Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “By the way,” I said. “Her parents haven't been told yet.”

  Callaway rolled his eyes upward. “Ah shit,” he said.

  “Thought we'd leave that to you, make it official and all.”

  “Nice of you.”

  “Sure. No need to thank me.”

  He was about to open his mouth and let me have it when the coroner appeared in the doorway, a fat old bird named Doc Nelson. He looked like an obese owl with white hair parted in the middle that came up in points on either side of a pink, rotund skull. His thick, black-rimmed glasses made him appear myopic. “Okay, Inspector, we're removing the body now.”

  Callaway looked at me then sighed. “Thanks Doc. What's the preliminary?”

  “Well, definitely deceased,” he chuckled. “Murder weapon matches that of the knife found on the floor. She was stabbed about a dozen times, twice straight through the heart, took it from the front while she was standing. Must have caught her by surprise. We're not looking for anyone too tall though, the angle was slightly downward but not too much. Could be a shorter man maybe but we'll need to let the pathologist take a closer look, okay?”

  “What about a straight thrust then, Doc?”

  The fat coroner considered this for a second. “Unlikely,” he replied. “The wounds would have been lower down, in the abdomen area. These were higher up and angled downward.”

  Callway nodded. “Sure, okay. Thanks Doc.”

  “Hi Mo, haven't seen you in quite a while.”

  “How are you, Doc?”

  Doc Nelson grinned and patted his stomach. “Losing weight, can't you tell?”

  “Withering away before my eyes, Doc.”

  Doc chuckled again, then turned and lumbered away.

  “Rules Lawson out,” I said.

  Callaway gave me a withering look. “We'll see.”

  I stepped in closer and lowered my voice. “Listen. About Ying.”

  “What about him?” he asked warily. He glanced over my shoulder to make sure we were alone.

  “Seems like you weren't his only handler.”

  “What?”

  “He was singing to the feds too.”

  Callaway grabbed my lapels and I thought he was going to yank them off. “How do you know this?”

  I disengaged his hands from my jacket. “Easy on the material. I'm not a public servant like you. I cover my own expenses.”

  Callaway swallowed. “Sorry.”

  “I had a visit from that pompous ass Tobin. He told me that Ying was his guy on the inside with John Fat Gai.”

  “Why did he tell you that? Why was he talking to you in the first place?”

  It had to come out some time. “Tobin thought I knew something. He got wind that we were looking for Ying's sister. He was trying to play me like I'd feel guilty for having Jake in the family.”

  “And do you know anything?”

  “No, I don't.” I hesitated. I hated to do this but I figured it was time to get it all out on the table. I heard a slight rustle of fabric and turned to see Birdie fill the doorway. “There's more,” I said.

  “Jesus,” spat Callaway. “Maybe I should just hang it up.”

  “That's your call. It's about Rance.”

  “Rance? What about Rance?”

  I put my hands up. “Hey look, I know he's family and you want to protect your sister that's why I'm giving you a heads up on this, okay?”

  “Spit it out,” he said.

  “Earlier this evening, we happened to catch Rance and a buddy of his, a big Irish bastard named Steve O'Rourke. He's a stevedore down on the docks. The two of them were engaged in a little moonlighting.”

  “What kind of moonlighting?”

  “Unloading a truck with illegal booze and delivered it to a warehouse near the port area. John's men were there to receive it.”

  Callaway rubbed his jaw. “Jesus Christ, Mo. Is there anything else you'd like to impale me with?”

  I grinned. “No, that's it, I guess. John probably doesn't even know who Rance is, he's the lowest of the low in the chain.”

  “What if he does know? What if Rance is working for him full-time? How would I break it to my sister? I'm obligated to turn him in, you know that.”

  I shook my head. “I don't think he's working for John full-time. I think he's looking to pick up some quick cash and is being stupid about how he does it, that's all. You need to step in before he gets in too deep or else you won't be able to help him.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure. I'll rip his heart out, the little idiot.”

  “That's it. Some guidance in his young life.”

  “He'll get it from the toe of my boot,” Callaway growled.

  “That could work,” Birdie boomed.

  “Yeah, sure.” Then he looked at me. “Where's Jake now?”

  I shrugged. “Don't know and don't care. If I never see that shifty bastard again, it'll be too soon.”

  Callaway rubbed his meaty paw over his face. He looked tired and worn. “You boys better beat it. It's going to be a long enough night as it is.”

  I looked at Birdie. “Works for me.” Birdie nodded. “We'll see you around.”

  Callaway shouted at our backs. “You stay away from John Fat Gai, you hear me? I don't want you going near him.”

  “Sure, we will,” I said. “We've got no business with him anyway.” I didn't look back but kept on going. Callaway was good at reading faces and I wasn't sure what mine would show him.

  39

  The next morning, Birdie watched me as I sat hunched over the desk reading through the notes of the case files Callaway had shown me, pausing to take sips from coffee in a paper cup he'd brought from the Italian bakery down the street. The coffee tasted strong and sweet. My head and body ached. I'd spent half the night going over those files cross-checking names, dates and events. Wrote them out on a chart. Cops tied to John Fat Gai, allegedly. The picture showed me some fuzzy edges but it came closer into focus. “You figure it out yet?”

  I looked at him sourly. “If only it was that simple. But I'm getting somewhere, yeah. I've narrowed it down to five names. Take a look.”

  Birdie scrutinized the pad. “Very interesting,” he said.

  “I know who my money's on.”

  Birdie sighed and shook his head. “Maybe we're making it too complicated.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  “I don't. I put my faith in higher powers.”

  I sighed. “Don't think that's going to help us this time.” But I spoke too soon.

  The phone rang. I snatched it up expecting Callaway or Tobin to growl in my ear. “Yeah?”

  I heard hesitation on the line mainly because no one spoke for a minute. Then, “Er, Mr. Gold?”

  “Yeah. Who's this?”

  “Barry Wong…we met at…”

  “I remember, Barry. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I've been thinking about what we discussed that time.”

  “Okay, what about it?”

  “I may have some information for you. I'm wondering if we can meet someplace?” I glanced up at Birdie who caught my eye.

  “Where and when?”

  “I get half an hour for lunch.” He named a greasy spoon on Bloor Street, not far from the hotel. “Twelve-thirty, okay?”

  “See you there,” I replied and hung up.

  We got there early. Barry sat at a table nursing a bowl of tomato soup. Cracker crumbs layered the Formica tabletop. He'd taken a table at the back facing the door so he could watch who came and went. When we entered, he stood up and beckoned. Still dressed in his whites with the shoes as good as new, like they just came out of the box. Birdie and I sat down.

  “How you doing, Barry,” I said by way of greeting.

  “Okay, I guess,” he replied. “You guys want anything, soup, sandwich, cup of coffee maybe?”

  “Coffee will be fine,” I said. Barry went to the counter and ordered two coffees.

  “Seems edgy,” Birdie said.
r />   “Uh-huh.”

  Barry brought the two coffees with him and set down a small metal jug with cream. The sugar shaker stayed with the table.

  “You guys weren't followed, were you?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I'm sure,” I said. “Now why don't you clue us in here so we can help you?”

  Barry swallowed and nodded, then pushed his glasses up with the tip of his finger. “It's my wife…” he began. “The girl you're looking for–she's my wife's cousin. Close family. You guys know what families are like.”

  “Why don't you tell us?” I said.

  Barry shook his head again. “Her brother was a fool. Greedy and stupid. He stole from a powerful man. These men make their own laws, follow their own rules.”

  “You're talking about John Fat Gai?” I asked.

  Barry nodded. “You must understand, my family knew nothing of what Ying was doing. But he stole from this man. He took money and worse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He took something of great value.”

  “What?”

  Barry choked the words out. “A ledger. Financial transactions. Important people are incriminated. Something that can get you killed.”

  “I get it.”

  “My wife's cousin is scared. We all are. She needs protection. She's frightened for the baby.”

  “This baby,” I asked. “Who's the daddy?”

  Barry shrugged. “I don't know. Honestly. Liu Chen wouldn't tell us. I think she was ashamed. She's not married.”

  Birdie leaned in. “If she's got the ledger then that's all she needs, man.”

  Barry shook his head. “She gives John Fat Gai the ledger and there's nothing to stop him from killing her and us. That's the only thing that's keeping her alive. He hasn't found out about our connection yet. But he might.”

  “What do you want from us, Barry?” I asked him.

  “You give him the ledger.”

  “In return for what?”

  “A guarantee of our safety. And we'll need money to get my wife's cousin out of the country where she'll be safe.”

  “What about the money that Ying skimmed? Doesn't she have it?”

  Barry shook his head woefully. “Don't know anything about any money.”

  It raised an interesting question. Who did take the dough? “You know who killed Ying?”

  Barry shrugged. “My great-grandparents came here to work on the Pacific railway in the 1880's. They came as coolies—slave labour. Conditions were hard. The white men they worked for were cruel. Many died and a lot were injured. No compensation. You just lost your job if you couldn't work. They laid track in all kinds of conditions–blistering heat and freezing cold. They blasted through mountains and crossed the Prairies. Paid pennies a day by the rail company and whipped by the overseers. With those coolies came bad men who preyed on them bringing vice to these shores. Men like John Fat Gai. My family didn't slave for pennies sacrificing everything so men like him could take it away. I hope you understand. This is why my wife's cousin wishes for a chance at a new life for her child. That's all she wants. That's all we want.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  Barry's expression went tight. “Better you don't know–for now. When you've worked things out, you call me at this number and I will bring you the ledger.” He slid a business card across the table to me. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. Barry checked his watch. “I need to get back to work. Can't be late. The boss is very fussy.”

  I glanced at the front door. “Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I suggest you use it. Birdie and I will wait a few minutes before leaving.”

  Barry put out his hand. I took it. He did the same with Birdie. “Thank you gentlemen. I hope we can all rest easier soon.”

  “Amen to that,” Birdie intoned.

  I watched Barry go while Birdie kept an eye on the front door. We walked back to the car.

  “What now?” Birdie asked.

  “We let John know we've got the ledger and set up a meet for him to hand over Eli.”

  My mind spun with the possibilities. Tobin and Callaway wanted the ledger and John but if we gave them the ledger, then there'd be little hope for Eli or the girl and her baby. Then there was Jake and Mr. Li—they wanted the ledger too. Finally, we had Henry. He was mixed up in all of this yet I didn't know how. Our best chance at finding out had died last night. The odds on finding Henry hadn't improved much.

  “How we going to make John leave the girl and Barry's family alone.”

  “Only a couple of possibilities come to mind,” I replied.

  “Like?”

  I had the key out to open the Chevy's passenger door. I stopped and faced Birdie square on craning up, squinting into the early afternoon sun. “Well, we could take John out.”

  Birdie nodded but didn't seem convinced. “Risky. If it didn't work, everyone suffers and a lot get hurt. Or?”

  “We spook him. Make him roll up and get out.”

  “That sounds better. How do we do that?”

  I gave Birdie a soulful look. “Working on it.”

  Birdie grinned. “Time for some praying then.”

  40

  I took out Mr. Li's card and studied it. We'd returned to the office, hanging around for a couple of hours. I called the number. He picked up after the third ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Li?”

  “Hello Mr. Gold. Have you found the ledger yet?”

  Nothing like getting down to business. “Why don't we discuss it in person?” I glanced at Birdie who quietly thumbed through his bible.

  “Excellent idea, Mr. Gold.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Midnight sounds like a good time.” Then he gave me the address of a warehouse at the bottom of a back alley in Chinatown.

  “Be there or be square,” I said and then rang off. Hopefully, he knew what I meant. We'd see.

  I didn't like back alleys. Too quiet. Too hidden. Too spooky. We'd found too many dead bodies in similar surroundings. Birdie parked the car a block away and we walked in. Just to emphasize our seriousness of purpose, I carried the .45 in its holster and the snub.38 down my sock. Birdie had twin .45's, one in each armpit and held the sawn-off, double barrel, pump action 12-gauge down at his side. A lone, sputtering streetlamp emphasized the dark inkiness away from the main drag. I looked for a green door. Li said it would be open and we should walk on in. Something else I didn't like.

  “There it is,” I muttered.

  “Well, he got the colour right,” Birdie said.

  “Hmm,” I replied.

  We fanned out and took it from either side. I touched the knob then twisted. Like Li had said–open. I nudged it with my toe and it swung back revealing darkness. From my cop days, I always carried a flashlight. I flicked it on, sweeping the beam back and forth. Dusty emptiness. I sighed.

  “Shall we?” Birdie asked.

  I went first, Birdie after. I didn't even hear him. He took up a position behind me and to the right. I flicked the light around. Looked like an abandoned warehouse all right. Cement floor. Cinder block walls. That feeling of damp and the smell of humidity, of fungus and mold. A few wooden crates sat impassively on the cold floor. Apart from that–nothing. We moved ahead carefully, stepping cautiously and slowly.

  Despite the damp and the chill, I sweated through my white shirt, feeling the beads of perspiration pool up in the waistband of my trousers. My eyes hurt from the strain of peering through the gloom, burning under the contrast of the white beam against the shadows. I stopped. Something moved. I flicked off the light. We stood and breathed for a long moment. I shook it off, snapped the light on again and we continued. Rats, most likely. The large, damp room seemed to be empty.

  When it came, it was almost a relief. But the pistol shot made me jump. I snapped the light off quick and waited.

  “Came from
the far end,” Birdie said. “Think I got a glimpse of a staircase too.”

  I flicked the light back on and we moved ahead. Birdie had been right. A cement staircase grew out of the back wall. Nowhere to go but up. I had the .45 in my right hand now and I knew that Birdie had cocked both barrels on the 12-gauge. We stepped upward lightly. After two flights, the stairs opened up into an alcove. A metal railing fenced it off like a corral. It connected to a corridor. At the end of the corridor, I saw a dim light glinting under the frame of a door.

  “Looks like the place,” Birdie murmured. It was a death trap. We both knew it but we headed toward the light anyway. Just as I reached for the knob, a voice I knew called out.

  “Come on in, boychick, it's open.” The voice belonged to him but the tone came out different. An old man's voice, cracked and fearful.

  I flicked the light off and stowed it in my jacket pocket. I nodded to Birdie, who lifted his right, size 17 foot and applied it to the door in a thunderous kick. It flew off its hinges and we stepped inside. Another cavernous room, brightly lit. A wooden table had been pushed aside.

  “A very dramatic entrance,” John Fat Gai said and cackled. Beside him stood Quan, casually cradling an M-60 while a dozen of John's henchmen had their weapons out, trained on us. Sprawled on the floor lay Mr. Li, not quite dead. I smelled the burnt cordite and focused on the gaping, oozing hole in his abdomen. An expanding pool of blood threatened to lap at John's polished toe. Li's chest heaved, the breath coming in and out, raspy and whistling. He gasped out some words in Mandarin. His deadening eyes looked over. John stared at me. He didn't notice the blood reach his shoe.

  “Hear this, Mr. Gold,” Li wheezed like a creaky bellows, then craned around to stare at John. John looked away. “My spirit shall haunt you through the ages. You will find no peace and your soul will burn for eternity. The ghosts of my ancestors will steal into your soul and poison your mind, John Fat Gai. Hear me and be cursed from this moment forward. I curse you. My ancestors curse you. My descendants curse you forever. Look,” he gasped and slumped back. Li's eyes rolled up into his head. Blood bubbled out of his lips.