by Howard Engel
“Is that a fact.”
“After smoking a package of unfiltered cigarettes, just like the one in your hand, there have been tests to show that pre-cancerous anomalies can appear. They showed experimentally, not clinically of course, that once precancerous conditions exist, that in roughly half the cases the cells finally produce malignancies.” I butted my cigarette in the ashtray provided, and was beginning to feel certain pre-cancerous anomalies forming under my ribs, when a tall gray-haired black woman came in briskly in a starched white uniform. She smiled at me, and gave a dirty look at the health fiend next to me.
“Richard, what on earth are you doing here? I told you I would look in on you after rounds this evening. Now, run along and behave yourself.” Richard got up, nodded at me and left. “Richard is one of my star patients.”
“Patient?” My chest immediately responded to treatment. The furry feeling under my tie cleared up, and I offered Miss Kline a cigarette.
“No thanks. I’ve just put one out. I’m trying to stop. Not doing very well. Clara Ferrante said on the phone that you were looking for Liz Tilford. May I know why?” She blinked her bright eyes and smiled. Her high cheekbones were becoming. She sat very straight in her chair, giving me her complete attention. I could feel her efficiency in the way her hair was drawn back from her forehead by a no-nonsense band of tortoise-shell. I liked her. I explained that the Elizabeth Tilford I was looking for was a good-looking redhead in her twenties, not a registered nurse in her mid-sixties.
“So you see, I’m probably here under false pretenses.”
“Sounds highly unlikely to me as well,” she said helpfully. “Still it obviously is a different woman. No question about that?”
“None. No. It’s just a dead end in my investigation. I want to thank you for your help.”
“Don’t get up yet, Mr. Cooperman.” (I’d given her one of my cards.) “I’ve just had the strangest notion. Liz Til-ford was one of the best nurses I’ve ever worked with. She knew her job, but that was only part of it. You know, this place can get you down after a few years, especially when we were still in the old building. But like very few other nurses, Liz Tilford really cared about her patients. Most of us feel that when you’ve rubbed one back, you’ve rubbed them all, that patients, especially here, are somehow inhuman unconnected bothers. To Liz Tilford, every patient was an individual. She didn’t just remember a few things about her patients and so josh them along and set up a friendly bantering relationship. She really got to know most of the people who were under her care for any length of time. It was a gift. She was missed when she left, I can tell you.”
“What happened to her?”
“For a while she lived here in Toronto, in a small apartment not far from the hospital. Then, I heard she went to live with a married sister in Sault Ste. Marie. I don’t know the name. But, you didn’t let me finish. What I was going to tell you was that during her last few years here, she became very fond of a patient who answers the description you gave of the woman you are looking for. Liz was good to everyone, but there was a special bond between Liz and this young patient. Do you think that might be helpful?”
“It very well might. How can I tell, Miss Kline? I feel like putting my name down to be committed. What happened to this young woman? The patient you mentioned?”
“It seems to me that she left us over a year ago. Yes, now that I think about it, it was just after Liz retired. The last few times I saw Liz was as a visitor to see some of her special patients. Yes, and here’s the link. I was going to mention, when the girl left us she went from here to live with Liz Tilford. I think I remember hearing that Liz had helped a few of the former inmates find their footing in the outside world again. You see, she was an extraordinary person.”
“Yes, I can see that. Thank you for all your help, Miss Kline.”
“Mrs.,” she said, with a turn of her head and a smile. “What will you do now, Mr. Cooperman?”
“I’m not sure. I might go over to that apartment building and talk with the super. I’d like to find out the name of the girl Liz Tilford was living with.”
“Oh, you needn’t go to all that trouble to find that out, I think I can save you steps there. I remember the girl’s name very clearly, because it’s the same last name as my favourite English poet. Her name is Hilda Blake.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I headed directly from the highway to my parent’s condominium. It was pushing seven when I walked into the tangerine grotto that was the family living-room. There was no sign of anyone on this floor. In the kitchen, the light was burning, but I couldn’t see any sign of activity in the oven. It was Friday night, but I didn’t recognize any of the signs. I followed the noise of the television down into the family room.
“Oh, you did come?” asked my mother.
“Did I say I wasn’t coming?” I looked at my father for judgment, but he was too clever to get involved. He kept watching the last dregs of local news.
“Well, in that case,” said my mother, as though my arrival had made alternate plans necessary. “I’d better put some meat in the oven and peel some potatoes. I haven’t even lit the candles yet. Benny, you didn’t even phone.”
I rolled my eyes heavenward in my usual helpless way, and followed Ma upstairs. She preceded me into the kitchen. By the time I arrived on the scene she was pulling out slabs of paper-wrapped frozen meat and dropping them on the floor like bricks. It was like a bowling alley, the racket. She found the brick she wanted and flung it un-wrapped into a pot with a resounding clang, added a can of tomato juice, paprika, an onion, and put the lid on. “There,” she said as she slammed the oven door, “that will be done in two hours. I’ll put the potatoes around it in an hour.”
She’d placed two brass candlesticks in the middle of the tablecloth in the dining room, inserting stubby white candles and lit them with her lighter. Then she covered her face with her hands and mumbled some words under her breath.
“Ma,” I asked, “what is it you say?”
“You’ve been asking me that question since you could talk. How many times do I have to answer you?”
“Tell me again.”
“It’s a blessing.” She was back in the kitchen, collecting knives and forks and spoons from the dishwasher.
“I know it’s a blessing. Tell me the words.”
“Why do you want to know? You want the job?”
“I’m just asking.” I took the plates she handed me and walked around the table putting one at each place. I got out some glasses.
“Not those,” Ma said. “Use the ones from the china cabinet. I thought we’d have some wine.”
“Don’t change the subject. What are the words you say with your eyes covered?”
“I say, Benny, what my mother taught me to say before you were born. That’s what I say.”
“And the words she taught you were? Tell me.”
“Why do you want to know? You got a customer for the information? Benny, stop nagging me. Here, put the salt and pepper on the table. And when you’ve done that, open this jar of pickles. Put it under the hot water if you have to.”
I gave up. Before I could retreat, she thrust a bottle of wine and corkscrew into my hands.
“Before you go, open this. Your father will kill me if it hasn’t breathed.”
I went downstairs to see my father again. I leaned over and kissed the top of his head. He’d been in the sauna. I don’t know what it is about a sauna. I sometimes think it’s a redwood time machine. You enter at two in the afternoon, you leave half an hour later and it’s five-thirty. I don’t blame Pa for spending his time there. It keeps him away from the card table. He looked up at me, put his head to one side and said, “So, you went to see Melvyn, like you promised?” He’d seen Melvyn who’d told him that I had not been in to see him about getting work searching titles. This was Pa’s way of saying, “So you didn’t go to see Melvyn.” He had a way of saying everything so that it didn’t matter whether the sentence wa
s positive or negative, it still meant the same thing.
“No, Pa. I’ve been busy. You don’t believe me, but I’ve been having a very good week. Here.” I took an aluminum cylinder from my pocket. “Here’s a cigar I bought for you in Toronto.”
“What were you doing in Toronto?” He was actually looking at me. The TV was blaring away unnoticed for a second.
“Just business. But I thought you might like the cigar.”
“If I’d known you were going, I would have had you pick up a box of them for me. I’ve got an account at Shopsy’s.”
Then there was dinner. It was always like seeing a scene from an old favourite movie. Conversation drifted back to Melvyn, reports about the Bar Mitzvah the week before, and certain hints were dropped to let me be reminded that they were known as the Coopermans whose son lived in a hotel, while other Coopermans that they might name had just sold their two-hundred-thousanddollar house in order to buy one worth four hundred thousand.
My last sight of my mother on this occasion was a glimpse of her through the kitchen window placing ice cubes on her potted plants. I’d questioned her about this practice before, but, as with most questions I asked her, received no satisfactory answer.
After running the gauntlet of the fast-food chains on Ontario Street, I decided to drop by my office for a half-hour. I climbed the stairs remembering how Frank had looked lying in the doorway last Wednesday night. It was ten years ago.
Frank was sitting in his own waiting room, with a half-finished bottle of rye on the magazine table in front of him.
“How are you, scout?” he asked, brighter than I’d seen him on these occasions. “Pull up a seat and have a jar with me.” I sat down, but placed my hand over the glass he held out.
“How’s the head?”
“Oh, the head’s fine. They put me back together with vinegar and brown paper. I’ve been on the look-out for you all day. Where the deuce have you been? I’ve heard the hard flat feet of the constabulary on the stairs and other heavy treads. You’ve missed a record day.”
“I drove to Toronto this morning, and spent most of my time at the Queen Street Mental Health Centre.”
“Don’t they dress it up nowadays? Have they struck the word asylum from the dictionary?”
“Do your remember anything more about who zapped you the other night?”
“No. I remember not seeing or speaking any evil, but I may have for a moment heard some. Like a whisper. I told you. What brings you back at this hour, man, you should have been tucked in long ago?”
“Just wanted to check the mail, the answering service, that sort of thing. Sooner I get at it,” I said struggling to my feet and making noises of departure, “the sooner I’ll get home. Take care, Frank. Good night.”
“Good night and God bless, old son.”
The mail was disappointing. I’d expected to have to ask Frank to help me push the door open against the pressure of a huge stack, but I was wrong. A circular about a downtown business association, trying to get the few businessmen left in the area to stamp out the dry rot along St. Andrew Street. There were the expected bills from the oil companies, the telephone company, and one I wasn’t expecting—insurance. After Thursday night, I didn’t think anyone would take my money for insurance.
The telephone answering service was more interesting. There was a call from Myrna Yates; one from Bill Ward; and one from Savas. I decided to try them in reverse order, so that I could pass on any new tidbit to Myrna.
It took about three minutes for Savas to grab his phone, and I was just thinking of calling it all off, but there he was with that voice that spoke of too much coffee and too many cigarettes.
“Savas.”
“Cooperman. You phoned?”
“Yeah. What kinda office hours you keep? Why didn’t you tell me you were independently wealthy and could close up shop whenever you felt like it?”
“Sorry. I was in Toronto on business. What have you got?”
“We checked on that piece you tried to deliver to Ward’s place Wednesday night. For the size of it, it has a rare history. The Forensic Centre tells me that it was used in a shooting at the university back in early 1964. Guard got hit in the hip when he interrupted a couple of thieves in a drug warehouse in the basement of the chemistry building. They shot him and then zapped him to keep him quiet.” Then I got a lecture on how lucky we were to get anything on the gun, because usually they only save slugs when there’s been a fatality. A ballistics hotshot narrowed the field down to happenings in and around Grantham. “They were wearing stockings over their faces, and they got clean away.”
“That was in the days when stockings came one at a time. Nowadays, burglars have to work in twos.”
“You should know, Cooperman. How come you haven’t been picked up in the last thirty-six hours? You getting cagey?”
“Nope, I’ve seen the light, Savas. I turned over a new leaf.”
“Any leaf you turn over wouldn’t be worth diddly. Keep honest.”
It was easier getting to Ward. My name suddenly cut through two voices like unsweetened chocolate and there he was. Again I had to explain that I was out of town all day.
“I’ve had a call, Mr. Cooperman, from Miss Tilford. I’ve arranged to meet her tomorrow night.”
“Don’t be crazy, Ward. That’s walking into a trap.”
“I can handle her.”
“Listen to me when I’m talking. You can’t meet her. I spent the day in Toronto, and after a lot of sleuthing, I know who she really is. She’s poison to you, Ward, I’m telling you.”
“Yes, but you see, I now know who she is too. And I’m ready for her. My boys won’t let anything happen to me.”
“I’ll never talk to you again. She’s out for your blood. Even Zekerman was trying to warn you about that.”
“Yes, that’s ironic, when you think about it, isn’t it. Goodbye, Cooperman.”
Myrna Yates answered the phone herself. She wanted to see me. She sounded irritated, so I promised to drive right over. I’d been hoping for an early night, my eyes were tired from the long drive and my stomach was already beginning to protest again the assault of my mother’s dinner. I took a couple of stomach tablets. I parked the car on the street outside the house. Funny, the smell of the papermills up in Papertown was just as strong here on Mortgage Hill. My steps echoed against the house as I came up the walk.
She answered the door herself. The butler was always out in that place, or maybe it just looked like they should have a butler to look after things. She took my coat and led me into the living room. She was wearing a navy blue linen skirt with a green shirt. Her sandals had raised heels and left a track in the broadloom as I followed her. We sat in a corner of the big room, with a table at knee-level between us. I searched her face for some answer to the irritation in her voice, but couldn’t find any.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Cooperman?” She was up again and on her way to a honey-coloured pine cabinet which hid every kind of drink in the catalogue.
“A gin and tonic, light on the gin, please. In fact, you can leave it out. I’m having stomach problems.”
“You probably could use a home-cooked meal.”
“Thanks,” I said. She handed me a tall glass and carried another back to her seat on the edge of a chintz-covered sofa.
“Mr. Cooperman, have you been to see Bill Ward?” She looked at me over her drink, but she wasn’t playing games.
“I saw him last night at his golf club. Why?”
“I got the strangest call from him an hour ago. He was asking me whether I’d ever heard of that Dr. Zekerman who was killed. He wondered whether he’d tried to get in touch with me. Of course I told him that I’d only just learned that Chester had been seeing him. He was, what do you say, pumping me for information. I didn’t like it. May I ask you what happened last night?”
“As long as you’re paying my bills.” I told her about Ward’s subtle way of arranging the meeting. “Zekerman
was blackmailing Ward and your husband about some events that reached back to their university days. Zekerman was a nasty piece of work, Mrs. Yates. He also knew about you and Mr. Ward. He had a picture in a Swiss newspaper. I’ve got it now.”
“I see.” She could have looked startled, she could have said thanks, but she didn’t. “Do you know why he is acting this way? It isn’t like him.”
“I wonder if he isn’t getting desperate. Would you say that he’s been acting strangely, before today? Has he been more attentive, perhaps more ardent?”
“We’re very close, as you know. And since the funeral, I … Well I don’t know what I would have done without him. He handled everything.”
“Yes, I remember. He said I was harassing you.”
“Yes, well …”
“Speaking of harassment: tell me about why Liz Til-ford left your husband’s office. You had something to do with that, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean. What has that to do with anything?”
“Did you ask Chester, I mean your husband, to get rid of her?”
“Mr. Cooperman, if you mean to …”
“Please, Mrs. Yates, this is more important than you know. I suspect that you didn’t enjoy seeing your successor every time you visited the office. I’d probably have done the same thing.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I did speak to Chester about her.”
“And?”
“And Chester said he’d speak to her. He told me that they’d had a good talk and that he’d made her understand he wanted her to start looking for a new job. He said that she took it very well, and said she would begin hunting. But she didn’t come back after that day. She didn’t show her face in the office ever again.”
“Did Chester, I’m sorry, did Mr. Yates guess why you were concerned?”
“No. I just told him that I didn’t think she dressed suitably and that she seemed to waste a good deal of time on three-hour lunches.”
“Did you often take such a personal interest?” She shook her head, as she tamped down a cigarette on the lid of the silver cigarette box on the table. It was a nice gesture, very feminine and irritable at the same time. “Then Chester knew you didn’t approve of Ward parading his after-hours business under your nose.” I lit the cigarette and she looked at me closely through the smoke as she answered.
