Looking for Henry Turner

by W. L. Liberman

  “That is an interesting theory, Mr. Gold.”

  “No theory, Mrs. Sorenson. It's what happened and it wouldn't take much in a court of law to prove it, either.”

  “Prove what, exactly? Prove it how?”

  One thing about the upper classes, their instinct for superiority reasserted itself naturally. “Fingerprints. The same set on both of the murder weapons found at each scene. They just need to be matched to the right pair of hands.”

  I paused to let that sink in. I could see it had an effect. She waited for me to continue.

  “Eight years ago, your daughter and Alison Foster were driven by Henry Turner to a club down by the waterfront called Blackstones.”

  “Blackstones?” she repeated.

  “That's right,” I said. “A club owned by a notorious Chinese gangster named John Fat Gai. John ran the club and had an interesting little business on the side.”

  Despite herself, she asked the question. “And what was that, pray tell?”

  “In a word–blackmail. The club had rooms upstairs. John would lure young girls from prominent families to those rooms. The rooms were rigged with camera equipment. The girls were filmed high on opium having sex with men. Older men.”

  Mrs. Sorenson put a hand to her forehead. It was damp. From her sleeve she removed a lace handkerchief and patted her face.

  “Now, you're straying into the realm of science fiction, Mr. Gold. An art form for which I have little use.”

  “Not science fiction, Mrs. Sorenson. More like horror. Hitchcock at his worst. Like I said, Allison Foster and your daughter were caught up in the shenanigans. This gave John Fat Gai the means to blackmail the families of those girls. Naturally, the families wouldn't tell anyone because they feared exposure. They would never go to the police, for instance.”

  “Yes,” she replied vaguely. “I suppose that's true.”

  “John Fat Gai has been blackmailing your family for the past eight years, Mrs. Sorenson. He made you and the others pay and pay big.”

  “Where's your evidence, Mr. Gold? Otherwise, this is nothing but fantasy.”

  I slid my hand into my inside jacket pocket. It emerged with a metal film canister.

  “Well, I expect a review of your financial records would be rather revealing but here's my hard evidence, Mrs. Sorenson. I retrieved it from John Fat Gai's office a few nights ago.”

  She moved fast, lunging for my hand.

  “Give it to me. Give it to me at once. I must have it. I'll pay you. I'll pay you whatever you want.”

  Birdie intercepted her and gently moved her back to where she was. The cat had screeched then retreated into a corner folding itself into a large ball of white fluff.

  “We don't want your money, Mrs. Sorenson.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just the truth, that's all. Simply the truth.”

  “What is that? I'm not sure I know anymore.”

  “Eight years ago, at Blackstones, Gayle and Alison were met by John Fat Gai's henchman, Quan, and hustled inside. Henry Turner stayed in the car. But then Henry became curious and worried. He decided to go inside and found a horrifying scene. There was Alison, your daughter, John Fat Gai and the corpse of a newborn infant. Something had happened to it…”

  She shook her head back and forth, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth then her nostrils. “I think I'm going to be ill,” she said. “Please call Effie for me…”

  Birdie strode toward the door, flung it open and disappeared.

  “It was your grandchild, wasn't it?” I said as gently as I could while mouthing such gut-wrenching words.

  She nodded once.

  Her body heaved with sobs and I thought she might break apart, shatter into pieces. The maid, Effie, rushed into the room and wrapped her arms around the stricken women, shushing her, stroking her to calm her down.

  “Haven't you done enough,” she snapped. “Can't you see what this has done to her?”

  “It wasn't just that the baby died, though, was it? Something happened to it, to this helpless infant. That baby was strangled at birth…”

  Mrs. Sorenson wailed. “She didn't know what she was doing. She was drugged and out of her head…please, please…”

  “That's why Gayle had a nervous collapse. She murdered her own child.”

  “All right,” Mrs. Sorenson said. “All right…yes…yes…yes…is that what you want to hear? Yes, she did it. She did it She did it…” and collapsed into a heaping, sobbing mess comforted by the elderly maid who glared at me with unrestrained hatred. That also surprised me. How the lower classes maintained such a strong bond of loyalty to their masters.

  “What are you doing to my mama?”

  I turned. Gayle, still dressed in her tutu and slippers, hair disheveled, eyes blazing, held a carving knife in her right hand and a broken doll in her left. Her child. She raised the knife as she advanced. The blade looked razor sharp and gleamed in the subdued light.

  “You leave my mama alone. Leave her alone.” She moved like a streak. I turned but stumbled over the coffee table. Gayle leapt into the air screaming like a banshee, brandishing the knife; I saw the point descend.

  “Gayle! No! No!” her mother screamed.

  A large hand caught Gayle's wrist and twisted the knife away. It skidded across the carpet toward the cat. It let out a growl then scooted out of the room like a shot. Birdie held the kicking, screaming hellion. She tried to slash him with her nails but he held her off the floor where she was helpless. Her mother ran to her.

  “Gayle honey…my darling…no…no…mommy's here….mommy's here. It will be all right. Come to me, my darling. Come to me…” she murmured.

  Gradually, Gayle subsided. Birdie set her tentatively on the ground. Mrs. Sorenson folded her into her arms and walked her back to the couch where she and Effie stroked and whispered to her. Gayle buried her face in her mother's neck and sobbed.

  Finally, Mrs. Sorenson looked at me. “What's going to happen now? What are you going to do, Mr. Gold?”

  I looked at her feeling drained.

  “We're not the police, Mrs. Sorenson. We don't have to do anything. Get her some help. Find a place for her where she'll be helped and where she can't harm anyone else. I'm sure you can get your physician to aid you. She's killed two people in the most savage manner but no jury would convict her. They'd see she was deranged but they could send her away to a prison hospital forever. I don't think you want that. These are, well, they aren't pleasant places, let's put it that way. You might want to get yourself a good lawyer just in case. The cops may come around asking questions. I suggest you take Gayle away before they find their way to your door, Mrs. Sorenson.”

  She stroked Gayle's hair. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Don't thank me. There's been enough suffering, don't you think? Maybe Gayle can heal some day. You never know.”

  Bringing it out into the open didn't make me feel any better. In some ways, it made me feel worse. Birdie and I rose.

  “Goodbye Mrs. Sorenson and good luck.”

  Her head was bent over her daughter, softly crooning what sounded like a childhood lull-a-bye.

  She stopped us in the cavernous hallway, her blue eyes piercing like cold rays of light. I shivered. Her uniform rumpled. Her face ashen.

  “Those men. They destroyed her.” We didn't move. “They didn't care if she was pregnant. They used her until they had their fill then threw her away like a piece of trash. She didn't know what she was doing. How could she?”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Hatred infused her. “If I was 10 years younger, I'd kill them all myself for what they did to her, what they did to my baby. I'm glad they died.” Tears rolled down her flaccid cheeks. “She was my baby. I cared for her. Looked after her since she was born. I'd kill them, I tell you. With no regrets. Look at her now. Look at her now.” The elderly maid sank to the floor and sobbed for her own lost child.

  We found our own way out. Stepping out of the gloom
into the light, I took a deep breath. After the stale air we'd breathed, it felt good. The weight of the film canister pulled at my pocket. It wasn't just that though and this is something I didn't even tell Birdie.

  Last night, after leaving Troyer's place, I went to Sully's gym. In the back, he kept a banged up projector for watching footage of old fights. Fights he'd been in and fighters he'd managed. I threaded the film into the machine, and watched what was on it. John had been clever, showing the girls in full view but never the men. There were a number of sequences with Alison Foster and Gayle Sorenson and also, a number of other girls I didn't recognize.

  You could see an outline of the man, sometimes hear a few words. It didn't take much for me to know and it made my stomach lurch. Jake had been one of them. He'd been with Gayle. I didn't have any doubt whatever. My old man may have been the father of her doomed child. My little half-brother or sister murdered by a sick teenager who'd been drugged then assaulted by him. It felt like poison in my veins. I wanted to open myself up and let it all seep away.

  For a second, I steadied myself on the rod iron railing.

  “You okay?” Birdie asked.

  I looked up into his concerned face. The face of a magnificent African prince.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I'm fine.” I handed him the car keys. “You drive.”

  I fished out a Sweet Cap and lit it, drawing the smoke into my lungs and expelling it like pollution.

  Later that night, I parked the Chevy outside Evelyn's apartment. I held a dozen roses in my left hand, a mickey of Scotch in my right. I struggled to open the door. I stood on the sidewalk and took a final glance at myself in the side view mirror. Tie adjusted, hair combed, face shaved. A taxi pulled up opposite. The fares emerged. I heard drunken laughter. A tall black man put his arm around Evelyn's shoulders as she helped him up the stairs to her door. She teetered on her heels. The short cocktail dress rode up her rump. I stepped back into the shadows. She fumbled with the key. He made a joke. She laughed again. The door opened and they stumbled inside. I crossed the street, mounted the steps then hesitated. Instead of pounding on the bell, I lay the roses across the threshold. I hefted the mickey of Scotch in my right hand. Company for the evening. I'd been a fool to take her for granted. A damned fool. I descended the stairs, crossed the street, got into the Chevy and drove home.

  What had I whispered to John on the ship's deck? I told him that he'd been responsible for the deaths of many men but of all of them, only the soul of a murdered infant would haunt him for eternity. At first, he didn't respond. Then he said that Gayle had moved too fast for him to stop her. That it was regrettable. A moment later, he blew up the ship.

  The next morning, I sat at my desk reading the Telly about the Argos latest calamity. I drank coffee from a paper cup. Half a Danish sat in its paper wrapper in front of me. Birdie leaned up against the credenza whistling under his breath swinging his polished shoe back and forth so that the toe scraped the floor. He had his bible out and leafed through it idly.

  “Argos lost again,” I said.

  Birdie laughed. “Sure they did.” He held up the bible. “They need some divine intervention.”

  The downstairs bell jangled. Another client climbed on up.

  About the Author

  W.L. Liberman believes in the power of storytelling but is not a fan of the often excruciating psychic pain required to bring stories to life. Truthfully, years of effort and of pure, unadulterated toil is demanded. Not to sugarcoat it, of course, writing is a serious endeavor. It is plain, hard work. If you've slogged away at construction work, at lumberjacking, delivery work, forest rangering, sandwich making, truck driving, house painting, among other things, as I have, writing is far and beyond more rigorous and exhausting. At the end of a long, often tedious, usually mind-cracking process, some individual you don't know pronounces judgment and that judgment is usually a resounding 'No'. This business of writing is about perseverance and stick-to-it-iveness. When you get knocked down and for most of us, this happens frequently, you take a moment to reflect, to self-pity, then get back at it. You need dogged determination and a thick skin to survive. And an alternate source of income.

  W.L. Liberman is currently the author of eight novels, two graphic novels and a children's storybook. He is the founding editor and publisher of TEACH Magazine; www.teachmag.com, and has worked as a television producer and on-air commentator.

  He holds an Honours BA from the University of Toronto in some subject or other and a Masters in Creative Writing from De Montfort University in the UK. He is married, currently lives in Toronto (although wishes to be elsewhere) and is father to three grown sons.

  Dear reader,

  Thank you for taking time to read Looking For Henry Turner. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.