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The Italianate face of the Don Jail made you think of an opera house but the fake front hid its horrors within ominous stone walls. Over 30 men had been hanged at the Don. The building dated back to 1862–designed by one of the city's most prominent architects. Inside, he built a magnificent rotunda where hefty sopranos could have belted out an aria or two.
At one time, the Don existed as the largest jail in North America. The corridors bleeding off the rotunda led to the cell wings. The women's block got stuck up on the fourth level. It's ironic that the building of the jail pre-dated the creation of Canada as a country by at least two years. Made you wonder what the founding fathers thought when one of the first stepping stones to democracy comprised a penal institution used to house men, women and children. They'd hung a 10 year-old kid for stealing a loaf of bread.
In those days, the hangings took place outdoors so the community could have some entertainment while eating their picnic lunch. Prisoners were supposed to stay in the Don until arraigned for trial or sentencing before being shipped off to one of the permanent correctional centres like the Kingston Pen. Yet some guys languished there for years.
The cells measured three feet by seven feet with three prisoners crammed in each. They slept in hammocks one over the other and had a slop bucket for a john. The Don was a swell place and it did me good to revisit it. Of course, I could think of nothing better than seeing my old man locked up. Unlike the more modern prisons, no visitor's area had been provided and no cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. Visitors weren't welcome. The Don cut the prisoner off from the outside world. No family. No friends. And especially, no lawyers. It became a concrete tomb. Blocked windows kept the atmosphere dark, dank and gloomy. No talking allowed or you'd get punished–taken to the 'recreation' room and flayed by one of the gunbulls. It certainly wasn't a happy place nor did it engender fond memories among the denizens who lived there.
Every other year some politician wanted to close the place down calling it a disgrace. But after nearly 100 years, the Don kept going strong. Nowhere else to stick the bad guys. It served its purpose. Those on the outside didn't care. Most of the inmates got what they deserved, didn't they? Especially that ten year-old kid.
I took off my jacket and hat and handed them to one of the guards. I unbuckled my belt and put it on the counter, emptied my pockets of cigarettes, lighter, pack of Juicy Fruit and thirty-seven cents in change, three dimes, a nickel and two pennies. The guard searched through the pockets of my jacket, found my wallet and went through every compartment.
“I'm not gonna slip the old bastard a key if that's what you were thinking,” I said. The guard glared at me but didn't respond. Finished with the jacket, he patted me down, not lightly, starting with my arms and working his way down to my ankles.
“Take off your shoes,” he said.
I slipped off my brogues and he felt around inside the soles then tested the heels with his fingers. You never know. They could have been hollow. I wasn't packing because that would have delayed things even more and I didn't think I'd need a weapon inside. My mistake.
“Okay,” the guard said with a great deal of reluctance. I guess he hoped I had a penknife or a blasting cap on me. I slipped the brogues back on and threaded the belt through the loops on my trousers. I grabbed the rest of my stuff and put it away. I held the hat in my hand.
Birdie went through the same rigamarole. The guard nodded to his buddy on the other side of the heavily barred gate. The bull then riffled through a set of keys he kept on a large ring secured by a chain to his leather side belt, inserted one into the lock, twisted it around half a dozen times, leaned forward and pushed the gate open.
“Come on in,” he said. “Welcome to paradise.” Even the gunbulls had a sardonic sense of humour.
“I've been before,” I replied. “And it's overrated.”
Birdie elected to stay down in the main common area while I went up. He liked to observe the families visiting the inmates. “Wouldn't want to ruin your reunion,” he said. I snorted.
The gate clanged shut behind us. Always gave me a shiver when I heard that cold sound as the guard reset the lock. Without waiting, I started down the corridor to the visitor's enclosure when a hand clamped my shoulder.
“This way,” the guard said.
“Where we going?”
“Warden's office,” he muttered and buttoned up. I shrugged and gave Birdie a look.
The guard led me down a series of corridors then up some metal steps toward the newer wing. The other staircases had shifted or crumbled accentuating the Don's medieval atmosphere. This particular block could have been situated in any office building in the city. We climbed the stairs and the guard huffed and puffed as we made our way up. When we got to the top, his face glowed red and shiny.
“That's almost work,” he said.
I smiled at him but didn't answer because I felt the same way. Before long, we found ourselves before a wooden door with a small glass window and the appropriate gold leaf lettering that read, Warden's Office. The guard opened the door without knocking and we found ourselves in an anteroom with a desk, a telephone, a typewriter and a stack of neatly placed files still in their folders. A secretary's station without the secretary. On the far side, stood another door without a window.
The guard crossed over and knocked. There came a guttural response and the door opened. The guard stood aside and nodded me through. He didn't follow. The door closed behind me. It was a large office and spacious with a bank of windows that overlooked the meager exercise yard below. A large desk made of shellacked pine that shone pale yellow in the light had been set on the opposite side of the room facing the door.
In the high-backed leather swivel chair sat Jake Gold, my old man, looking smug and pleased. I glanced around. Instead of the warden, there sat Tobin and his boys. I gave Blotchy Face a hard look and a grin and felt pretty happy to see that his nose stayed swollen and his eyes black. One of his front teeth had chipped. He wouldn't catch my eye. That made me even happier.
“Here we are again, Mr. Gold,” Tobin said in a sharp tone and I shifted my gaze. He wanted me to know he saw himself in charge.
“So it would seem, Inspector.”
“Surprised to see us here?”
“Maybe a little.”
I glanced at Jake. No cuffs or shackles that I could see. In fact, he looked relaxed and at home. He reinforced that impression when he dug into the warden's cigarette box, put one to his lips and lit up with the warden's silver desk lighter.
“Your father is helping us with an investigation,” Tobin said. “We're moving him out of the Don but he wanted to see you first.”
“What investigation?”
Tobin shook his sleek head. I could see the braces tight against the pressed white shirt underneath his suit coat. Today, he wore sober-looking charcoal, almost funereal.
“Not at liberty to say,” he replied. He glanced at his watch. “We haven't got much time.”
“I want to speak to my son,” rasped Jake. And before Tobin could open up, Jake added, “Alone.”
Tobin pursed his lips and brooded for a second. I could tell because he knit his brows together like a spinster at a quilting bee.
“Five minutes,” he said. “We'll be right outside.”
“Don't worry,” Jake laughed, breathing smoke. “I ain't gonna throw myself through the window.”
“Mind you don't,” Tobin said and yanked open the door then jerked his head. Obediently, the three officers followed. Just as he cleared the doorway, Blotchy Face gave me a hooded glance. I held it without blinking until the door slammed shut.
“You give him that nose and shiner?” Jake asked.
“What's it to you?”
Jake shrugged. “Nothing. But I've seen hatred plenty and that guy's got it in for you. I'd watch my step.”
“You're giving me advice now? A little fatherly guidance?”
Jake leaned back in the chair and took another p
ull. “Yeah, yeah. Sing from another song sheet, will ya?”
I yanked out the chair opposite the desk and sat down. I shook out a Sweet Cap and fired it up. “Okay,” I said. “You wanted me here and I'm here.”
“I told you I wasn't gonna do hard time,” he said.
“Yeah, you told me. You're cooperating with the feds. What are you giving them that makes it worth their while?”
Jake smiled shaking his head. “Sorry boychick. That's between me and Tobin.”
“How do you know he won't kick you loose when you give him what he wants?”
“You just leave that to me. Stupid, I'm not. I know how to play the game.”
“Right. The one that got you here in the first place. That went well.”
Jake shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes. We're all human, even you.”
“Sure.” Suddenly, I was tired of playing games and Tobin had given us a short leash. “You said something about the girl.”
“Yeah, that's right. Before I tell you, I need you to do something for me first.”
I should have known. There was always a debt to be paid with Jake.
“What,” I spat.
He enjoyed my discomfort. So he told me what I needed to do. I didn't like it but I agreed. Under the circumstances.
“Give,” I said.
“Okay, boychick. I'll have to trust that you'll hold up your end of the deal.”
“I said I'd do it,” I replied through gritted teeth.
Jake nodded. “I know you will. That was something I could always count on. Good as his word. Mister reliable, that's you.”
“You were saying?”
“John Fat Gai has these rolling card games all over Chinatown…”
“Uh-huh.”
“You think that nobody knows about them?”
“And so?”
“How do you think they keep going without getting busted every night?”
“John's got juice, everybody knows that.”
Jake looked up at the ceiling. “Now he thinks he knows everything. What kind of juice?”
“Whatever it takes,” I said. “Politicians, ward bosses, commissioners…”
“And cops,” Jake added.
“Hardly a surprise, so?”
“One of the cops has her.”
“What?” He surprised me. “That doesn't make any sense. If a cop had her and he was working for John, then John would know.”
“I know,” Jake said. “That's what's strange, boychick. You don't hold out on a guy like John Fat Gai and live.”
“What cop?” I asked.
Jake shrugged, doing his three stooges impression. “That I don't know.”
“Could be anybody.”
“He was in the service.”
“So were a lot of guys,” I replied.
“You wanted something, now you've got it,” Jake said.
“There's one more thing,” I said.
“What's that?” Jake thought he had it all covered.
“It's Eli,” I said.
“What about him?”
“He's in hock to John. That's why we're looking for the girl, to square it with him. I gave Eli some dough and told him to skip town. Either he didn't make it or he came back. John's got him now and he's given me and Birdie three days to find the girl or else.”
“Or else what?” Jake asked.
“Use your imagination,” I said. “John doesn't make idle threats.”
I have to admit, I almost never saw Jake rattled but his face looked puffier and the dark circles under his eyes deepened. His sun-deprived complexion went waxy. He could have had his own consignment at Madame Tussaud's. Eli had been made in his image and Jake cared about him. “Then what are you wasting your time for?” Jake demanded. “Get out there and look for her.”
“You're a sorry sack of shit,” I said as Tobin opened the door.
“Time,” he barked. Jake walked around the desk. “We have to put the cuffs on,” Tobin said.
Jake held out his hands. Tobin took a set off his belt and snapped them around Jake's wrists. I watched all of this like I witnessed some stranger being collared.
Jake nodded. “I'll see you when I see you,” he said. “So long, boychick. Don't forget what I said.”
I thought about asking where they were taking him but decided I didn't really care. He'd made his pact. But I did think about what he'd told me. If some cop had the girl and her baby, that could be the reason John hadn't found her yet. That made sense at least. But why? Then I began to wonder again about the baby and who'd sired it.
The gunbull stuck his head in the doorway.
“Come on,” he said. “I've got to take you out.” I mashed the cigarette into the warden's ample cut glass ashtray.
“Sure,” I said. “You know the way.”
I followed the guard into the corridor. He turned and locked the outer door to the Warden's inner sanctum. The guard rattled the knob behind him. He turned and started down the corridor.
Just at the stairwell, I heard a commotion and heavy feet on the stairs. The alarm sounded. I recognized it—a riot had broken out on the cell block. I couldn't see past the guard. Inside the Don jail, guards weren't armed. They carried nightsticks and restraints. The outside guys watching the yard carried rifles and pistols and always patrolled in groups.
The guard fell backwards into me. I crashed into the wall. When I looked up, I saw three inmates standing over us. One had scars all over his face including a thin line that ran from the corner of his right eye down to his cheek. It made that side of his face look droopy. He had short grey hair shaved at the sides and blue eyes so pale they looked almost white. He had a powerful build with broad shoulders and large hands. He looked agitated. His companions looked hopped up and crazed. One was tall and skinny with a dark complexion and wiry hair. His skin tone said mulatto. The other one stood short and thick with red hair, a blunt nose and freckles on his hands. I could see a tattoo etched into his wrist under the prison issue denim shirt. From the corridor, I heard yells and banging.
“Where's the warden?” Pale Eyes snarled and grabbed the guard by his collar bunching up the material until his throat bulged. In his other hand, I saw a shiv, a shaved down fork probably smuggled from the canteen. He pressed it hard under the guard's chin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.
“Not here,” the guard rasped. “Out of the building.”
“Bullshit,” Pale Eyes spat. “Where's he at?”
I got to my feet slowly. “He's telling the truth. The warden's not at home. You're wasting your time.”
Pale Eyes turned to me. “Who the hell are you?”
“Just a visitor.”
“You were in the warden's office.”
“You're barking up the wrong tree here, pal. Better end it before it goes all wrong. You'll never get out of here. The building will be locked down by now,” I said. Just trying to be helpful.
The skinny one moved in my direction. “Shut up,” he yelled. “You just shut up.”
“Easy there Amos, I'm just telling it like it is,” I said.
“Well, I don't want to hear it,” the skinny inmate yelled. “Red. Tell him I don't have to listen to him. And I ain't no Amos neither.”
“That's right, mister,” Red said quietly. “He don't have to listen to you if he don't want to.”
I nodded. “Swell. So don't listen. I'm just talking to myself anyway.”
“Grab the keys,” Pale Eyes said. Quickly, Red stripped the keys from the guard's belt. He tossed them to Pale Eyes who caught them in his other hand. He hauled the guard upright and pushed him ahead. “We'll just take a quick look,” he said. “Unlock it.” And gave him a shove for good measure.
“All right, all right,” the guard muttered. He fumbled with the keys, found the one he was looking for and opened the door. We were shoved through first. Red slammed the door behind us and locked it.
'Amos' went ape shit. He ran over to the secretary's desk and swiped i
t clean. He swept all the files, trays, lamp, family photographs, on to the floor in a heap. Then he jumped up on the desk and did this crazy sort of spastic jig, kicking out his heels, pumping his knees up high. A skinny barn dancer fueled by some kind of speedball. We were then treated to Amos unzipping his trousers and pissing in all directions.
“Jesus,” yelled the guard.
'Amos' giggled. “That feels a lot better,” he smirked.
“What's 'Amos' in for?” I asked.
Red snorted. “Public indecency.”
“What a surprise,” I replied. “Well done, Amos.”
'Amos' stopped and stared at me malevolently, still flying low. “My name ain't Amos. It's Earl. Earl. You got that?” He jumped down off the desk, awkwardly, one hand holding his pants up, spittle flying from his lips. “Earl…Earl…Earl…,” he cried, like a whiny kid. He raised a shiv as he came. I kicked him in the nuts and he crumpled to the floor. When he started to struggle up, I punched him in the temple and he went down for the count.
Red had an amused expression on his face. Pale Eyes just nodded.
“That shut him up,” was all he said. Then motioned to the warden's office. “Let's take a look.”
Me and the guard went first with Red and Pale Eyes right behind us.
“Siddown,” Red said and pushed us each into a chair. Pale Eyes went around behind the desk yanking out drawers. There came a satisfied chuckle as he lifted a half full bottle of single Malt above his head.
“Now, that's more like it,” he said.
Eagerly, he spun the top off the bottle and put it to his lips taking gigantic gulps. Then he breathed a deep sigh and handed the bottle to Red. He took a long pull. They'd emptied half of the contents.
Red wiped his lips and smiled lazily. He looked over at the guard. Slowly, he put the bottle down. “Now for some fun,” he said and approached.
“I ain't got nothing against you,” the guard said. His knees practically knocked together.
“Well, I got something against you,” Red replied.
“What? I don't even know you.”
“Doesn't matter. You're a bull, aren't you? That's good enough for me. You're all scum.”
In a measured way, he hit the guard a good shot in the jaw and gave him another one. The guard didn't resist.
Looking for Henry Turner Page 19
