly, Ray chimed in. “He's telling it straight, Barry. Mo's a stand up guy and that's saying a lot coming from me. Most of the cops I knew were as crooked as a bent stick. Why Mo even punched the deputy chief. I should know. I was there and it was a doozer,” said Ray. Whatever Ray was and that included being a drunk, he never took a backhander. And he could handle himself in a scuffle. Those size 12's had a pair of meaty fists to go with them.
“Listen Barry,” I said. “Better we find her first. Otherwise, who knows what could happen? We can help her out of a jam. We just aim to return whatever's gone missing, that's all.”
“I'm a man of God,” Birdie intoned. “And I don't tell lies.”
“Aww, Birdie, not now, okay?” He gave me a look. I sighed. “Okay, Barry, Birdie is a man of God, like he says. We're playing square. Do you know her?”
Barry chewed his lip. “She worked here about three months ago. Chambermaid. Said her name was Wendy Ling.”
“You got a file on her?”
“Nope.”
“Address?”
“Nope.”
“Guess it's too much to ask about a phone number?”
“You gotta understand,” Barry said. “She was a temp. I had a couple of girls off, one had a baby and the other was in the hospital. We hire girls by the day, pay them cash. All the hotels do it. We keep it off the books.”
“So, they're illegals?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Probably. We don't ask them any questions as long as they do the work and don't steal anything. This girl. Wendy, she was here maybe three weeks, then she disappeared. Never came back. That happens a lot too. They go on to other jobs. Some get arrested. They leave the city, all kinds of things go on. Not our business.”
I reached into my jacket pocket where I kept a random poker chip. “You play, Barry?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes.”
“Where do you play?”
“Here and there.”
Birdie placed a huge paw on his white shoulder. “Where's your regular table?”
“A joint on Cecil, a few blocks in from Spadina. There's usually a game going there.”
“Really?” Ying had lived on Beatrice not far from Cecil and his sister with him. “You know any of the dealers by name?”
Barry shrugged again. “Maybe.”
“What about Ying Hee Fong? You know him?”
Barry shook his head. “Don't think so.” His expression went tight.
I held the photo up. “This could be his sister.”
“I wouldn't know. Look, I've told you everything I know.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. “I really should get back.”
“Sure, Barry, we understand. Thanks for your help.” I slipped the poker chip back into my pocket and came up with a card. “If you hear of anything, you let me know, okay? This girl could be in serious trouble. A lot of people are looking for her. Most of them are not as nice as we are.”
Barry looked from me to Birdie and back again. He took the card and stuffed it into his pants pocket.
“Sure,” he said. He backed away and slipped out the door.
“Geez,” Ray said. “You sure scared the crap out of him.”
“I hope so,” I said.
31
When I still worked on the force, I had a tout in Chinatown. He was an opium dealer and small time crook named Danny Chow. I'd busted him a few times and then put him on the payroll. We'd kept in touch over the years. I knew where to find Danny but there was no point in looking until after midnight. I dropped Birdie at St. Paul's Cathedral. He liked to sit there and reflect. I went home. I had a date.
I took Evelyn out to dinner at Hy's, one of the classiest steak joints in the city. The waiters wore tuxedos and they actually fit. The carpets grew deep and the silverware was the real deal. Even the chandeliers sparkled.
“My, this is nice,” she gushed. She wore a shimmery, sleeveless dress that had tassels hanging from it that
accentuated her height and colour.
“Glad you like it,” I said and ordered a vodka martini from the waiter. Evelyn opted for a gin and tonic.
She reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For this. I don't get to go out to nice places like this very often, Mo. I just want you to know I appreciate it, that's all.”
“My pleasure. You deserve it. You work hard and you take care of your kids.” The first thing she told me when I picked her up was that her sister agreed to sit for her. I met the sister, briefly, an older, stouter version of Evelyn and got a short “hmmpphh” by way of greeting. Clearly, she didn't approve. Probably thought I shilled used cars or chased ambulances. “Well, I didn't impress your sister much.”
“Don't worry about her. She's always been protective of me. Her husband left her too and she's bitter. Thinks all men are rotten. You know the type.”
“I've met a few,” I said. More than a few, I thought.
Hy's really did serve up a good steak and we each ordered a sirloin the size of a small city-state served on a platter. Evelyn's eyes lit up when she saw the food. “Oh my. Haven't seen that much food on one plate since my last Italian wedding. One of the girls at the hospital. Must have been ten courses at least. Felt like that anyway.”
I'd ordered a nice Cabernet to wash it down. We dipped into it liberally.
“How's your case going?” Evelyn asked between chews and swallows.
“Case?”
“Isn't that what you call it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, all the fighting you've been doing, I just figured you had to be on a case, that's all. Was I right?”
“Kind of, Evelyn. To be honest, I don't know what I'm on or doing for that matter.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“And spoil the evening?”
“What is it about some men and their work? It's like the war. Nothing to say. And then they expect their women just to go along with it like everything is normal when it isn't. Does that make sense to you?”
Looking for Henry Turner Page 17
