Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Come on, stand up,” Red demanded and hauled him to his feet and as he did, hit him low in the abdomen. The guard crumpled over. Red held him up and hit him again and again pounding his clenched fist like a sledgehammer. The guard's nose oozed blood and his right eye swelled shut. Red stepped back and snapped a hook into his jaw putting his weight into it. The guard staggered back and fell into the chair unconscious. Red massaged the knuckles of his right hand. He had a satisfied look on his face like he'd done a good day's work.

  “Mind if I smoke?” I asked.

  Pale Eyes wiped his mouth in surprise and looked at me. He snapped his fingers. I handed him the pack of cigarettes and my lighter. He shook one out and lit it holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time. He pulled out the warden's swivel chair and sat in it contentedly. He tossed the fags and lighter back to me. I eyed the heavy glass ashtray. It was the only weapon within reach.

  “You know that there must be 30 armed guards out in the corridor by now.”

  Pale Eyes nodded like it was a foregone conclusion.

  “We know,” Red said.

  He came across, dug his hand into the warden's cigarette box and helped himself to a dozen smokes. I held the lighter up but he slapped my hand away grabbing the warden's silver lighter instead. He bent his head over the flame.

  “So why the riot?” I asked.

  Pale Eyes looked at me. “The guys needed to let off steam. You don't know what it's like being cooped up down there. Guys blow up all the time. This time it's a little better organized.”

  “But you'll just get put back in the can and they'll add to your time, so what's the point?”

  “It's worth it,” said Red, taking another pull from the bottle. “Even for a few minutes of freedom, it's worth it.”

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “We do say so,” Pale Eyes snarled.

  “What're you boys in for?” I asked.

  “Armed robbery,” Red replied and smirked.

  “Yeah? Who'd you rob?”

  “They say we robbed a few banks and some trust companies but personally, I think the case against us is weak.” Obviously, he thought his legal skills and experience outpointed the real deal.

  “Oh yeah? Why's that?” I asked always interested in the habitual con's point of view.

  “No witnesses,” Red replied

  “No witnesses left,” Pale Eyes added and laughed. They both laughed at that one. I think they and their pals must have shot some dope down there, something that got them so hopped up they couldn't think straight.

  The telephone on the desk jangled.

  “Answer it,” I said.

  Pale Eyes and Red stared at the phone. Pale Eyes licked his lips then snatched it up.

  “Yeah?”

  He listened for a long moment and held the receiver away from his ear staring at it.

  “It's for you,” he said holding it out to me.

  I took the receiver from him. “Uh-huh?” I said.

  “Having fun yet?” Birdie asked.

  “Not really.” The others watched me intently. Pale Eyes seemed suspicious.

  “I'll be up in a minute,” Birdie said and hung up.

  I handed the receiver back to Pale Eyes who stared at me. “Wrong number,” I said.

  I thought he'd snarl and spit smoke the way his face contorted. He stepped back from the warden's desk. The guard lolled in the chair moaning. He looked like he might roll off onto the floor. Pale Eyes and Red watched me like I was the most fascinating thing they'd seen in years. I was flattered.

  We heard heavy footsteps in the outer office then a fierce knock on the warden's door. Red and Pale Eyes froze. The knocking resumed, fiercer this time. Pale Eyes jerked his head and Red took a few hesitant steps toward the door. Then took a few more. When he was about four feet from the knob, the hinges exploded. The door flew inward slapping Red in the chest. He staggered backward. I grabbed at the thick cut glass ashtray and swatted Pale Eyes in the jaw with it. He went down under the desk, out cold. I looked up as Birdie, with fire and brimstone in his eyes, trod over the smashed door, picked Red up and hurled him against the wall. Red bounced off the wood paneling, crumpled into a heap and lay still. The guard moaned again.

  “Took you long enough,” I said.

  “Ten flights of stairs,” Birdie said. “And a few bodies in between.”

  “What's happening out there?”

  “It's a hoo-ha,” he replied.

  “Hoo-ha?”

  Birdie nodded. “They've got it under control now.”

  I looked over, saw that Red was still out. I stood up and peered down at Pale Eyes. He'd have a nice bruise down his jawline, maybe even lose a few teeth.

  “Looks like our work is done here,” I said. Birdie grinned.

  We both looked up as Tobin blew in. His face shiny with sweat, his tie askew and the charcoal suit jacket torn at the elbow. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Where is who?” I asked.

  Tobin ignored the scene in the office. Instead, he looked like his face might blow apart. He marched over to me and snatched at my lapels. I stepped back grabbing both his hands and twisting.

  “What are you playing at?” he hissed.

  “I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Tobin. Why don't you fill me in?”

  “Your old man,” he said.

  “What about him?”

  “He's gone.”

  “But he left with you in cuffs and he's not exactly Speedy Gonzalez.”

  I let go of his hands. He massaged his wrists. “Tell me what happened.”

  Tobin stared at me and there wasn't a lot of warmth in his look.

  “Just as we were about to go through the control gate, a bunch of cons came out of nowhere. They overpowered the guards. We were unarmed. We'd left our weapons on the other side. I was hit over the head and went down. When I came to, Jake had disappeared. I found the cuffs lying on the floor. One of the guards saw him get into a jalopy and speed off.”

  I gave a low whistle. “Impressive. Even for Jake.”

  “If you know something…” he said in a low tone.

  “Don't threaten me, Tobin. This is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I had no idea what Jake was planning or if he was planning anything. Before my uncle's funeral, I hadn't spoken to him in almost 10 years. We're not close. Never were, not even when I was a kid.”

  “He's practically a dead man now.”

  “Maybe you should tell me about this case he's helping you with.”

  Tobin smiled thinly. “No can do.”

  I smiled back. “Well, good luck with it. Time for us to ride. See you around, Tobin.”

  “Count on it, Gold. I'll be watching you like a hawk.”

  “The dirty piece of chewing gum stuck to the sole of my shoe.”

  “That's right.”

  “Tootles,” I said. “This guy needs a doctor.” Right on cue, the guard moaned. Birdie and I waded through the debris out to the corridor and the exit.

  34

  The sun still shone out in the parking lot even if the atmosphere remained dark inside my soul. We'd gone down the stairs and out the doors. At the control gate, the guards stared at me with contempt and suspicion but didn't say anything. I supposed Birdie's presence kept things civil.

  When we reached the Chevy, I shrugged off my suit jacket and lay it across the back seat. I pulled at my tie working it away from the collar, then rolled up each sleeve. I got in the passenger side. Birdie drove us out carefully, turning on to River Street heading toward Queen just as a dozen patrol cars, sirens blaring, screeched toward the entrance. I looked at the rubbies and the pawnshops and the greasy spoons as we drove away from the mayhem. A group of guys stood on the corner, shucking and jiving, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag between them. Just another productive day.

  “What the hell is Jake up to?” I asked. Birdie smiled and shrugged. It was the best answer under the circumstances.

&nbs
p; “Where to?” he asked.

  “The girl,” I replied. “What's her name, the other one who was in the car that night. Let's talk to her.”

  “Gayle Sorenson.”

  “That's the one. Maybe she's knows something about Henry. Maybe he's hiding in her bedroom closet.”

  I'd run out of ideas about where to look for the Chinese girl. If Jake's information turned out to be legit, then it meant talking to some of my old pals on the force, not a happy prospect. Not when I'd be looking at them as suspects.

  Gayle Sorenson's parents lived in Forest Hill, on the swanky side, north of St. Clair Avenue, west of Spadina Road adjacent to the park. Vesta Drive, number four. The street was leafy and tranquil, a short block up from the Village, an enclave for the wealthy where the prices for everyday items doubled up anywhere else in the city.

  Number four backed on to the park. If you didn't know any better, you'd think you'd stepped into the countryside even though the hurly burly of the city boiled over less than a mile away. That's what money bought–the hushed sense of calm and quiet. That and a three-storey, Gothic-inspired monster with mullioned windows and a faux spire in dark stone topped by a grey-slated roof. I expected Bela Lugosi to slide down the drainpipe.

  We left the Chevy at the curb and strode up to the heavy oak door. It had a knocker the size of Arizona. I leaned heavily on the bell and heard chimes ringing distantly inside. They should have a butler named Igor. Instead, the door was opened revealing a querulous, gnome-like servant who must have come with the house when it was built. It surprised me that she managed the heft of the door given her age and size. She wore a black maid's uniform and a white cap that had slipped low on her forehead. Her pale, damp skin glistened. She levitated a pointy nose and aimed it first at me then at Birdie where it lingered, longer than politeness allowed. I flinched but Birdie didn't. He let it roll over him. Somewhere in the recess of her brain, she decided to give us the benefit of the doubt. We wore decent suits and didn't look like hobos or encyclopedia salesmen. We might have been proselytizers of one ilk or another but she seemed willing to find out.

  “Yes?” she asked in a sharp tone.

  “Is Mrs. Sorenson in?” I asked politely.

  “What is the nature of your business?”

  “It's personal.” I reached into my side pocket and removed a card. I held it out to her. “We just need to speak to her daughter, Gayle, for a few moments.”

  The elderly maid's eyebrows went up and stayed there. She examined the card with disdain, sniffed loudly and pursed her lips.

  “Step inside,” she commanded. She shut the door heavily after us. “Wait here,” she said.

  She scurried off toward the inner sanctum. She had five directions from which to choose. She lurched to the right. We stood in a large marble foyer having stepped through a small anteroom. That's why the chimes sounded far away. The second door muffled the sound. To our left, an expansive oak stairway swept upward to a second floor. I glanced at the mahogany wainscoting and wall panels. The house felt solid, immovable. Light filtered weakly through the stained glass of the second door we'd stepped through. Harder to see the dust on the tabletops, I reasoned. The maid came back wearing a disapproving look.

  'This way,” she warbled.

  Mrs. Sorenson looked to be a well-preserved woman in her late forties with peroxide white-blond hair done up in a beehive that could have shattered granite. She perched on a leather settee that might have comfortably seated a dozen obese guests at a health farm, stroking a white Angora cat with fur so long it made my nose itch. The feline stared unblinkingly out of luminous green eyes.

  She wore a pearl-grey blouse and matching skirt and pumps. Around her neck I spotted a fashionably small diamond necklace on loan from the Tower of London. The rock she wore on her wedding finger must have been four or five carats. It surprised me she could lift her hand. The maid walked us into the sitting room then turned on her heel and marched out without saying a word. Mrs. Sorenson had an unruffled expression and stared at us unabashedly as if we were two specimens in a lab dish she scrutinized under her microscope. The eyes were blue and sharp.

  “Mrs. Sorenson?”

  “What do you want with my daughter?” she asked. Her voice purred low and throaty with an edge to it.

  “We're investigating a disappearance,” I replied. “We think your daughter may have some information that is relevant to the case.”

  Mrs. Sorenson turned her gaze on Birdie, following the length of him up and down without any embarrassment or thought that it might be rude, as if it was her right. He reflected it back at her and after a long moment, she glanced away.

  “Whose disappearance?” she asked.

  “A man called Henry Turner,” I said. “He was the Foster's former chauffeur.”

  At the mention of his name, Mrs. Sorenson flinched. Once. “Did you know him, Mrs. Sorenson?”

  “On whose authority are you here?” she said quietly but she'd injected some steel in it.

  “We're acting on behalf of Henry Turner's mother.”

  Her hand halted over the cat's fluffy mane.

  “His mother?” she repeated as if it had just occurred to her for the first time he might have had one.

  “That's right. Mrs. Turner asked us to find her son. Did you know Henry Turner, Mrs. Sorenson?”

  Suddenly, there came a screech and the cat sprang off her lap and scooted away. Mrs. Sorenson held the meaty part of her hand where the cat had bitten her. Blood dripped on to the white carpet. I glanced at Birdie who gave an almost invisible shrug. I strode forward, removed my handkerchief from my suit jacket, took her hand and bound it up.

  “You're bleeding, Mrs. Sorenson.”

  She had a dazed, unfocused expression on her face. “What?”

  “Your hand.” Maybe she took happy pills for luncheon.

  She looked down distractedly.

  “Oh yes. It's nothing. Thank you.” And there appeared the briefest of smiles, as if it was something she rarely did, if ever.

  I stepped back. “May we speak with your daughter, please, Mrs. Sorenson.”

  She held her hand wrapped in my handkerchief in her lap. “I'm afraid that is impossible, Mr., Mr….”

  “Gold. Mo Gold and my associate, Arthur Birdwell.”

  “Yes, well. Gayle is ill. She can't see anyone. You'd get nothing out of her, in any case. She hasn't talked to us in years.”

  “Do you mean, you are estranged?”

  Mrs. Sorenson looked at me with a hysterical expression.

  “If only,” she cried. “If only…no…I mean, she hasn't said a word to anyone in almost eight years. She's had a nervous breakdown, locked away in her own mind all this time. We don't know what goes on in her head, Mr. Gold. We can't make sense of it. Not at all.”

  “I'm sorry.” I might not have said it at all for the lack of reaction. “But you knew Henry Turner?”

  She nodded slowly. “Oh, he drove me once or twice when I went out with Mildred–Mrs. Foster–but that's all. I never really spoke to him, you see. He was just the driver, nothing more. I never took much notice really. I know how that sounds….” She glanced at Birdie then looked quickly away. I thought to myself, invisible.

  “You said that it's been eight years since your daughter's breakdown?” Birdie boomed. His words caused her to flinch like she was being slapped with every syllable.

  “Yes, that's right.”

  “About the time Henry Turner disappeared,” he said.

  “I guess…yes…”

  “Don't you think it's strange that Henry disappeared around the same time as your daughter's illness occurred?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “I can't see how the two are connected. They never had anything to do with each other. It's unthinkable. No,” she said. “Impossible.”

  “Do you know what caused the breakdown, Mrs. Sorenson?” I asked.

  She stared at me wide-eyed then shook her head.

  “But you have som
e suspicion, surely? We know that Gayle used to go out with friends, one of whom was Allison Foster and two boys, Rance Callaway and Harvey Troyer. Do you remember that?”

  “I remember Harvey Troyer. He was well-bred with lovely manners. I don't know this Callaway person, I never met him. I haven't heard of the family.”

  Suddenly, I wanted to slap her. To smack the snobbery out of her.

  “Well, you wouldn't. Not quite the same class as Harvey, Gayle and Allison. They used to go to a club, Mrs. Sorenson, a place down by the docks called Blackstone's, I believe. Have you heard of it?”

  “Club?” she murmured, as if it was all a little too much to bear.

  “Yes, some kind of nightclub. Did Gayle ever mention it to you?”

  She laughed then, a kind of frenzied giggle.

  “Mention it? A teenaged girl telling her mother anything? Are you serious?”

  “Still, you must have known or suspected. We believe it is all connected, Mrs. Sorenson. Something happened. Don't you want to know?” I raised my voice without realizing and she shrank back into the cushions of the settee.

  At that moment, Gayle made her appearance. Or rather, she danced into the room in ballet slippers, a leotard, a tutu and a silk pajama top. She pirouetted across the room. Her mother couldn't look at her. We heard the indiscriminate humming and the girl whirled around so quickly and wildly, she crashed into the far wall and fell to the floor.

  Her mother jumped up and went to her. The girl sobbed and laughed all at once then moaned like a ghost. As her mother approached, she jumped up and skittered away. She stopped in front of Birdie and stared up at him then began to scream hysterically. Blood-curdling screams that gave me the heebie-jeebies, enough to make your hair stand up and flesh crawl.

  Mrs. Sorenson wrapped her arms around her daughter from behind in a straitjacket effect and dragged her backward, still screaming, to the couch. Just as she did the cat, Mrs. Sorenson took the girl's head in her lap and stroked her hair, murmuring to her, shushing her, wiping away the girl's hysteria. After a long moment, Gayle quieted down to gulps of air and whimpers. Mrs. Sorenson looked at us with an expression of resignation and deep, undiluted pain.