Last of the Independents

by Sam Wiebe

  “Who’s Gordon Laws?”

  “A wealthy man with an estranged son. After a twenty-year lost weekend, he finds himself owning a couple of car dealerships, wonders what happened to his family. His son took his ex-wife’s ex-boyfriend’s last name. Katherine found him on one of those social networking sites. Amazing how much info people will volunteer for public scrutiny.”

  “They all think they’ll be famous,” Ben said. “Not realizing, of course, you have to be famous for something, even if that ‘something’ is being a contemptible prick. Gordon Laws and his offspring sound like raging bores.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about either of them.”

  “I can spot a raging bore. Hundred dollars says I’m right.” Ben stood and walked to Katherine’s chair and sat down, the torn cushion emitting a wheeze. “I’ve got a case for you.”

  I nodded at the Loeb file. “You’re telling me.”

  “Something else,” he said.

  While we were talking I’d been drafting an email to a woman’s shelter in Toronto, sending them age-enhanced photos of Cynthia Loeb and requesting they post them and keep an eye out. She’d be fourteen this year. Some of the photos had been aged ten or twelve years to account for possible amphetamine or crack addiction. The combination of drug-damaged skin and a little girl’s eyes and smile was unsettling. I fired off the email and turned my attention to Ben.

  He said, “I don’t have all the details, but the guy sounds like he’s in dire need of a private eye.”

  “Is the melodrama necessary? Out with it.”

  “Remember the choices I had for community service?”

  “You parleyed your way into attending Pastor Flaherty’s group.”

  “Right, Coping Without a Loved One. The Father invited my mom once. You can imagine how that went. Anyway, I showed up, got the signatures, figured we were finished. The good Father, however, turns out to be a big video game fan, and he keeps in touch. We were talking one day and you came up.”

  I leaned back in my chair until my head touched the wall. “Oh?”

  “He thinks highly of you, despite your attitude to him.”

  “‘Attitude’ meaning the fact I don’t give discounts to people of the cloth?”

  “‘Combative to people of faith’ is how he described you.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Apt.’ Like that’s not true?” Ben stood and grabbed his jacket from the bench, pulled from its pocket a flyer folded lengthwise.

  “Yesterday he asks to meet me for coffee. I’d given him some back issues of the spinoff comic. I figured he wanted to take me to task for the blood and gore and godlessness. Instead he hands me this to give to you and asks if you’ll meet with this guy to discuss taking over the case.”

  I spread the flyer on the table. A black-and-white school photo of a slightly-disheveled, dark-haired boy, defiantly unsmiling. I could almost hear the photographer coaxing him, aware of the two hundred other brats she’d have to shoot that morning, telling the kid, “Don’t you want to look nice in the yearbook?” The kid thinking, “Hell no.”

  Above the photo were the words

  DJANGO JAMES SZABO.

  TWELVE YEARS OLD.

  DISAPPEARED MARCH 6th.

  MISSED BY HIS FAMILY.

  IF SEEN, CONTACT VPD MISSING PERSONS

  SO WE CAN RETURN DJANGO TO HIS FAMILY.

  Phone number and email address followed.

  “He’s been on the news off and on,” Ben said. “He’s not the most photogenic kid, and the dad’s six kinds of crazy. It never became the big news story it should’ve.”

  “The dad goes to those meetings?” I said. “After six months?”

  Ben said, “No, but Pastor Flaherty is campaigning for him to come. Mr. Szabo mentioned he was unhappy with the people he hired, so the Pastor asked me to ask you if you’d see him. Will you?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Who did Szabo hire first?”

  “Aries Security and Investigative Consultants.”

  “There’s ten grand down the toilet,” I said. “Tell the Pastor I’ll meet him tomorrow morning at the mission, nine if he can make it.”

  The new door I’d put on my grandmother’s house was wedged in its frame. The book on household carpentry I’d been following recommended shaving the frame down half an inch, but in my wisdom I’d thought I could get a more perfect fit by only shaving a third. Now that winter was slouching towards us the wood was expanding. The crown moldings I’d installed in the living room had cracked and the banister on the basement stairs had started to warp. The doorframe was only the latest casualty.

  I wrenched the door open and found myself enfolded in the smell of chicken and pipe smoke. She was asleep on the couch, her TV trays in front of her, a separate one for the ashtray and clickers. Some asinine game show silently emitting from the TV.

  I found a plate waiting in the oven, baked chicken, boiled and buttered potatoes, green beans, and corn. Everything cold, waiting for me to flick the dial on the oven.

  The pile of dishrags and dirty laundry in the middle of the floor raised its head and whimpered in my direction. I put down a plate of dry kibble moistened with chicken juice. The dog made no move to get up. I took the cold plate from the oven and headed downstairs.

  Despite the water-stained concrete and exposed ceiling beams, the basement was comfortable, warm. Everything I’d taken from my apartment that had survived the breakup had found a place in the long low-ceilinged room. I put some McCoy Tyner on, cracked a beer from the mini-fridge, and sat on the corner of the bed, eating dinner and reading part of an Elmore Leonard western. The plot seemed familiar, either because I’d read it before, or I’d seen the movie, or a character in one of Leonard’s crime novels had read the book and used it for inspiration. Eventually the dog joined me, hobbling over to the stiff-bristled mat. I scrolled down my iPod from Tyner to Sam Cooke, lay on the bed, and drifted off thinking of Django James Szabo’s Missing flyer, sitting on my table in the shadow of the Loeb file.

  II

  Last of the Independents

  Pastor Titus Flaherty had fashionably cut hair, black with a white streak that ran temple to sideburn on his right side. His teeth were widely spaced and jutted at odd angles, and when he spoke he vivisected you with enormous, soulful John Coltrane eyes.

  “Cliff Szabo is a difficult person to maintain a friendship with,” he said as we crossed the parking lot in the direction of the mission.

  I drank some of my London Fog. “I’m not trying to marry into his family,” I said. “Long as he’s somewhat close to sanity, I can work with him.”

  The rain had abated by the time we started back from the café. The Pastor had ordered a pumpkin soy latte and a whole grain fudge bar without a hint of shame. Vancouver. Water droplets from leaky awnings hit our shoulders as we walked along Cambie Street.

  Over my shirt and jeans I was wearing a tan trench coat that had been liberated by an ex-girlfriend from the wardrobe department of a local television show. Due to a romance that ended with the girl abandoning her possessions and fleeing to the Maritimes, I’d inherited the coat of the show’s tough-as-nails, murder-solving coroner. Forget that in the real world coroners don’t usually solve murders — neither do private investigators. The coat had taken a beating over the years, and I’d lost the belt, causing it to billow out unglamorously as the Pastor and I walked into a strong wind.

  “I didn’t mean to imply Cliff isn’t a good-hearted person,” Pastor Flaherty said. He rolled up his sleeve and tapped the face of a large-dialed, numberless watch that looked out of place on its simple leather band. “My father’s. When it was stolen Cliff tracked it down and paid for it out of a pawn shop window. He wouldn’t let me reimburse him.”

  “Almost like giving to the poor,” I said. “If he called the cops he could’ve got it back for nothing.”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. Cliff can be suspicious. Truculent. Especiall
y with agents of authority. He will scorn your help. He will make this about anything other than the matter at hand. Just bear in mind, Michael, whatever he says comes from a man dealing with unfathomable heartbreak, pain, and guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “I’ll let him tell you, if he decides.”

  The mission took up both floors of the leftmost building on a block of similar-looking grey rectangles. I stood under the canopy on a walkway of crushed stone while the Pastor went inside to find Mr. Szabo. I read the list of activity groups and meetings booked into the top-floor common room for the coming week: NarcAnon, AlAnon, Overeaters Anonymous. Coping Without a Loved One met Monday afternoons excluding holidays. I flung my tea bag into the rusted ashtray mounted by the door.

  Szabo came out alone. A short man, bald, with a dark beard and thick dark eyebrows. He wore a light grey polo shirt and slate grey slacks, polished black shoes, and a cheap digital watch. He glared at me for a moment.

  “Mr. Szabo,” I said. He nodded. “My name’s Michael Drayton. I’m a private investigator.”

  He nodded again. We’ll see.

  “I understand from Pastor Flaherty your son is missing and you’re thinking of hiring someone to look for him. I’ve a certain amount of experience in this.”

  “In kidnappings?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Django James wouldn’t run away. He had to have been taken.” The earnest expression on his weathered face challenged me to disagree.

  “By whom?” I asked.

  “If I knew that, would we be talking?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know my own son?”

  “You’re saying he was too obedient to run away?” I thought of adding, “Ever heard of puberty?”

  “Django was waiting in the car,” he said, as if summoning every part of his will to remain calm. “When I came out of the pawn shop, the car was gone. You think I’m lying?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Emphatic nods from Mr. Szabo. “Or my son. Just like the other vulture, Mr. McEachern, you don’t care. You’re here for your chance to pick the bones.”

  “I don’t work like McEachern,” I said.

  But he was on a roll now. “You smell blood in the water. You say you can help; only you need money first. You take the money and you ask questions. You get things wrong, you don’t listen. Then you don’t find him and you say, sorry, I have other ideas but they cost more money.”

  He paused and lit an American cigarette. It smelled harsh and good in the morning air.

  “Do you know what I do for a living, Mr. Drayton?”

  I shook my head.

  “I buy and sell. Gold, electronics, bicycles, anything. I buy for cheap, fix and clean, sell for more. I support my family on this. You think that’s easy?”

  “Couldn’t be,” I said.

  “Damn right. I pay attention and I have an eye for scams. I know the difference between gold and gold-plated, between an American Stratocaster and a Korean. I’ve seen every fraud. I even pulled off some, when I was younger.” He sucked on his smoke and stared at me through a yellow cloud. “But I never made money off a missing child.”

  “Your mind’s made up,” I said. The cigarette smoke had awakened old urges. I downed the cold dregs of my drink and placed the cup in the ashtray.

  “You people exploit grief for money. You sell false hope. I can’t believe I let Mr. McEachern convince me to trust him. You people are all smiles while the wallet is full.”

  “I’ve heard about enough,” I said. “I didn’t take your kid and I’m not after your fortune. If you manage to swallow that wad of self-righteous bile lodged in your throat, you can find me in the corner office on Beckett and Hastings. Mira Das with the VPD will vouch for me.”

  I took out one of my business cards and tried to hand it to him. He made no move to take it. I set it on the edge of the ashtray. The card gave my address and company name in bold, and in cursive the motto Last of the Independents. Katherine had insisted the old cards looked too plain. Szabo stared down at the card but didn’t move.

  Before I left I added, “Whether I hear from you or not, I hope you find your son.”

  I crossed the street, leaving him there, feeling bad about letting down the Pastor, but not that bad. There was nothing else to be done. Clifford Szabo needed angelic intervention, not a PI.

  Instead of going to the office I went home. Self-employment has its privileges. I made a chicken sandwich and sat on the back porch, eating and reading and every so often tossing a grey tennis ball across the overgrown yard. My dog limped after the ball and dutifully retrieved it, less enthusiastic about the game than I was.

  It had been two weeks since the diagnosis. Cancer of the lymph nodes. Before that she’d had laboured breathing and the odd rectal discharge. Physically, she looked deflated, as if someone had let a third of the air out of her. I had a talk with a very nice vet who recommended treatment to postpone the end. I said of course, how much? She quoted me a figure in the mid four digits. I told her I was twenty grand in debt already and was there any other option? She told me I’d have two months at best and that some time before that, “When you think it’s right,” I should make another, final appointment.

  The dog had flawless bowel control before lymphoma. Now she rubbed her ass on the carpets compulsively, looking ashamed of herself as her body continued to betray her. In addition to ruining the rugs on the upstairs floor, a stool softener had to be inserted every morning. Dawn usually found me cradling her on the porch while one hand pushed a spongy red capsule of Anusol into her rectum. As vile as that chore was, I would’ve done it happily every day for the rest of my life.

  “He’s right here,” my grandmother said, banging through the screen door to deposit the cordless phone into my hand.

  “Drayton,” I said. My grandmother stood over me, arms crossed.

  “Mr. Drayton? Gordon Laws. Talked to your secretary a couple minutes ago. Nice girl. Listen, just wanted to extend my thanks personally. My son and I, lot of water under the bridge, but on account of you we have a chance to go forward as a family. My wife is thrilled. Also wanted to tell you, check’s ready for pick up, and we decided to give you a nice little bonus.”

  “That’s very generous. My assistant, Katherine, she’s the one who did the lion’s share of the work.”

  “Well, make sure she hears that we’re happy.”

  “Will do.”

  “Take care.”

  “Same to you.”

  “All right.”

  “All right then.”

  “Christ,” I said, handing my grandmother back the phone.

  “Something the matter?” she said.

  “No, I just owe Ben a hundred dollars.”

  She shrugged and pointed at the dog. “Looking a pretty sorry spectacle.”

  “She still gets around the yard,” I said.

  The only way my grandmother would coexist with a dying dog was a promise from me that once the cycle was over, I’d refinish the main floor in real hardwood. My grandfather and his brothers had built the house on Laurel Street. During renovations in the late seventies, on my grandmother’s whim, they installed pink shag carpeting in all the bedrooms. Her sinuses had had to live with that decision for almost forty years.

  “You will never catch me letting someone put their hand up my bum,” my grandmother said. “I’d rather be dead than that.”

  “If it was Antonio Banderas’s hand, you’d look forward to it all day.”

  She scowled, shook her head, collapsed the phone’s antenna and took it back inside. I rolled the ball underhand along the shadow of the clothesline. The dog, resting on the lawn, raised her head and watched the ball roll past, as though deciding if it was worth the effort.

  At the office I found Katherine and Ben in the midst of an argument over some film, Ben making the kind of sweeping statement that I doubt even he believed, but said to enrage others and make himself feel e
dgy.

  Ben vacated my chair and moved to the other side of the table. His hands were busy slicing one of my old business cards into strips.

  “How’d it go?” Katherine asked.

  “Ever date someone who was on the rebound, and they try to hold against you everything their ex did to them? Well, Mr. Szabo hired Aries Investigations, and based on that, he’s decided not to pursue a relationship with us.”

  “Poor guy,” she said.

  “Settle this for us, okay?” Ben said to me. “Orson Welles: genius or fraud?”

  “Genius,” I said, settling into my chair.

  “Correct. But would you watch his movies?”

  “Sure.”

  “But do you watch his movies?”

  “Once in a while I’ll put on Touch of Evil.” I turned to Katherine. “Why, who was he saying was better? He never makes one of those grand dismissals without an equally absurd replacement.”

  “I don’t know the name,” she said. “The guy who directed Speed.”

  “Not what I said, I said it was a better film than Citizen Kane.” Ben rolled the strip of cardboard into a makeshift filter and affixed it to a slim joint he produced from his pocket. I scanned my table carefully and found particles of bud, mostly stems and seeds.

  “Go outside to do that.”

  “Not till you hear me out on Speed,” he said. He began counting the virtues on his fingers. “It’s got at least as many fully-developed characters. It’s better paced. The effects are better. It’s got as many memorable lines of dialogue. It obeys the laws of Aristotelian unity. It’s better acted.”

  “Better acted,” Katherine said. “Keanu Reeves?”

  The buzzer saved me from responding. On the monitor I saw Cliff Szabo start up the steep stairs. “Troll somewhere else,” I told Ben. To Katherine I added, “The bonus for the Laws job is yours provided you pick up the check from him.”

  “Why so generous?” she asked, as Ben ducked out of the room, pawing his pockets in search of his Zippo.

  “You did the work.”