Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “Nice,” I said. “Remind me to put in a job application with the transit authority.”

  Garcia chuckled and made it sound like a gurgling tap. “Come on,” he said. “Better make tracks.” When we looked at him, he said sheepishly, “Transportation joke.”

  We walked for a while and I tried to get a rhythm going in the heavy boots but it became a slog. The beams from the headlamps darted around like artificial moonbeams doing a crazy sort of a dance.

  “How far we going?” I asked.

  “To Bloor,” Garcia said then chuckled again. I figured it was another joke. Bloor was the next station south. Garcia stopped. We stopped behind him. “See anything?” he asked.

  I peered around. “Nope. Just a dark, nasty tunnel.”

  “You?” he asked Birdie.

  “Same.”

  “That's what makes it such a good hiding place,” Garcia said. “You blink and you're by it. Only if a bright light shone right over the entrance would you even know it was there and if a train is going fast enough, it probably wouldn't register anyway.”

  He resumed walking but stopped after about 50 feet. He turned to his right. When I drew abreast, I followed the line of his headlamp and saw an opening in the tunnel wall.

  “It's an old spur line,” Garcia explained. “But after the tunnels were finished, they filled most of it back in but left a small opening. No one uses it now.”

  “What was it used for before?” I asked.

  “Storage mainly and they could put some of the rolling stock in here while they went ahead with the blasting and they knew it would be protected. You've got 20 feet or more of solid Canadian Shield there plus they built a metal frame and covered it over in concrete. Pretty solid. Take a major earthquake to bring it all down. I'm not saying it couldn't happen but it's unlikely.”

  “Great,” Birdie muttered. “Earthquakes now…”

  “I said it was unlikely…”

  “I heard you…Jesus…deliver me from evil…”

  “Amen to that,” I said. Garcia looked at us both strangely. “Just a little thing we do,” I told him. “Picked it up during the War.”

  Garcia nodded, then turned into the opening. “You said that before.”

  We had to go single file as it ran like a vertical slit trench just barely wide enough for a man to walk through normally and that was why Birdie struggled and appreciated the slicker at the same time. It became hard going though as we scrabbled over the uneven ground. Two hundred yards or more along, the slit veered left. We continued on. As the space narrowed, it pressed closer in, made the dank air moist and clotted. Garcia had begun to wheeze and I wasn't far behind. Birdie grunted with effort. I hadn't noticed but the ceiling had swung low and he had to bend his head to get under it, walking hunched forward with his neck stuck out like a flibbertigibbet. If I wasn't so uncomfortable myself, I would have laughed.

  “I know what you're thinking,” he said. “Don't say it.”

  “I don't have to.”

  There wasn't enough room for Garcia to turn around comfortably, not with his bulk so he kept moving forward. “You can see why Henry hasn't been found,” he said. “Who'd want to come down here and put up with this crap?”

  “How'd he find it in the first place?” I asked, hearing my voice echo back like a ghost.

  “We'd worked this section a few months before Henry got hurt. He'd seen the plans. Remember, he was Deans' guy and he showed Henry the blueprints–practically every day they were going over them, so Henry remembered it.”

  “How'd he get through the doors and gates?” I asked. “He would have needed one of those screwy keys, wouldn't he?”

  Garcia couldn't look at me but he shrugged. “Keys go missing all the time. You think they keep an accurate count? Serves them right anyway, the union hating bastards.”

  “So, this is a form of revenge?” I asked.

  Garcia kept trudging along. “Let's say I enjoyed the fact that he was taking advantage of the Transit Authority's hospitality without their knowing it.”

  “It'd be living like a bat,” Birdie said. “Wouldn't take long before I was sleeping upside down, hanging from the ceiling.”

  “That I'd like to see,” I said.

  “Almost there,” Garcia said.

  I shone the headlamp on my watch. We'd been walking for over half an hour, maybe closer to 40 minutes. I had to admit, it was a good hidey-hole. The narrow corridor we'd been following opened up into an antechamber. The area lay bare and the ceiling skyrocketed. I peered up and in the gloom could barely make out where it ended. The air felt warmer too and fresh.

  “Because the guys were working down here, they put a couple of vents up into the surface to keep the air circulating. It's funny how the air warms up as it's drawn down, like a natural heater. Even in winter, the temperature stays fairly constant, almost pleasant. If we weren't 100 feet or so underground, it would almost be ideal.”

  “Except there's no natural light,” I said.

  “Yeah, that's a problem for most people,” Garcia replied.

  “And Henry?”

  “You'll see.” He gestured. “This way.”

  We crossed the antechamber and found another door recessed into the wall. If you didn't know it was there, it would have been difficult to find. Even the door handle, a semi-cylindrical piece of brushed metal, was hard to see. Garcia used his screwy key and the door opened inward. He beckoned.

  We stepped into a strange, other-worldly landscape. It could have been a movie set. This second antechamber appeared double the size of the first, perhaps larger. Lines of lights hung from a series of wires cross-hatched above ceiling height. Lit up like Christmas. Amazingly, we stood before a front yard with a green lawn, a picket fence freshly painted white and a cozy looking cabin nestled behind it. The cabin had a wooden porch and a rocking chair, two picture windows and a slanted, wood shingle roof. Both Birdie and I must have looked as if we'd been stunned.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Birdie exclaimed.

  Garcia chuckled. “Gets me every time too.”

  “How did he…?” The question remained incomplete.

  Garcia looked at me. “People throw stuff out–you'd be amazed. Not just residences; building sites, industrial parks, whatever you need can be acquired for free–and that's what he's done. Took him a while to put all this together.”

  “Running water? Electricity?” I asked.

  Garcia nodded. “Yeah, we'd put in the water pipes when we were doing the construction, so that was easy. Henry figured out how to tap into the grid so he's got more juice down here than City Hall.”

  We made our way to the front yard. I stepped on the lawn and heard it crinkle.

  “Fake grass,” Garcia said. “This lawn came from a golf shop that had its own artificial putting green, you know, like when you play mini-putt? Looks pretty good, almost like the real thing.”

  It was extraordinary and weird, like looking at some kind of exhibit in a museum for the strange and unnatural. I looked at Birdie and he shrugged as if he was saying, who were we to judge? Henry had to do anything necessary to survive.

  We stepped on to the porch and it felt solid; weathered oak timber that could last centuries. To one side, stood a grocery cart and I figured that's how he moved stuff in and out. It looked like it had been polished and oiled recently. Garcia tapped gently on the front door. It was painted an ocher colour. I saw a box at my feet, filled with discarded objects, broken toys and beheaded dolls.

  “Henry?” Tap. Tap. “Henry?” We listened. Nothing. No movement within. Garcia peered through the closest window shifting his headlamp in an arc. “Don't see anything inside.” He tried the door handle. “Locked. Looks like he isn't home.”

  “Where could he be?” Birdie asked.

  “Anywhere,” Garcia replied. “He travels the entire city. Knows it like the back of his hand. He's always out doing things, finding things, collecting stuff and he keeps an eye on things too.”

  “Now w
hat?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Garcia said. “We go. No point waiting for him. He could be out for hours or days even. He knows places to stay in just about every part of town. Places where he isn't seen.”

  “Where are they?”

  Garcia shook his head slowly. “Honestly, I don't know. This is only the third or fourth time I've even come down here. I haven't actually set eyes on Henry in almost six months.”

  “Leave him a note. Say you've got to talk to him.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “It will save us chasing him around the whole damn city for one thing,” Birdie snorted.

  “Birdie's right, Garcia. We're short on time. It's important we get to him as soon as we can.”

  Garcia blew out a long sigh. “I don't know about this.”

  I reached down and picked up one of the broken dolls. “Tell him you need to meet him at Henley Park at two o'clock. Tell him you'll be there until six o'clock and he can pick his time.”

  “Where's that?”

  “Henry will know where it is.”

  Garcia reached into a side pocket and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper. He rummaged around in the slicker until he came up with a pen. He lay the paper flat on the porch rail and wrote out the note, re-read it then stuck it into the door frame.

  “Hope you guys know what you're doing,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too.” I took another look around. Henry had found his refuge, his hidey-hole, just like in the book.

  43

  We dropped Garcia back at his union infused fortress just as the sun peeked up over the horizon. While it was still early and the world shook off the night tremors, I figured a return to the docklands might be fruitful. Fortunately, I knew a bakery on Lansdowne that opened early. We grabbed half a dozen danish, some hard rolls, butter and cheese and four coffees to go. I kept the window rolled down and we ate as we drove which was easier for Birdie since I sat behind the wheel. He ate five of the Danish, most of the rolls and drank three of the coffees.

  A fruit vendor hosed down the sidewalk in front of his shop and the cobbler next store winched out his awning. Mostly, it seemed calm and hushed. By the time we got down to Blackstones, the sun rose several fingers above the horizon. I drove around back thinking that might be the way in. No cars parked anywhere near by or in the perimeter around the building. They should have blown off by four or five in the morning at the latest, even with the additional kerfuffle Birdie initiated. I had forgotten to ask him how all that went.

  “What happened with the Yanks?” I asked.

  “Very disappointing.”

  “How so?”

  “Didn't last more than two minutes, maybe two and a half. I was hoping for a little more fight in them.”

  “Well, they'd had a skinful so blame it on that.”

  “You saying I took advantage because they were drunk?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “It's what you meant,” he retorted hotly.

  “You gonna eat that last Danish? If not, I wouldn't mind one.”

  He grinned at me. “That's what I like about you, Mo. You stick to the important things.”

  “Took a lot of practice.” I launched into a big bite. “Thinking about Eli.”

  “I know.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “I hear you.”

  We took a look around. At the back we found a metal security door.

  “Wanna grab my picks from the glove?”

  Birdie tsked at me but went back to the car. He came back with a set of lock picks I liberated from a second story man I'd busted years back. The guy had been more upset about losing his picks than getting arrested, kept telling me he owned only quality tools. He was right. They'd come in handy many times since then.

  It took me about two minutes before I cracked the door open. No alarm. Why would there be? Anybody stupid enough to rob John Fat Gai wouldn't be around for long.

  “Hmm, didn't know this place had a kitchen,” I said as we made our way forward. “Doesn't look like they've used it for cooking recently either.” The thick layer of dust on the countertops and the grease-stained walls seemed a clue. Metal pans stacked in the industrial sink looked as if they'd been sitting there for weeks.

  “Guess the music is the attraction,” Birdie said.

  “Must be.”

  We entered the bar area. The cleaning crew hadn't been on the scene. Half a dozen tables lay overturned and toward the centre, where the Americans had been sitting, three chairs broken, bottles and smashed glasses littered the floor. I stopped and took a good look. “What a mess. Aren't you ashamed?”

  “I'm trying,” Birdie said. “I'm sure I will be remorseful.”

  “Hah.”

  A quick tour verified that the main floor of the joint remained unoccupied. We headed up the stairs, pushed through the door at the top and found ourselves in the same corridor I'd trod the day before. I set about unlocking the doors along the side. The first one sprung open and I took a good look. Birdie frowned.

  “Looks like a pillow room,” I said.

  We left that one and I cracked open the next.

  “Well, well. Looks like John has a nice little sideline going.”

  The second room had a movie camera and a reel-to-reel tape recorder. The camera sat on a tripod pointed at the wall that connected the two rooms.

  “Alice through the looking glass,” I said.

  The wall we faced acted as a one-way mirror. From the camera's point of view, the camera guy had a clear shot of the bed. Rumpled sheets. There'd been some action recently. We checked the other rooms and all together found four identical set-ups. That meant John could blackmail four guys at once. Or he'd established his credentials as a maker and peddler of smut. I had more faith in John's commercial instincts. Blackmail seemed far more lucrative with a longer revenue cycle. I slapped my thigh hard.

  “What?” Birdie asked.

  I shook my head. “John.”

  “What about him?”

  “Think of it this way, okay? John uses underage girls. So, he gets the guy and squeezes him. The girls he uses come from wealthy families. He puts the bite on them too. He gets a cut both ways. I've got to admit, it's smart. He's got double the money in his pocket and nobody dares admit to anything. What a set-up.”

  “He's the devil.”

  “Or a close second.”

  “The girls,” Birdie said.

  I looked at him. “Yeah–wild girls–like to party and he gets them to cooperate by hooking them on opium.” I sniffed the air. The cloying odour of cloves hung heavily, saturating the carpets and the drapes. Opium could be mixed with tobacco and cloves and smoked like a cigarette. Another tradition John Fat Gai had brought with him.

  “Girls like Alison Foster,” Birdie said.

  “Girls like Alison Foster and Gayle Sorenson,” I added. “Party girls looking for a kick and not knowing what they were getting into.”

  “You think Lawson knows?”

  I paused. “I don't know. Maybe.”

  “Her folks?”

  “That's an even better question.”

  The door to the office where I'd found Jake remained locked but not for long. We went through the desk pulling out drawers and folders finding requisition sheets and manifests for liquor orders. Some of the booze had to be legit, they couldn't provide all the liquor by boosting it. The file cabinets yielded much of the same, utility bills, phone statements, nothing of much use. The bottom drawer remained locked. Out came the handy tools and thirty seconds later, I had it open. A bunch of manila envelopes stuffed with reels. I grabbed them and re-locked the drawer.

  “This could be important.”

  Birdie looked at me. “Where there's smoke,” he said. I caught his drift.

  I locked up all the rooms and we headed back down the stairs.

  We crossed over to the car.

  I fired up the Chevy and switched on the radio making sure it was tuned to CKOC. Del S
hannon's 'Runaway' came on. Picking up on the rhythm, I tore out of the parking lot burning rubber.

  44

  Two o'clock found me comfortably seated on a bench on the perimeter of Henley Park. I crumpled a paper cup that had contained bitter coffee and tossed it into a wire-framed trash bin. I fired up a Sweet Cap and surveyed the surroundings. It looked like the same mothers were watching their kids climb and jump and indulge in shrill-voiced mayhem while they gossiped, ignoring but the most strident of entreaties.

  A little girl and boy dug around in the sand with plastic shovels filling up tiny buckets then dumped them out again and started over. I wondered when life had become so simple. Their mother sat near by reading a magazine, she stretched her limbs, yawned and turned her face up to the sun in unbridled pleasure. For some reason, I found that painful and turned away. I glanced at the newspaper on my lap but nothing came into focus. Birdie lurked somewhere. He was good at that despite his size. He had patience, something that came to me in short supply.

  Three o'clock passed and the first group of mothers left. At three-thirty, another group took their place. These kids were older, having, I guessed, just been let out of school and didn't want to go home just yet. By four-thirty, some teenagers showed up and huddled in the far corner talking loudly, laughing caustically, sharing a few fags among them. The mothers moved their kids away as the teens got louder and rougher.

  Two of the boys began to chase each other around the small square, rough housing and generally cutting up. They weren't watching where they were going and knocked over a little girl who began to cry. The mother picked the little girl up and began to harangue them. Being teenagers, they sassed her back. Before I could step in, one of the loudmouths was yanked backward. I could see he wore the same uniform as before, the white coveralls and carried a canvas satchel where he put the garbage he picked up.