“Sweet Jesus,” Birdie exclaimed. “That dog just peed on my jacket.”
“I know. That's good.”
“Good? I paid a hundred dollars for it.”
When the dogs had finished lifting their legs and doing their business, they went back to their sitting formation.
“Now what?” Birdie demanded.
“Reach down slowly, pick your jacket up and put it on,” I said.
“Huh? You want me to put it on after each of those mongrels has soiled it?”
“According to Gomer, they were marking their territory. We'll have their smell on us and they'll let us pass through. Trust me on this.”
“Well, you and Gomer better be right. If not, then I'm going to have to look him up.”
“He was killed in '43,” I said.
“Well, I'll go and dig him up,” Birdie replied. But he reached down carefully and shrugged himself back into his jacket. He made a face. I did the same.
“Now what?”
“We walk toward the house. We can get in through the side entrance.”
Birdie looked at me. “You first.”
“Okay.” I took a step.
The dogs watched me curiously but didn't move. I took another step. Same reaction. Birdie followed along. Moving slowly and cautiously, we'd traveled about 10 steps when I heard the low, menacing growl. I turned around. The dogs were up on their feet now. “Keep moving but make it smooth. Nothing sudden.”
We marched in step across the field and around to the side of the house. The dogs were out of sight. I got out my lock picks and went to work. Suddenly, there came a yelp and the dogs went on the move.
“Better hurry,” Birdie said. I heard the pad of their paws on the thick grass. They moved fast. “Come on, Mo. Anytime would be good.”
“I'm working as best as I can. There's not much light,” I hissed.
“You got about three seconds,” Birdie said. He pulled his .45.
I glanced over my shoulder. The dogs had flattened their stance, ears back, fangs bared. They flew across the lawn. The tumblers clicked. We went through and closed it just as the pack threw itself at us slamming into the door. I heard the yelps and squeaks on the other side.
“Close one,” I said.
“My jacket stinks,” Birdie replied.
“Well, it kinda worked.”
“I think we should just shoot them on the way out. That's my plan, okay?”
We moved quickly through the first floor of the house checking all of the rooms and there were plenty of rooms. Nothing.
“Let's split up,” I said. “I'll take the upstairs, you do the basement.”
“Why do I get the basement?” Birdie groused. Still pissed about the jacket.
“Okay, I'll take the basement. That way you won't have to bend your head, okay?”
“Better,” he said.
Birdie trudged carefully up the expansive staircase. According to the plans, the basement entrance lay off the kitchen. I shone my torch around the kitchen. The remnants of a meal lay scattered about. Plates piled in the sink, scraps on the table. I knew John as fastidious. This seemed out of character.
I opened the basement door and found the light switch. I flicked it on and descended into the bowels of the house. I'd been right. The ceiling height allowed me to stand straight but I removed my hat to duck under the ceiling beams. It consisted of four, large connected rooms. One for laundry with all of the latest washing gizmos. Impressive. John could run his own commercial operation out of there. Another looked to be storage–tables and chairs stacked up in there.
The third room had been servants' quarters once upon a time but no one had lived there recently. I found the fourth room padlocked. With the butt end of the .45, I hammered it off and swung the door open. Wine cellar. Some decent vintages looked like. Clearly, John didn't trust the staff to keep their hands off a few bottles. I closed the door and trudged back up the basement. I met up with Birdie in the living room.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just empty bedrooms.”
“Odd. Don't you find it odd?”
Birdie shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Why wouldn't he leave someone behind to watch the place? You don't leave without having someone watch your back, do you?”
“Not someone like John,” Birdie replied.
I sat down on the settee to ponder for a moment. Then I heard something.
“What was that?”
Birdie looked up. He'd heard it too. A tinkle, then a crackling sound. We exchanged looks. I got up and went to the far door. As I approached, I sniffed. I smelled something. Gasoline.
I stepped carefully, put my hand on the knob and twisted slowly. I glanced at Birdie and he nodded curtly, just the once. Slowly, I eased the door open. A fireball blew me off my feet in a vicious whoosh, flinging me backwards. I felt heat and pain. I rolled like a manic tumbleweed. I think I screamed. A hand seized the scruff of my neck and hauled me up.
“The front door,” I croaked.
Birdie half-dragged, half-carried me as the flames shot out in evil tendrils engulfing everything up in its path. The living room shimmered like an angry torch. I'd gained my feet now. I held on to Birdie's coattails as he bulled his way from room to room, the fireball billowing after us. My skin blistered.
“Come on,” he yelled. “Stay with me.” My feet skittered.
My lungs felt like they had burst. Throat raw. Eyes stinging. Couldn't breathe. Oxygen sucked out of the air. Smoke billowed. Acrid fumes ate my throat. Birdie flung the front door open. We charged through it, hit the grass and rolled just as the house behind us erupted. A massive explosion. The war all over again. The sight mesmerized me. Almost beautiful. Like a 500 pound bomb had been dropped from the sky. We scrambled up and lit out as fast as we could until we'd managed to put 30 or 40 yards between us and the inferno. In seconds, the entire house flamed up. We dropped down to the grass panting. I coughed smoke out of my lungs.
“Well at least we didn't have to worry about the dogs,” Birdie wheezed.
I looked around. No dogs. The flames lit up the skyline. I heard a deep rumble, felt the vibration of it through the ground. The core of the house erupted shooting fire, ash and debris up into the air.
“That was no accident,” I said.
“Booby trapped,” Birdie replied.
“No wonder the place was empty. John never intended to come back. Son of a bitch,” I said. “That crazy son of a bitch.”
“Amen to that, brother. You burned anywhere?”
I shook my head. “Don't think so.”
“Your eyebrows look a little bit singed.”
I grinned, blew some more smoke out of my lungs. “The latest look this summer.”
“Jacket's really ruined now,” he said, looking at the remnants of his lapels in disgust.
At least the jackets fulfilled one more useful purpose. We tossed them up onto the wall and climbed up and over gingerly without being slashed by the embedded glass. I fired up the Chevy and drove away as another fireball erupted, lighting up the sky. We drove back to the office to get cleaned up.
“Let's hope Tobin and Callaway find Eli and Jake,” I said.
47
Christie Pits at midnight. It had a certain ring to it. We stood in the northeast quadrant near second base. The home park for the Maple Leafs of the Intercontinental Baseball League. A fabled place, the Pits.
Back in 1933, when I was just growing my first set of pimples, a riot erupted between the Jews and the Swastika Club–a homegrown fascist group of bullyboys who admired Hitler. The Jews played baseball regularly in the Pits on Sundays. Fights broke out when thugs from the Swastika Club showed up to disrupt the games. One of those times it blew up into a full-blown riot that lasted the better part of a day. I remember because it was one of the first times that the Jews stood up for themselves in public and also, because my old man had been an ecstatic participant in the proceedings.
I remem
ber how he came home, flushed, sweaty and bleeding but happy as a clam enthusing about what they did to the Swastika Club members–the most excited and exuberant I'd ever seen him. He broke heads and busted legs with a crowbar. That said a lot about Jake. Later that night, we went down to College Street and he took me out for a gelato. Hasn't happened before or since. Within a couple of months he'd left for good. That was something all right.
The elevation of the park sloped downward hence the name, Christie Pits. The top of the sides all around stood at street level. At each corner huddled a family of streetlamps throwing a dim glow that didn't reach the interior of the field where we stood. John Fat Gai had chosen the Pits carefully. At field level, the ground lay flat. Nowhere to hide except near the batting cages and some of the outbuildings by the public washrooms where the players changed into their uniforms. In the western section, lay a playground. The only way to approach the field meant coming down one of the slopes. You'd be backlit by the streetlamps and an easy target. Apart from that, there were many routes in and out but it was difficult to hide, even in the dark.
Me, Birdie, Roy Mason, Ying's sister and Henry Turner stood in a small group. On John's instructions, I'd planted wooden torches soaked in kerosene in a circle. We stood in the centre. Mason pulled nervously on a fag. I'd put manacles on Henry and the girl. I'd taped their mouths shut in case they tried yelling out. We didn't need any distractions or unwanted attention. Henry still wore his city coveralls and a Toronto Maple Leafs ball cap pulled down over his face. Birdie held on to him and the girl so they wouldn't bolt. I held the ledger in my hand. At the stroke of midnight, I lit the torches. They fired up in a blaze of glory. We stood out like a human beacon.
“I don't like it,” Mason muttered. “I feel naked out here.” Mason had been in the service and knew a good ambush spot when he saw one.
“Now there's a thought,” I said. “I'll need to flush that one from my mind.”
“Always the joker,” Mason sneered.
“That's me.”
Birdie scanned the perimeter but it was a cloudy night and tough to see. He didn't comment but harrumphed quietly.
I figured they'd come from the southern quadrant and that's what they did, a pack of them, moving slowly, fanning out to cover the angles, picking their way down the slope carefully. I couldn't make out how many there were but I didn't think John would take any chances. They'd come in numbers and they'd be heavily armed.
For this scheme to have any chance of working, I had to make sure John came with them. The only way to do that was to promise him the missing ledger and the girl. Along with Henry, of course. He knew Mason wouldn't talk and he figured Birdie and me wouldn't spill because of Eli and maybe, Jake. He hadn't been wrong. John sniffed out the weakness in people and exploited it, even in his agitated state, he kept that instinct alive.
We waited for them. They came in two lines, the first protecting the second. Moving in a phalanx, they halted about ten yards in front of us. John had at least eight guys, plus Quan and himself, but no Jake or Eli. We were heavily outnumbered and outgunned. I smelled the acrid smoke from the torches. The flames crackled and snapped.
“That's far enough,” I said. The group opposite held up.
“Gentlemen,” John said. A nervous tic ate at his cheek. “Lovely evening.”
“Isn't it?” I replied. “I was just thinking that myself.”
“You have the ledger?” John asked, his voice, high-pitched.
I held it up. “Right here. Now, tell your goons to back off or I'll set it alight.” I leaned toward one of the torches.
John barked in Mandarin and the gunsels moved back out of range.
“Now you and Quan can join us here in the inner circle,” I said.
John shrugged. Quan smiled.
“All right,” John replied and fingered the dragon pendant obsessively.
The two of them moved forward until they'd positioned themselves within the circle. John looked tightly conciliatory and Quan seemed oddly relaxed.
“Where's my brother? I don't see him with you.” I pushed the ledger into the flame and singed the pages.
John cracked open.
“Let's not be hasty, Mo. Your brother is perfectly safe as is your father. I give you my word as a gentleman. Now, the ledger please and our two guests.” He held out his hands in a placating gesture.
“I'd sooner trust you as drop kick you off a cliff. The ledger becomes ashes unless you produce them.” I felt the heat lick up my fingers as John gave me a worried look.
“Give me the ledger now. I will take you to them.”
I held up four fingers. “Tell me where they are.”
John shrank back. “It seems we are at a stalemate. If you burn the ledger, you will never find them and when you do, it might be too late.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
Nothing happened for a long moment but I could sense a lot of hands resting on the butts of weapons itching to use them. The scent of burnt paper filled my nostrils.
“The ledger. Quickly,” John hissed.
Then it all unraveled like a film reel unspooling. From opposite directions, powerful searchlights snapped on, blinding us. A scratchy, metallic voice echoed out from the dark. Callaway squawking through a bullhorn. Anger and disappointment welled up in me.
“This is the police,” Callaway squawked. “Put your hands up.” I spotted dark figures holding flashlights streaming down over the hill. They charged forward yelling like banshees. Both 'Henry' and 'Ying's sister' pulled off their cuffs, tore the tape from their mouths and like Houdini, .38 Police Specials miraculously appeared in their hands from inside their clothes. John and Quan and their men remained motionless. John smiled evilly.
“I'm so disappointed in you, Mo. Now you will never see your brother or father again.” He clapped his hands. Once. Twice. He and Quan placed slate dark glasses over their eyes. I heard a hissing sound and felt the ground begin to vibrate. Instinctively, I bent low to maintain my balance. John and Quan remained still, curious smiles on their faces.
The cops continued to pore down the slope but it was too late. I knew that now. The others, Mason, Henry and Ying's sister's doubles looked around, confused and uncertain. The ground erupted in a blaze of pops, bangs and cracks. I reeled back.
Quan shot forward. He snatched the ledger from my hand as a hundred Roman candles exploded around us in a dazzling display. From fissures in the ground surrounding us, rockets, cannon balls, firewheels ignited. The kids in the neighbourhood must have loved it. Electric lights flashed in our eyes. I groped blindly. Quan whirled about and fired a shot then he and John vanished in the dazzle. I dropped to the ground and tried peering through the showers of sparks and erupting explosives. Birdie did the same. We could barely see and couldn't hear. Something soft and heavy fell across my back. I lurched up and rolled it over. Mason. A neat hole carved into his forehead.
Fuzzily, I heard distant yells and screams. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the display fizzled out. Snaps. Pops. Birdie and I stood up. I looked over at the two cops who'd doubled for Henry and Ying's sister. They seemed confused but okay. I found myself face to face with a resigned looking Callaway and a furious Tobin.
I got it now.
The kerosene torches had been a marker. John's men had stood outside the perimeter of fireworks John had set up at some point earlier in the evening while Birdie and I tried to avoid becoming smoked meat in his burnt out house. Inside the circle of torches, it had been safe ground. The fireworks had been buried just below the surface all around us.
Maybe John had cracked, after all. He'd abandoned his house, and maybe he'd clear out his warehouses now that he had his precious ledger. The only satisfaction came from knowing a technician from Tobin's office had photographed each of the ledger's pages before we handed it over. At least we had the goods on the bent cops, judges and politicians John kept in his pocket. Barry Wong had been as good as his word. He'd retrieved the le
dger from Liu Chen, his wife's cousin and given it to me when I called.
I grabbed Callaway's lapels. “He's got Eli and Jake. Tell me you followed him to where they are.”
Callaway looked ashamed but cast daggers at Tobin. “We lost him,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry, Mo.”
I pushed him away and sat on the grass, head in hands. Callaway crouched down over Mason's body. He too seemed dejected. Whatever his faults, the guy had been his partner and a cop. Jake and Eli could be anywhere.
“We'll find them,” Birdie said. I looked up at him and wearily stood up. We smelled like burnt out gunpowder.
John had established a theme.
“Callaway,” I said. He looked over at me. “Better alert the fire department. Warehouses will be smoking all over the city.”
Callaway looked stricken.
“Shit,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Tobin demanded.
“He torched his house, he torched us so he's going to torch everything he touched, leave no trace and then disappear. Fire is a thing with him, kind of sacred. He had it all planned,” I said. “He's three steps ahead.”
Tobin pointed his finger. “This is your fault. You. You set this plan in motion. I am holding you responsible for this and I will make sure that you…”
I hit him. I socked him hard and he went down in a heap. My hand stung, the knuckles sore. I hadn't felt that good since I'd rocked the deputy chief with a solid right cross.
“Feel better?” Birdie asked. Callaway smirked.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Let's get to work,” he said. “We probably don't have much time.”
“We'll cover whatever we can,” Callaway said. “Just give me the word. But first I gotta tell Doreen Mason she's a widow.
48
I consoled myself that John hadn't harmed Henry Turner who still wandered the city as the Invisible Man, hiding in plain sight, popping in and out when he wanted. Ying's sister hadn't been touched either. When I met him to retrieve the ledger, Barry Wong told me he had been moving her between empty rooms in the hotel, a different one each night. He'd kept her and the baby below the radar. No records and completely anonymous.
Looking for Henry Turner Page 30
